Dry Fish and Wet Part 42

"Soren, it's no good; we can't go on like this any longer."

Soren gave a start; he could feel there was thunder in the air.

"We'll have to buy a steamer. Sailing-ships are out of date."

"What's that you say, mother? We two old folks to go fussing about with steam? Nay, I'd rather stick to the old planks till they rot!"

But Cilia went on firmly, altogether unmoved. "We've a decent bit of money in the bank, and shares in other things besides, but the interest's not what it might be, and I don't see the sense of letting other people take all the profits that's to be made out of shipping, while we that's nearest at hand are left behind."

"I don't suppose they're overdone with profits, these here steamboats, when it comes to the point," grumbled Soren. And no more was said about the matter for that day.

But Cilia pondered and speculated still; she read the shipping papers and the shipbrokers' circulars as earnestly as she studied lesson and collect on Sundays.

She found a valuable ally, too, in her son-in-law, Skipper Abrahamsen, who was tired of the "old hulk," as he called _Birkebeineren_, and longed to be captain of a steamer himself.

Fortunately, Soren never heard a word of this, or it would have been ill both for Cilia and Abrahamsen, for he could not bear to hear a word in dispraise of his beloved ship.

Malvina, of course, sided with her husband and her mother, and their united efforts were daily brought to bear upon Soren, till at last he grew so tired of hearing about "that steamboat of ours," that he fled out of the house, and went round to call on Warden Prois whenever the talk turned that way.

There was a little attic in the Braaten's house that had never been used for anything but a box-room; this was now cleared in secret by Cilia and Malvina, and then the three conspirators held meetings and discussions. Abrahamsen and Cilia had quietly made inquiries of various shipbuilding concerns, and received a ma.s.s of estimates and plans.

Cilia studied the question of engines till her brain was going twelve knots easy. Compound and triple expansion, boiler plate, and cylinder stroke--her mind was busy with every detail; for Cilia was not one to do things by halves when once she started.

Abrahamsen was examined and cross-examined till the sweat poured off him; he, of course, had to appear more or less familiar with all these things, since he aspired to command a steamer.

Malvina sat silent, looking on with wide eyes and taking it all in; she was looking forward to a free pa.s.sage on a real steamboat for herself.

Soren wondered a little what they could be up to in the attic, but, being comfortable enough below with a gla.s.s of grog and the _Shipping Gazette_, he let them stay there as long as they pleased. One evening, however, it struck him they were at it a good long time; it was past eleven, and no sign of their coming down yet. Accordingly, he stole up quietly in his stocking feet, and looked through the keyhole. What he saw did not improve his temper. On a table in the middle of the room was the smartest little steamer one could imagine.

Red bottom, sides black above, with a gold streak, the rudder and two masts sloping a little aft, flag at fore and maintop--a sight to see.

Cilia, Malvina and Abrahamsen stood round examining the model with glee.

Soren was about to retire, but stumbled over an old trunk left outside, and fell head over heels into the room among the others.

There was an awkward pause, until Cilia broke the silence by asking Soren: "What do you think of that--isn't she a beauty?" pointing to the model as she spoke.

"Why, yes, she's a handsome boat enough," said Soren, rubbing his shins.

"Oh, father, we _must_ have a steamer of our own," said Malvina, coming up and clinging to his shoulder.

"Why, child, what are you doing here? I thought you'd have had enough to do at home with the boy," he said softly.

"It's the steamer we wanted to see. Mother thinks we could manage all right with compound, but Abrahamsen says it'll have to be triplets."

"Triplets, forbid!" muttered Abrahamsen.

"Have it whatever way you please, for all I care," said Soren. And he stumped off downstairs.

But the pressure from all sides was too much. Soren had to give way at last, and sign a formal doc.u.ment inviting subscriptions for shares in "a modern, up-to-date steamship."

S. Braaten having entered his name for fifty shares at 50, it was 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 doc.u.ment 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, pa.s.sed 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 cla.s.s, and to all the old things he loved.

He pa.s.sed 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 bra.s.s 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.