Up in the masts hung strange nets of heavy rope; they must be intended for huge fishes, such large meshes they had. A few of the sea folk were climbing up there, shouting to each other. The farm boys went dizzy watching them suspended above. The seamen had nothing to hold on to, as far as the boys could see, and they feared that any moment the men would lose their foothold so Robert and Arvid would have to witness the bodies of these daredevils fallen to the deck, crushed into bloody pulp.
The boys continued their inspection of the brig Charlotta, and were astonished at the small space the passengers had in which to move about. They paced off the length of the ship and her width, and even though they shortened their steps somewhat, they found her length to be no more than forty paces, and her width eight. The floor in some farmhouses was as large as this deck. Their ship was small — not only at a distance. Forty paces long and eight wide — for almost a hundred people, for them to live, to sleep and eat and perform all the necessary functions of life. If everyone came on deck at once it would be so crowded they would almost push each other overboard. Overboard — and suppose something should happen to their small ship, out on the great ocean: what would they do? There were a few rowboat-like rafts, here on deck, but by no means enough for the passengers. Well, perhaps such gear was not considered a necessity by sailors.
As far as immediate necessities were concerned, Robert had asked a seaman today where the outhouse was located. He was told it was the roundhouse forward, just aft of the port bow. Robert didn’t know where the port bow was, but he had found the house anyway — though it wasn’t round, but square. He didn’t understand why it was called the roundhouse. It was true, the hole one used was round, of course, but so were all such holes. Who could solve the riddles of the sea?
The America-bound boys looked at the anchor winch and felt the heavy chain. What gear! But naturally heavy chains were required to tether a ship to the bottom of the sea.
“Look at the man in the fore end!” said Arvid, and pointed to the bow. The “man” was a wooden figurehead. They went closer and saw it represented the head and neck of a huge bird: an eagle stretching out over the ship’s bow. The long beak of the bird was open, and pointed over the water like a spearhead, as though he would guide the helmsman across the seas with his beak. The eagle looked ravenous and ferocious, his black, immobile wooden eyes scanning the waters of the Baltic Sea.
A bent old man with a long beard sat leaning against the foremast, busy with pieces of rope and such. He grinned in a friendly way at Robert, who asked him what he was doing.
“Can’t you see, boy? I’m splicing.”
Robert had picked up a new word—“splicing.” The bearded old man was the ship’s sailmaker. In his younger days he had been a bosun. Robert asked him about the Charlotta’s figurehead, and the old man explained it served no purpose except decoration.
At the railing the boys looked down into the water rolling softly a few feet below them. Robert thought it might be a couple of miles to the bottom. Arvid shuddered — he had thought it would be a hundred rods at most.
The sea lay perilously near, and he was seized with terror. “If the sea should rise only half a yard, it would drown us!”
The possibility loomed before Robert for a fleeting moment, then he said there would be no danger: should the sea rise, it would only lift the ship higher. Arvid shook his head, unable to follow this.
A fellow passenger came up to the boys. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, a light brown, loud-checked coat, and trousers that fitted his legs as tightly as skin. From his hip pocket dangled a white handkerchief, swishing his thighs like a horse’s tail; his shoes were of the finest patent leather. Robert had noticed this man earlier, on account of his colorful clothing. He seemed a gentleman among all these farmers.
The stranger looked down the side of the Charlotta’s worn hull and waterlogged planking, which had begun to soften and splinter. He grinned contemptuously and spat on the old hulk.
“God-damn her! Damn this sour old washtub!”
He spat a second time for emphasis.
“This is a rotten, stinking ship! Do you understand, peasants?”
In some resentment, Robert answered that he had felt the same when he boarded the ship. She was damp and unhealthy.
“Her bilge water stinks like the devil,” said the man in the checked jacket. “I’ve sailed on many ships, and I must say this old hulk is unwholesome.”
“Are you a seaman, sir?” asked Robert with new respect.
“I should say so! Was for ten years.”
Arvid was bending over the rail, and now he made a discovery. He pointed and said: “Look! There’s a hole! Our ship is leaking!”
He pointed to a hole at the water’s edge through which a stream ran in and out continuously. The man in the checked coat laughed.
“That’s the scupper hole, my boy! But the ship is leaky, anyway.”
Robert caught the word “scupper.” Of course, it was the hole through which the passengers scupped, or vomited; Arvid ought to have known this. He noticed now the hole was lined with iron, no doubt to prevent waste from clinging to the wood and smelling. The presence of the iron convinced him that the hole had been made with a purpose, was not caused by rot.
“Yes,” resumed the stranger, “now I sail to the North American Republic again, if this old tub keeps afloat that far.”
“Have you visited America before?” asked Robert.
“Many times, my friend, many times. I have lived in America for years.”
Robert viewed his fellow passenger with new interest. For the first time in his life he was face to face with a person who had been to the New World. What he beheld was a red, flushed face, swollen as if the owner had the mumps; a flat nose; and bloodshot, thick-lidded eyes. It was difficult to discover any redeeming features in this countenance, but the owner had been to America, and spoke of this without bragging, as if he merely mentioned that he’d been to the outhouse.
“What did you do in America, sir?”
“Various things.”
The stranger’s eyes scanned the water as if his memories of America were floating on the wave crests.
“This last year I helped a Mormon priest with odd jobs.”
The man in the loud coat and the snakeskin-tight pants spat again, this time straight out to sea. Robert need not urge him further, he continued now of his own volition.
The Mormons were the Latter-Day Saints in the United States, and he had been allowed to assist one of their greatest and most saintly prophets — or so he had thought when he accepted the job. Later, he might as well admit it now, it turned out that the priest was no Mormon at all! Things were not always what they seemed. But he would tell the story as it happened to him.
The Mormon priest (it was easier to refer to him so) had journeyed on the railroad from town to town, and he had gone with him to help with various things. It had not been a heavy or arduous task. When the supposed priest held a meeting in a town, then he, the assistant, had mixed in the crowd as one of the listeners. When the priest’s sermon was over, then it was his duty to step forward and ask leave to say a few words: that this evening, in this room, the spirit of revelation had filled him. It had been granted him to see with his own eyes the returned Lord’s prophet. And deep in his heart suddenly he had realized that he himself belonged to the lost tribe of Israel. His memory of long-gone-by times had returned to him so that it spanned even the days of Father Abraham. He wanted now to be a member of the Holy Sons of Zion.