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“THERE IT IS! AMERICA! We’re here!! Look, Look!”
People spill out onto the decks, shoving forward to the rail, craning their necks to stare at the sight coming into view. “We made it!” There is pointing, laughing, fervent prayers. Bursting into tears, we realize we are sailing into American waters. Fathers lift their small children up so they can see. We all want to stare at our dream—-and our new home.
At first, it was a hazy view as we traveled parallel to the coast of New York. Then we left the open sea and traveled up the narrows of New York Bay. The land grew closer and closer until we could see the shoreline clearly.
It took time to navigate up the harbor. Hundreds of boats of all kinds maneuvered in a waterway that was as busy as a city street. There were tugboats, fishing boats, small sailing boats clipping through the waters. I counted a dozen steamers meeting and then passing us on their way out to sea. From their mastheads waved colorful flags from different countries. I’ll bet there were more than those numbers following us into the harbor to deposit emigrants onto the shore.
New York City sits on a group of large islands that are connected by bridges or ferries. We passed two small islands in the harbor. We were told they were Ellis Island and the much bigger Governor’s Island. Both had been as forts in earlier wars.
We went another English mile before docking near a tip of land that stuck out in the harbor. From this point of the bay, ships veering left would continue up the Hudson River or to the right for the East River.
Next came the rush to depart. Everyone dashed back to their quarters to gather up their belongings. For the single people with only a satchel or two, it wasn’t hard to get organized and back on deck. I thought I was ready, but there were still things to do. Blankets were folded and put away this morning, but Emilia had rummaged around the sack to pull out her favorite again. Half-dry diapers still hung on a line in the room. We needed to check under the bunks for things that might have rolled underneath. Food was stuffed back in the basket. Everything fit in our luggage a week ago, but it doesn’t seem to now that I’m in a hurry.
The wedding chest had to be packed and repacked again because I also needed to change clothes. I didn’t think it mattered what we wore this morning because we’re still traveling, but Samuel suggested we wear our best clothes on our arrival. He didn’t want us to look like a poor peasant family getting off the boat.
Our ship’s deck is covered with anxious people ready to depart. Groups are clustered together for fear of separation. Everyone’s arms are loaded down with sacks, baskets, and children. And we all just stand here waiting to get off this moving boat and onto solid land again.
Our destination is the Castle Garden Emigrant Center located on the Battery of Manhattan Island. We’ll have to wait, though, because the waterfront is crowded and there are a number of ships waiting for a mooring in front of us.
Hours later the ship is anchored, and we’re allowed off. Slowly the crowd dwindles as groups of passengers are boarded onto ferries to be taken to the dock. It has become a waiting game. The ferry loads, go to shore, unloads, comes back to our ship for another load, and goes back to the dock again.
And then it’s our turn.
“Keep together. Oscar, hold my hand!” The crush of people pushes us down the gangplank onto the bobbing ferry. Samuel comments that he feels like an animal being prodded into a wagon to go to market. Someone behind us replies that it is more like too many Swedish salted herrings stuffed in an old wooden barrel. I just hope we don’t sink and drown this close to our destination.
After a short ride, we’re free to touch the soles of our shoes to land again. I blink back tears to stare at the American flag flying on top of the immigration center. I sway into Samuel. The ground feels solid, yet it moves like the rhythm of the ship. Several people drop to their knees to kiss the ground and say a prayer of thanks. They had waited so long to get away from their troubles that they are overwhelmed to be finally in the Promised Land.
Before we are free to travel to our destination, we must pass this country’s inspection.
As our line slowly moved ahead, we had time to look at the building. The inside space is divided into medical examination rooms, offices, information stands, and a large area in the middle with benches.
We found out that Castle Garden, formally known as Fort Clinton, was part of the strategic defense of the harbor during the War of 1812. The enormous octagonal-shaped fort of red sandstone was built on artificial landfill on the bay’s edge. After the war, a roof was put on the structure to serve as a reception center, resort, and restaurant. The hall seated six thousand people, be coming the largest one in the country. Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale, gave her first American concert here in 1850. But the resort did not succeed financially, so it became New York’s first immigration center in 1855.
The din of voices is overwhelming. The babble of different languages mixes in with shouts, crying, laughter, and orders. Everyone is trying to talk above the drone of the crowd.
Children (and adults) are tired of standing in line; they’re hungry or need the toilet. We still have on our coats, and it is hot and stuffy in here. We are also nervous because the inspection is coming up. While waiting, we hear stories of sick people being sent back to their countries. A doctor examines everyone while they are in line. If a closer inspection is needed, a person is ushered into a private room. The weak and sick are quarantined in the infirmary. Anything serious could cause deportation.
What happens if a child is ill? Someone said a child of ten or older can be sent back alone. What if the child is younger? In most cases, the parents wouldn’t have the money to buy return passage for the family. Another person said sometimes the inspectors can be bribed to let sick children pass. What would we do in that situation?
We move in front of a man standing beside a high stand that holds medical instruments. One by one, he examines our eyes, throats, thumps our chests, and looks for signs of disease or disability. Emilia jerks away and cries when the doctor tries to check her. A quiet word in the child’s ear of “a taste of sugar later if you talk to the nice doctor” got us past our first inspection.
Next came the collection and inspection of our luggage. We identified our big trunk and opened sacks and baskets, through which the inspector searched quickly. I’m not sure what they are looking for, because we didn’t have room for anything but our own possessions.
Now it is our turn to stand in front of the registration clerk. This one doesn’t even look up at Samuel. He dips his pen in the inkwell, poises it over the page of the register, and starts to fire his list of questions in English. When there is no answer from the tall Swede he looks up, assesses the identity of the foreigner, and asks his questions again in halting Swedish.
“Name?”
“Samuel Fredrik Johansson.”
As he is writing, he says “Samuel F. Johnson.”
“No! Johansson, not Jonsson!”
“Johnson is the American version of your last name.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.”
“Wife’s name?”
“Christina Charlotta Samuelsdotter.”
“Christina Johnson.”
“She goes by Charlotta Samuelsdotter.”
“Wives go by their husband’s last name in America. ‘Charlotta Johnson’.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.”
“Children?”
“Carl Johan Oscar Samuelsson and Emilia Christina Samuelsdotter.”
“And they go by what name?”
“Oscar and Emilia.”
“They’ll be registered as ‘Oscar and Emily Johnson.’ Your occupation?”
“Farmer.”
“How will you earn your living?”
“I’m going to own a big farm.”
“Hum. Homesteading.”
“How much money do you have on you?”
“It is still in riksdaler. I haven’t exchanged it yet, so I don’t know what it is worth in American money.”
“Limited funds.”
“Ever been convicted of a crime?”
“What?! No, sir.”
“You all have the checkmark from the doctor? Good. Has any of your family ever had any contagious diseases?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is anyone meeting you here to help you?”
“No, we’re on our own.”
“Check outside when you leave the building. There usually are Swedish clergymen there to help the Scandinavians. What is your final destination?”
“Andover, Illinois.”
With the stroke of a pen, this man has changed our names and recorded us as poor farmers heading west. I hope to remedy the latter soon.
“Did he give you the right amount?”
“I have no idea.”
We moved away from the money exchange window and stared at the wad of bills and coins cupped in Samuel’s hands. He had emptied his money belt of the Swedish currency he had carefully protected on our trip and gave it to the man to exchange. Our life savings was now converted to American money. Not only do we need it to get to Illinois, but it has to last until we get our farm established.
“May I help you? Where are you heading next?”
A man in a preacher’s collar speaking Swedish!
“We need to get to Illinois.”
“Let’s go to the train room and see about your tickets. It will cost about twenty-six dollars to get your family there. Do you have enough money?”
The Swedish pastor and his volunteers checked the center every day to help the Scandinavians that had arrived on the day’s ships. Part of their mission work was to get these confused souls through customs and on their way to their new lives. People needing help to exchange money, track down lost luggage, get food for their continuing journey are taken under his wing. A baby born at sea needs baptizing. A young one has been orphaned and needs a new home. A child is sick, and her parents need a translator. They don’t understand why they are being detained and separated. Maybe intervention can save the child from being deported.
Another family spent their last dollar to get on the ship. Now they have no money for food or board. The pastor finds a poorhouse to shelter them until the father finds a job. The pastor helps the new arrivals write letters back to relatives to announce that they have arrived, or that someone died on the trip. He steers them clear of job brokers trying to rush immigrants into work contracts before they get their bearings. Usually, these sly people offering train tickets and jobs are dealing in involuntary servitude.
Last, he gives them copies of the New Testament, written in Swedish and English. By reading the words of comfort, they will learn the new language.
A high wooden fence encircles the building. We have gone from the shore through the center and so far have been isolated from the new environment. After leaving this protective wall, we are bombarded by the city and its people.
The buildings vary from brick with shiny fronts to shanties about to fall down. Well-dressed couples stroll down the avenue, ignoring the litter along the gutters. The aroma of fresh-baked bread mixes with the putrid stink of garbage.
People everywhere are trying to get us to part with our money.
“Buy your tickets here for trains to the West.”
“Right this way folks, we got the best sausage in town!”
“Need a hotel for the night?”
Crowds crush together as the immigrant's flood out of the center and citizens push in to hawk their wares. The street is teeming with people selling food, fares, newspapers, hope, and fantasy. I can’t understand their language, and the Pastor said to ignore even the salesmen speaking Swedish because they are countrymen that have turned unscrupulous. My thought is to protect our possessions and family so that neither is snatched from us.
Not all the rush is hostile. Reunions and farewells go on, oblivious to the passing scene. Goodbyes are said to friends and families parting ways to seek work in different cities. Brothers reunite after years apart. Young women who have arrived to become brides embrace their intended husbands.
For some, the journey has ended here in New York City, and for others, like us, the journey is only partway completed. The pastor herds his flock onto a ferry that crosses the Hudson River to the train terminal in New Jersey. We’re already going to another state. How many more do we pass through to get to Illinois? Are all the states this close to one another? They look farther apart on the map in our handbook.
After the big trunk is stored at the depot, we make our way with children and luggage to a hotel near the train station. We’ll rest a night, then start tomorrow morning for the next leg of our trip. Samuel asks, “Why aren’t you excited? I thought you would be ecstatic that you’re off the ship.”
I try to explain that, yes, I’m glad that my mended shoes have touched American soil, but I’m tired and long for a bath, the children are cranky, and my swollen feet ache. Besides, it doesn’t seem like we’re “there” yet. I think of this as just another stop. I’m not unpacking our belongings from the big trunk, hanging up our clothes in our bedroom, fixing a meal on our hearth yet. We’re not in our own home.
And I am disappointed by my first impression of America. Most Americans have been crude, indifferent to comfort (let alone sanitation), and think nothing of swindling innocent people. I don’t feel safe. The children couldn’t go out and play here. And I’m scared our money won’t last. Then Samuel will leave us to find work, and I’ll have to fend for the family alone. Where are the trees, grass, and lush fields described in the pamphlets Samuel brought home from the meetings? No, so far I’m not impressed with America.
We’ve been uprooted for a life that will be forever different from what we left. Our ties with Sweden, our childhood, and our parents have been permanently severed. I’m among people whose actions and language I don’t understand. And I’m homesick for Kulla and all we left behind.
