We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [289]
He hadn't sailed the Newfoundland route since the fatal voyage on the Kristina, and the Claudia had been his last sailing ship. Once he'd passed his navigation exam, he'd decided to crew on a motor ship. He'd applied to the Birma and the Selandia, vessels belonging to the Far East Asia Corporation, but they'd both turned him down. Knowing nothing of the connection between his mother and the owner of the company, old Markussen, he'd never understood why. So he'd taken jobs on steamers.
Helge Fabricius, the second engineer of the lost Dannevang, laughed at what Knud Erik said about the food. He was in his mid-twenties and not old enough to have sailed the Newfoundland route. Knud Erik was thirty, less than ten years older, but they'd been born on either side of the great divide between the age of sail and the age of steam. They weren't even separated by a generation and yet they were children of two different worlds.
Behind the pool table hung a blackboard with VACANCIES written on it in chalk. Under this was scrawled NIMBUS OF SVENDBORG. Nothing else. What were they looking for, a first mate, a steward, a chief engineer? Knud Erik and Helge went to see the Danish consul, Frederik Nielsen, to find out. To their surprise, he offered them the whole vessel: its crew had jumped ship. The Nimbus was theirs if they wanted her. Knud Erik would be promoted to captain.
This was the other side of the war. It imposed restrictions, but it also offered opportunities. They went to inspect the ship. On the bow you could make out the letters that had once spelled Nimbus and more marks on her stern that had probably said Svendborg. But you had to apply your imagination.
As they walked up and down the wharf, inspecting the vessel, Helge Fabricius started counting. Knud Erik didn't need to ask him what he was up to. "There's no way that crew jumped ship," he said. "They're all dead."
"One hundred and fourteen...," Helge intoned.
"The only cheese they ever got on that ship must have been Swiss."
"I'd like to see them make a cup of coffee," Helge said, abandoning his numerical litany.
They both laughed and walked up the gangway. They'd seen ships with half the bulwark ripped away, with the superstructure blown off, with craters in their sides, that had nevertheless managed to stay afloat. But they'd never seen anything like this. The Nimbus had received not one direct hit, but a thousand. The steamer was riddled with bullet holes. She was intact yet utterly destroyed. Waves and waves of Messerschmitts must have strafed her. Not one of the Germans' aircraft bombs or torpedoes had struck her; if they had, the Nimbus would be at the bottom of the sea. But their machine guns certainly hadn't missed. There was something awe-inspiring about the sight of the ship's perforated superstructure: it exuded a defiance that seemed almost human.
They entered the galley, where a blue enamel coffeepot still sat on the stove. As if to give the lie to Helge's joke, it was still in one piece.
"I'll be damned," said Helge.
They found some English coffee substitute, made from acorns, in a cupboard, and sat down at the table while they waited for the water to boil.
"We'll take this ship," Knud Erik said. Helge poured the boiling water and shot him a questioning look. "She's a lucky one."
"You mean her coffeepot was lucky. It's the only thing on board that doesn't have holes in all the wrong places."
Knud Erik shook his head. "No, the whole ship's lucky. Have you ever seen so many direct hits? But the Nimbus is still here. She's still afloat. And she'll share her luck with us."
They were