As soon as I could, I went looking for Linnea Charlotta, but she was not to be found in any of our usual meeting places, and when I saddled a horse and rode over to Eskil Colling’s farm, I was told that she had gone to stay with relatives. When I met her father’s gaze, I sensed fear. In my person, a boy of only fourteen, he saw an ogre that threatened to lay his future to waste. I started to lead my horse home, bitter tears on my cheeks, only to find Linnea Charlotta’s mother waiting for me by the side of the road where the fields ended and the forest began. She was sitting on a rock and she offered me a place next to her.
“I have seen you, of course, you and my Nea. Even back then I thought that this would never end well, but there was nothing I could do. She is a strong-willed girl and I could only hope that passion’s wick would burn down of its own accord.” She met my gaze. “For a long time, I was afraid that she was only a plaything for you. A farmer’s daughter for a young nobleman to dance with while summer lasts.”
“I have never touched her. I want her for my wife. I seek your blessing.”
It took a while for her to reply, but first she sighed deeply. “She cried, Erik, so that my heart came near to breaking. She hung on to the doorway harder than any grown man would. I know your father is sending you away, but though we gave him a promise to keep Linnea Charlotta from you until you left, I will give you a promise also, and hope that will be a comfort to you: she will wait. Nea will remain unmarried until the day you come of age. She does not want anyone else, and we have never been able to make that girl do what she didn’t want. If you return then, and you both still want the same thing, you will have our blessing.”
I fell into her arms and, after we had said our farewells, I was struck by a sudden thought and turned around. “If I write to her and send the letters here, will you make sure they get to the right place?”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, and I returned home to write the first of many.
My date of departure was set for late in October, which gave me plenty of time to prepare. I went to the library in the hope of finding something about Saint Barthélemy. My father was no scholar, however, and the volumes he added to the collection of the house were few. After a few hours of fruitless pursuit, I gave up and instead placed my hopes in my tutor. As usual, Lundström was sitting in his room, curled over a stub of a candle and a book. He gave me the kind of admonishing look that he so often had since my meetings with Linnea had started to impinge on my studies. I made an effort to look contrite, and we briefly spoke about my situation. He softened a little. Rumors of my upcoming departure had naturally spread like wildfire, and he did his best to cheer me up, and was much aided in this once I related the meeting with Linnea’s mother.
“But in that case, Erik, what could be better? She is waiting for you without any expectations of duty from your side, and in the meantime it is high time for you to have an adventure or two. You can’t go from schoolboy to husband without first having experienced something of life. The fact is that I wish I were in your shoes. Both Euphrasén and Carlander have already visited Saint Barthélemy to gather specimens, and Fahlberg, who remains there, frequently sends his findings back, to the delight of the Academy, but I am sure there is still much to discover.”
When I began to question him in more detail, his expression changed from boyish enthusiasm to the wrinkled brow of the pedagogue, and I realized he was concentrating in order to recall the various aspects of his knowledge. He told me that the colony was turning ten this year and that the late King Gustav in his great wisdom had acquired it from the French in exchange for toll-free rights in Gothenburg harbor, as good a deal as anyone had heard of. The island was one of many on the other side of the great Atlantic Ocean and was said to be a tropical paradise as if sprung from the pen of Defoe, well suited to those crops that would otherwise cost vast sums of money for the nation to buy: cotton for clothing, sugar to season food, molasses for drinks and for sweetening. The capital, Gustavia, was named after the king himself.
“Who lives there?” Lundström tapped his front teeth with his thumbnail. “Many Swedes, would be my guess, but you will also get good use of your French.”
When his knowledge of the subject appeared tapped, I bashfully begged his forgiveness that my antics had cost him his position, but he simply shrugged. If I promised to collect him some natural specimens, we would be even. I gave him my word.
The weeks dragged tediously by. As the date of departure approached, Johan Axel, my cousin, arrived with his bags packed. He was going to accompany me to Saint Barthélemy, and it was impossible to mistake how much he was looking forward to the adventure. This was only natural: like me, Johan Axel had arrived too late in this world to be able to count on an inheritance. He had several older brothers and was planning to study, but welcomed the possibility of first acquiring experience elsewhere. Also, our relationship, which had at times been close during our childhood, had grown less so during the months when I spent all my time at Linnea Charlotta’s side. He appeared happy to renew our friendship, and his enthusiasm was a comfort to me.
My own packing was easily completed. Not many of my possessions were suited to the tropics. My shirts and trousers were altered by the maids for a warmer climate than we were accustomed to in the far north. A shoemaker came to measure both me and Johan Axel, and returned a few days later with two pairs of leather shoes that, with a little luck, would accommodate our growing feet for a year or more to come. The farewell between me and my father was dispatched in as few words as one could have imagined, a brief meeting during which his desk prevented us from getting closer than five paces. He drew my attention to an object on its surface: his parting gift, a wooden box of fine marquetry. The lid was fastened with a clasp, and when I opened it and lifted the lid, I found a pistol inside, the barrel of which was of tempered steel and the handle inlaid with an intricate design in brass. There were also a few bullets, a powder flask, and a bullet mold. Our coat of arms appeared above the barrel of the gun, along with my monogram.