We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [273]
Then he relieved Vilhjelm at the helm.
***
He ordered more sails to be set. He sailed hard. The ship tilted from the pressure of the wind till the rail was nearly level with the sea. He could see the boys' unease, but nobody said anything. He called them over. "Bager's dead. I'm the captain now."
Then he was alone at the helm again. He felt the power of the sea travel through the wheel into his hands. The tenderness he'd felt settled and became a certainty. She was his. It was irrevocable.
He thought about the dead man in the cabin. Most of all he wanted to wrap the body in canvas and ease it overboard without too much ceremony, but he knew he wouldn't get away with that. St.-Malo wasn't the nearest port, but if the wind lasted and he continued to sail hard, they could get there in two days. Obviously Bager couldn't stay in his cabin. And Miss Kristina couldn't sleep in the room with her dead father. The fo'c'sle was an option. After all, there was a spare berth there. He chortled. That would serve them right, the little brats. They could sleep with a corpse.
Herman stayed at the helm for the rest of the day. He had no desire to be anywhere else. The ship was his. He shot across the sea with a dead captain and a woman waiting in the cabin. He hummed the old chantey about the drunken sailor: "Put him in the bed with the cap'n's daughter." A dream. And now it was coming true.
That evening he took Miss Kristina a plate of soup. The cabin was dark: he struck a match and lit the petroleum lamp that was screwed onto the bulkhead.
"You need to eat," he said, handing her the bowl.
She raised the spoon to her lips obediently. He stayed there and waited silently for her to finish. Then he took the bowl back to the galley.
At midnight he was still at the helm. He'd done three shifts in a row. Now the middle watch started. He secured the wheel and crossed the deck to the fo'c'sle entrance, then climbed down the ladder and woke Vilhjelm. The boy tumbled out of his berth. He'd been sleeping with his clothes on. In his hand he held a jackknife that he'd probably been given as a confirmation present. Knud Erik leapt down from the other berth. He too was armed.
The Kristina was still sailing hard against the wind, and the fo'c'sle boomed every time the stem hit a wave. Herman glanced at the knives and shook his head. "That's some pretty impressive manicure equipment you've got there," he said jovially. "You'd better stick those in your belt. Or I might start thinking you're mutineers."
Every word he spoke made them flinch. They were so scared, they were on the verge of tears. He told Vilhjelm the course and climbed back up the ladder. He crossed the deck and tried the handle of the door to the captain's cabin. It was unlocked, and a moment later he was in the darkness on the tilting floor. He listened. He couldn't hear Miss Kristina breathing, but he knew he had to act now. The certainty of it had been growing in him up there in the stormy darkness.
He stuck his hand into the berth, fumbling in the eiderdown. He felt her hair: she must be lying with her back to him. He'd dreamt of her back. He stroked her hair, which was still stiff from the salt water. She didn't react: he was sure she was asleep. He allowed his hand to wander across her neck, which felt warm and soft. His grip enclosed it. Feeling her delicate spine, he was flooded with tenderness. Still she didn't react. He couldn't hear her breathing, and he had to suppress the urge to take her pulse. Was she still asleep? Was she holding her breath out of fear? No, he was certain of it: she'd been waiting for him. His whole body was telling him so. He flung her eiderdown aside, grabbed hold of her nightdress, and yanked it up to her shoulders.
He hesitated for a moment. I don't know her, he thought; perhaps she's stronger than I am. He was overcome by a sudden fear. Then he unbuttoned