The Modern Vikings

II

Down in the valley the Easter bells were chiming; the bell-strokes trembled through the clear, sun-steeped air. There was commotion in the valley, too, in spite of the fact that it was Easter Sunday. Out in the middle of the fiord lay a huge black steamer, which panted and shrieked, as if it were in distress, and sent volumes of gray smoke out of its chimneys. Around about little black fragments of coal-dust were drizzling through the air and swimming on the water; and the gulls which kept whirling about the smoke-stacks were quite shocked when they caught the reflections of themselves in the tide; with wild screams they plunged into the fiord. They probably mistook themselves for crows.

The pier, which broke the line of the beach at the point of the headland, was thronged with men, women, and children. The men were talking earnestly together; most of the women were weeping, and the children were gazing impatiently toward the steamboat and tugging at their mother’s skirts. Some twenty or thirty boats, heavily laden with chests and boxes, lay at the end of the pier; and one after another, as it was filled with people, put off and was rowed out to the steamer. Only the old folk remained behind; with heavy hearts and tottering steps they walked up the sloping beach and stood at the roadside, straining their eyes to catch a last glimpse of the son or daughter, whom they were never to see again. Some flung themselves down in the sand and sobbed aloud; others stooped over the weeping ones and tried to console them.

At last there was but one little group left on the pier; and that was composed of Fiddle-John and his three children. Jens Skoug, the emigration agent, was standing in a boat, shouting to them to hurry, and the boys were scrambling down the slippery stairs leading to the water, while the father followed more deliberately, carrying the little girl in his arms.

There was a Babel of voices on board; and poor Fiddle-John and his sons, who had never heard such noise in their lives before, stood dazed and bewildered, and had scarcely presence of mind to get out of the way of the iron chains and pulleys which were hoisting on board enormous boxes of merchandise, horses, cattle, pigs, and a variety of other commodities. It was not until they found themselves stowed away in a dark corner of the steerage, upon a couple of shelves, by courtesy styled berths, which had been assigned to them, that they were able to realize where they were, and that they were about to leave the land of their fathers and plunge blindly into a wild and foreign world which they had scarcely in fancy explored.

The first day on board passed without any incident. The next day, they reached Hamburg, and were transferred to a much larger and more comfortable steamer, named the Ruckert, and before evening the low land of North Germany traced itself only as a misty line on the distant horizon. Night and day followed in their monotony; Russian Mennonites, Altenburg peasants, and all sorts of queer and outlandish-looking people passed in kaleidoscopic review before the eyes of the astonished Norsemen. It was the third day at sea, I think, when they had got somewhat accustomed to their novel surroundings, that a little incident occurred which was fraught with serious consequences to Fiddle-John’s family.

The gong had just sounded for dinner, and the emigrants were hurrying down-stairs with tin cups and bowls in their hands. The children were themselves hungry, and needed no persuasion to follow the general example. They unpacked their big tin cups, which looked like wash-basins, and took their seats at an interminably long table, while the stewards went around with buckets full of steaming soup, which they poured into each emigrant’s basin, as it was extended to them, by means of great iron dippers. Many of the Russians were either so hungry or so ill-mannered that they could not wait until their turn came, but rushed forward, clamoring for soup in hoarse, guttural tones; and one of the stewards, after having shouted to them in German to take their places at the tables, finally, by way of argument, gave one of them a blow on the head with his iron dipper. Then there arose a great commotion, and everybody supposed that the angry Mennonites would have attacked the offending steward. But instead of that, the crowd scattered and quietly took their places, as they had been commanded. They were an odd lot, those Mennonites, thought the Norse boys, who did not know that their religion forbade them to fight, and compelled them to pocket injuries without resentment.

Next to Alf, on the same bench, sat a swarthy boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, with yellow cheeks and large black eyes. He had a thin iron chain about his wrist and seemed every now and then to direct his attention to something under the table. Alf concluded that, in all probability, he had his bundle of clothes or his trunk hidden under his feet. But he was not long permitted to remain in this error. Just as the steward approached them and extended the long-handled dipper, filled with soup, a fierce growl was heard under the bench, and a half-grown black bear-cub rushed out and made a plunge for his legs. The frightened steward made a leap, which had the effect of upsetting the soup-pail over his assailant’s head.

A wild roar of pain followed, and everybody jumped on tables and benches to see the sport; while the Savoyard boy who owned the bear darted forward, his eyes flashing with anger, and hurled a flood of unintelligible imprecations at the knight of the soup-pail. There was a sudden change of tone, as he stooped down over his scalded and dripping pet, and, showering endearing names upon it, hugged it to his bosom.

The emigrants jeered and shouted, the waiters swore, and the purser, who had been summoned to restore order, elbowed his way ruthlessly through the crowd until he reached the author of the tumult.

“How do you dare, you insolent beggar, to bring a bear into the steerage?” he cried, seizing the boy by the collar, and shaking him. “Who permitted you to bring such a dangerous beast – ”

His harangue was here suddenly interrupted by the bear, which calmly rose on its hind legs and, showing its teeth in an unpleasant manner, prepared to resent such disrespectful language. The purser took to his heels, while the steerage rang with jeers and laughter, and the Savoyard had all he could do to prevent his friend from pursuing him. The Norse boys, whose sympathy was entirely with the bear and his master, quite forgot their hunger in their excitement over the stirring incident; and when the Savoyard, feeling that the steerage was scarcely a safe place for him after what had occurred, mounted the stairs, dragging his bear after him, they could not resist the temptation to follow him at a respectful distance. But when they saw him crouching down behind the big smokestack and gazing timidly about him while he wiped the bear’s head and face with his sleeve, they could not conquer the impulse to make the acquaintance of so distinguished and interesting a personage. They accordingly sidled up slowly, holding their sister between them, and were soon face to face with the Savoyard.

“What is your name?” asked Truls with a boldness which raised him immensely in his brother’s esteem.

The Savoyard shook his head.

“What do people call you when they speak to you?” Truls repeated, raising his voice and drawing a step nearer.

“Non capisco. Je ne sais pas,” answered the boy in Italian and French, giving them the choice of the only two languages he knew.

“Capisco,” Truls went on confidently in his Norse dialect; “that is a very funny name. I am afraid you don’t understand me. It wasn’t the bear’s name I asked for; it was your own.”

The Savoyard shrugged his shoulders expressively, then poured out a torrent of speech which bewildered his Norse friends exceedingly. If the bear had opened its mouth and addressed them in the ursine language, it would not have succeeded in being more unintelligible.

“You are a very funny chap,” Truls remarked with a discouraged air. “Why don’t you talk like a Christian?”

He was determined to make no more advances to so irrational a creature, and was about to lead the way back to the dinner-table, when the arrival of the purser and the third officer of the ship again arrested his attention. The purser had evidently been hunting for the Savoyard; for, as he caught sight of him, he made an exclamation in German and called out to the third officer:

“There is the vagabond! Make him understand, please, that his bear must be shot and that he must get out of the way. He has taken out no ticket for his beast and we don’t take that kind of freight gratis!”

The third officer, who spoke French fluently, explained the purport of the purser’s remarks to the Savoyard, but in a gentle and kindly manner which almost deprived them of their cruel meaning. The boy, however, made no motion to stir, but remained calmly sitting, with his arm thrown over the bear’s neck and one hand playing with his paws.

The officer, seeing that his words had no effect, repeated his remark with greater emphasis. A startled look in the boy’s eyes gave evidence that he was beginning to comprehend. But yet he remained immovable.

“Get out of the way, I tell you!” cried the purser, drawing a revolver from his hip-pocket and pointing it at the bear’s head. “I have orders to kill this beast, and I mean to do it now. Quick, now, I don’t want to hurt you!”

The boy gazed for a moment with a fascinated stare at the muzzle of the terrible weapon, then sprang up and flung himself over the bear, covering it with his own body. The animal, not understanding what all this ado was about, took it to mean a romp, and began to lick his master’s face and to claw him with his limp paws.

“Well, I have given you fair warning!” the purser went on, excitedly, as he vainly tried to find an exposed vital spot on the bear at which he could fire. “If you don’t look out, you will have to take the consequences.” A large crowd had now gathered about them, and a loud grumble of displeasure made itself heard round about. The purser began to perceive that the sentiment was against him, and that it would scarcely be safe for him to execute his threat. Yet he found it inconsistent with his dignity to retire from the contest, and he was just pausing to deliberate when, all of a sudden, a small fist struck his wrist and the pistol flew out of his hand and dropped over the gunwale into the sea. A loud cheer broke from the crowd. The purser stood utterly discomfited, scarcely knowing whether he should be angry with his small assailant or laugh at him. He would, perhaps, have done the latter if the cheering of the people and their hostile attitude toward him had not roused his temper.

“Bravo, Tom Thumb!” they cried. “At him again! don’t be afraid of the brute because he has got brass buttons on his coat.”

“Good for you, Ashiepattle!” the Norwegians shouted; “go it again! We’ll stand by you!”

It was Truls, Fiddle-John’s son, who had thus suddenly become the hero of the hour; he had acted in the hot indignation of the moment and was now abashed and bewildered at the sensation he was making. He looked anxiously about for his brother and sister, and as soon as he caught sight of them, was about to make his escape when the purser seized him by the collar and bade him remain.

“You are a nice one, to be attacking your betters, who have never given you any provocation,” he said in German, which Truls, fortunately, did not understand. “I am going to take you to the captain, and he will have you punished for assault.”

He made a motion to drag the struggling boy away, but the crowd closed about him on all sides, and pressed in upon him with angry shouts and gestures. The third officer, who had so far taken no part in the proceedings, now stepped up to the purser and begged him to release the boy.

“Of course,” he said, “you are in the right; but if I were you, I would waive my right this time. It’s hardly worth while making a row about so small a matter; and it is always bad policy to go to the captain with squabbles and grievances, especially when they might so easily have been avoided. I assure you, you will only injure yourself by doing it.”

They talked for a minute together, while the ever-increasing throng surged hither and thither about them. Whether purposely or not, the irate purser, in the zeal of his argument, released his hold on Truls’ collar, and the liberated boy dodged away, as quickly as possible, and was soon lost in the crowd. The Savoyard and his bear had long before seized the opportunity to withdraw from the public gaze.

III

The life on shipboard did not agree with Fiddle-John. Like a spoiled child, he was restless and unhappy when he was unnoticed. All day long he sat on the top of a coil of rope in the forecastle of the ship and sang. The forecastle was often deserted, and there were probably not many among the emigrants who would have been capable of judging whether his voice was in any way extraordinary. And yet, one there was who found an untold amount of comfort in listening to that clear, sweet tenor of Fiddle-John’s, and that one was the Savoyard boy. It had been his constant effort, since his encounter with the purser, to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, and it would have gratified him much if he had possessed some means of making the bear invisible. As the forecastle was the least visited portion of the ship, he had chosen to hide himself there behind the anchor-cable.

He trembled whenever anyone approached, and threw the end of the tarpaulin which covered the deck-freight over his friend, the bear. The only people whose company did not incommode him were Fiddle-John and his children, for whom he testified his devotion by smiles and gestures and all sorts of endearing Italian diminutives, which, on account of his caressing tones, even a dumb brute could not have failed to appreciate. After a long and exciting pantomime, Truls ascertained that his name was Annibale Petrucchio and that his bear gloried in the name of Garibaldi.

Both boys felt that they had made great progress in each other’s friendship when these facts had been established, and another hour of dumb show, intersprinkled with exclamations, resulted in a still more astonishing revelation, which was that Annibale and his friend slept every night on deck, because they feared to arouse once more the purser’s displeasure by invading the steerage. Sometimes Annibale curled himself up with Garibaldi within the coil of the anchor-cable – he jumped up, dragging the bear after him, to show the attitude in which they slept – but when it rained, or when the sea was high enough to sprinkle the deck, they both crept under the deck-freight tarpaulin, where they had made themselves a little house between two trunks which they had pushed apart. The only trouble was that the April nights were very cold – Annibale shivered all over to show how cold he was – and anchor-cables and deck-freight were not particularly soft to sleep upon.

As Alf and Truls became duly impressed with the unpleasantness of the Savoyard’s situation, they took counsel in order to ascertain how they might relieve his distress. But all the plans that were suggested were found to be risky, and night came before they arrived at a decision. The weather had been raw and blustery all the afternoon, and the officer on the bridge had been looking every minute uneasily at the falling barometer. After sunset the gale increased in violence and the ship pitched and rolled in the heavy sea. In the steerage there was a terrible commotion; women prayed and screamed and moaned, children of all ages joined in the chorus, the lamps swung forward and backward in their brass frames, and bottles, glasses, and loose crockery made a terrible racket, sliding to starboard and back again to port with every motion of the ship. The wind howled in the rigging, and every now and then a big wave swept across the deck and poured out through the scupper-holes.

Alf and Truls, who had been lying awake for hours listening to the hollow boom of the waves and the shrieking of the wind, conversed in a whisper about the poor Savoyard, who had to be on deck in that terrible weather, and they finally summoned courage to creep toward the ladder and slowly to mount it, tightly clutching each other’s hands. It was a risky undertaking, and their hearts stuck in their throats as they clung to the door-knob, hesitating whether they should open the door. Without knowing, however, they must have given the knob a twist; for suddenly the door swung open with a tremendous bang, and Truls was flung across the deck against the bulwarks with such force that for an instant he scarcely knew whether he had lighted on his head or his feet.

He picked himself up, however, without any serious damage, and as there was a momentary lull in the storm, he half rolled, half crept up toward the prow, where a couple of lanterns were swinging in the fore-royal stays. Nevertheless it was so dark that he could not discern an object ahead of him, and only groped his way along the bulwarks, until he stumbled upon a demoralized mass of rope which he knew to be the anchor-cable.

“Annibale!” he shouted at the top of his voice, “are you here?” But before he had time to receive a reply the ship plunged into a monstrous wave, which rose in a storm of spray and drenched the whole forecastle up to the mainmast. Truls, in his effort to keep his footing, tumbled forward and grabbed hold of something wet and hairy, which slid along with him for a couple of yards, and then was hauled back by some unseen force. The boy crawled along in the same direction and shouted once more, “Annibale! where are you?” And a voice close to his ear answered:

“Ah, Monsieur Truls, Garibaldi et moi, nous sommes à demi morts.”11

“Now, don’t jabber at me, Annibale,” Truls observed, making his voice heard above the wind; “but if you will come along with me, Alf and I will give you half of our berth; and Garibaldi can sleep at our feet.”

Whether Annibale understood the words or not, he could not fail to comprehend the friendly gestures which accompanied them. He eagerly seized Truls’ hand and they plunged bravely forward, but slipped on the wet deck, and the bear and the boys slid with great speed in the direction of the descent to the steerage. They were drenched to the skin and considerably bruised when, after several unsuccessful efforts, they seized the door-knob. Alf, as it turned out, feeling too ill to keep watch, had already preceded them to bed. Garibaldi, who seemed keenly conscious of his disgrace since the day he molested the purser, slunk along as meekly as possible, and only now and then shook his wet skin and coughed in a dispirited fashion. He was not as grateful, moreover, as might have been expected, when he was assigned his place on the straw at the foot of the berth, but gradually pushed himself upward until his nose nearly touched that of his master; whereupon he curled himself up comfortably and went to sleep. It was a very pretty sight to see the blond Norse boys and the swarthy Savoyard peacefully reposing on the same pillow, with the shaggy head of the bear between them, and the Savoyard half unconsciously clutching his pet in his embrace.

Toward morning the storm began to abate, and the dim light peeped in through the port-holes. The steerage was comparatively quiet. Fiddle-John arose and went on deck; a strange oppression had come over him. The dim, gray light, the all-enveloping dampness, and the incessant throbbing and clanking of the machinery wrought upon his sensitive soul, until he seemed in danger of going mad. The world seemed so vast and so empty! The waves heaved and wrestled in their gray monotony, until it made him dizzy to look at them. Merely to rid himself of this terrible oppression, Fiddle-John lifted up his voice and sang wildly against the wind; his beautiful tenor seemed to cut through the fog like a bright sword and to flash and ring under the sky. His soul expanded with his voice; the sun broke forth from the clouds, and he felt once more free and happy. He scarcely knew how long he sang; but when by chance he turned about, he saw to his surprise that a crowd of well-dressed cabin passengers had gathered about him. His three children stood holding one another’s hands, looking in astonishment at the fine ladies shivering in fur-trimmed cloaks, and wondered why their father was attracting so much attention.

“Charming!” “Wonderful!” “Magnificent!” exclaimed the fine people, when Fiddle-John had stopped singing; and a portly American gentleman, with gray side-whiskers, who seemed more enthusiastic than the rest, gave him a slap on his shoulder, and said that if he himself were ten years younger, he would undertake to make a fortune out of Fiddle-John, which, of course, was a very generous offer on his part. Jens Skoug, the emigration agent, translated the remark; and as the American seemed to have more to say to Fiddle-John, offered his services as interpreter.