‘Perhaps the ocean will bring him to his senses,’ he said. ‘Give him a month and then we’ll see.’
Tall Køne and two boys no more than eleven or twelve years old were assigned to the frigate Jylland, which was about to leave dock at that time, having had her upper-deck guns refitted.
‘He’s handy with tools and can row like the devil,’ said the lieutenant as he handed Køne’s papers over. ‘Never make a naval officer, if you ask me, but could be a useful sailor.’
‘We’ll see,’ said the first lieutenant, grinning and winking at the two boys. He had his own methods. ‘Stand back now, lads,’ he said, hauling the boys aside by the scruff of their necks. ‘Make way for the ladies. Gutter manners won’t do in the navy.’
Down the gangway came a good dozen women, the last very fashionably dressed in burgundy skirt and jacket with hat-feathers to match. The first lieutenant, standing aside at the foot of the plank, let go his two charges to touch his cap as she passed. The woman nodded, her eyes sharp and friendly.
‘God speed, Lieutenant. Bring my husband back safely,’ she said.
The lieutenant kept his eyes on the dock. ‘We will all do our best, madam.’
The woman took a step and then paused. By this time the other ladies were well away down the dock. ‘And who is this, then? A new man?’ She raised a slim arm to her hat and held it there against a ruffling breeze while she looked Køne up and down. Køne returned the stare.
‘Mmmm,’ said the lady. It sounded like approval. Almost as if she were inspecting a good specimen of horseflesh. Or tasting a favourite sweetmeat. ‘Mmmm.’
The lieutenant, still keeping his eyes lowered, hustled his charges on board, leaving the lady behind. Køne, looking back, saw her standing there, one hand still raised to her hat. For a moment he thought she was waving to him.
‘Was she beautiful?’ asks Anahuia.
‘Very beautiful,’ says Conrad, ‘but in a cold and dangerous way, not like you at all, sweetheart.’
‘So you say, you bad man. Go on, then.’
THE lieutenant spat over the rail. ‘Watch your step with that bitch,’ he said to Køne. ‘She may be a well-bred lady with friends in high places, but she is pure trouble, and poisonous to boot. As I know to my cost.’
If Køne was listening he didn’t show it. He followed the lieutenant below deck, stooping low to see where he should sling his hammock and where to eat. All the time the lieutenant talked to the silent cadet, telling him which watch he would join, and who headed it, which gunner would lead him and where that gun was stowed. Suddenly he turned to face Køne and grabbed at both the big fellow’s hands, turning them palm up for inspection. He nodded, grunting approval.
‘That’s what I like to see. A decent callused set of paws. Some lads come aboard with hands soft as silk purses. You’ll do, Tall Køne, even if you’ve lost your tongue. Now, stow your gear while I see to these boys. Then report to the ship’s carpenter. I hear you can use a chisel.’
TALL Køne, as you would know, was not one to sulk for long. Hour by hour the new sights, the crowded shipboard life, the skills he was learning wore away at his misery. He began to forget the humiliating failure on St Olaf’s Day, and the killing (as he thought) of Otto Dahl.
Three things in particular rekindled his interest in life. The first was the ship’s boy, Mikkel Waag, who had arrived on board with him. Mikkel was thin as a bundle of sticks and small for his eleven years. You might judge him to be eight or nine. Dark eyes and black hair. More than a dash of the African in his dark skin, though he spoke good Danish. To start with, Mikkel was as silent and withdrawn as Køne. He carried aboard a battered violin case and, as far as Køne could see, little else — no bundle of food or any little comforting memento from home. That bound the two, for Køne had arrived just as destitute.
Mikkel was to sleep with the other boys — in a coil of rope or tucked against the warm brick of the galley-fire for warmth: any place where they would be quickly on hand when called. This was hardship enough in the warmer months but particularly so this cold winter, given that Mikkel lacked a decent coat or covering. Also he was picked on by the other boys for his dark skin and skinny legs. On his first day aboard Køne saw a bigger boy whipping Mikkel around the ankles with a bit of rope to make him dance. Køne put down his chisel and mallet (he was repairing the beautiful carved fruits and sheaves that adorned the stern boards of the Jylland), walked over and picked up the bully by the scruff of his dirty shirt. The boy hung there, eyeball to eyeball with Tall Køne, for a full minute. When the boy squirmed and whined, Køne snapped him roughly as if he were a scrap of canvas that needed shaking out, then lowered him to the deck again. No word was spoken, but the message was clear — and little Mikkel’s undying devotion kindled.
That night as Køne lay in his hammock, swinging gently and squeezed head to toe with the other sailors on the lower orlop deck, he felt a little scratch under his buttocks. It felt like a rat was trying to gnaw its way through the canvas. Køne reached down to slap the thing away, but encountered a small cold hand, which clung to his. In the dark he gave the hand a reassuring pat, guessing it to be young Mikkel. Immediately the little fellow grabbed the canvas edge and by some trick of feet and hands flipped himself upside. Without a word he cuddled into the older boy’s side, bony and cold, the dark head tucked into the crook of Køne’s arm. They slept that way all night — each giving heartsease to the other, dreaming of homes and mothers and hearth-fires — until the bell rang for the morning watch. Then Mikkel reached up to kiss his friend on the cheek — an offering sweet and light as air — and disappeared over the edge of the hammock, scuttling beneath the pendulous sleeping men before anyone could notice or disapprove.
It became a habit that both enjoyed. Once, when Køne found the hundreds of sleeping bodies on the orlop deck oppressive, he unhooked his hammock, tiptoed up the companionway and slung his bed between timbers on the empty gun-deck. Sure as a shadow, Mikkel joined him there, giggling at their secret.
The second event that contributed to Køne’s recovery was also enjoyed by the two. The day before they set sail for open water and the blockading of the North Sea against Prussian ships, the Jylland left dock in calm weather to sail a little distance from shore.
‘Now, lads,’ said the first lieutenant, ‘you are going to learn a thing or two about this floating marvel.’
The order was given for the funnel to be retracted and full rig to be set. Up aloft scurried the men, Køne and skinny Mikkel among them, to set sail after sail, from top-gallant down to headsail on all three masts, then the triangular gaff and studding sails between masts. When all eighteen sails were set, and the ship making very slow headway in the light winds, the first lieutenant gathered all the new men — sailors and boys, a young officer and three marines.
‘Captain wants a boat drill,’ he said. ‘Hop to it, lads!’
The ‘lads’, hardly knowing what to do, made a mess of lowering the long-boat, but finally got themselves into the rocking craft, which remained tethered by a long rope to the ship.
‘Row out now!’ ordered the lieutenant, and then a minute later he had to tap Tall Køne on the shoulder to cut his stroke. The Faroeman rowed so strongly that the boat ran in circles! The new officer, rowing his best, gave Køne a hard look. Clear to see that he did not enjoy having his strength bettered by a raw rating.
Finally they were out at full stretch of the rope. The lieutenant gave the order to ship oars and turn all eyes back to the Jylland.
‘Now, lads, look back and marvel,’ he boomed. This was a well-practised speech but the old sailor believed every word. ‘You’ll never see a more beautiful sight from cradle to grave than that what you see now. A full-rigged ship — your ship — full set in all its glory. Forget about your iron ships and your paddle steamers; our Jylland, which will be your home, your safety and your pride, is a bloody miracle, built by the skill of Danish craftsmen. Just sit and look, lads; feast your young eyes and don�
��t never forget.’
Køne looked. That old officer knew a thing or two. The heart swelled to see her. To a Faroeman, accustomed to small traders and single-sailed rowing boats, the Jylland was indeed a creation of great beauty. Hauling and straining at those great sheets of canvas and the heavy ropes that moved them, you had no idea of the symmetry and style of the whole. Naturally a woman who grew up on a far south-sea island would also have no idea.
‘Get on with you,’ says Anahuia. ‘Speak for yourself. I’ve seen whalers in full sail when I was young.’
‘Ah, no, sweetheart, your whaler is a dirty poor sort of a ship, more often a schooner than a square-rig. You can’t compare. Jylland was a true lady of the sea.’
‘Now you’re in love with a ship. God help me.’
‘Laugh if you like; it was a love, yes — a pure kind of love, which I still hold for any square-rigger. Not for the war that I fought aboard her, no, but for the sailing: the heel before a following wind, the creaking moaning song of the rigging. You are something close to a god, sweetheart, when high aloft, singing your own song maybe, alone with the wind and the rain or shoulder to shoulder with good men, and your ship swinging far below. I learned to love all that. Still do.’
‘Enough of ship-love. Is this a story or not?’
WELL now. The lieutenant finished his speech with an inventory of the ship: sixteen hundred great oak trees were felled to build her, each tree close to two hundred years old. A native of New Zealand would have to think of a giant totara, but harder wood: a spreading tree whose leaves blazed with colour and then dropped before winter like the elm tree the bishop’s wife planted in her home in Karere. (Naturally, the lieutenant did not mention the bishop’s tree!) The Jylland carried forty-four guns, he said, though of course Køne had already counted the gun-ports: fifteen each side of the gun-deck and fourteen on the upper deck. The third and fourth guns from the stern on the lower deck were to be Køne’s concern, and Mikkel’s also. They fired thirty-pound balls.
Full complement of sails numbered eighteen, which Køne’s own sore hands could attest to. Jylland, said the lieutenant sourly, was the first ship he ever heard of to use wire for her standing rigging. Hands callused for rope were now having trouble with wire shrouds. Shrouds, he added, are not sails as some of you landlubbers might expect, but the fan of ropes from mast to the side of the ship, holding mast firm and also strung across with ropes like ladders, (mercifully of hemp, or your feet also would be cut to ribbons). The lieutenant never said one word about the steam engine, its funnel now telescoped below deck. Engines were for war or emergencies and rated lower than bilge-water in his eyes.
So the newly awed lads rowed back to their ship and prepared for war. Jylland sailed out of the Skagerrak into the open water of the North Sea to join the blockading squadron under Admiral Suenson, charged with keeping Prussian ships out of their own ports, capturing any German merchant ships and assisting — when they were able — in battles on land.
There was a third part of ship life that lifted Køne’s heart like a fresh breeze after a calm. The music. In every part of the day the sailors sang. The shanties came from all over the world. Head man of the watch led a hauling shanty when they set sail; there were several pumping shanties with grunting responses and a long, long English shanty — ‘Black Ball Line’ — for bringing up the anchors. A hundred and twenty men were needed for this, leaning all their weight against the long arms of the capstan. First they had to haul the ship until it lay above the anchors, then hoist the two-and-a-half-ton monsters alongside. Round and round they tramped, the verses of the song groaning down the length of the gun-deck. Sailors made up extra verses in Danish and soon Køne was known for his wild and roaring additions.
One night, when the men were singing and dancing to an old sailor’s accordion, Mikkel shyly brought out his violin. He sat on Køne’s knee and followed the tune by ear, grinning and rocking from side to side, his fiddle like a live thing under his chin. Another sailor pulled out a tin whistle and soon they had a band going, one sailor after another taking the centre of the circle in an effort to dance faster or more intricate steps than the one before.
‘By Thor and all the ancients,’ shouted Køne, more than a little drunk on rum and excitement, ‘I must get my hands around one of these little beauties!’ In the Faroes he had grown up with unaccompanied singing and dancing. Instruments were never used. ‘Lend me that fiddle, Mikkel!’
But Mikkel dodged away, still playing, his black curls bouncing in the lamplight. ‘You have a chisel and a pair of hands,’ he said, flushed and cheeky at his sudden success. ‘Make yourself a pipe; my fiddle will be too hard for you!’ And danced heel and toe to his own music.
A young officer came down to the orlop deck to see what the commotion was.
‘Join in, take the floor!’ roared Køne. ‘Show us how nimble an officer’s feet can go!’
But the officer spoke brusquely to the men, ordered quiet and lanterns doused. A day of hard preparation on the guns lay ahead. He frowned especially sharply at Køne.
‘You are in one of my gun crews,’ he said. ‘You had better be up to it tomorrow.’
Køne, foolish as always, spread his hands. ‘A bit of fun, Lieutenant, never did a man harm. Music is good for the soul, they say. We will be right for the morning.’
‘Sir,’ prompted Mikkel in a soft whisper.
‘Sir,’ said Køne. The heavy emphasis was not well received.
The men hid their grins behind hands, or looked the other way. Lieutenant Dahl had a reputation for strict discipline and heavy-handed punishment. For a moment the lieutenant looked as if he would order Køne into irons for the night, his look was so black. Then he turned on his heel and climbed up top, leaving the men grumbling.
‘That Dahl would turn milk sour,’ said one.
‘Pity anyone who earns his bad books.’
‘He has his eye on you for some reason,’ said Winther, the old accordion player. ‘Hold your head a little lower, lad. Never does to draw the fire of an officer.’
‘Dahl?’ said Køne. ‘By God, don’t tell me. Is that officer a Faroeman?’
‘Speaks like a Dane,’ said Winther, ‘acts like someone important from Copenhagen. Why?’
‘There are Dahls in the Faroes with long and bitter memories.’
‘We don’t want to know, lad,’ said Winther sharply. ‘Grudges, personal little wars are pure poison on board a ship. Forget your bloody grudges.’
‘You tell that to the officer. D A H L, is he?’
‘I don’t read, lad. Any rate there’s plenty of Dahls in Denmark, whatever way they write it. There’s a war on. Think about that.’
2.
PREPARING FOR WAR was a different matter altogether. Tall Køne, who could nip up the shrouds faster than any sailor, who enjoyed dangerous tasks like reefing the royals in a storm, that strong and confident Faroeman lost all his new-found pleasure in life when practising on the guns. To start with, his height was against him below decks. Køne had to perform every movement bent almost double. When the officer shouted at the men to work faster, tapping the hourglass angrily, Køne would forget his height, surge forward with cannon-ball in hand, crack his head on the timbers above and end up, often as not, flat on his back, the heavy ball rolling away down the gun-deck to trip the other gun crews.
Even little Mikkel, nimble and at ease in this confined space, grumbled at his friend’s clumsy movements. Firing the big thirty-pounders was a competitive matter, and every crew wanted to be the fastest and the first to earn the extra ration of rum. Again and again the thirteen-man teams went through their paces, ramming powder, wadding the cannon-balls down the barrel, using wedges and rocking bolts to aim their unwieldy weapon at an imaginary enemy, while Winther called the aim and waited ready to spark the charge. As the lethally powerful recoil drove the heavy gun back inside, Køne had the dangerous task of steadying it with ropes while others cleaned the barrel and prepared for the next round. He
ads ringing, shoulders aching, the men ran the heavy guns back to the gun-ports for another round.
‘Once more, to my count!’ roared Lieutenant Dahl. ‘Crew three is still too slow. I want a round every minute. If Admiral Nelson’s crew could do it, so can you!’
‘He’ll use up his shot before we see enemy at this rate,’ muttered Køne, rubbing his bruised forehead. ‘I thought we were meant to be sailors, not bloody cannon-feeders.’
That earned him a crack on the back from the officer’s stick.
‘Keep that mouth shut and your eye on the job,’ shouted Dahl, his dark eyes sharp as nails, daring the big man to strike back.
If it hadn’t been for Mikkel, hopping up and down, shouting and pointing at some imaginary sight and thus creating a diversion, Køne would no doubt have lost his wretched temper and flattened the officer, but the moment passed. Indeed, the imaginary event turned into a real one, for the rest of the squadron was sighted and all hands piped on deck to set sails and make a good showing of the approach.
That night it was all singing and dancing above and below deck. Admiral Suenson came aboard from the frigate Niels Juel to discuss tactics with Commander Sommer and his officers. Mikkel, who with the other boys had been serving at the captain’s table, reported that half the officers were drunk and the other half too nervous to eat their food. A sea battle was almost certainly in the offing, he said.
‘There’s a squadron of Austrian ships on the way,’ said Mikkel, enjoying his role as informer to the men below deck. ‘They are come all the way from the Mediterranean. Admiral Suenson says they are fools to think they can surprise us when they have taken five weeks to get here and half a dozen countries have reported on their progress to our prime minister. They have joined with three Prussian frigates and hove to a day’s sailing south of us.’
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