by Paul Binding
Hans was not as taciturn as traditionally his compatriots were; he positively liked talking—and listening too. And he was interested in me, as nobody else, even Will Postgate, was: in where I’d been born, where I’d grown up, whether I had brothers and sisters, what had made me want to become a newspaper reporter. My answers—which I could not, at this stage, make as full as truthfulness demanded—appeared to chime in with situations and experiences of his own. Yes, he too was an only child, and no, he didn’t have parents either. Instead he had this guardian, Herr Strømme, shipping magnate and city philanthropist, and a man universally respected in their native city, Bergen. Apparently the Strømme mansion was situated on the slopes of Mount Fløyen, and looked commandingly down over Mariakirken (a big church), Haakon’s Hall, and the Rosenkrantz Tower, and of course over the harbor itself—which invariably had a Strømmeowned ship or two in dock. Very different from the back of Grove Lane, Camberwell, I said to myself, let alone the other houses we’d lived in after perforce leaving that pleasant little terraced villa—and different, too, from Castelaniene. But Herr Strømme resembled “the good Mrs. Fuller and her late husband” in being very fond of pictures and objets d’art.
“Why, he has plaster casts of Bertel Thorvaldsen sculptures,” he told me, lowering his voice as in awe of the information he was imparting, “both in the salon and in his private study. One is of ‘Jason,’ the Argonaut hero—that’s my favorite piece—and then there’s a larger statue of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The name of the Dane, greatest sculptor of his age, was wholly unknown to me, but, in the light of Hans’s feverish remarks on his very first night in this house I registered Thorvaldsen’s calling as significant to the youth in front of me.
About Bergen Hans was even more expansive:
“I doubt there’s a port like Bergen in the whole world. Seven great mountains at the back, and the town meeting the long fjord that’s wound in from the open sea. And the main harbor always so busy, with Torget at the end of it—that’s the name of the open market square with stalls piled with all the fish you could ever want.”
He smiled suddenly with a sweetness I found oddly touching, as if he were not a patient in an English Mercy Room but a young Norwegian prepared to guide me through his native town for sheer love of it.
“As a small boy I liked more than anything else just to stand on the quaysides. I’d think of the Vikings who set out on their expeditions from these very quays, my ancestors (and yours too probably; the Vikings conquered England, as you must know, Martin), making expeditions as far east as Byzantium and as far west as—well, America itself. I’d gaze at the ships themselves, of course, and ask myself where I wanted to sail away to most. Often, I’d get into conversation with sailors—as I didn’t have company at home, I looked for it outside, talking to whoever looked friendly enough—and surprisingly often they’d show me ’round their vessels. I’d wonder whether they’d let me join them on their next voyage if I could convince them I was old enough. They never did take me, of course.”
I couldn’t help thinking of Horace Fuller the stowaway here. So these two youths had not only the Mercy Room in common!
“But perhaps,” continued Hans with an almost happy sigh, “I knew even back then that I’d be working on craft like theirs someday, spending far, far more time at sea than on land, seeing it in all weathers, and meeting men who have learned its ways. Men like Johnston.”
Ah, Johnston. Him again.
And, predictably, his expression changed. “If only I could know whether he were alive or dead, Martin. I don’t suppose you heard any news of him at the paper today . . .?”
“No, there was none—”
“That man connects Life with Death, and Death with Life. It’s important for me to know which of them holds him now.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The W. T. Stead of Dengate
I carried out my interview with Hans Lyngstrand on the afternoon of Saturday, May 2, a couple of hours after I’d come back from work at The Advertiser, the two of us seated in basket-chairs in the walled garden at the back of Castelaniene, blossoms all about us: weeping pear, crabapple, wych-elm, and then bluebells in clumps that released color into the air as a fire does azure smoke. The two cats, Japheth and Ham, kept us almost motionless company throughout.
During my first year on the South London paper I’d successfully set about mastering Pitman’s Shorthand, remembering what the young Charles Dickens had done when he was a young reporter. As invariably happens, my final piece used only a small portion of what I took down, and that not the most extraordinary part.
I started off asking Hans about Johnston; for some reason “the American” preyed on my own mind as well as his.
“Have you known him a long time?”
Hans gave a laugh of astonishment. “Not at all! I wasn’t aware the man—or anybody like him—existed before February this year.”
“Really? February?” I scribbled the name of the month down importantly on my pad.
“Yes, that’s when we docked in Halifax, Nova Scotia. You see our usual bo’sun, a Swede by name of Karlsson, was taken ill very suddenly. But . . .”—he broke off, an anxious look on his face—“Martin, I don’t think we should be talking about Alfred Johnston, not just now! Shouldn’t I tell you how I came to be a sailor and what ships I worked on, and so on?”
“Well, I know how you used to hang about the quays as a kid in Bergen, so I suppose it was love of the sea that—”
“Excuse me, Martin!” Hans interrupted in an almost urgent tone. “Not love of the sea. I don’t love the sea.” He paused. “I don’t believe any sailor does. Love of adventure—that might be nearer the truth. But most fellows go to sea because—well, they have to.”
“Did you have to?” Hans had given me the impression that—on land anyway—he was accustomed to a certain affluence, with his patron Herr Strømme owning all those works of art.
I saw myself a mere six years ago, in contrast with such circumstances, wondering how I could possibly “keep body and soul together,” as they say, and then coming across that notice in the window of J. B. Spencer, Stationer’s, advertising their need for a bright and hardworking lad. I recalled the effort it had taken for me to push open the shop door and present myself. And it was through humble Spencer’s that I heard of a young man being wanted at Lewisham-and-Lee’s thriving newspaper . . . So Hans too had known something of such difficulties.
Anyway, here follows the edited (though not by any means the final published) version of Hans Lyngstrand’s story. I interrupted quite a lot, sometimes involuntarily, sometimes in order to be sure that I’d got things right. These, I need hardly say, I have not troubled to set down:
“My mother was ill ever since I can recall. She’d become ill bringing me into the world, and never truly recovered. Mine was a home you had to tiptoe through for fear of causing a disturbance, doctors were always calling, and nurses moving in. Finally, shortly before my thirteenth birthday, Mamma died. Her funeral comes back to me in dreams sometimes or if I am ill: all those solemn faces and lowered voices, the ritual throwing of flowers onto her coffin, and the expression on Pappa’s face as he looked at me—as if I was the one remaining obstacle in his life. Did I grieve for my mother? I’m not sure. I’d never properly known her after all.
“Pappa was manager of one of the bigger banks in Bergen, a highly-respected citizen, known in all the circles of the town which count. One of his best friends and clients was Herr Strømme who entrusted him with the accounts of his shipping company. I am assured he looked after these very shrewdly. I’ve told you something about Herr Karsten Strømme and his home on Mount Fløyen already, and honestly I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him, his reputation is so high and extensive, here in England too. His name is so right for him: ‘strømme’ in Norwegian means ‘flow’ or ‘pour,’ and you simply could not find a more generous man. Herr Strømme and his wife were not able to have children of their own, which is o
ne reason why, I suppose, he always made a fuss of me whenever he came to our house for supper or a glass of punch and a game of cards. He’d bring me sweets such as you couldn’t get in Bergen, or exotic fruits transported by his ships: persimmons, pomegranates, and unbelievably sweet and juicy dates and figs. He appreciated my interest in voyages and far-off places, and would trace the courses of his own ships on a map. But then Pappa got impatient: ‘Karsten, you’re giving the boy far more attention than is good for him. Hans, it’s time you went to your room.’ More than once I overheard him say: ‘I confess, Karsten, I don’t know what to do with him. I certainly do not want him hanging ’round my house indefinitely. And now that Berthe, rest her soul, is dead, I’ve my own life to lead for a change! His schoolmasters have made it only too clear Hans is no great shakes as a scholar!’
“Well, as you’ve probably guessed, the eventual outcome of such conversations was that Herr Strømme proposed I leave school to work for his company. Not as an errand-boy in his Bergen offices (which is what I at first feared—I have no head for figures) but actually aboard the ships themselves.
“I started my life at sea no different from any other Norwegian boy who wants employment, a regular pay-packet, and a challenge. In no way did I benefit from being the son of a well-off bank manager on familiar terms with a Bergen shipping magnate. That’s how Herr Strømme wanted it, that’s how my father wanted it—insofar as he wanted anything for me at all (‘It’ll shape you up a bit, boy!’)—and that’s how I wanted it myself. We Norwegians are a very democratic people, we have nothing to do with rank and privilege and deference. From this point on my father departs from the story of my life. His attitude to me was ‘Well, I’ve got that useless son of mine off my hands!’ He resigned his position in the bank, while remaining a major shareholder, and then left not just Bergen but Norway altogether—for the South of France—some two years after I first went to sea. I always used to say, when anybody asked me, that he’d disappeared as far as I was concerned; that was the truth as I saw it.
“The first ship I was assigned to was bound for Baltimore. She made a smooth Atlantic crossing, beating her own record, and I enjoyed every waking hour of that voyage. I felt free, alive for the first time ever. When my shipmates told me all voyages wouldn’t be as straightforward and enjoyable as my maiden one, I hardly believed them. When eventually the ship made her way up past the wooded banks of the Chesapeake, I felt like one of my Viking forebears entering the estuary of the unknown continent with who-knew-what inhabitants and wildlife to confront. But now, after five years of travel, I think no coast can compare with Norway’s. I shall be so glad to see it again. There have been times this last month when I didn’t think I’d survive to do so.
“I did every kind of job expected of me, from skinning up riggings, and in pretty tough conditions too, to helping the cook down below in the steam of the kitchens. You’ll be wondering how a boy from a privileged background with an actual connection to the ship’s owner got on with his shipmates, however democratic we Norwegians might be—and anyway many crew-members were not Norwegian. Well, naturally there were some pretty rough types and troublemakers, and some real bullies among them. I learned from their lips things that back in Bergen I never dreamed as existing. But I got along, and not all my learning was bad for me, by any means. Of course, rumors spread that I was an important man’s son and an even more important man’s godson, but for most of the hands I was just plain Hans, and that was that. Things will usually go all right for a lad if he aims to be friendly.
“Anyway, your English expression ‘It’s all hands on deck!’ is a very good one. When trouble comes—a storm brewing, a fault detected in the rigging—you all have so much to do you forget your differences, and become so close it’s as if you’re parts of the same living body. After the boyhood I’d had, having comradeship ’round the clock was something I welcomed gratefully. The friends I’ve made, Martin! And the talents I discovered in almost every one of them.
“Think of little Niels from Frederikshavn in Denmark, sixteen years of age. It was a full week before he let on that he played the concertina but hadn’t brought one with him. Somehow, somewhere on the ship we found him an instrument, if very old and wheezy. And when Niels put his hands on the key-buttons, he looked like somebody who’d been set alight, mouth grinning, eyes sparkling, and as for the music he made, I’ve never heard anything so joyful ever, one tune after another, a polka from Poland, a hambo from Sweden. Oh, I so hope Niels survived the wreck. It would be a real treat to hear him on the concertina once more . . .
“I’ve already told you I’m now an Able Seaman. Yes, Able Seaman Lyngstrand. After I’d proved myself on my first two voyages, I moved up from Lower Deck with the idea that I work for a Second Mate’s certificate. Herr Strømme spoke of this when we met in Bergen for Christmas. He remains my official guardian, or patron, until my twenty-fifth birthday, and therefore manages the trust my father set up for me. But, Martin, never say this to anyone, not a word in your article, but after all that I have just been through, after all that everyone I’ve been close to has been through, and after the death of Dronning Margrete herself, I don’t want to be a seaman anymore, of whatever rank. I’ve already told you what I hope to be . . .”
At this point I wanted to hear no more of his ambitions to be a sculptor and feared they might divert him for too long from his main story. So, a little pointedly, I made no interpolation here.
“But of course you will need more information about Herr Strømme’s ships for your piece.
“I wonder how many of your readers being English realize that Norway—such a very small nation, not a million of us yet—has the third, yes, the third, biggest merchant navy in the world. But we’ve been slow to adapt to steam. Almost all the vessels in our fleet are sailing-ships, and I myself have worked on no other kind. Company owners in Norway, even Herr Strømme himself, tend to be very conservative, and as a result we’ve let you British, and the Americans too, get well ahead of us—and the Age of Steam is here to stay. Dronning Margrete, at 480 tons, was the largest ship I’d ever joined, and the most beautiful. In full rig, in the sunshine, she looked as though she could take you to Heaven. And in fact, she was taking people to what they thought might be Heaven compared with the poverty they’d known in Norway and Sweden. Yes, she carried ‘human cargo,’ emigrants bound for a new life in the New World. That was on the outward voyage, alongside Norwegian timber and fish. Then in Halifax these folk disembarked—and on the return trip we had non-human cargo only: Canadian timber, Canadian fish, Canadian fruit and grain, Canadian artifacts, as well as ice, which we could store pretty well in our big wooden hold.
“Our plan, once we’d completed the outward voyage, was to dock in Halifax three to four days while loading up the ship. But it was February and our crossing had been very rough indeed. To avoid the worst we changed course with the result we arrived in Nova Scotia two days behind schedule. Every single one of us was pleased to get into port after such weather, and be on firm ground again, and see other faces apart from the familiar ones, and go where you’d find interesting company, bars and coffeeshops and—certain other establishments also, naturally. But the morning after we’d docked something completely unexpected happened. And now Johnston does enter the story.
“A group of us hands, having an hour to ourselves but not enough time to go into town, was relaxing in one of our larger cabins over a card game—a kind of poker for low stakes, which Toto from Palermo had taught us. I was doing rather well, as it happens. And then into our fun staggers our bo’sun—a long-serving man we considered a permanent fixture, a Swede called Karlsson. We thought he’d come in to say: ‘Hell, can’t you boys pipe down for a bloody second?’—but the minute we looked up at him, we saw that wasn’t why he was there. He’d come for our help! He was doubled up in pain, deathly pale, dripping sweat and shivering even as he moved along, and clutching himself between the legs as if a horse had savagely kicked him in the crutch.
He said, in a voice we could hardly recognize: ‘Old Nick’s got me at last!’
“Judging by his appearance, he might have been right. We all knew that Karlsson, the gravest, soberest man imaginable on board ship, was a wild man on shore, and what we were seeing was likely a consequence of what he’d been up to two nights before. One of us—Niels, the Danish boy who played the concertina—ran to get the First Mate, and it was he—Anders Andersen, level-headed as they come—who insisted Karlsson be taken into Halifax. That took some doing (Karlsson was by now shaking so much three of us hands had to hold him) but they did succeed in getting him to the city hospital. No question whatsoever of him returning with us to Norway. In fact, when we left him, we doubted he’d make it through the rest of that day. But—last thing we heard, he was responding to some treatment; mercury, you know. So it fell to Andersen, the Chief Mate, and to Wilhelm, the Third Mate, the German Bible-reader, to recruit another man to fill his place. For a ship always needs a bo’sun, even in dock. We hadn’t time to waste either; we were already well loaded with fruit and salt, though not all the manufactured goods had arrived. So you can see how jolly relieved these two officers were when someone with Alfred Johnston’s kind of experience presented himself for Karlsson’s post.
“Johnston!—he is (but perhaps I should say ‘was’) about forty. You could tell just from his face he’d been around a hell of a lot. And, if only half of what he let slip was true, he really had: China, South America, California—add to those Nova Scotia, and you’ve pretty well covered the globe. The First Mate said he was just the man for the job, and Third Mate Wilhelm agreed.