The Emigrants (45 page)

Robert wanted to remain on deck, he didn’t want to appear cowardly. But a feeling of dizziness took hold of him, and he had a sensation as though his stomach were rolling about loose inside him. What was this? What was the matter with him? Hadn’t he read in his
History of Nature
about that which overcame him: “This rolling movement of ships at sea causes inexperienced people who voyage on them . . .”? And now he noticed that only a couple of passengers were left on deck; he was not the most cowardly. Then he had gone below and lain down in his bunk.

A great hue and cry was heard from the other side of the sailcloth, where the women were. One of them had been badly burned by scalding water while she was preparing her evening meal in the galley. A pot with boiling water had fallen over her foot as the rolling began. The woman had cried out loudly: “I shall complain to the captain! The captain shall hear about this!” But from the men’s side was heard a rough voice: “Damned hens, those women! Must the captain hold their pots? Why in hell can’t they be more careful?”

The young girl who was ill with an abscess in her throat often moaned softly—tonight Robert could not hear her.

Then he had gone to sleep, but the word had penetrated his brain like an auger, working away inside: dead sea—
dead sea
—DEAD SEA!

It was night, and the darkness impenetrable. He lay on the inside of the bunk, and his brother’s heavy body had rolled over him so he could not move. Karl Oskar slept. Robert could hear men turn in their bunks—snore, groan, puff, vomit, fart, talk in their sleep, pray, swear and curse.

Karl Oskar rolled back to his place, their mattress seemed to sink. Robert grabbed hold of his brother’s shoulder—their bunk was sinking! Nothing stopped it—now he was lying on top of his brother and they sank together, toward the bottom of the sea!

He clung to his brother’s shoulders and was able to whisper: “Karl Oskar—”

Then their bunk stopped sinking—it rose. And again his brother’s body rolled over onto his. Now it was his turn to sink, with his brother on top of him. No bottom hindered—they sank and sank. Now they must be deep under the water—
they must be going down!

He heard himself cry out: “We are sinking!”

Karl Oskar seemed to waken—he mumbled, half asleep: “It’s only storming. Keep quiet!”

It stormed. An uninterrupted roar was heard from the sea on the other side of the hull, like thunder after a bolt of lightning. The mass of water outside, which until this evening had carried their ship on its back calmly and patiently as a docile beast of burden, had now become a wild beast with frothing, foamy jaws, and it heaved with all its pliant humps as if to throw off its burden. Already it had snapped at Robert—his wet trousers hung near the bunk: the sea had licked him with its wet tongue.

And now he lay there and sank: the sea had swallowed him. It had licked his legs in the evening, tonight it had swallowed him.

He wanted to throw up. There seemed to be no air around him, he could not breathe.

“Karl Oskar! Have we sunk? Has the ship gone down?”

The water had not yet come in to them. But as soon as the hull broke, when the planks splintered, when there were holes in the bulkhead—then the sea would rush in and drown them.

“Karl Oskar! Can’t you feel we are sinking?”

“It’s only seasickness.”

The two brothers kept rolling over each other. Their bunk went up and down. The older one explained: in a storm a ship rocked like a cradle.

“But it is stifling in here tonight,” panted Karl Oskar, and turned over on his other side.

One could hear that he, too, suffered. He had not yet been seasick, every morning regularly he drank his wormwood-seed brännvin on an empty stomach; he was sure this kept his body in good order.

Now the crew had battened down the hatch, as the waves were constantly washing over the deck. In so doing they had also closed all the small holes which let air in to the hold. That’s why it’s so stiflingly thick in here tonight, Robert thought. The air he inhaled had already been used. His fellow passengers had used it, men and women had sucked it in through their throats, old men and hags had held it in their filthy mouths. It was not air any more, there was no air. Robert inhaled—this is the last, there is no more air—it does not suffice for all, there isn’t air for one more breath, this is my last one in life. Perhaps one more—if I use very little only. This is my last breath—next time I cannot . . .

The air dried in his throat, and he became faint from fear: he was dying.

He gasped for breath in short, weak jerks: “Karl Oskar—I’m choking to death—”

“You have as much air as I. Keep quiet!”

A light fluttered above them; Jonas Petter had lit a tallow candle.

An angry voice was heard through the darkness: “Don’t start a fire, you bastards!”

“I can’t see to puke,” panted Jonas Petter. “It runs beside the bucket.”

But he blew out the light before he was through vomiting.

Robert kept on breathing; the air seemed to give out at each breath he took, but there was always enough for one more. People around him puffed, groaned, swore, vomited, prayed, moaned, and cried.

The brig
Charlotta
sailed on with them all, through the night, over a sea with hissing, wet tongues licking the vessel on all her sides. The night was dark and starless with low sweeping clouds. Two lanterns were burning on deck: the green on starboard and the red on port. But they gave out poor light, these kerosene burners, hemmed in by darkness and the storm. Two fragile little lanterns on a black, raging sea, two lights in a little world that moved above the depths of a great tempestuous water.

Yet in this little world lived nearly a hundred people, cramped and crowded.

Robert listened to the sounds of the breaking waves: they roared, splashed, and flowed as they broke over the deck above him. Mighty masses of water came rushing, crashing tumultuously, and falling. When a wave broke against the deck the sound increased to a thunder-roar, deafening as a big box on his ear. Surging and splashing, the water ran in small runnels over the deck planks, flowing like a swollen spring back to its home. A wave rose, broke itself against the ship, and fell back into the sea. The next one followed—a hard thud, the water threw itself over the deck, then followed the roar, the soughing, the purl of running water. He lay there and listened to wave after wave, and each time he could hear how the ship freed herself from the lashing tongue of the sea, and escaped the yawn of the wild beast. The brig
Charlotta
was still afloat.

A baby cried incessantly on the other side of the hanging. It sounded like the mewing of a tortured cat. A cat—it wasn’t a child he heard cry, it was a cat! It was the old cat which he once had drowned in the mill brook, the cat in the sack that wouldn’t sink. The cat was in here and she was being choked slowly, she mewed pitifully, the sack would not sink before he had thrown many stones at it. And the cat mewed, she mewed incessantly, she had mewed for many years, ever since she was drowned. And now she mewed here, behind the hanging, while he himself lay here and was being choked, tied in a sack, sinking—

His punishment was inescapable:
he must die in the same manner as the cat.

Perspiration clung to his whole body, like a cold, wet cloth against the skin. He folded his hands, he had not said his evening prayers last night. When he had finished he took hold of his brother’s shoulder again. “Karl Oskar—please. I’m afraid.”

“Keep quiet! It’ll blow over.”

“But I’m afraid I’m going to die—”

“No one can do anything for you—you understand that much.”

No. No one could do anything. All the hundred people inside the hulk of the ship were forced to lie and wait, they could do nothing else. The ship might sink with them all, and no trace would be left on the water’s surface, no one in the whole world would know how they had died, no one would be able to find their grave. In the space of a few minutes they would all disappear from the world, remain lost for eternity; and soon it would be as if they had never existed. And not a soul could do a thing about it. No one could bend a finger to help them. Here they would lie, inside the sack when the sea broke in, filling their mouths with water, filling their eyes, their ears and throats, choking them as the cat was choked in the mill-brook sack.

There was no one but God to turn to.

“Karl Oskar—”

“What do you want?”

“I drowned a cat in the brook when I was little. She suffered terribly before she died. Do you think I can—can be forgiven?”

“What nonsense is that?”

“I can hear the cat mewing—in here.”

“You are out of your head!”

But Robert prayed God’s forgiveness for what he had done to the cat in the mill brook. After that he felt as if his fear had eased.

His breathing came in short gasps. But suddenly his nose and mouth felt clogged: a slimy, sticky fluid was covering his face; something from the bunk above him dripped onto him. In the dark he could not see what it was, nor need he see it—the smell told him all.

The stench of the vomit overwhelmed him. He rose, and tumbling over his brother’s body he got out of his bunk. Out . . . Out! He would die, this very minute, if he didn’t get out at once. He felt his way through the darkness, between the close bunks of his fellow passengers. The floor beneath him fell away—the floor rose, and he crawled uphill. He reached the narrow passage longships as if walking on stilts. He skidded in the vomit, it splashed in his face, he spat, he dried himself with his hands, he groaned. Out—out in the open! Here he would die. The filthy stench forced itself into him, it went deeper into his throat, it filled and choked him. Up—up on deck!

He reached the ladder in the hatchway, he tried to crawl up on hands and feet. But the hatch was fastened solidly, he pulled and pushed, he could not move it, he could get no farther. The sack was well sewn together, he could not get out, he must choke to death down here. He could hear the seamen on deck shout to each other: A hell of a gale! Batten down and secure! What a bastard!

We are in a dead sea—
dead sea
—DEAD SEA.

Robert remained clinging to the ladder, vomiting. He clung there until he felt a pair of strong arms around his body, a pair of arms that dragged him back to his bunk.

“It’s only seasickness,” said Karl Oskar.

But during the horrors of this first stormy night Robert felt, for the first time in his life, that he was participating in death.

Kristina:

The swing here in the barn was ready. Both ends of the ox-thong were fastened high up in the roof beams. The swing was so high she felt dizzy when she looked up. They used to sit, two of them—two girls together—and hold on to each other. It felt safer that way; but they cried out each time the swing went high. If you were afraid, you jumped off. Now she would ride the swing alone, and that was dangerous.

She crawled up and sat down in the swing, grabbed hold of the ox-thong with both hands, and held on. Then she kicked against the barn floor and started.

You have always liked to ride on a swing, said Karl Oskar.

But once she fell off the swing and broke her knee, and gangrene had set in and she was sent to Berta in Idemo. Karl Oskar came into the kitchen; he was a tall man with a big nose. She remained in her chair the whole time he was there, because she limped when she walked—and for some reason she didn’t want him to see her limp. But now we shall get married, he said, and then she sewed her blue bridal quilt.

If she hadn’t fallen from the swing she wouldn’t have been sent to Berta in Idemo, where she met Karl Oskar, nor would she have been with him in the ship on their way to North America. The happenings of her whole life were decided that day when she made a swing of the old ox-thong in the barn.

Nothing must spot our bridal cover here; our quilt must be kept clean—we must use it in America, when we build anew.

She was riding her swing—at last she could ride as much as she wished, and no one said a word about it. But she must hold on with both hands, she rode higher and higher, she rode backwards up against the roof, and the ground was so far under her that she felt dizzy—she rode forward again, down to the floor. If she fell out she would surely kill herself. She held on harder to the ropes, they cut into her hands, it hurt.

It was dangerous to swing as fast as this—it hummed at her ears, she must slow down. But that was impossible. What should she do? She could not get hold with her feet; she might easily fall out. It was much safer to sit two in the swing, then they could hold on to each other. Why didn’t Karl Oskar come? She wanted to hold on to Karl Oskar.

Here she sat in the clouds—and there, deep below her, was the barn floor.

She cried out; she must stop the swing.

She was awakened by her cry. Lill-Märta lay on her arm and moaned in her sleep, like a little whelp. Her small hands and cheeks felt warm and soft. Children were always warm, they warmed their mother’s hands. Her babies were healthy, God be praised. And they were all on their way to America, where they would settle and build a new home.

She must be careful not to let anything drip on her quilt. But she had nothing more to vomit—the last time it had been green, like the cows’ cuds, pure gall. Now it was finished, some time it must come to an end—though as long as she still had something to throw up, she felt better. Now she would not feel better.

Children were crying, but they were not her children. It’s probably Eva, Inga-Lena’s little one. Poor Inga-Lena, her little one is so sick. She is not six months yet, it is difficult at sea with such a little one. Poor Inga-Lena—she has much to look after, and no help from Danjel. She is killing herself for his sake.

Now Kristina was riding the swing again. She flies up through the air, she falls down, back and forth she rides. She is thrown through space, back and forth. She holds on with both hands, in panic. She wants to jump off, she wants to get back on the floor again.

How far was it to the floor? She looked down.
The floor was gone!