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The gray soft wall enclosed them on all sides, enclosed the whole sea. They sailed through a wall hundreds of miles thick, and it seemed as if they sailed at random. Did their ship move at all? Might not the brig Charlotta lie still as an island on the water, tethered to the bottom with invisible chains? They could not see that she was arriving anywhere, she sailed, but sailed nowhere. Their ship lay here in the fog, swaddled in a woolen shawl which hid and wrapped up the whole earth.

And during these days of fog an anxiety began to spread from one to the other among the emigrants: hadn’t they sailed astray?

They began to count: six weeks, seven weeks — soon their voyage was in the eighth week. The year had passed into the month of June. How great a distance was still left to America? They had oftentimes asked the seamen, and equally often they had received indecisive answers: almost halfway, about halfway, nearly halfway, a little over halfway. Now they were tired of this halfway, and wanted to pass it. They had been told it would require at the most eight weeks for the crossing to North America, and they ought soon to arrive. But week was still added to week, and the anxiety spread. No one could tell them how far they had sailed, or definitely tell them their location. Perhaps they were lost? Perhaps they had already passed the shores of America? Perhaps they would never arrive?

Could they rely on the captain who charted the course? Could they be sure he would find his way over this water without signs, where no marks were left by those who had sailed before? He might steer in one direction but the winds and currents of the sea drive the ship in another. He might sail by the sun in the daytime and the stars at night, but what could he do when neither sun nor stars were shining? Or when it was misty and foggy, as now? They were afraid that by this time not even the ship’s commander knew where they were.

The patience of the passengers was almost at an end from the long sailing, and there were many things they would have liked to ask the captain. But the taciturn little man who was seen on deck only occasionally, spending most of his time in his cabin, encouraged no one to approach him. And there was talk of an answer which he had made to a bold and curious passenger who had asked the question which was in everyone’s mind: When do we land in America? The captain had answered: Which day do we arrive in the harbor of New York? That he would willingly say, he was anxious to tell them. Only, first he must have a little information — a little information about the weather. He would like to know what sort of weather they would have in the few weeks ahead, day by day. Would it be cloudy or clear, calm or stormy, would there be good wind or poor, rain or fog? Also, would they be so kind as to tell him from which direction the wind would blow in the near future, day after day? Would it blow from the east or west, from the north or south? When they could furnish him a little information about these things, then he would immediately tell them on what date the brig Charlotta would tie up at the pier in the harbor of New York.

It was a chagrined and disappointed interrogator who returned from the Charlotta’s captain. After this, none was willing to approach him again with the question. And Captain Lorentz thought that he might perhaps have explained a little about the continuous contrary wind. But why try to instruct these ignorant peasants about the prevailing winds which in these latitudes sweep the North Atlantic? He might as well try to explain the compass to them. Of course, the emigrants suffered, longing for land, but soon enough they would begin their poking in their dunghills again, soon enough they would dig themselves into their holes in the earth. What was their hurry? He could well have forced his speed somewhat, but he was afraid to strain the rigging further. The two full-tackled masts of the Charlotta could develop a large spread of sails that, in favorable wind, would give her great speed. The vessel was somewhat overrigged, however, and a moderate breeze was therefore the wind her skipper liked best.

But had all the days of contrary winds been days of favorable winds, then the Charlotta would already have landed her passengers in America.

The contrary winds had prolonged the emigrants’ voyage so that they had grown suspicious and wondered if they had been misled as to the distance: it must be much farther to North America than they had been told. They did not measure the distance in miles but in the lengthy days which they had spent at sea. And it seemed to them as if they had traversed countless thousands of miles since that second week in April when they had left their place of embarkation. Their homeland was now incalculably remote — and remote, also, was the land where they were to seek their new homes.

The winds and the currents were against them. And the fog. The ocean constantly heaved new hindering waves into the path of the vessel, as if to force them to turn back. They grew bitter in their souls against the sea which delayed their arrival. And many thought: If I could only once more put my foot on firm land, then I would never again entrust myself to the sea.

— 4—

But the sun was still in its place, and one morning it shone again. The west wind — the contrary wind — blew up again and swept over the sea like a giant broom tearing away the thick woolen shawl of the fog, which dissolved and disappeared, leaving behind a blue, clean-swept sea.

The embrace of the fog was loosened, indeed, but now they found themselves in the clutches of the contrary wind. The west wind — the America wind — continued to delay them on their voyage. It was like a greeting from the New World: Don’t hurry! You have plenty of time! You’ll arrive soon enough! Certain it was that the winds of the sea would not hasten their arrival in the New World.

They had now been sailing for two months. They had passed only a single ship — the one with the Swedish flag — since the English shore had disappeared and they had reached the open sea. During this whole time they had seen no human life beyond the rail of their own ship. It seemed to them as if they alone were traversing this ocean. All other people lived on land — they were vagabonds of the sea, the only human creatures on the ocean, forgotten by the world. And a foreboding burrowed into their souls: perhaps someone still missed them in the land they had left, but no one awaited them in the land ahead.

Then one day, on the afterdeck, it was seen that the brig Charlotta had a new passenger. Someone called aloud: Look, a bird! Then many shouted to each other: A bird!

Within a short moment the news had spread throughout the ship: there was a bird on board! And the emigrants thronged around this new fellow passenger and gaped at him.