I could hear sea water sluicing the floor. It sounded like the tween deck was flooded and, as the ship fell in another sickening plunge, I heard the water rushing around us, heard the clattering of knives and plates, heard boxes breaking their fastenings, and all of it tipping from berths and nooks and keeping places and sliding across the floor.
‘Our Father who art in Heaven . . .’ The words were throttled by Christiana’s rapid breathing. Children were screaming. I was aware, at the periphery of my fear, of Mutter Scheck calling for calm. Of my own father’s voice deep in steerage calling for someone to ‘light the damn lamp’. I was aware of my body shaking, of my eyes blindly searching the darkness, looking for something by which I might anchor myself. Where was my bunk? Where was Thea?
Christiana gripped my arm. ‘Thy kingdom come . . .’
‘Thea!’ My voice broke over her name. I tried again, but my throat was barbed and I could not call out. Christiana’s nails dug into the crook of my elbow.
A dim light entered the bow. The curtain had been pulled from its rope, and I could see into steerage, where Samuel Radtke gripped the trestle table, one hand closing the safety lamp, its flame rekindled. Water washed about his legs.
‘Papa!’
My father was gripping the stairs of the hatchway, beard and hair wet through from the water falling from the upper deck, calling to someone above. Samuel Radtke made his way to him, falling as the ship plunged, then pulling himself back to his feet. Together they were shouting, but I could not hear what they were saying above the roar of the ocean outside and the crashing of water and loose articles upon the floor.
There was a loud crack from without and Christiana screamed and scrabbled at me like the drowning. ‘We are being wrecked!’
‘I think it was thunder.’
Turning, I saw Anna Maria lying next to Thea, one arm holding her daughter, the other braced against the post of the berth. They were both silent.
Christiana shook me. ‘What are they doing?’
I turned and saw that our fathers were standing on the stairs, helping to haul something over the hatchway, assisting the sailors as they nailed down the battens.
Soon the water falling into the tween deck was reduced to a steady dripping, and while the ship was still rolling at terrifying angles, people stopped screaming as they had done when the deck had been in total darkness. The safety lamp was a comfort, even if it showed just how acute the keel of the waves.
Papa approached the bow and nodded to Mutter Scheck, who remained in her berth, quite white, gripping the planks above her head.
‘Are you all right?’ he called to me, steadying himself as the ship coursed down another wave.
I nodded. My voice had gone.
‘It’s a squall,’ he shouted. ‘Just a bad squall. It has taken everyone by surprise, that’s all. The scuppers are not draining the ship of all the water.’
It was such a relief to see him after so many weeks of separation, I could not help the tears that sprang to my eyes. I needed to be close to him. When the ship eased upwards, I threw off Christiana and staggered to where he stood. He caught me with his free arm.
‘Do you have faith in our mighty God above?’ he asked, holding me firm around the shoulders.
I could feel his strength, the warmth of him behind his drenched clothing.
‘Hanne, listen to me.’ He looked into my face. ‘Do you have faith?’
‘Yes, Papa, but –’
‘Only those who have forsaken their faith need be afraid.’ Papa wedged himself against the side of the ship for balance and brought his hand to my cheek. ‘Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten in God’s sight.’ He was talking quickly, breathlessly. ‘But even the hairs of your head are all counted. Do not be afraid. You are of more value than many sparrows.
‘Hanne, go back to your bunk and pray, and know that He who sees all has His eye upon you.’ And with that he waited until the ship had righted itself and then pushed me back into the gloom of the bow.
The squall lasted all night and continued into the next day. By morning, the air between decks had grown so close I felt light-headed. I lay as still as I was able on Ottilie’s bunk, letting my body roll with the movement of the ship, keeping my eyes focused on Thea. I could hear her laboured breathing even over the sound of the elders arguing behind the curtain. My father and Christian Pasche were adamant the hatches remain closed to prevent damage to the stores. Samuel Radtke was afraid the sick would suffocate.
Spare her, I thought. Spare her.
I imagined Thea’s lungs, willed them full. Held my breath to take in less air so that she might breathe a little more.
I wondered where Anna Maria had put her book.
Hours passed. It was hell. My vision became starred with creeping darkness, heart pounding through my body so that I felt my flesh pulse with the echoing beat of it, the ricochet of blood. I soon became insensitive to anything other than my struggle to breathe. The heat was a hand over my mouth. We would all die. We would all be smothered. We would drown in air or water.
I was vaguely aware of the captain’s voice and the answering cry, ‘Have the hatches opened again or we will all suffocate!’ before slipping into unconsciousness. My last sight was Thea, white candle-flame in the darkness.
Water from the storm ruined nine sacks of bread. I know this, because it is the last thing I remember clearly before the warp of illness upon my memory.
Mutter Scheck stands at the foot of my berth with a brush. She tells me the storm has ruined some of the supplies. Nine sacks of ship biscuit have turned in the humidity, and it is the captain’s orders that passengers go above deck to scrub them of mould so that they might yet be eaten.
I tell her I will rise, or I think I tell her. I am unsure if I have spoken; my mouth is so dry I cannot properly swallow. There is a fist about my throat. I see Mutter look at me, then drop the brush and place a hand on my head.
Her hand is cool, deliciously cool, and when she removes it, I hear myself whimper for the loss of such soothing.
She fetches water. I drink, and feel it come up again, whiskey water, turned water. My pillow is wet. I turn my cheek into it to cool the fire in my skin, to halt the thrumming pulse in my temple.
Mutter leaves. I feel the weight of the brush against my foot.
Nine sacks of bread, I think. Bread of life. Water of life. Flesh and blood, all turned, all ruined.
I remember other things, too, but I cannot know if they happened.
I remember being lifted from my mattress and carried. I remember the pressure of hands under my body and the discomfort of that. It must have happened. I remember opening my eyes and seeing Thea beside me. They must have moved one or both of us. I know we were placed together. A sick ward? Were there others? I remember only her eyes and the ocean in them and the flare of love I felt knowing she was still there, still alive, still with me.