We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [257]
"Ashes to ashes."
Another shovelful. The ashes landed in a new place; the canvas grew dirtier.
"Dust to dust."
Rikard and Algot stepped up to the boards and raised them, one after the other. The laced-up canvas bundle that contained the mortal remains of Skipper Hansen fell vertically into the water and disappeared with a splash, muted by the falling rain. Peter Eriksen followed.
The sea was black beneath the gathering storm clouds, and the surrounding ice had taken on a yellow glare. Then suddenly, as if the sea had finally lost patience with its forced burden and now shook its enormous back with irritation, the ice sheet shattered into an infinite number of pieces that shot out sideways and smashed against one another. In the distance, the Ane Marie slowly keeled over and sank down on her side: the ice had supported her damaged hull, but now the sea reclaimed her from its grip, to wreck her fully.
Dreymann ordered them on deck immediately. Overhead they saw a nimbus cloud like a huge granite fist, clenched and ready to strike. They were being freed from the ice, but now that very freedom posed a new threat to their survival. They took in the reefs until they were using only the forestay and a close-reefed gaff. A hailstorm hammered them, and the sea raged, with waves mounting on all sides and ice floes riding atop their foaming crests. When the ice broke across the deck, the huge shards collided with everything in their path, and the sound of their crashing fought against the devils' chorus that howled up in the rigging.
They watched the pattern of the waves as they swept the deck: three huge ones were usually followed by several smaller ones, and they chose those quieter moments to slosh their way across the flooded deck to the fo'c'sle.
Bager was still lying down in his cabin. Dreymann took the first shift, together with Knud Erik. Rikard and Algot were sent below to get some sleep. In the galley Helmer clung as tenaciously as a monkey on a falling tree: he'd already proved himself able to provide coffee even if the ship were on her head. Dreymann had ordered Vilhjelm down to his own cabin.
"How hard's it blowing?" Knud Erik shouted. He was clinging to the wheel next to Dreymann, who was practiced enough to keep his balance on the madly veering deck.
At intervals the stern would be lifted by a mountain of water while the bow dove into the foaming sea. Then the bow would rise until the entire ship aimed at some distant point high in the sky. Knud Erik's stomach lurched horribly each time. It was as if the sea, which had so often challenged and not yet conquered them, now demanded one final, decisive rematch.
He'd already learned that in a North Atlantic storm, expert seamanship went a long way, but not the whole way. No sailor could guard against the freak wave that cleared the deck and wiped off the masts. So much depended on luck. Some called it Providence, others God, but luck and God had one thing in common when it came to these waters: their intervention was always arbitrary. Peter Eriksen and Skipper Hansen, whose bodies they'd just given to the sea, were probably no better and no worse seamen than those who'd survived the worst storms. There was no point in trying to make sense of it. Nor were prayers of any use, except to calm and encourage the person praying. He didn't believe they had any influence over whether a ship reached her port safely or not. He understood very well what Vilhjelm had been doing when he'd read aloud from the Book of Sermons, all alone on the Ane Marie. It was his inner stammer he'd wanted to overcome: that stammer of the soul that sapped his will to survive. But Knud Erik didn't have Vilhjelm's ability to let the word of God work for him.
"How much is it blowing?" Knud Erik shouted again.
"Gale force twelve," Dreymann said.
They reached Newcastle ten days later. Bager reappeared from his cabin, sullen and withdrawn. There was a fear in his eyes that had nothing to do with the hurricane.
Together with Dreymann he surveyed the