The Red Book Magazine/Volume 10/Number 1/The Undercurrent

HE second mate of the Thorgrim had a grievance, and he was a born nurser of grievances, who had nourished many in his time. He gave most of his consideration to the present grievance as the whaler neared the mouth of Isafjord on her way from the kraal-station to the outskirts of the Greenland ice where the rorquals were then being hunted. Apparently he was devoting his whole attention to his duties as steersman. He kept his gaze immovably ahead, yet it is probable that he saw nothing—neither the great brown bluff headland guarding the entrance to the fjord on the left, nor the range of mountains on the right, their ragged ridges white with eternal snows, nor even the dark water of the wide channel and the gray sky above it.

So absorbed, indeed, was he that he started violently when old Captain Svendsen, who was sitting behind him in a corner of the steering-box, stretched out his hand and pulled the cord communicating with the fog-horn.

A whaler had appeared round the brown headland, and Captain Svendsen, who for the past half hour had been regarding the curious olive-green horizon ahead, desired some information of her skipper. The approaching whaler blew a white cloud and piped a reply. She was bound for the Langore station, not far off, and she towed a blaahval as long as herself and swollen above the surface of the sea like the half of an immense Rugby football.

“I would speak with Captain Clausen,” said Svendsen, and the second mate altered the Thorgrim’s course accordingly.

Ere the two whalers were abreast of each other Svendsen bawled his congratulations. Such a grand “blue” whale had not been taken that season by any of the neighboring companies. Clausen shouted his thanks, adding that the capture had been made easily and speedily. “Sixty fathoms he ran out, and then he died.”

“Bad weather, I see,” said the old man, nodding his head seaward.

“Left a gale behind us, kaptan,” replied the other. “No use going out to-day.”

“I feared it.”

He waved his hand, and the whalers parted.

Svendsen turned to the steersman.

“Adelvik,” he said shortly.

Something like animation dawned on the sullen face; something like eagerness awoke in the dull eyes of Einar Ovesen, second mate. But it was not a youthful animation, nor was it a pleasant eagerness to see on the countenance of a man of little over thirty.

“Adelvik, kaptan,” he repeated, and turned the bow of the Thorgrim in an easterly direction.

Adelvik is a little bay not far from the mouth of Isafjord. It is a safe shelter from many winds and a good anchorage. There go whalers when the weather discourages a seaward trip, and when a return to the station would merely mean waste of time and coal; there they lie until their impatient captains decide to risk the run to the ice, and give the orders that send them wallowing and staggering across the Arctic Circle.

A couple of hours after the meeting with the Langore steamer the Thorgrim, with wet decks and a salted funnel, slid smoothly into the bay, and presently came to anchor.

Adelvik is bounded east and west by great walls of rock, bare and precipitous, and landward by a strip of stony shore. Beyond the shore the ascent is rapid towards the frowning mountains, which, however, are deeply cleft by a narrow glen—the most vividly green patch, perhaps, on the north coast of Iceland. A few huts, the wooden upper storys more or less gayly painted, are visible from the water.

By the time the Thorgrim rode safely at anchor it was noon; and on board the Thorgrim noon meant dinner. Einar Ovesen was reminded of that fact by Hansen the cook going aft with a great vessel of sweet soup, from which escaped the fragrance of fruit stewed in sugar. Einar was engaged in watching a Danish schooner, anchored some fifty fathoms to starboard. He watched expectantly, and smiled when a man appeared at the schooner’s rail, waved his hands, held up eight fingers, and pointed shorewards. Einar returned the signals and betook himself to the cabin. Perhaps he was not aware that he was licking his lips.

Captain Svendsen and his first mate, Sigurd, were already enjoying the soup consisting of raisins, prunes, currants, and small slices of dried apple in syrup. The fact that they ate sweet soup three days a week had apparently no effect on their appetites. They glanced towards Einar and nodded pleasantly enough as he took his seat. Einar scowled and helped himself to a small supply of soup.

“We shall get out to-morrow,” observed Captain Svendsen cheerfully. “It is too early for a long gale.”

Captain Svendsen was a hopeful man and hard to depress.

“There is no doubt about that,” said Sigurd with a kindly laugh. He picked the stem of a currant from his strong white teeth.

Hansen entered with a steaming dish of lobscouse—salt meat and potatoes boiled and mashed together. He laid it on the table, but did not remove the soup, to which the captain and mate were wont to return after the meat course.

“Einar, you do not eat,” remarked the old man. “You should have hunger after two months at the whaling.”

“I eat as I wish,” retorted sulkily.

“So!” said Captain Svendsen quietly, resuming his conversation with Sigurd.

When the meal was over Sigurd set his pipe going, took a fishing line from his locker, and went on deck. It was customary to fish while storm-bound in Adelvik; already the majority of the crew was busy, and numerous haddock and cod, the firmest, whitest, and sweetest in the world, were lying on the deck.

Sigurd with his knife scraped the flat leaden sinker, to which were rigidly attached the two stout hooks, until it shone brilliantly. He took his stand by the rail, and let his line run to the bottom. Raising it three or four feet he gripped it firmly and began jerking it over the rail toward him and letting it slip back. At the fourth jerk it quivered violently, and he drew on board a fine two-pounder. From which it is evident that the simplicity of the method of line-fishing in Icelandic waters can only be equalled by the simplicity of the fish there.

Hour after hour the sport—or rather, the business—went on, the men mechanically sawing the air, water, and rail with their lines, and bringing fish, hooked by head, body, or tail, on board at frequent intervals. At four o’clock Sigurd descended to the cabin for coffee.

The old man was sitting at the table with cards in his hands and before him, engrossed in his solitary game of “Patience.” Opposite to him lounged Einar, sullen as ever, staring idly at the skylight, and occasionally sipping eau sucré from a thick tumbler. The coffee was partaken of in silence, and when he had emptied his mug the first mate went again on deck.

Five minutes after he had gone the second mate spoke.

“Kaptan!”

“Well, what is it, Einar?” asked Captain Svendsen, a trifle irritably. The old man did not like to be disturbed at his favorite pastime.

“I ask leave to go on shore this evening,’ said Einar, with a furtive glance across the table.

Svendsen laid down a couple of cards and stared at them thoughfully [sic]. Several times during the present season the Thorgrim had been forced to anchor in Adelvik. On each Einar had received permission to go ashore. On each occasion he had returned—after the time stipulated—in a condition which, if it were not that of actual drunkenness, very closely approached the same. The old man had been quite at a loss to understand how the young one had contrived to arrive at that condition. Drink was forbidden on the Thorgrim, and it was scarcely likely it could be procured at any of the few huts on the shore, the inhabitants of which did not taste alcoholic liquids twice in the year, and rarely possessed any store of their own. Svendsen thought of the Danish trader, but remembered that she had not been in Adelvik since the beginning of the season. Other whalers that had been in the bay along with the Thorgrim occurred to him, but he dismissed the suggestion almost at once. And Einar had sworn, when he was given the berth of second mate, that he would bring no liquor on board at any time. The old man was sorely puzzled, but he made up his mind as to his duty.

He laid down a third card, and, regarding it attentively, said quietly:

“I cannot give you leave, Einar.”

Einar changed his position. “You will not be sailing before to-morrow, kaptan,” he said, still staring at the skylight. ‘There is nothing for me to do on board.”

The old man set a card straight.

“I cannot give you leave, Einar. Have you written to your father lately? There is a mail from Isafjord a week hence, and we shall have returned by then.”

“Then you refuse me leave, kaptan?”

“I have said it.”

Suddenly Captain Svendsen, as if with an effort, raised his shaggy, grizzled head, and fixed his keen gray eyes on the young man’s face.

“Listen, Einar Ovesen,” he said gently. “Your father, my oldest and dearest friend, gave you into my charge. Your father loves you, though you have not been a good son to him in the past—in the past, Einar—mark that!—I speak only of the past. I am not reproaching you now. You have always been clever; you can do well, if you like; you can please your father and make him proud. It is not for me to tell you how. You know it. I gave you a chance because your father asked me. I would not have done it for your sake then—but I am waiting, Einar, to be able to do something for your sake. You have but to give me opportunity.”

Einar shifted his position impatiently. Had the old man turned Lutheran priest?

“Have I not done my work?” he muttered.

“I have not complained. I have sometimes wanted you to take more interest in things, for it is the interest that makes work happy; but I do not complain. And if you do not care for whaling, when the end of the season comes, I will help your father to get you another berth. Meantime, | am your kaptan, Einar.”

Without replying Einar rose and left the cabin.

Supper was taken at seven o'clock, and thereafter the old man turned in for a four hours spell. He had seen a satisfactory change coming over the weather, and he hoped to get the Thorgrim to business in the early morning.

About midnight he went on deck.

“Sigurd,” he said to the mate, “we will start at four. Do you turn in now; but first send Einar to me.”

“Einar, kaptan? Einar is on shore. He left the ship at eight o’clock. Have you forgotten, kaptan?”

“So!” said the old man, looking away. “Ja; I have forgotten. I—I slept heavily. Get out the other boat, Sigurd. I will go ashore for him; he must not delay our start. I will take Hans with me. Tell him.”

“Let me go, kaptan. Or, maybe a blast of the siren will be enough.”

“You will take charge till I return,” said Captain Svendsen quietly, but finally.

“You understand, Sigurd,” said Captain Svendsen when the boat was ready, “that the young man was given into my charge by his father. Therefore, I must try to see that he comes to no harm. Did he take his gun with him?”

“I did not notice, kaptan. But when he went ashore, another boat went ashore from the trader. I think Einar has a friend on the trader.”

“So!” muttered Svendsen, and dropped easily from the low deck of the Thorgrim into the boat.

On reaching the beach, where the Thorgrim’s other boat already lay, the old man bade Hans remain where he was and stepped ashore. The northern horizon was aglow with the rising sun which had set less than an hour before in almost the same position.

In front of the nearest hut an Icelander was shaving the lumpy grass with a tiny scythe. There would be plenty of time for sleep in the long winter, and in old IsafoldIsafjord [sic] it is well to make hay while the sun shines. As Svendsen approached him the Icelander paused in his work, and took snuff from a horn flask. Each raised his cap to the other.

Yes. The Icelander had seen two men come ashore in two boats some hours before sunset. They had met on the beach and gone up the green glen—he could not say how far; but it could not have been a great distance, for ere long one had returned to his boat and rowed to his ship—the Danish trader.

Captain Svendsen thanked the man, and went off in the direction indicated.

On a grassy space, hidden from the rough track by great boulders Einar Ovesen lay asleep. His heavy breathing in the dead stillness of Nature had reached the old man’s ears, otherwise he might have remained concealed forever.

“So!” whispered Captain Svendsen, and the note of the whisper was very bitter.

An empty bottle lay on the grass near the sleeper; two bottles, unopened, lay in a cavity under a rock close by, and a flat stone like a lid was beside them. This, then, was Einar’s secret store at Adelvik, supplied doubtless for a consideration, by his friend the Dane.

Brandy of the vilest quality it was, containing little but a spirit of madness; Svendsen knew the gaudy labels on the bottles. Then he stepped to the cavity, picked up the bottles, and smashed them on the rocks.

Einar awoke. First surprise and wonder in his filmy eyes; then a very devil.

“You swine!” cried Svendsen. “If it were not for your father, I would leave you here to rot. Get up and come with me.”

“Spy!” muttered Einar, rising slowly. Somehow the neck of the empty bottle had got into his hand. The old man was totally unarmed.

“Throw that bottle against the rock,” said Svendsen calmly.

Einar hesitated, then obeyed.

“Come!”

Einar lurched forward, pulled himself together, and walked fairly steadily towards the shore a few paces in front of the captain.

They came to a streamlet.

“Bathe your face,” said Svendsen.

“So!” he murmured when the young man rose from his knees. “Let us go on.”

As they drew near the boat the old man said hurriedly:

“Einar Ovesen, this matter is between you and me. For your father’s sake, I will not betray you. I will shield you. I will give you one more chance. When we get on board, you will turn in at once. You understand?”

Stepping into the boat after the young man, Captain Svendsen remarked to Hans:

“Einar had an accident among the rocks. I found him unconscious. Give me an oar.”

And so they went back to the Thorgrim.

Sigurd was the only one on deck. Before the boat reached the steamer’s side Svendsen called to him.

“Sigurd, go see if Hansen has left any coffee in the galley. If not, make me a cup, like a good fellow.”

“Right, kaptan.”

They clambered to the deserted deck.

“Go to my bunk, quickly,” whispered the old man to Einar. The captain had a tiny stateroom. “I will bring you coffee. But go quickly.”

The half-dazed man obeyed, and the other gave a little sigh of relief.

Sigurd appeared with a steaming mug.

“Tak,” said Svendsen. “Call the men to get up anchor, Sigurd. I will return soon. It is Einar’s watch, but Einar had an accident among the rocks, and I found him unconscious.”

He repeated the words rather too carefully.

“Ja, kaptan,” said the mate, rather too carelessly.

Svendsen looked at him keenly.

“You know, Sigurd?”

“I know, kaptan.”

A moment’s pause. Then:

“I am your kaptan, Sigurd.”

“Always, kaptan.”

So they understood each other.

It was the evening of the next day, and the Thorgrim had been fast to a fair-sized “blue” for upwards of four hours. The harpoon had been well enough placed, but its bomb-point had somehow failed to explode.

The gun had been reloaded, and Captain Svendsen was now standing by it, waiting for an opportunity to fire a second harpoon and so put an end to the struggle. The steam-winch was grinding away, the cable was winding slowly on board, and the Thorgrim was gradually coming up with the whale, which had been swimming at or near the surface for some time, towing the steamer after him.

Suddenly, at an order from the captain to the steersman, who sang part of it down the tube to the engineer, the Thorgrim spurted ahead, and ran parallel with the “blue,” and four or five fathoms from him.

Captain Svendsen slewed the cannon to the left, took a brief aim and pulled the trigger. But without the expected result. With a roar of wrath he swung the weapon from him.

“Sigurd

“Kaptan!” came the mate’s voice from the steering-box.

“Half-speed! The gun is broken. It will not fire. Come you here."

Leaving Einar in charge of the wheel, Sigurd hurried forward to the bow-platform. Along with the captain he examined the gun carefully. Presently he shook his head.

“I think it is the trigger, kaptan. We can do nothing with it till we get to the station.”

Svendsen pointed in the direction of the whale, which was once more swimming ahead of the Thorgrim.

‘He will not die,” he said irritably. “He might live for days.”

“But he becomes exhausted, kaptan.”

“Ay: and then he finds his strength again. But I will not give him up; I will not let him go. I will lance him, Sigurd. Where are the long lances? I have not required to lance a whale for many years—I know not how many. Find the lances, Sigurd, and send the men to me.”

Presently his six sailors stood before him.

“I am going to lance yonder blaahval,” said the old man. “It is, perhaps, a little risky. I will take the larger boat and three men. Which of you will come?”

The six, with one accord, declared their readiness.

“Then I must choose. I take you, Hans, and you, Fred, and—”

The second mate, having begged Sigurd to take the wheel for a moment, came running forward.

“Well, Einar, what is it?” said Svendsen coldly.

Einar came close to the captain, his face working.

“Take me, kaptan,” he whispered.

“So?” said Svendsen, inquiringly.

“A chance, kaptan. You said you would give me another chance.”

The old man’s keen eyes softened.

“For—my father’s sake, kaptan.”

Svendsen cleared his throat, and turned to the men.

“Hans and Fred, lower the boat. You, Einar, will steer.

The boat moved cautiously and silently over the smooth swell, under the clear sky. Pans of rotting ice gleamed exquisitely here and there; in the distance, under a white haze lay the sheet ice, and nearer, a small berg or two broke the monotony of the gray-blue space.

The whale had gone under, but his position could be judged not inaccurately from the cable stretching tautly from the Thorgrim’s bow to meet the water at a small angle. The “blue” was now making slow progress, for the screw of the Thorgrim had been reversed and was acting against the mighty flukes.

When the “blue” broke the surface at last, he paused—it may have been in suspicion. An instant later, the boat’s bow bumped ever so lightly against his slaty hide, and Svendsen’s great hands and arms rammed the long lance through blubber and flesh.

For a quick breath it seemed as if the “blue” were paralyzed; then he slashed air and water with his awful tail.

Captain Svendsen’s “little risk” had at once become great danger. His boat was in fragments, and he and his men were in the water.

On board the Thorgrim there was a rush to lower the second boat, while Sigurd, with a hatchet, leaped on the platform and hacked at the hemp, for now the whale, slowly but surely, was towing the Thorgrim from the scene of the disaster. The three inch cable snapped with a loud report and flashed, a yellow streak, out of sight.

Then Sigurd ran back to the wheel—and steered the Thorgrim towards the victims. The four men had been thrown in two directions by the blow. With the help of a couple of oars Hans, his face bloody, was supporting Fred who was afterwards found to have an arm and three ribs broken.

Fifty yards farther away Einar held on to the steering-oar, and near him Captain Svendsen struggled in the direction of the Thorgrim, now rapidly approaching. But the old man’s heavy boots and clothing were beating him, bearing him down. He gasped painfully.

“Kaptan,” spluttered Einar, “take the oar.”

“No, Einar. Your father—”

“I can swim,” replied Einar, and pushed the oar towards the old man.

“Einar—” He caught the oar.

“I can swim— Ah, kaptan” sighed Einar, and straightway sank.

Captain Svendsen took his hands from his worn face, and looked across the cabin-table at his mate. The Thorgrim was making for the station.

“Why,” he asked, piteously, “did he say he could swim, Sigurd?”

“I think,” said the mate slowly, “it was because—because you were his kaptan.”

“And—and because of his father, perhaps?”

“It may be so, kaptan. Who knows?”

Svendsen sighed.

“His father’s heart will be very sore, Sigurd.”

“And, I think, very proud,” said the mate gently.

Their long search for Einar had proved vain.

An undercurrent, perhaps. There is always the undercurrent to be reckoned with in the sea which is deep—in man’s nature which is deeper still.