hoped that the remainder would be subscribed by tradesfolk in the
town. Cilia had laid stress on the importance of appealing to local
patriotism, and the circular accordingly pointed out that "in
neighbouring towns it has already been wisely recognised that the
shipping of the future will be steam, and that the day of the sailing
vessel is past; our town alone, though it has always occupied a
leading position in the shipping world, is sadly behindhand in this
respect, counting as yet not a single steamer. It is in order to meet
this long-felt want"--etc.
The appeal to the citizens of Strandvik was not in vain. A few days
later the necessary share capital was subscribed.
Soren Braaten, however, was ill at ease; it had gone against the
grain to sign a document declaring that the day of the sailing vessel
was past, and he would have liked to add an explanatory note to the
effect that he had signed under protest. There was no help for it,
however; for peace and quietness' sake he had to give way.
At the preliminary general meeting, Soren was elected Managing
Director of the Company, despite his most energetic protests.
* * * * *
It was a fine sunny day when the _Henrik Ibsen_ was due to appear.
The name had been chosen at the suggestion of Lawyer Nickelsen, who
explained it as fitting for a trading vessel, from the fact that the
poet in question was expert at moving in dark waters and foggy
regions, and made a very good living out of it; he hoped that the
steamer would do likewise.
Flags were in evidence all over the town, and the quay was crowded.
Never had there been such excitement in Strandvik since the day of
the Royal visit.
Almost every other man was a shareholder; even Klementsen the parish
clerk and Pedersen the schoolmaster had, despite their widely
differing political views, gone halves together in a share.
"From what I see in the papers about oil freights from New York and
corn freights from the Black Sea, the vessel ought to pay at least
twenty per cent," said Pedersen, with an air of superior wisdom. And
he brought out a big sheet of paper covered with calculations in
English pounds, shillings and pence, which had taken him all the
afternoon to work out.
Klementsen had to put on his spectacles and study the figures
earnestly; which done, the two newly pledged shipowners solemnly
declared "it looks like very good business."
Nachmann was also a shareholder, but had only taken up his holding on
condition that he should be purveyor of wines to the ship, "a smart,
round vessel like that must get things from a decent firm." He had
been busy to-day with a whole cart-load of various wines for the
dinner, which the shareholders were to have on board during the trial
trip.
Away in the harbour lay the _Apollo_, _Eva Maria_, and
_Birkebeineren_; they had had no charters this year. The old craft
looked heavy and stout as they lay in the sweltering sun, with pitch
oozing from their seams like black tears. It almost looked as if they
were weeping at having to lie idle, instead of ploughing through the
good salt waters off Lindemor or the Dogger.
Soren Braaten, rowing out over the fjord to meet the steamer, passed
close by his old ship _Birkebeineren_. He cast a loving glance at the
dear old piece of timber, and wished he had accepted any freight,
however poor, so he had kept out of all this new-fangled business
with engine-power and steam. He felt like a traitor to his class, and
to all the old things he loved.
He passed the _Eva Maria_, and there was Bernt Jorgensen standing
aft. Bernt had declined to take up shares in the steamer; on the
contrary, he had argued earnestly against the project, declaring that
Strandvik owed too much to the old sailing ships not to hold by them
to the last.
"Aren't you coming on board the steamer?" cried Soren as he came
within hail.
"No, thankye, I've no mind for it. I'm better where I am," answered
Bernt, and, crossing over, sat down on the half-deck.
He hoisted his flag with the rest, though he felt little inclined to;
but it would look strange if the _Eva Maria_ were the only one to
refrain. But the bunting was only half-way up when the halliards
broke, and the flag remained at half-mast.
Bernt felt it was something of an ill-omen. He went into his cabin,
but through the porthole he could see the _Henrik Ibsen_ come gliding
into the harbour amid general salutation.
The steamer was bright with brass work and new paint; the great gilt
letters of her name at the stern shone over the water. On the bridge
stood Skipper Abrahamsen, with three gold bands on his cap, and all
the crew were in uniform--blue jerseys, with the name worked in red.
Bernt Jorgensen looked round his own cabin; the worn, yellow-painted
walls, the square of ragged canvas that did duty as a tablecloth, the
sofa with its old cracked covering of American cloth--it was all poor
enough, but would he change with the dandified newcomer over yonder?
He struck his fist on the table. "Let's see if he's as smart at
earning money as you've been, _Eva Maria_. It'll take him all his
time, I fancy."
The cheering sounded across the water, as he sat bowed over the table
with his head in his arms, thinking of old times, from the day he
first went to sea with Uncle Gjermundsen, on board the _Stjerna_.
Three shirts, a pair of canvas breeches, a straw-stuffed mattress
and a rug were all his kit. But what a clipper she was in those days,
with her twelve knots close hauled. And Uncle Gjermundsen was the man
to get the best out of her too. No gold-braided cap for him, and not
much of a man to look at, little, dry and crooked-backed as he was;
but when he went overboard with a line that black November night to
save the crew of an English brig on the reef and sinking, there was
many an upstanding man might have been proud to know him. But he and
his ship were gone now, and both the same way. He stood by his ship
too long, last man on his own deck he would be, and so the rest were
saved and he went down. But it was all in the papers about it, the
speech that was made in his honour at the Seamen's Union, and the
verse:
"He stood alone on the sinking wreck,
A sailor fearless and bold,
For he knew that the last to leave the deck,
Comes first when all is told."
And what lads they were on board the _Stjerna_, tarry and
weather-stained, but the harder it blew the smarter they went about
it. There was Nils Sturika, that Christmas Eve off Jomfruland, when
the pilot was to come aboard. The whole ship was like a lump of ice,
and the fore-rigging ready to go by the board, with the lee shrouds
and backstays torn away. They had to make the signal, but the foretop
halliards were gone. And then it was Nils Sturika went up the
topgallant shrouds by his hands, with the flag in his teeth, and
lashed it fast to the pole.
But they got the pilot, and made in to Risorbank just in time.
Nobody shouted hurrah for Nils, and a stiff nip of grog was what he
got when he came down; instead of a medal with ribbon and all that
he'd maybe get nowadays.
Bernt Jorgensen was roused from his meditation by the sound of the
salute on board the _Henrik Ibsen_. He rose and went up on deck to
see what was going on. The shareholders, with wives and children,
nephews and nieces and relatives generally, were making a tour of the
vessel.
Cilia was down in the saloon, seated in state on a red plush sofa.
She did not feel altogether comfortable, to tell the truth, having
acquired a horror of showy furniture since her own escapade in that
direction. But she was proud to feel that "we" had achieved the
distinction of giving Strandvik its first steamer.
The trial trip was to take place while dinner was being served in the
saloon.
The _Henrik Ibsen_ steamed along the fjord, beflagged from deck to
top, and greeted with cheers from all along the waterside; not a
citizen of Strandvik but felt a thrill of pride in his citizenship
that day.
The dinner was a most festive affair. The conversation ran gaily on
the topic of freights and steamship traffic. Old Klementsen already
saw in his mind's eye a whole fleet of Strandvik steamers putting out
to sea with flags flying, and coming home laden deep with gold to the
beloved little town.
Justice Heidt, guest of honour in his capacity as principal
representative of local authority, made a speech, in which he
referred to "Strandvik's first steamship, a tangible witness to the
high degree of initiative among our business men. The vessel has been
named after a great poet, and it is our hope that it will, like its
famous namesake, add to our country's credit and renown in distant
lands. Good luck and prosperity to the _Henrik Ibsen_." The toast was
received with hearty cheers from all.
Someone proposed the health of Soren Braaten, as leader in the
enterprise, and Cilia's too, as the guiding spirit of the
undertaking; then the captain's health was drunk, and many more.
All were excited to a high pitch of enthusiasm. Old Klementsen,
delighted to feel himself a shipowner, sat in a corner with a magnum
of champagne before him, delivered an oration on the subject of
time-charter on the China coast; he had read an article on the
subject in a paper, and was greatly impressed by the same.
"Beautifully steady, isn't she?" said Cilia to her husband. Hardly
had she spoken, however, when, "Brrr--drrrrum--drrrum--drrrum"--the
passengers were thrown headlong in all directions, and Cilia herself
was flung into the arms of Justice Heidt, the two striking their
heads together with a force that made both dizzy for the moment.
Bottles, glasses and plates were scattered about, adding to the
general confusion.
So violent was the shock that many thought the boiler had burst, and
something approaching panic prevailed.
Schoolmaster Pedersen was screaming like a maniac. In his anxiety to
see what was happening, he had thrust his head through one of the
portholes, and could not get it back despite his utmost efforts.
Everyone else was too much occupied to help him, and there he stood,
unable to move.
The rest of the party hurried up on deck, all save Klementsen, who,
having emptied his magnum, felt himself unable to get up the
companion, and wisely refrained from making the attempt.
The _Henrik Ibsen_ had struck on a sunken reef. The excitement of the
occasion, together with the generous good cheer, had had their effect
on the crew, who had not paid much heed to their course, with the
result that the vessel had taken her own, until brought up all
standing by the unexpected obstacle.
The bow had run right on the shelf of rock, and things looked
distinctly unpleasant, until Soren Braaten explained that
"unfortunately" there was shallow water on all sides, when the
company began to feel somewhat easier in their minds.
Cilia's head was treated with vinegar bandages, and Justice Heidt's
nose bound up as if in sympathy with the damage inside. But the
festive spirit among the shareholders generally was at a low ebb, and
anyone taking advantage of the moment might have bought shares then
at well below par.
Aha, there is a tug already, the _Storegut_; things looked brighter
in a moment, perhaps they might get off at once. But then came the
question, had she sprung a leak? No; sound as a bell. A proper sort
of steamer this.
A hawser was passed from the tug, then full speed
astern--Hurrah--she's moving! The Henrik Ibsen drew slowly off the
reef and was soon clear once more. The passengers brightened up, and
soon the steamer was on her way back to Strandvik, the tug standing
by in case of need.
Nachmann's supply of champagne was inexhaustible, and Thor Smith got
on his feet with another speech for "the splendid vessel which has
stood the test so manfully to-day. The _Henrik Ibsen_ was not built
for picnic voyages over sunny seas; no, she had shown what she could
do and borne it magnificently." Cheers for the _Henrik Ibsen_ and
general acclamation.
Then the whole company joined in the song:
"And what though I ran my ship aground,
It was grand to sail the seas!"
* * * * *
At last the _Henrik Ibsen_ set out on a real voyage in earnest, and
Soren Braaten was glad enough; he felt in need of rest after all he
had been through.
He told Cilia, indeed, that he would rather go sailing in the Arctic
than have it all to do over again. No, this steamship business was a
trial.
Hardly had Soren settled down to his well-earned rest, when, only
four days after the vessel had sailed, came a telegram from Hull
announcing her arrival and awaiting orders. That meant wiring off at
once to the brokers in Drammen and Christiania asking for freights.
The telegraph, indeed, was kept so busy, that old Anders the
messenger declared the wretched steamboat gave more work than anyone
had a right to expect. Now and again, at weddings and suchlike, it
was only natural to have a few extra telegrams going and coming; but,
then, he would take them round in bundles at a time, and be
handsomely treated into the bargain. Whereas this--why, he'd hardly
as much as got back from delivering one wire to Soren Braaten, when a
new one came in, and off he'd have to go again. And a man couldn't
even stroll round with them at his ordinary pace; it was always
"urgent" or "express," or something of the sort, that sent him
hurrying off as if the wind were at his heels.
And as for being handsomely treated! It was a thankless task if ever
there was one. When Anders appeared with his seventh wire in one day,
Soren almost flew at him. "What, you there again with more of those
infernal telegram things!"
Soren Braaten had had more telegrams the last fortnight than in all
his life before; and, worst of all, they were so briefly worded, it
took him all his time to make out the sense. If things went on at
this rate he would very soon be wanting another cure at Sandefjord,
and this time in earnest.
There was never any rest, this steamer of his flew about at such a
rate; just when you thought she was in England she'd be somewhere
down the Mediterranean or the Black Sea. Soren said as much to his
old friend Skipper Sorensen, who answered: "Better be careful, lad,
or she'll run so fast one day she'll run away with all your money."
And Soren was anxious about that very thing, for the remittance
seemed to him rather small in comparison with the length of voyage
involved.
Soren found himself at last hopelessly at sea both as to charters and
accounts, and confided to Cilia one day that he was going to throw up
the whole thing; as far as he was concerned, "the wretched boat can
manage itself."
Cilia thought over the matter seriously. Her first idea was to take
over the chartering herself, but when Soren began talking about
freight from Wolgast to Salonica, and Rouen to Montechristi, her
geography failed her.
Fixing the old _Apollo_ or _Birkebeineren_ for voyages in the Baltic
or the North Sea was easy enough. Cilia knew the name of every port
from Pitea to Vlaardingen, from London to Kirkwall, but outside the
English Channel she was lost.
The end of it was that Soren went in to Christiania and got a broker
he knew there to take over the business, and glad he was to get rid
of it. The week after, he went on board _Birkebeineren_, rigged her
up, and sailed with a cargo of planks to Amsterdam. Even though he
made little out of it beyond his keep, it was nicer than sitting at
home in a state of eternal worry about the steamer.
"It pays better than the savings bank, anyway," said Cilia, when he
grumbled.
"Maybe; but it's a wearisome business all the same, this steam
chartering. And we've other things to think about but what pays
best."
And off he went on board his own old-fashioned _Birkebeineren_.
XIX
NILS PETTER'S LEGACY
The news ran like wildfire through the town: Nils Petter Jorgensen
had been left a million gylden by his wife's uncle in Holland. It was
true as could be; Justice Heidt had had a letter from the Queen to
say so.
"Jantje!" roared Nils Petter out into the wash-house, where his wife
stood in a cloud of steam and soapsuds.
"What is it, husband?" Jantje appeared in the doorway, little, stout
and smiling, with her sleeves rolled up and the perspiration thick on
her forehead.
"Come into the parlour a minute."
"Oh, I haven't time now, husband. There's the washing to be done."
"Oh, bother the washing! We've done with all that now," said Nils
Petter loftily. And, thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his
waistcoat, he strode stiffly in, followed by Jantje.
"Jantje, sit down on the sofa. Ahem ... er ... an event has
occurred..."
"Have they made you captain, husband; you have got a ship? We can go
to Holland together, is it not?" Jantje clapped her hands together,
and looked at him expectantly. Poor Jantje had never seen her native
land since the day she sailed away on board the _Eva Maria_, and
still felt strange in Norway, speaking the language with difficulty
as she did.
"We're rich, Jantje; we're millionaires, that's what it is."
Jantje turned serious at once; her first thought was that Nils Petter
must have taken a drop too much--a thing that rarely happened now
since he had been married.
"Don't you think you'd better lie down a little, husband?" she said
quietly, pointing to the bedroom.
"Oho, you think I've been drinking? Well, here's the letter from the
Justice; you can see for yourself."
Jantje took the letter and studied it intently, but could not make
out a word of what it said.
"Your Uncle Peter van Groot died in Java last year, and left millions
of gylden, and no children----"
"Praise the Lord!" exclaimed Jantje.
"And all those millions are ours now, seeing we're the nearest heirs
since your mother and father died."
"Poor Uncle Pit--kind old Uncle Pit," sighed Jantje, wiping her eyes
with the back of her hand. Then, rising to her feet, she went on: "If
that's all, husband, then I'll go and finish the washing."
"Washing, now? No, you don't, Jantje. Off with you at once and put on
the finest you've got: your green dress and the coral brooch."
"But the things will be spoiled in the water, husband."
"Never mind; let them. Hurry up and get dressed now."
Jantje went off to dress, but not before she had slipped out into the
wash-house, wrung out the wet things and hung them up to dry.
Nils Petter put on his best blue suit, a starched shirt with collar
and cuffs, a black tie and stiff hat.
Then Jantje appeared, wearing her green dress, her face all flushed
and aglow with hurrying.
The pair sat for a moment looking at one another.
"Jantje!"
"Yes, husband?"
"What shall we do with it all?"
Such a question from Nils Petter was too much for Jantje all at once.
She looked helplessly round the room as if seeking for somewhere to
put it.
"It's a question what to do with any amount of capital these days.
Shipowning's a risky business...." Nils Petter paced up and down
thoughtfully.
Then Jantje had an inspiration. "Husband, there's the big
clothes-chest, room for lots of money in that." And she hurried out
into the passage and began dragging out the chest.
"No, no, Jantje; leave it alone. The money'll have to be put in the
bank, of course. We can't keep it in the house."
There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" It was Watchmaker Rordam.
"Congratulations, my boy. Grand piece of luck, what? Must be
strange-like, to get all that heap of money at once."
"Well, ye-es," said Nils Petter; "it's a trouble to know what to do
with one's capital, though; these savings banks pay such a miserable
rate of interest." Jantje looked at him in surprise. Why, only a
fortnight ago, when he had had to renew a bill at the bank, he had
declared loudly against the "pack of Jews" for charging too high a
rate.
"You won't forget your old friends, Nils Petter, I hope, now that
you've come into a fortune," said Rordam.
"Trust me for that, lad," said Nils Petter. "I haven't forgotten how
you helped me out when I was near being sold up; I owe you something
for that. Being thankless towards friends that lent a hand when times
were hard is a bad mark in the register and the sign of an
unseaworthy character, and it shan't be said of Nils Petter
Jorgensen." And he gripped Rordam's hand emphatically.
"Well, now, what do you say to a drink?"
"Not for me, thanks," answered Rordam. "I've--I've given it up," he
added, not without some reluctance.
"Don't mind if I have one?"
"No, indeed."
"Jantje, give me a drop of Hollands. It's a plaguy business thinking
out how to invest big sums of money."
Rordam had never had any experience of that sort of business, but
thought he would not mind a little trouble, given the occasion.
Nils Petter drank off his glass. Rordam stuck to his refusal bravely,
which so won Nils Petter's admiration that he bought of the
watchmaker a splendid clock, costing five pounds, an elegant piece of
work with a marble face and gilt lions above. Furthermore, on
leaving, Rordam was given a piece of paper with the following words:
"Mr. Watchmaker Rordam to receive L50--fifty pounds--when I get
the legacy.
"N. P. JORGENSEN."
This last was a gratuity, which Nils Petter felt he ought to give for
old friendship's sake.
Rordam was delighted; at last he would be able to pay off the many
little odd debts that had been worrying him for years past.
Hardly had Rordam gone when Schoolmaster Pedersen came in, bringing a
large oleander as a present for Jantje.
Nils Petter and the schoolmaster had never been very friendly,
holding different political opinions; Nils Petter especially waxed
furious whenever he saw Pedersen's anti-Swedish flag hoisted in the
garden. A couple of years ago he had gone in and cut it down, but the
matter was, fortunately, smoothed over, Pedersen being an easy-going
man, while his wife and Jantje were very good friends.
"I just looked in, my dear Jorgensen, to see if you'd any use for a
secretary. A man in your position, of course, will have any amount of
writing and bookkeeping work, and you know I'd be glad to make a
little extra myself."
Nils Petter was not much of a scholar. The few occasions when he had
to use a pen caused him no little difficulty; his big, unaccustomed
fingers gripped the pen-holder as if it were a crowbar.
"Why, I dare say I might.... And what would you want a year for
that?"
"I'd leave that to you."
"Would L200 be enough?"
Pedersen jumped up in delight and almost embraced Nils Petter. "It's
too much, Jorgensen, really."
"It won't be too much; there'll be a deal of work to do. But I
forgot, one thing you'll have to do: get rid of that beastly flag of
yours."
Pedersen turned serious. "The Norwegian flag is our national emblem,
and that alone. As a true patriot, I must stand by my convictions.
Norway...."
Nils Petter broke in angrily. "Norway, Norway! There's a sight too
much of that if you ask me. I've sailed with the good old Union flag
round the Horn and the Cape of Good Hope as well, and it's been
looked up to everywhere. You can take and sew in the Swedish colours
again, if you want the place--not but what the old flag's handsome
enough," he added in a somewhat gentler tone.
Pedersen thought this rather hard; but L200 a year was not to be
sneezed at, and, after all, there were limits to what could be
reasonably demanded of a patriot. He was accordingly appointed
private secretary, on condition that the Union colours be included in
his flag forthwith, and set off home rejoicing. And feeling that he
could now afford a little jollification, he bought a joint of beef, a
bottle of wine, and a bag of oranges for the children.
Later in the day Bernt Jorgensen came round; he, too, had heard of
the wonderful legacy.
"You'll need to be careful now, with all that money, Nils Petter; a
fortune's not a thing to be frittered away."
"Trust me for that, brother. And you shall have a share of it too,
for you've been a good sort. I will say, though, a trifle on the
saving side at times, but never mind that now. Look here, Bernt,
would you care to sell the _Eva Maria_?"
Bernt Jorgensen was so astonished at this sudden changing front that
he hardly knew what to say. Hitherto Nils Petter had always been
deferential and respectful towards him; now, however, he seemed to be
adopting an air of lordly condescension.
"Well, what do you say?"
"Sell you the _Eva Maria_! Well, it'd mean a lot of money for you,
Nils Petter."
"Oh, that's all right. I've got plenty."
Bernt Jorgensen would not decide all at once, but wanted time to
think it over.