I had a wish to do it, but my hand did not obey — I was too cowardly.
Then I discovered something — she had lied, because she did believe me, she thought I was going to kill myself. I noticed that she hid away cutting tools from me. She was afraid, after all. And for a long time she was quite bearable and kind to me, and we had no quarrels.
I had thus discovered one way to get peace, and I used it a couple of times — I sharpened my knife and let her crank the grindstone.
But it shouldn’t be that way between mates in a union which God has ordained — one shouldn’t need to sharpen knives to get peace.
Perhaps she did see through the knife trick in the end; because when the day came that I told her I intended to emigrate to North America, she didn’t believe me. You are too much of a coward, she said. You are afraid of getting out on the sea. You dare not, you poor coward! You have never dared anything. You dare not sail on the sea!
But that time she was mistaken.
When at last she realized that I wasn’t the coward she had thought — when she saw my America chest packed on the wagon — then she began to cry. She cried very often from anger, but this time she cried in another way: she almost moaned, slowly and softly, as some animals do when they are in great pain. Perhaps one should feel sorry for her; she is as God created her, she can’t help it. She can’t change herself. Yes, one should feel sorry for her; but I know it has given her pleasure to torture me, and that I haven’t as yet forgiven her.
Now I lie here out at sea, and I am free of her. I lie here and muse over what I have missed in life. It is bitter to think of this. There are men who are good to their wives, and wives who are good to their husbands. How would it be to have a wife who was kind and thoughtful and wanted only to do good, who could understand that one can mean well even when one does wrong, a wife who may criticize and scold, yet interprets all for the best — not for the worst, as my wife did? Well, how would it be? I turn here in my misery when I realize what I have missed in this world.
I feel ashamed of myself. But old as I am, there is still something left inside resembling hope, a very small hope. There is something that whispers: Perhaps good luck awaits you somewhere in the world. Perhaps you need not die before you have tasted some of that which you so sorely missed. You have lived like a dog on your farm, a dog without a master, a wretched creature who doesn’t belong to the house — so have you lived, Jonas Petter. You have sneaked about, searching, silent, hungry in your own home. It is true — who can be more hungry than you for that which a woman can give to a man?
Yes, I am ashamed, a little — but mustn’t a wretched human being have at least this left — a little poor and puny hope?
One can seldom sleep well here on the ship; I lie and fret too much. I am on a voyage to another continent. I am going somewhere, I don’t know where, but one thing I do know: I search for peace.
XVI. HAPPENINGS ON BOARD THE SHIP
— 1—
The brig Charlotta sails through night and day in the mist and drizzle of the April spring.
The sails in her two full-rigged masts hang limp and lifeless — the wind is still light. The ship’s heavy body lies deep in the sea. The sea’s beast of burden, a camel in the water desert, she plows her way slowly through the soft, blue-green billows. The figurehead on her prow — the eagle — incessantly scans the sea with his piercing eyes. At times foam sprays his neck and washes his open mouth; it drips from his beak, ever ready to taste the salt water; it runs from his eyes, ever washed clean by the sea. The neck of the bird rises proudly: the eagle’s eye searches the width of the ocean as though trying to find the path of those who sailed this way before. Here ships have sailed for thousands of years, but on this path wanderers leave no footprints.
The last time the emigrants saw land it was the outermost point of Denmark, appearing at a great distance. But sometimes they saw other ships, larger and smaller than their own; they saw faster sails, and slower ones. Either way, the Charlotta soon was alone again on the sea.
For several days the weather had been so cloudy that Captain Lorentz had been unable to take their position by the sun. He measured distances and figured his course by dead reckoning. The speed was slow, the ship moved at a snail’s pace across Kattegat.
The little peasant with the wild brown beard came up to the skipper near the helm and smiled in his quiet way: God was giving them fine, calm weather on their voyage. Lorentz replied that if God wished them well. He ought to give them stronger wind.
If this damned peasant only knew how long he would have to stay on board if this weather lasted the whole crossing! Then he would no doubt throw himself down on his knees and pray for wind.
But these poor farmers had no idea about anything at sea. They acted as if their ears and eyes were full of earth. They had only traveled on manure wagons, never before been carried by the waves. And they had one reason to be satisfied with the calm weather — up to now they had practically escaped seasickness. Nor was there any hurry, apparently, for these earth rats to reach North America. They were only traveling from one piece of land to another, from one field to another. They would reach their destination soon enough, and begin to poke in the turf on the other side.
Day after day, for days on end, the first mate wrote in the Charlotta’s log: Wind light southeast. Cloudy. At times rain and fog.
— 2—
In the daytime the emigrants were on deck. It was bitter cold and they wore all their garments — coats, shawls, blankets, sheepskins. It was more comfortable on deck for those who stood the sea poorly and were afraid of nights in the hold. Here there was fresh air — in the hold the air was fetid. In their bunks at night seasickness stole over them, as though the illness kept itself hidden somewhere down there and crawled out at night. Then it might happen that there were too few wooden buckets, or that someone couldn’t find a bucket in time in the darkness; lights were not allowed after ten in the evening. Then, when daylight began to creep in, it revealed the long night’s happenings.
The emigrants began their day with a cleaning of their quarters. Men carried water in big buckets, and women scrubbed and scoured and washed and hung wet clothing to dry on deck. This chore must be completed before the thirsty were allowed to drink, before the dirty could wash themselves. Now they understood why the day’s portion of drinking water was withheld until they had cleaned up after the night.
There were complaints among the passengers that half a gallon of sweet water a day per person was too little. This half gallon must last for preparation of food, for drinking water, for washing themselves and their babies. And they were accustomed to draw water from full wells. The second mate tried to explain to them that this amount had been decided, once and for all, that the ship’s total supply of fresh water did not allow greater rations: they were on a long voyage, it might take three months if they were unlucky with weather. There might even come a day when they would have to manage with less. They must learn now to save the drops.
The women tried washing their woolen things in sea water, but the soap gave no suds. One morning a heavy rain fell. Then the seamen stretched a sail on deck to gather rain water. The sailors washed themselves and their clothes in this, and the passengers stood by looking on, some following their example. Danjel Andreasson said that the Lord had remembered them with good washing water from His heaven.