The "Henrik Ibsen"

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Title:     The "Henrik Ibsen"
Author: Anthon B. E. Nilsen [More Titles by Nilsen]

"Well, and what are you doing with that brat of yours, Birkebeineren," asked Hansen the shipbroker, one day, meeting Soren Braaten in the street. "Got any freight yet?"

"No, worse luck. These wretched steamers take all there is. I can't see what's the good of steam anyway. We got along all right without it before, but it's all different now. Doesn't give a poor man time to breathe."

"Yes, the old windjammers are rather out of it now," Hansen agreed.

"Going to rack and ruin, as far as I can see. And what's the sense of all this hurry and skurry, when all's said and done. It's against nature, that's what I say. When I think how we used to get along in the old days. Why, I never heard but that the merchants over in England and Holland were pleased enough with the cargoes when they got there, whether we'd been a fortnight or a month on the way, and we made a decent living out of it and so did they. But now? As soon as a steamer comes along, it's all fuss and excitement and bother and complaint all round."

"You ought to see and get hold of a steamboat yourself, Soren; we mustn't be behindhand with everything, you know. Why, up in Drammen now, they've seven or eight of them already."

"Thank you for nothing. Let them buy steamers that cares to; it won't be Soren Braaten, though."

And Soren walked homeward, inwardly anathematising the inventor of steam, who might have found a better use for his time than causing all that trouble to his fellow-men.

Cilia was in the kitchen when he came in; the first thing she asked was whether he had got a charter for Birkebeineren.

The vessel had been lying in Christiania now for nearly a month; such a thing had never happened before.

Remittances? Alas, these had so dwindled of late as to be almost microscopic. Things were looking gloomy all round.

Cilia sat by the fire looking thoughtfully into the blaze. She dropped her knitting, and stuck the odd needle into her hair, that was fastened in a coil at the back of her head. The wool rolled to the floor, but when Soren stooped to pick it up, she ordered him sharply to leave it alone. There was something in her voice that startled Soren. Ever since the battle royal of a few years back, she had been quiet and sensible, and things had gone on between them as smoothly as could be wished.

Suddenly she rose to her feet, and stood with one hand on her hip, the other holding the bench.

"Soren, it's no good; we can't go on like this any longer."

Soren gave a start; he could feel there was thunder in the air.

"We'll have to buy a steamer. Sailing-ships are out of date."

"What's that you say, mother? We two old folks to go fussing about with steam? Nay, I'd rather stick to the old planks till they rot!"

But Cilia went on firmly, altogether unmoved. "We've a decent bit of money in the bank, and shares in other things besides, but the interest's not what it might be, and I don't see the sense of letting other people take all the profits that's to be made out of shipping, while we that's nearest at hand are left behind."

"I don't suppose they're overdone with profits, these here steamboats, when it comes to the point," grumbled Soren. And no more was said about the matter for that day.

But Cilia pondered and speculated still; she read the shipping papers and the shipbrokers' circulars as earnestly as she studied lesson and collect on Sundays.

She found a valuable ally, too, in her son-in-law, Skipper Abrahamsen, who was tired of the "old hulk," as he called Birkebeineren, and longed to be captain of a steamer himself. Fortunately, Soren never heard a word of this, or it would have been ill both for Cilia and Abrahamsen, for he could not bear to hear a word in dispraise of his beloved ship.

Malvina, of course, sided with her husband and her mother, and their united efforts were daily brought to bear upon Soren, till at last he grew so tired of hearing about "that steamboat of ours," that he fled out of the house, and went round to call on Warden Prois whenever the talk turned that way.

There was a little attic in the Braaten's house that had never been used for anything but a box-room; this was now cleared in secret by Cilia and Malvina, and then the three conspirators held meetings and discussions. Abrahamsen and Cilia had quietly made inquiries of various shipbuilding concerns, and received a mass of estimates and plans.

Cilia studied the question of engines till her brain was going twelve knots easy. Compound and triple expansion, boiler plate, and cylinder stroke--her mind was busy with every detail; for Cilia was not one to do things by halves when once she started.

Abrahamsen was examined and cross-examined till the sweat poured off him; he, of course, had to appear more or less familiar with all these things, since he aspired to command a steamer.

Malvina sat silent, looking on with wide eyes and taking it all in; she was looking forward to a free passage on a real steamboat for herself.

Soren wondered a little what they could be up to in the attic, but, being comfortable enough below with a glass of grog and the Shipping Gazette, he let them stay there as long as they pleased. One evening, however, it struck him they were at it a good long time; it was past eleven, and no sign of their coming down yet. Accordingly, he stole up quietly in his stocking feet, and looked through the keyhole. What he saw did not improve his temper. On a table in the middle of the room was the smartest little steamer one could imagine. Red bottom, sides black above, with a gold streak, the rudder and two masts sloping a little aft, flag at fore and maintop--a sight to see. Cilia, Malvina and Abrahamsen stood round examining the model with glee.

Soren was about to retire, but stumbled over an old trunk left outside, and fell head over heels into the room among the others. There was an awkward pause, until Cilia broke the silence by asking Soren: "What do you think of that--isn't she a beauty?" pointing to the model as she spoke.

"Why, yes, she's a handsome boat enough," said Soren, rubbing his shins.

"Oh, father, we must have a steamer of our own," said Malvina, coming up and clinging to his shoulder.

"Why, child, what are you doing here? I thought you'd have had enough to do at home with the boy," he said softly.

"It's the steamer we wanted to see. Mother thinks we could manage all right with compound, but Abrahamsen says it'll have to be triplets."

"Triplets, forbid!" muttered Abrahamsen.

"Have it whatever way you please, for all I care," said Soren. And he stumped off downstairs.

But the pressure from all sides was too much. Soren had to give way at last, and sign a formal document inviting subscriptions for shares in "a modern, up-to-date steamship."

S. Braaten having entered his name for fifty shares at £50, it was hoped that the remainder would be subscribed by tradesfolk in the town. Cilia had laid stress on the importance of appealing to local patriotism, and the circular accordingly pointed out that "in neighbouring towns it has already been wisely recognised that the shipping of the future will be steam, and that the day of the sailing vessel is past; our town alone, though it has always occupied a leading position in the shipping world, is sadly behindhand in this respect, counting as yet not a single steamer. It is in order to meet this long-felt want"--etc.

The appeal to the citizens of Strandvik was not in vain. A few days later the necessary share capital was subscribed.

Soren Braaten, however, was ill at ease; it had gone against the grain to sign a document declaring that the day of the sailing vessel was past, and he would have liked to add an explanatory note to the effect that he had signed under protest. There was no help for it, however; for peace and quietness' sake he had to give way.

At the preliminary general meeting, Soren was elected Managing Director of the Company, despite his most energetic protests.

* * * * *

It was a fine sunny day when the Henrik Ibsen was due to appear. The name had been chosen at the suggestion of Lawyer Nickelsen, who explained it as fitting for a trading vessel, from the fact that the poet in question was expert at moving in dark waters and foggy regions, and made a very good living out of it; he hoped that the steamer would do likewise.

Flags were in evidence all over the town, and the quay was crowded. Never had there been such excitement in Strandvik since the day of the Royal visit.

Almost every other man was a shareholder; even Klementsen the parish clerk and Pedersen the schoolmaster had, despite their widely differing political views, gone halves together in a share.

"From what I see in the papers about oil freights from New York and corn freights from the Black Sea, the vessel ought to pay at least twenty per cent," said Pedersen, with an air of superior wisdom. And he brought out a big sheet of paper covered with calculations in English pounds, shillings and pence, which had taken him all the afternoon to work out.

Klementsen had to put on his spectacles and study the figures earnestly; which done, the two newly pledged shipowners solemnly declared "it looks like very good business."

Nachmann was also a shareholder, but had only taken up his holding on condition that he should be purveyor of wines to the ship, "a smart, round vessel like that must get things from a decent firm." He had been busy to-day with a whole cart-load of various wines for the dinner, which the shareholders were to have on board during the trial trip.

Away in the harbour lay the Apollo, Eva Maria, and Birkebeineren; they had had no charters this year. The old craft looked heavy and stout as they lay in the sweltering sun, with pitch oozing from their seams like black tears. It almost looked as if they were weeping at having to lie idle, instead of ploughing through the good salt waters off Lindemor or the Dogger.

Soren Braaten, rowing out over the fjord to meet the steamer, passed close by his old ship Birkebeineren. He cast a loving glance at the dear old piece of timber, and wished he had accepted any freight, however poor, so he had kept out of all this new-fangled business with engine-power and steam. He felt like a traitor to his class, and to all the old things he loved.

He passed the Eva Maria, and there was Bernt Jorgensen standing aft. Bernt had declined to take up shares in the steamer; on the contrary, he had argued earnestly against the project, declaring that Strandvik owed too much to the old sailing ships not to hold by them to the last.

"Aren't you coming on board the steamer?" cried Soren as he came within hail.

"No, thankye, I've no mind for it. I'm better where I am," answered Bernt, and, crossing over, sat down on the half-deck.

He hoisted his flag with the rest, though he felt little inclined to; but it would look strange if the Eva Maria were the only one to refrain. But the bunting was only half-way up when the halliards broke, and the flag remained at half-mast.

Bernt felt it was something of an ill-omen. He went into his cabin, but through the porthole he could see the Henrik Ibsen come gliding into the harbour amid general salutation.

The steamer was bright with brass work and new paint; the great gilt letters of her name at the stern shone over the water. On the bridge stood Skipper Abrahamsen, with three gold bands on his cap, and all the crew were in uniform--blue jerseys, with the name worked in red.

Bernt Jorgensen looked round his own cabin; the worn, yellow-painted walls, the square of ragged canvas that did duty as a tablecloth, the sofa with its old cracked covering of American cloth--it was all poor enough, but would he change with the dandified newcomer over yonder?

He struck his fist on the table. "Let's see if he's as smart at earning money as you've been, Eva Maria. It'll take him all his time, I fancy."

The cheering sounded across the water, as he sat bowed over the table with his head in his arms, thinking of old times, from the day he first went to sea with Uncle Gjermundsen, on board the Stjerna. Three shirts, a pair of canvas breeches, a straw-stuffed mattress and a rug were all his kit. But what a clipper she was in those days, with her twelve knots close hauled. And Uncle Gjermundsen was the man to get the best out of her too. No gold-braided cap for him, and not much of a man to look at, little, dry and crooked-backed as he was; but when he went overboard with a line that black November night to save the crew of an English brig on the reef and sinking, there was many an upstanding man might have been proud to know him. But he and his ship were gone now, and both the same way. He stood by his ship too long, last man on his own deck he would be, and so the rest were saved and he went down. But it was all in the papers about it, the speech that was made in his honour at the Seamen's Union, and the verse:

"He stood alone on the sinking wreck,
A sailor fearless and bold,
For he knew that the last to leave the deck,
Comes first when all is told."

And what lads they were on board the Stjerna, tarry and weather-stained, but the harder it blew the smarter they went about it. There was Nils Sturika, that Christmas Eve off Jomfruland, when the pilot was to come aboard. The whole ship was like a lump of ice, and the fore-rigging ready to go by the board, with the lee shrouds and backstays torn away. They had to make the signal, but the foretop halliards were gone. And then it was Nils Sturika went up the topgallant shrouds by his hands, with the flag in his teeth, and lashed it fast to the pole.

But they got the pilot, and made in to Risorbank just in time.

Nobody shouted hurrah for Nils, and a stiff nip of grog was what he got when he came down; instead of a medal with ribbon and all that he'd maybe get nowadays.

Bernt Jorgensen was roused from his meditation by the sound of the salute on board the Henrik Ibsen. He rose and went up on deck to see what was going on. The shareholders, with wives and children, nephews and nieces and relatives generally, were making a tour of the vessel.

Cilia was down in the saloon, seated in state on a red plush sofa. She did not feel altogether comfortable, to tell the truth, having acquired a horror of showy furniture since her own escapade in that direction. But she was proud to feel that "we" had achieved the distinction of giving Strandvik its first steamer.

The trial trip was to take place while dinner was being served in the saloon.

The Henrik Ibsen steamed along the fjord, beflagged from deck to top, and greeted with cheers from all along the waterside; not a citizen of Strandvik but felt a thrill of pride in his citizenship that day.

The dinner was a most festive affair. The conversation ran gaily on the topic of freights and steamship traffic. Old Klementsen already saw in his mind's eye a whole fleet of Strandvik steamers putting out to sea with flags flying, and coming home laden deep with gold to the beloved little town.

Justice Heidt, guest of honour in his capacity as principal representative of local authority, made a speech, in which he referred to "Strandvik's first steamship, a tangible witness to the high degree of initiative among our business men. The vessel has been named after a great poet, and it is our hope that it will, like its famous namesake, add to our country's credit and renown in distant lands. Good luck and prosperity to the Henrik Ibsen." The toast was received with hearty cheers from all.

Someone proposed the health of Soren Braaten, as leader in the enterprise, and Cilia's too, as the guiding spirit of the undertaking; then the captain's health was drunk, and many more.

All were excited to a high pitch of enthusiasm. Old Klementsen, delighted to feel himself a shipowner, sat in a corner with a magnum of champagne before him, delivered an oration on the subject of time-charter on the China coast; he had read an article on the subject in a paper, and was greatly impressed by the same.

"Beautifully steady, isn't she?" said Cilia to her husband. Hardly had she spoken, however, when, "Brrr--drrrrum--drrrum--drrrum"--the passengers were thrown headlong in all directions, and Cilia herself was flung into the arms of Justice Heidt, the two striking their heads together with a force that made both dizzy for the moment.

Bottles, glasses and plates were scattered about, adding to the general confusion.

So violent was the shock that many thought the boiler had burst, and something approaching panic prevailed.

Schoolmaster Pedersen was screaming like a maniac. In his anxiety to see what was happening, he had thrust his head through one of the portholes, and could not get it back despite his utmost efforts. Everyone else was too much occupied to help him, and there he stood, unable to move.

The rest of the party hurried up on deck, all save Klementsen, who, having emptied his magnum, felt himself unable to get up the companion, and wisely refrained from making the attempt.

The Henrik Ibsen had struck on a sunken reef. The excitement of the occasion, together with the generous good cheer, had had their effect on the crew, who had not paid much heed to their course, with the result that the vessel had taken her own, until brought up all standing by the unexpected obstacle.

The bow had run right on the shelf of rock, and things looked distinctly unpleasant, until Soren Braaten explained that "unfortunately" there was shallow water on all sides, when the company began to feel somewhat easier in their minds.

Cilia's head was treated with vinegar bandages, and Justice Heidt's nose bound up as if in sympathy with the damage inside. But the festive spirit among the shareholders generally was at a low ebb, and anyone taking advantage of the moment might have bought shares then at well below par.

Aha, there is a tug already, the Storegut; things looked brighter in a moment, perhaps they might get off at once. But then came the question, had she sprung a leak? No; sound as a bell. A proper sort of steamer this.

A hawser was passed from the tug, then full speed astern--Hurrah--she's moving! The Henrik Ibsen drew slowly off the reef and was soon clear once more. The passengers brightened up, and soon the steamer was on her way back to Strandvik, the tug standing by in case of need.

Nachmann's supply of champagne was inexhaustible, and Thor Smith got on his feet with another speech for "the splendid vessel which has stood the test so manfully to-day. The Henrik Ibsen was not built for picnic voyages over sunny seas; no, she had shown what she could do and borne it magnificently." Cheers for the Henrik Ibsen and general acclamation.

Then the whole company joined in the song:

"And what though I ran my ship aground,
It was grand to sail the seas!"

* * * * *

At last the Henrik Ibsen set out on a real voyage in earnest, and Soren Braaten was glad enough; he felt in need of rest after all he had been through.

He told Cilia, indeed, that he would rather go sailing in the Arctic than have it all to do over again. No, this steamship business was a trial.

Hardly had Soren settled down to his well-earned rest, when, only four days after the vessel had sailed, came a telegram from Hull announcing her arrival and awaiting orders. That meant wiring off at once to the brokers in Drammen and Christiania asking for freights. The telegraph, indeed, was kept so busy, that old Anders the messenger declared the wretched steamboat gave more work than anyone had a right to expect. Now and again, at weddings and suchlike, it was only natural to have a few extra telegrams going and coming; but, then, he would take them round in bundles at a time, and be handsomely treated into the bargain. Whereas this--why, he'd hardly as much as got back from delivering one wire to Soren Braaten, when a new one came in, and off he'd have to go again. And a man couldn't even stroll round with them at his ordinary pace; it was always "urgent" or "express," or something of the sort, that sent him hurrying off as if the wind were at his heels.

And as for being handsomely treated! It was a thankless task if ever there was one. When Anders appeared with his seventh wire in one day, Soren almost flew at him. "What, you there again with more of those infernal telegram things!"

Soren Braaten had had more telegrams the last fortnight than in all his life before; and, worst of all, they were so briefly worded, it took him all his time to make out the sense. If things went on at this rate he would very soon be wanting another cure at Sandefjord, and this time in earnest.

There was never any rest, this steamer of his flew about at such a rate; just when you thought she was in England she'd be somewhere down the Mediterranean or the Black Sea. Soren said as much to his old friend Skipper Sorensen, who answered: "Better be careful, lad, or she'll run so fast one day she'll run away with all your money." And Soren was anxious about that very thing, for the remittance seemed to him rather small in comparison with the length of voyage involved.

Soren found himself at last hopelessly at sea both as to charters and accounts, and confided to Cilia one day that he was going to throw up the whole thing; as far as he was concerned, "the wretched boat can manage itself."

Cilia thought over the matter seriously. Her first idea was to take over the chartering herself, but when Soren began talking about freight from Wolgast to Salonica, and Rouen to Montechristi, her geography failed her.

Fixing the old Apollo or Birkebeineren for voyages in the Baltic or the North Sea was easy enough. Cilia knew the name of every port from Pitea to Vlaardingen, from London to Kirkwall, but outside the English Channel she was lost.

The end of it was that Soren went in to Christiania and got a broker he knew there to take over the business, and glad he was to get rid of it. The week after, he went on board Birkebeineren, rigged her up, and sailed with a cargo of planks to Amsterdam. Even though he made little out of it beyond his keep, it was nicer than sitting at home in a state of eternal worry about the steamer.

"It pays better than the savings bank, anyway," said Cilia, when he grumbled.

"Maybe; but it's a wearisome business all the same, this steam chartering. And we've other things to think about but what pays best."

And off he went on board his own old-fashioned Birkebeineren.

[The end]
Anthon B. E. Nilsen's short story: "Henrik Ibsen"

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