Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  Køne laid his hand on the damaged boom, fingering the sharply splintered wood. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you have warned me. I will take care.’

  ‘More than care is needed, boy. Keep your eyes on the deck when she is around, walk the other way when she comes near. She has her hook in you already.’

  Køne nodded. Privately he thought old Winther must be exaggerating. The officers seemed to like her, especially Lieutenant Dahl, whose young face showed something like adoration when she walked on deck with him. And wasn’t she good company with the ratings of an evening?

  ‘So what timber should I use to mend this break?’ he asked.

  THE next two weeks were edgy ones for those ratings and officers still aboard the Jylland. First Winther fell ill. He developed a fever: dark spots appeared on his neck. Fear spread quickly. Typhus or plague were more deadly than war in the close quarters below decks. The men demanded Winther be set ashore. The coughing old man, protesting his health, was unceremoniously dumped ashore and told to report to the naval hospital. No one wanted to accompany him.

  Then crew returning from shore leave brought back depressing reports. The London Conference was stalled. It was said that Prime Minister Monrad held firm, but that the wily Prussian general, Bismark, outsmarted him at every turn. Whenever an agreement seemed possible, the general added a new demand to the treaty. The English were sitting on the fence as usual.

  One day the sailors heard that the conference had failed and the blockade would be resumed. The ship was readied and provisioned, then word came of a new compromise and a last-ditch attempt at a reconciliation. The Jylland was to remain at Nyholm.

  The on-again, off-again nature of the war and the fear of disease had the officers rattled. They took it out on the men, ordering yet another pointless holystoning of decks already spotless, or checking every inch of rigging already tarred and mended. The ladies came and went and were, in the captain’s opinion, a welcome distraction to his men. He was not aware, perhaps, of the developing tension between one of his junior officers — Dahl — and that giant young Faroeman with the strange name. Køne had filled out now into manhood. He towered a good head over officers and ratings, was quick up the rigging and fearless over any task that involved strength and agility. His looks had matured too; the square jaw and blue eyes, the shock of blond hair, his songs and laughter had more women than Boline Fomisen casting glances his way.

  ‘Ahem,’ says Anahuia, ‘are we speaking by any chance of the man who lies now beside me?’

  ‘Is the description not accurate?’

  ‘What a whakahihi! A little modesty would be welcome.’

  ‘Ah well, now, sweetheart, you asked for a true story this time. What can a fellow do?’

  ‘Conrad Rasmussen, you are an impossible man.’

  But a good storyteller, no?’

  ‘A good storyteller, yes!’

  YOUNG Lieutenant Dahl, brown-haired and smart in his uniform, yet still a boy for all his arrogance, could not bear the attention Køne was earning from the ladies. Especially from Boline. Dahl set Køne to tasks he thought would humiliate him, like hanging him over the side in a basket to scrub the windows of the captain’s day-room. Køne made a game of it, swinging and singing in time to his swabbing, until Boline and the other ladies came running to lean over the rail and wave and laugh and ask for more. Køne hung upside down from his platform and swabbed in that fashion, still singing, until his foolish head filled with blood and his eyes turned red.

  ‘Disorderly behaviour!’ yelled Dahl. ‘I’ll have you in irons!’

  But the ladies petted and patted the furious officer and begged him to let Køne continue, until poor Dahl was twisted so tight between rage and desire he could scarcely make a move.

  Well, this was all harmless, silly fun, until the night when that evil Boline set her trap and Tall Køne walked straight in with his empty head high and his brains somewhere a good deal lower.

  First there was a night of grog and music. Boline danced, showing a good fine ankle, placing a hand here and there on Køne’s willing body and flashing her dark eyes at him until the poor lad was all aflame.

  At one stage in the evening little Mikkel danced up to Køne and, still fiddling away, whispered, ‘Watch out! She has those glittery eyes Winther talked about. She will make her move tonight.’

  But Køne was lost to it. When Boline dragged him up onto the deck, he followed like a lamb. The other ratings, sickened by Køne’s foolish arrogance, let him go. Loyal Mikkel, still clutching his fiddle, crept after the pair, but what could a ship’s boy do when a big Faroeman had set his mind on self-destruction?

  Above in the sweet night air, Boline led Køne aft towards the officers’ deck and there, under the shadow of the mizzen mast, undid her bodice and pulled his hot hand inside.

  ‘Come on, my big honey-bear,’ she whispered, her fingers busy at his trouser-strings. ‘Show me what you are made of, you lovely fellow.’

  If her eyes lacked the fire of her words Køne was ignorant of it. The invitation was clear and the Faroeman came to the party with gusto. Up rose his member, stiff as a pole. Down tumbled trousers, lady and man all in a heap on the deck. Boline lay there, smart skirts up around her waist, smiling and cooing, but all the time keeping her knees clamped tight to drive the hot man crazy. At the very moment she opened her legs wide and Køne lunged, she let out a scream to wake all the dead souls of Niflheim.

  ‘Get off me, off!’ she screamed, raking with her talons at his back and face.

  Køne, thinking this was part of her pleasure, clamped a hand over her mouth and kept at it. But by now the officer of the watch — Lieutenant Dahl by ill-fortune — was on the scene, and a few others besides. They shouted, the lady screamed again and Køne leapt to his feet, trying to haul his trousers up over his unruly prod.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ wept Boline. ‘He has shamed me, has taken my maidenhead! Officer, help me! I am ruined!’

  And so on. Some of the officers turned away, knowing the woman for what she was, but Dahl, inexperienced and bearing a grudge, leapt swiftly to her defence.

  ‘Shame, shame!’ he cried with gusto. ‘Where is the sergeant-at-arms? Put this man in irons! He has brought shame to the Danish navy! Shame!’

  And so on. All was chaos and screaming, even little Mikkel adding to the din with his shouts of accusation against that black Boline, and the lieutenant commander himself coming out to see what had disturbed his peace. This officer was inclined to take the matter seriously. Perhaps he was the husband; perhaps an admirer. At any rate, the upshot was that Tall Køne found himself confined in the hold, in irons: locked into a tiny cupboard with nothing to do but stare into the blackness and reflect on his own foolhardiness.

  How long his confinement lasted is difficult to tell. Dahl took pleasure in bringing him rat-fouled bread and stinking water, drawing the bolts and letting in light for the least possible moment before clanging the hatch shut again. Twice that evil woman stood outside, whispering through the hatch of all the terrible punishments Køne was about to suffer. Hard to credit this was the same sweet Boline who had danced and sung with him. Køne kept silent, cramped and agonised as he was, lest he gave the demented lady further pleasure. What use was rage when you were bent half double, clamped to ring-bolts in the dark, and thinking hour upon hour of the flogging to come?

  After an age, it seemed, Mikkel was scratching and whispering at the hatch. He had a plan, he said, involving escape from the ship and the navy both. Mikkel would come too, he said, and they would make their way to foreign parts on a fine full-rigged merchant ship. Køne had his doubts about Mikkel’s plan. The boy was a born dreamer. Often in the night he would rattle on about places he had heard of and sights he planned to see. Mikkel’s father — or stepfather, you would have to think, as no one else in the family had darkness in his skin — was a seaman himself and had filled the boy’s head with tales of southern oceans; of palm trees and coconuts and great swimming turtles; of New Ze
aland, which Mikkel imagined being peopled with Danes from Zealand, but also with exotic men and women, dark-skinned like himself.

  ‘Perhaps I am part New Zealander,’ he said. ‘Perhaps my mother met a dark man from the southern ocean who had come to port while Papa was offshore.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Køne had said, unwilling to dash the boy’s dreams. The curly black hair looked just like that of the tall African with amazing blue-black skin who worked at the naval docks. But who was to say what a South Seas man might look like?

  ‘We could both sail,’ Mikkel would say, ‘to that new sort of Zealand, where people like us would be welcome and free to make our own fortunes.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Køne would mumble, half asleep. ‘Now pipe down, dreamer, this man is sailing another ocean right now.’

  So Køne held few hopes for his friend’s plan. Another misjudgement. Young Mikkel might have been a dreamer and a fiddler of talent, but he was also sharp and quick as a ship’s rat. He had noticed what was afoot on the Jylland and planned to make use of the diversion.

  That night a deputation of important men came aboard to speak with the captain. Admiral Suenson was there, but also some others — foreign, maybe, or royal, in red and gold jackets and white trousers, fancy swords swinging at their hips and all the trappings as well.

  ‘All the officers will be eating and drinking in captain’s quarters,’ whispered Mikkel, ‘so here is my plan. When I have finished serving them, and they are all drunk, I will let you out and we can both scoot.’

  ‘The officer of the watch will just nod and let me pass ashore, I suppose?’ said Køne. ‘And I am to tear these damned irons out of their sockets? Mikkel, lad, it is fanciful to think I can go ashore.’

  ‘Wait and see. I’ll be back.’

  Off went Mikkel Waag, ship’s boy, confident as a cricket, leaving Tall Køne puzzled in the dark. Was the boy turning soft in the head? Or did he really have some plan up his sleeve?

  Which the good lad did. Some little time later, Køne heard his friend scratch again at the hatch, but this time to more purpose. Both bolts were drawn and the hatch raised. For a moment Køne saw Mikkel’s bony frame silhouetted against lamplight, then all was dark again as the boy crawled in, letting the hatch fall to behind him. Quickly he worked on the irons with a large key almost too heavy for the boy to handle. Finally one leg was free and Køne helped turn the key in the stiff lock of the other.

  ‘Don’t come too close,’ growled Køne. ‘I stink like a piss-pot.’

  ‘God’s truth!’ Køne could hear the grin in his voice. ‘We’ll have to do something about that. Now, wait and be ready quite soon. I must get this key back before it is missed.’

  Another age passed. It was one of the worst times the Faroeman could remember. Dirty and cramped, Køne tried to rub life back into his numbed limbs. He worried that his legs might not work when called to action; that Mikkel’s plan might involve swimming to freedom; that if they were both caught escaping an even worse punishment would be meted out; that he was allowing a naive boy to endanger himself out of loyalty for a stupid friend. Hungry, dispirited, ashamed, he could not even allow the dim light of hope to illumine his waiting.

  At last Mikkel came. This time the hatch was opened wide. Silently Mikkel lowered a canvas bucket of seawater down on a rope.

  ‘Clean those trousers,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t worry about the rest.’

  Køne did as he was told, then hauled the dripping garment back up his legs.

  Now a richly braided coat was passed down.

  ‘On with it and smartly, friend. We are needed ashore.’

  This was more like it. Køne grinned as he crawled out of the hatchway. Bent double, he followed Mikkel through a storeroom, then past a snoring ship’s cook in the galley and up on deck by the foremast. Mikkel made a dancing, exaggerated bow and handed his friend a high-domed officer’s hat, also richly braided in gold.

  ‘Now, sir,’ whispered Mikkel, ‘you are drunk and a little uneasy in your stomach and I am to lead you back to your quarters on shore.’

  ‘Drunk is good,’ muttered Køne, staggering along the deck, ‘for my legs are not behaving to my head’s orders.’

  ‘Hand on my shoulder. I will lead.’

  Køne had to marvel at the young fellow’s composure and wit. He began to enjoy himself, stumbling and muttering his way past a pair of sailors. When they came past the brig and the officer on watch there, Køne lowered his head to keep it in shadow.

  ‘I am to take this officer ashore, sir, to his quarters in Krokodille Street,’ piped Mikkel, all open innocence. ‘He is in need of some assistance.’

  ‘And what is that you carry?’ asked the officer suspiciously, indicating the violin case the boy gripped.

  For a moment Mikkel was silent, but Køne cut in quickly, keeping his voice gruff and slurred to hide the Faroese accent.

  ‘This boy here, officer, can fiddle like an angel. He is to … entertain me … in my quarters.’ He swayed and made a hawking sound as if vomit were on its way. The officer stepped back smartly and waved then on.

  Ashore they stumbled slowly until they were out of sight, then ran like the wind, Køne’s legs beginning to behave as they should. They searched along the dark quay until they spotted a rowboat, its oars neatly shipped, tied at the bottom of some stone steps as if waiting especially for them.

  ‘Oho, luck is with us, little one,’ laughed Køne. In an officer’s ringing tones he ordered, ‘Step aboard, lad, and secure my vessel for me.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain,’ said Mikkel, grinning. ‘And see, sir, they have left us a gift!’

  Bundled under canvas in the prow of the little boat was a flagon of beer and, even better, a sacking bag containing shirt, trousers, a thick jersey, a seaman’s cap and a Bible. Køne left the book, for he thought it bad luck to steal a man’s religion, but said a word of thanks for the clothes and squeezed into them. The officer’s finery he carefully folded and stowed in the bag. ‘Who knows when we might need it again?’ Winking at the boy.

  Into the dark of the canal they rowed, away from the Nyholm and towards the soft lamplights of Copenhagen. Every now and then one or the other chuckled to re-live the night’s triumph.

  ‘I have brought your knife and your two carved pipes and your carved ship. They’re all hidden with my fiddle,’ said Mikkel, full of pride for his deeds.

  ‘You are a wonder of a boy, and the ship will be yours.’

  ‘To keep?’

  ‘To keep for ever.’

  ‘And I will be like your little brother and we will sail the southern seas in search of marvels, shall we?’

  Køne rowed silently. He had time, now, to think on the consequences of his action.

  ‘And one day,’ said Mikkel, shivering in the stern, ‘you will be captain of your own ship, and I your first mate.’

  ‘My friend,’ said Køne, ‘you will be the captain, and likely before me. You are a quick and clever boy. But oh, Mikkel, you have ruined a good life in the navy to save me. And I have allowed it, which was not quick and clever at all.’

  Mikkel’s dark eyes watched him as he rowed over the black water. They were both silent now, the excitement giving way to reality.

  ‘What will your father think — and your mother?’ said Køne at last.

  ‘They will be proud I saved your life,’ answered the boy. His voice trembled. ‘And anyway, merchant shipping is good enough for Far. Why not me?’

  Køne could have turned the little boat then, could have rowed back to his prison and his flogging, could have explained that the boy had only obeyed his instructions and was not to blame. But, he argued in his head, surely it was too late now? The boy would no doubt be punished too. What good would returning do? Also, it must be said, the feel of the oars in his hands, the freedom of choosing his own actions, the call of distant seas — all these heady emotions were too strong for Tall Køne. He rowed on towards the canals of Copenhagen.

  ‘Row a little to
port here,’ said Mikkel, through chattering teeth. ‘This is Nyhavn Canal. There is a place I know.’

  Køne slid the boat silently up a dark canal, pulling it forward by gripping the rough stones of the side walls.

  ‘Here,’ said Mikkel.

  Hidden in the shadows, under a stone bridge, was a worn set of steps, slippery with slime, ascending towards a filthy dock. The stench of rancid whale oil was almost overpowering. The two tied the rowboat to an old iron ring and slithered their way up to freedom.

  FREEDOM, it turned out, was near as miserable as being in irons. No sooner were they were on dry land than a drunken sailor, roaring up from a rowdy basement tavern, cannoned into them, almost knocking them back into the canal. A fine carriage clattered past, the horse snorting and startling at a group of tattered ladies shrieking with laughter at some joke, and already eyeing Køne. Mikkel pulled his dazed friend into a darker, quieter alley, away from the taverns and ships. The boy was racked with the cold. He had come away without any of his outer clothing. The spring day had been warm and full of summer promise, but at night, in the city, the frost glittered almost as bright as the stars. The seamen had already forgotten how much colder land can be. And how much dirtier. Clearly it had not rained recently. The open drains down the centre of these cobbled back streets were mostly blocked with unimaginable filth. A night-soil man, struggling down one lane swinging a full barrel of sewage at each end of his pole, tripped as he passed and sent a stinking splash down Køne’s leg. Rats ran everywhere.

  Køne felt lost in all this clutter and stench. He hugged the shivering Mikkel tight. ‘You will need clothes,’ he said, ‘and the best place for that is your own home. Also, your father should know where you are, and where you are heading.’