The Jonas Lie Megapack: 14 Classic Novels and Stories Read online

  All that was known further about “Old Jacob,” as he was called, was that he had once been a pilot, and that he had had a son who had taken to drinking, through whose fault it had been eventually that the father had lost his certificate; and it was thought that on the occasion in question the father had taken the son’s blame upon himself. Since then he had shunned society, and had retired with his wife to his present habitation, whither, after their son was drowned, they had brought their little orphan granddaughter, who now was his sole companion. His only ostensible means of living were by shoemaking, and by fishing, the produce of which he generally disposed of to passing ships, and, during the earlier period of his sojourn there, by shooting occasionally. But it was understood that he received a small regular contribution from several of the pilots, certificated or otherwise, of the district, for keeping a fire alight on his hearth during the dark autumn nights, and so giving them, by the light from his two windows, something to steer by when they arrived off the coast after nightfall. Whether the light was shown for their benefit particularly, or whether it was not rather intended for the guidance of smuggling vessels standing in under cover of the night to land their cargoes, it was not their business to inquire. Its friendly assistance was, at all events, not unacknowledged by these latter, and very acceptable presents, in the shape of kegs of spirits, bags of coffee, tobacco, meal, and so forth, would, from time to time, come rolling into the old man’s room, so that upon the whole, he was well-to-do enough out there upon his rock.

  Of late years he had fallen into feeble health, and found it not so easy to row the long distance over to land. Even in his best days he had, owing to an old injury to one of his legs, found some difficulty in getting down to the boat; and now, therefore, he sat during the greater part of the day over the hearth, in his woolen jacket and leather breeches, with his indoor work. Now and then, when his granddaughter—a child with a thick crop of hair falling about her ears, and a rough dog constantly at her heels—would burst into the house with all the freshness of the outside air blowing round her, as it were, and deliver herself of her intelligence, he might be drawn, perhaps, to the window to look out over the sea, and afterwards, like a growling bear disturbed from its lair, even follow her with some difficulty out of the door with the spyglass. There he would station himself, so as to use her shoulder as a rest for his shaking hand, and with his never-ceasing directions and growling going on behind her neck, she would do her best to fix the glass on the desired object. His crossness would then disappear, little by little, in their joint speculation as to what ship it could be, or in whatever remarks it might suggest; and after giving his decision, the old man would generally hobble in again.

  He was really very proud of his granddaughter’s cleverness. She could distinguish with her naked eye as clearly as he could through the glass. She never made a mistake about the craft, large or small, that belonged to that part of the coast, and could, besides, say to a nicety, what sort of master each had. Her superiority of sight she asserted, too, with a tyranny to which he made no resistance, although it might have tried a temper many degrees more patient than his was.

  One day, however, she was at a loss. They made out a crescent on the flag, and this caused even the old man a moment’s astonishment. But he declared then, for her information, shortly and decisively, that it was a “barbarian.”

  This satisfied her for a moment. But then she asked—

  “What is a barbarian, grandfather?”

  “It is a Turk.”

  “Yes, but a Turk?”

  “Oh! it’s—it’s—a Mohammedan—”

  “A what!—a Moham—”

  “A Mohammedan—a robber on board ship.”

  “On board ship!”

  He was not going to give up his ascendancy in the matter, hard as she pushed him; so he bethought him of a pack of old tales there-anent, and went on to explain drily—

  “They go to the Baltic—to Russia—to salt human flesh.”

  “Human flesh!”

  “Yes, and sometimes, too, they seize vessels in the open sea and do their salting there.”

  She fixed a pair of large, terrified eyes on him, which made the old man continue—

  “And it is especially for little girls they look. That meat is the finest, and goes by tons down to the Grand Turk.”

  Having played this last trump, he was going in again, but was stopped by her eager question—

  “Do they use a glass there on board?” And when he said they did, she slipped quickly by him through the door, and kept cautiously within as long as the vessel was to be seen through the window-pane on the horizon.

  The moods of the two were for once reversed. The old man looked very sly over his work, whilst she was quiet and cowed. Once only she broke out angrily—

  “But why doesn’t the king get rid of them? If I was captain of a man-of-war, I’d—”

  “Yes, Elizabeth, if you were captain of a man-of-war!—what then?”

  The child’s conceptions apparently reached no further than such matters as these as yet. She had seen few human beings as she grew up, and in recent years, after her grandmother’s death, she and her grandfather had been the only regular inhabitants of the island. Every now and then there might perhaps come a boat on one errand or another, and a couple of times she had paid a visit to her maternal aunt on land, at Arendal. Her grandfather had taught her to read and write, and with what she found in the Bible and psalm-book, and in ‘Exploits of Danish and Norwegian Naval Heroes,’ a book in their possession, she had in a manner lived pretty much upon the anecdotes which in leisure moments she could extract from that grandfather, so chary of his speech, about his sailor life in his youth.

  They had besides, in the little inner room, a small print, without a frame, of the action near the Heather Islands, in which he had taken part. It represented the frigate Naiad, with the brigs Samso, Kiel, and Lolland, in furious conflict with the English ship of the line Dictator, which lay across the narrow harbour with the brig Calypso, and was pounding the Naiad to pieces. The names of the ships were printed underneath.

  On the print there was little to be seen but mast-heads and cannon-mouths, and a confusion of smoke, but in this had the child lived whole years of her life; and many a time in fancy had she stood there and fought the Englishman. Men-of-war and their officers had become the highest conception of her fancy, and the dearest wish of her heart was that a man-of-war might some day pass so near to Torungen that she would be able to see distinctly everything on board.

  CHAPTER II

  After old Jacob had fallen into ill health, lighterman Kristiansen used to come out oftener to Torungen with provisions and other necessaries; and his visits now became periodical.

  He was accompanied one autumn by his son Salvé, a black-haired, dark-eyed, handsome lad, with a sharp, clever face, who had worked in the fishing-boats along the coast from his childhood almost, and had, in fact, been brought up amongst its sunken rocks and reefs and breakers. He was something small in stature, perhaps; but what he wanted in robustness he made up in readiness and activity—qualities which stood him in good stead in the many quarrels into which his too ready tongue was wont to bring him. He was eighteen years old at this time; had been already engaged as an able seaman; and was in great request at the Sandvigen and Vraangen dances,—a fact of which he was perfectly well aware. Old Jacob’s granddaughter, being a little girl of only fourteen years of age, was of course altogether beneath his notice, and he didn’t condescend to speak to her. He merely delivered himself of the witticism that she was like a heron; and with her thick, checked woollen handkerchief tied with the ends behind her waist, the resemblance was not so very far-fetched. At any rate, he declared on the way home that such a specimen of womankind he, for his part, had never come across before, and that he would give anything to see her dancing in the pub
lic room with her thin arms and legs—it would be like a grasshopper.

  The next time he came, she took out her grandfather’s watch in its silver case and showed it to him, and some conversation passed between them. His first impression of her was that she was stupid. She asked questions about every sort of thing, and seemed to think that he must know everything. And finally, she wanted to know what it was like on shore among the great folk of Arendal, and particularly how the ladies behaved. It afforded him much amusement at the time to see with what simple credulity she took in everything he chose to invent on the subject; but after he had left he was not sure that he wasn’t sorry for what he had done, and at the same time he made the discovery that the girl, in her way, was anything but silly.

  His remorse was to be brought home to him presently, for old Jacob had had duly recounted to him over again all his cock-and-bull stories, and was in high dudgeon. When he came again the old man was very snappish to him, and he found it so unpleasant in the house that he made all the haste he could to get his business done. While he was thus occupied, the little girl told him all about the Naiad, and the part her grandfather had taken in the action. Salvé, who was ruffled, and thought the old man had been an ill-mannered old dog, followed the relation from time to time with a sneering remark, which in her eagerness she didn’t notice, or didn’t understand. But when he had finished what he had to do, he gave vent to his feelings in a way she did understand,—he laughed incredulously.

  “Old Jacob there on board the Naiad! This is the first time anybody ever heard of it.”

  The individual in question unfortunately came out at the moment to see the boat off, and turning, to him, red with anger, she cried—

  “Grandfather! he doesn’t believe you were on board the Naiad that time!”

  The old man answered at first as if he didn’t deign to enter upon any controversy on the subject—

  “Oh, I suppose it’s only little girls’ prattle again.”

  But whether it was wounded vanity, or a sudden access of irritation against the lad, or that his eye fell upon his granddaughter standing there, so evidently incensed and resentful, he flared up the next moment, and thrusting his huge fist under the youngster’s nose, burst out—

  “If you want to know all about it, you young swabber, I may tell you I stood on the Naiad’s gun-deck with better folk than you are ever likely to come across”—he stamped his foot here as if he had the deck under him—“when, with one broadside from the Dictator, the three masts and bowsprit were shot away, and the main deck came crashing down upon the lower;”—the last sentence was taken from ‘Exploits of Danish and Norwegian Naval Heroes,’ and the old man was as proud of these lines as he would have been of a medal.

  “When the crash came,” he pursued, always in the same posture, and in the manner of the sacred text, “he who stands here and tells the tale had but just time to save himself by leaping into the sea through a gun-port.”

  But he threw off then the trammels of the text, and continued in propriâ personâ, violently gesticulating with his fists, and steadily advancing all the time, while Salvé prudently retreated before his advance down to the boat.

  “We don’t deal in lies and fabricate stories out here like you, you young whipper-snapper of a ship’s cub; and if it wasn’t for your father, who has sense enough to rope’s-end you himself, I’d lay a stick across your back till you hadn’t a howl left in you.”

  With this finale of the longest speech to which he had given vent for thirty years perhaps, he turned with a short nod to the father, and went into the house again.

  Elizabeth was miserable that Salvé should go away like this, without so much as deigning to say good-bye to her. And her grandfather was cross enough himself; for he was afraid that he had done something foolish, and broken with the lighterman.

  CHAPTER III

  Salvé came out to the rock again the next autumn, after a voyage to Liverpool and Havre.

  At first he was rather shy, although his father and old Jacob Torungen had in the interval, in spite of that little affair of the previous year, been on the best of terms. The white bear, however, as he called him, seemed to have altogether forgotten what had passed; and with the girl he was very easily reconciled—she had learnt now not to tell everything to her grandfather.

  Whilst the lighterman and old Jacob enjoyed a heart-warming glass together in the house, Salvé carried the things up to the cellar, Elizabeth following him up and down every time, and the conversation meanwhile going round all the points of the compass, so to speak. After she had asked him about Havre de Grace, where he had been, and about America, where he had not been,—if his captain’s wife was as fine as a man-of-war captain’s; and then if he wouldn’t like one day to marry a fine lady,—she wanted at last to know, from the laughing sailor lad, if the officers’ wives were ever allowed to be with them in war.

  Her face had of late acquired something wonderfully attractive in its expression—such a seriousness would come over it sometimes, although she continued as childlike as ever; and such eyes as hers were, at all events in Salvé’s experience, not common. At any rate, after this, he invariably accompanied his father upon these expeditions.

  The last time he was out there he told her about the dances on shore at Sandvigen, and took care to give her to understand that the girls made much of him there—but he was tired now of dancing with them.

  She was very curious on this subject, and extracted from him that he had had two tremendous fights that winter. She looked at him in terror, and asked rather hesitatingly—

  “But had they done anything to you?”

  “Oh, no! all dancing entertainments have a little extra dance like that to wind up with. They merely wanted to dance with the girl I had asked first.”

  “Is it so dangerous, then? What sort of a girl was she?—I mean, what was her name?”

  “Oh, one was called Marie, and the other was Anne—Herluf Andersen’s daughter. They were pretty girls, I can tell you. Anne had a white brooch and earrings, and danced more smoothly than ever you saw a cutter sail. Mate George said the same.”

  The upshot of this conversation was, that she found out that the girls in Arendal, and in the ports generally where he had touched, were all well dressed; and the next time he returned from Holland, he promised he would bring with him a pair of morocco-leather shoes with silver buckles for her.

  With this promise they parted, after she had allowed him—and that there might be no mistake, twice over—to take the accurate measure of her foot; and there were roses of joy in her cheeks, as she called after him to be sure and not forget them.

  The year after Salvé came with the shoes. There were silver buckles in them, and they were very smart; but if they were, they had cost him more than half a month’s pay.

  Elizabeth was more carefully dressed now, and might almost be called grown up. She hesitated about accepting the shoes, and didn’t ask questions about everything as she used to do. Nor was she so willing to stand and talk with him alone by the boat—she liked to have him up within hearing of the others.

  “Don’t you see how high the sea is running?” he said, and tried to persuade her that the boat would be dashed to pieces on the rocks. But she saw that it wasn’t true, and went up with a little toss of her head alone. He followed her.

  She must have learned all this in Arendal, where in the course of the autumn she had been confirmed, and where she had lived with her aunt. But she had grown marvellously handsome in that time—so much so, indeed, that Salvé was almost taken aback when he saw her; and when they said good-bye, it was no longer in the old laughing tones, but with some slight embarrassment on his side—he didn’t seem to know exactly how matters lay between them.

  After that she filled his head so completely that he had not a thought for anything else.

 
CHAPTER IV

  The old Juno, to which Salvé belonged, was lying at that time at Sandvigen, and was only waiting for a north-east wind to come out. She was a square-rigged vessel, with a crew of nineteen hands all told, which had plied for many years in American waters, and off and on in the North Sea, and was reckoned at the time one of Arendal’s largest craft. Her arrival or departure was quite an event for the town and neighbourhood; and to have a berth in her was considered among the sailors of the district a very high honour indeed—the more so that her master and principal owner, Captain Beck, was a particularly good chief to serve under, and a lucky one to boot.

  When at last, between ten and eleven o’clock one morning, she weighed anchor, and before a light north-westerly breeze, with her small sails set, glided out to sea, the quays were crowded with spectators, the majority of the crew belonging to the place, and it being generally known that they were bound on a longer voyage than usual. On board she had with her still the captain’s son, Carl Beck, a smart young naval officer, with his sister and a small party of their friends, who meant to land out on the Torungens in the sailing-boat they had in tow. They wished to remain with her as long as possible, and for the purpose had made up a party to the islands, where the gentlemen proposed to shoot some of the sea-fowl, which are to be found out there on the rocks in swarms at the spring season of the year on their passage north along the coast.

  It was about four o’clock when they passed Little Torungen; and as there were swells then bursting in white jets upon the reefs, and a line of dark fire-fringed clouds about the sunset, which looked like heavy weather coming up, the pleasure party determined to leave the vessel here, instead of going on, as they had intended, to the larger of the two islands.