We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [105]
"I can manage on my own. Leave me alone," he hissed.
Jepsen pulled away, still facing him.
"Now remember," he said. "Hold on tight with your hands. And if you can't use your hands, use your teeth. And if your teeth fail you, use your eyelashes." He gave Herman an encouraging grin and winked at him. Herman scowled back.
A year passed and we asked ourselves if it was time for Herman to sign off. There was bad blood between them now.
Then one spring day, shortly after Herman turned fifteen, the Two Sisters sailed out of the harbor with nobody on board but Holger Jepsen and his stepson. They were off to pick up a first mate and two able seamen who were signing on in Rudkøbing before the ship headed for Spain. It wasn't far to Rudkøbing, but we still thought Jepsen was running a risk sailing there with just a cabin boy on board. Perhaps Jepsen had pictured the crossing as a kind of initiation for his adolescent stepson? Or perhaps his tenderheartedness had worn off, and he felt the need to show Herman who was in charge on board, once and for all?
The trip did indeed turn out to be a test of manhood—but not the one Jepsen had in mind.
Jepsen and Herman set off early in the morning, and we didn't expect to see the Two Sisters again for another seven to eight months, when she would return via Newfoundland and dock in Marstal for the winter. But that very afternoon the ship reappeared, with her course set straight for the harbor. A crowd quickly gathered on Dampskibsbroen. What was going on? Her sails were set and a brisk wind was blowing: we could tell, even from this distance, that she was going too fast. She was headed for collision—either with the breakwater at the harbor entrance or with one of the ships moored to the black-tarred posts just inside it.
There was one man at the wheel, and he appeared to be the only one on board. As the Two Sisters came nearer, we could make out that the lone helmsman was Herman, wearing yellow oilskins and a sou'wester. For a moment it looked as if the ship would crash straight into the wharf. But just then, at the last minute, with a movement whose elegance none of us missed, Herman turned the wheel and the ship glided along the edge of the wharf, with only a few inches to spare. But she was still moving at top speed and in danger of colliding with another ship. If the situation hadn't been so unusual—not to mention desperate—we'd have believed that the boy was simply trying to show off.
Suddenly a broad figure shot out of the crowd on Dampskibsbroen and landed on the deck of the Two Sisters. It was Albert Madsen. He was in his sixties by then, but he was the one who did what the rest of us much younger men should have done. He'd spotted that something was terribly awry, with the boy alone on deck, all sails set, the ship on a collision course.
Albert may not have set sail in ten years, but the captain inside him was still alive.
He strode straight across the deck and landed a hand on Herman's shoulder. At this, Herman looked up and then did something that made no sense. He tried to hit him. The big boy and the stout old man were about the same height and equal in bulk. But while the boy had the energy of youth, Madsen had the experience—and he responded instantly. His famous open-handed blow had the power to send a grown man flying several feet across the deck. And now was no exception.
Not a word had passed between them: there'd been no time for that. By the time Albert grabbed the wheel and turned the ship sideways, the Eos, moored to one of the posts in the middle of the harbor, was only feet away. When the stern of the Two Sisters hit the bow of the Eos, her speed had dropped enough to avoid any major damage.
Herman scrambled back to his feet, his hand clasped to his burning cheek. He'd lost his sou'wester. The way he glared at Albert Madsen, you'd think the old captain had spoiled some game he had been playing, rather than averted a wrecking. As soon as we'd moored