The Sea Lion Page 7

  “Just reach out and grab them,” Willy said and leaned back in search of fresh air. “Easier said than done ...” He went through his female acquaintances. Amalie, the merchant’s daughter that he’d never plucked up the courage to talk to. Olga, who he hadn’t even had the guts to ask for a dance. And Raja, the forbidden fruit who was, unfortunately, married.

  Armel was just spouting nonsense!

  Willy shook his head, as did the twins.

  “Right ...” Armel winked at his young friends before looking across the room and shooting a smile at one of the waitresses. She smiled back. “That’s how it’s done. Easy as pie,” the worldly Frenchman continued. The woman spun around on her heels and headed straight for them, just like the obedient Joséphine.

  She stopped at their table. “How may I help you today, handsome?”

  The frisky Armel answered her question with a question. “How does mademoiselle Lotta feel about drinking champagne tonight?”

  Willy and the twins gaped at the Frenchman in disbelief.

  “Alright, then,” Lotta answered and sat down on the elderly charmer’s lap. He could easily be her grandfather. Willy shuddered at the sight of the young, beautiful woman sitting on the lap of the grey-haired first mate with bags under his faded eyes that must have been clear and lively once upon a time. His unruly stubble made his face look like a bramble, and his brown, decaying teeth didn’t do him any favours. The whole thing reminded Willy of Beauty and the Beast, a French fairy tale that Gustav had read to him as a child. The beautiful Lotta was sitting there—in her elegant dress with white puff sleeves and a low cut that exposed her perky breasts, dark hair arranged neatly on top of her head with a few loose ringlets to frame her face, red lips, and blush on her cheeks—with her slender arm around Armel’s broad back, pressing her breasts against his face. Disgusting!

  “Well, come on, monsieur Armel,” she said. She stood up and led him away while Willy and the twins watched, each of them as dumbfounded as the next.

  “What just happened?” Willy asked, throwing his hands up in confusion.

  A voice from the table of sailors next to them chimed in with an answer.

  “Lotta’s a working girl,” the man explained with a laugh. What’s that supposed to mean? The sailor could’ve called her a skirt, and Willy still wouldn’t have had any idea what he was talking about.

  “A harlot,” said another voice at the neighbouring table.

  “Ah, I see ...” Willy said. She was a sinful woman. The priest at Hvaler Church had told them about Rahab, the Harlot of Jericho who saved herself from ruin by harbouring the spies, or something like that. In any case, the biblical story of Rahab was one that Willy remembered. It was about Joshua and the Israelites who had fled from Egypt and wandered through the desert for 40 years until they reached the Promised Land of Israel. But it turned out that some people had built a town by the name of Jericho, and the walls that surrounded it somehow came tumbling down. The Israelites supposedly had God and Rahab to thank for that miracle. Still, the priest had referred to Rahab as the harlot, and the expression on his face had clearly indicated that she deserved to die. She was that wicked.

  “I take it this is your maiden voyage?” a third man asked.

  “That’s one way to put it. You wouldn’t happen to know any privateers, would you? We’re hoping to join a crew.”

  “Privateers? God, no. Are you insane?”

  “Insane? Well, no ...”

  “No offense, but you should forget all about that dream of becoming a privateer.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’re not from around here either, are you? Your dialect gives you away. That’ll make it even harder.”

  “No, but ...”

  “It is what it is. Go back home and things just might work out. You could go on to become a privateer, sure, but I’d find a proper job if I were you.”

  “Yeah, damn those privateers,” another sailor chimed in. “If we go on like this, it’s only a matter of time before the English reduce Kristiansand to ruins. We’ll end up like our brothers in Copenhagen. Just think about that, young man. Snap out of it!”

  A quarter of an hour later, Lotta emerged and grabbed Willy by the arm.

  “Please, come with me,” she said. Her voice was resigned, but the smile hadn’t faded from her cherry lips. I wonder if they taste like cherries, Willy thought as he stood up in confusion. The beer hit him once he reached his feet and he was a changed man. He wanted to kiss her as they walked along, arm in arm, but managed to control his urges, probably because the twins were right on their heels.

  “What have you done to Armel? Has something happened?”

  “That’s one way to put it. Something happened in that nothing happened.”

  “Huh?”

  “He who sleeps does not sin,” she laughed.

  “Aha, you were lying together. Not good.”

  They walked up a flight of stairs and entered an attic room where they found Armel stretched out on a bed, naked and fast asleep. Willy and the twins had to dress him, which proved a significant challenge. The Frenchman was limp and heavy like a butchered pig, but then Willy discovered something.

  “Where’s his pocketbook?”

  “His pocketbook? Are you telling me he doesn’t have it on him? In that case, it’s a mighty good thing we didn’t get around to doing anything...”

  “What, was he supposed to pay you? What kind of woman are you? Perhaps you’ve stolen his pocketbook as well?”

  “Oscar!”

  “Coming!” a baritone voice responded from out in the hallway. Shortly after, Oscar was standing in the doorway. He was a mountain of man.

  “Show these guys out, will you?”

  Oscar grabbed Armel, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him like a duffel bag. Then he pushed Willy and the twins in front and followed them back down the stairs. He threw Armel into the gutter, and the Frenchman landed on his stomach, scraping his face against the ground in the progress. The twins tried to get him back up on his legs, but his limbs refused to cooperate and they ended up having to carry him.

  Willy saw red and every last trace of reason evaporated. He didn’t consider for a second the fact that this giant could beat him to a pulp. The fact that Oscar was a muscular hulk of a man didn’t faze him. Willy was furious and he went straight in for the kill. It was David versus Goliath, the mouse versus the elephant. His brain switched off and let his body act on its impulses. All of Gustav’s training was finally put to good use. With a few, quick movements, he knocked the giant off his feet. Oscar fell backwards and hit the back of his head against the steps. Willy heard the slam of the impact and noticed the dazed look on Oscar’s face. Willy threw himself on top of his prey and began to punch him in the face. He hit him as hard as he could, until the giant was completely knocked out. All the same, he roared, “Look what you’ve done, dirt bag! That’ll be the last time, let me tell you that!” Just then, he heard someone shout a little further down the street.

  “Keep your hands off my pocketbook! Thieving scoundrel!”

  Willy looked up to see a mugging in full swing. A shabby-looking villain was threatening a gentleman with his knife. The gentleman was well-dressed, with a top hat and everything. He waved his walking stick in an attempt to keep the villain at a safe distance, but the thief continued brandishing his blade. It was life or death.

  “Oh, I’m coming to get you,” Willy shouted so loud, it echoed down the street.

  The gentleman and the villain jerked around and stopped dead in their tracks. Their eyes flitted between Willy and Oscar, who was out cold beneath him. That was all it took to make the thief sprint away as fast as his legs could carry him. The gentleman smiled.

  “Thank you for the assistance,” the noble man said and introduced himself. “My name is Atle Christensen.”

  They shook hands.

  “Willy Lauer,” Willy said and noticed that his hand was wet and tender. “No need to thank me, Atl
e. All I did was shout.” He looked down at his hand and registered the metallic smell of blood. Am I bleeding? He couldn’t see any open wounds on either his knuckles or his palm. Willy assumed the blood must be Oscar’s and pushed the thought aside.

  They looked at the unconscious giant. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and the thought of his own actions frightened Willy. He had never struck another person in his entire life; he had barely hurt a fly.

  Was this a bitter preview of the privateer life?

  “Oscar, of all people,” Atle Christensen said and shook his head. “The biggest fighter in all of Kristiansand, not to mention the leader of the worst gang in town. This means trouble for you, young man.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But I’ll do what I can to get you out of trouble.”

  “Excellent,” Willy said, realising that Atle’s hand was dripping. “Oof, you’re bleeding.”

  “Ah, I guess I am. The scoundrel must have caught my arm. We had better go find the doctor. It looks like your friend could use a bit of help, too.” Atle nodded in the direction of Armel, who was slumped between the twins, bloody and barely conscious.

  “Yes, please,” Odd said. “Armel’s in pretty bad shape, we have to do something.”

  “Doctor Hans Iver Horn lives right around the corner,” Atle said. “We’ll go there.”

  The group set into motion, and three minutes later, they knocked on the doctor’s door. It was around midnight, so it took a while before the door cracked open, revealing a perplexed face wearing a night cap.

  Doctor Horn held a lamp, which he lifted above his head to see who was at his door in the dead of night.

  “Bookkeeper Atle Christensen! What are you doing here at this hour?”

  “Pardon me, but I’m afraid we’ve been attacked. We’re in dire need of your expertise, my dear Horn. If you would be so kind.”

  “How horrible. Come inside, gentleman.”

  The men stepped inside. Doctor Horn was wearing a bathrobe and had clearly been fast asleep. He shepherded them into one of the dark side rooms. The whole house was dark, but Willy could tell that the doctor’s office was a large, impressive room. There was flowery wallpaper on the walls and the ceiling was adorned with stucco moulding and rosaries, from which a crystal chandelier was suspended. Other than that, the furniture was sparse. There was a chaise longue covered with a white sheet for patients to lie on, a china cabinet filled with medicine jars and various tools, and a desk with a chair in front of one of the tall windows that had their curtains drawn. It smelled like an apothecary.

  “Sister Lilly,” Horn shouted, and soon after, they heard footsteps in the hallway. A young woman in a bathrobe entered the room, with her hair down. “We have patients to tend to,” Horn continued. “Would you be so kind as to light the lamps?”

  Sister Lilly curtsied. “As you wish.”

  “Alright, gentlemen. Who do I tend to first?”

  Bookkeeper Atle Christensen gestured towards Armel.

  “Patch him up first. He’s far worse off.”

  “As you wish, gentlemen. You know, I’m not a general physician anymore...”

  The bookkeeper nodded. “I know, you’ve specialised in leprosy. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. That’s right, I’ve become a travelling doctor to assist lepers. You were lucky to catch me at home. I’m leaving for Akershus tomorrow.”

  Doctor Horn treated the Frenchman and the bookkeeper to the best of his ability, and by the end, they were both nicely patched up. The bookkeeper had a cut on his upper right arm that needed stitching, but that was nothing in comparison to the French first mate’s injuries. Armel had broken both arms and a couple of ribs, not to mention his nose, so he was put in a cast and bandages. He’d even knocked out some of his front teeth, but he clenched his jaw and tried to hide his pain as best he could. He tried to laugh it off, but his face was stiff and puffed. His eyes were nothing more than slits somewhere above his nose.

  “Mon Dieu. At least this saves me having to pull out my teeth,” the first mate said. He crossed his bandaged arms.

  Willy was depressed. It had all started out so well. Thanks to Armel’s generosity and well-meaning personality, he and the twins had learnt a bunch of useful things. All the same, things were looking bleak for the Frenchman, who was suddenly at risk of losing his job and, God forbid, ending up in a workhouse. Willy wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened. He’d take care of Armel until he was fully recovered.

  “Right,” Willy said, as they were leaving the office. “Looks like I’ll have to take over the first-mate responsibilities and put a pin in my dream of becoming a captain.”

  “Are we leaving Kristiansand?” the twins asked in disappointed unison.

  “You can do what you want, but I have to go back.”

  “Pardon me,” the bookkeeper said, “but were you thinking of staying?”

  “Yes,” Willy said. “We were hoping to become privateers, and I had my eyes set on becoming a captain.”

  “A captain?” The bookkeeper smiled pensively. “That shouldn’t be a problem, but I think the simplest way to get there is to acquire a boat of your own.”

  “A boat of my own,” Willy stroked his chin. “You might be onto something.”

  The bookkeeper patted Willy on the back.

  “Exactly. It doesn’t have to be a big boat, but you’ll need a letter of marque. I might be able to help you with that to repay the favour. I’ll pay for the treatment of your injured friend as well, as a thank you for saving me from the thief. Of course, I’ll make sure that you’re escorted back to the ship safe and sound tonight. You can never be too careful when it comes to Oscar and his gang. I think you’d do well to leave Kristiansand for a while. That goes for all of you.”

  “Thank you,” Willy said. “I’ll keep that in mind. If nothing else, I’ll settle for being a crewmember on a privateer vessel, of course.”

  “If that’s what you want, just come straight to me,” the bookkeeper said. “I’d be happy to introduce you to Thygeson.”

  Willy’s eyes shot open.

  “Thygeson? You know Thygeson? The man who defied the British?”

  Bookkeeper Atle Christensen flashed him a crooked smile. “Yes sir, that I do.”

  MOSS

  OCTOBER 26TH, 1807

  “Stay where you are!” The captain glared at Willy, acting as though the twins weren’t even there. As far as he was concerned, the brothers only existed when there was dock work or other menial tasks for them to do. But he had some respect for Willy—for whatever reason. Possibly because of his staunch and unafraid demeanour or maybe because he wanted to become captain. Above all else, it was most likely because he had beat the living daylights out of the biggest fighter in Kristiansand. Willy had become something of a hero onboard the Joséphine after that. The rest of the crew smiled and saluted him whenever their paths crossed his. Some of them had even started to measure their own strength against his. There was an ongoing competition to see who could lift the heaviest things, and Willy was near the top of the food chain. He could lift almost as much as the bulky Mons but when it came to wrestling, Willy was the undefeated champion. A lifetime of rowing and mending fishing nets had given the fisherman’s son a strong set of arms.

  “Sure thing,” Willy said, smiling confidently at the captain. “Good things come to those who wait.”

  “Whatever you say,” the captain hissed with a resentful expression on his face. “But the pleasure will probably be all mine, Mister Lauer. You can be sure of that.”

  “We’ll see,” Willy said, placing an encouraging hand on Armel’s shoulder. “Good luck, my friend. I’m sure it’ll all work out. Tell him that I can take over your duties as first mate until you’ve recovered, and that we can share the wages, so it won’t cost him extra.”

  “Thank you, Willy. I’ll put up a fight.”

  Willy clenched his fist and cocked his head. “Stay strong, Armel.
We’re rooting for you—right, boys?”

  “Of course,” the twins said in unison.

  “Joséphine is your ship, Armel,” Willy said. “Don’t let that guy keep you down.”

  Willy nodded at the captain, who was inclined to dismiss Armel. According to the captain, there had been too many episodes of this kind to overlook. Over the years, there had just been too much drunken trouble. This was the last straw and so the captain was prepared to kick the first mate to the curb. Willy had wanted to come in and defend the poor Frenchman, but the captain had refused the proposition.

  “Mon Dieu.” Armel made the sign of the cross as the captain opened the door to the shipowner’s house. The murmur of the waterfall and the din of the ironworks drowned out the sound of the rain pouring down from above.

  Willy and the twins retreated to an open shelter on the other side of the square, where they waited for Armel to return. They didn’t wait long.

  A mere 10 minutes later, Armel emerged from the building with a bowed head.

  They shouted and waved for him to join them.

  Armel made his way towards them with shuffling steps, as if he was carrying all the sin and torment of the world on his shoulders. His eyes were threatening to overflow with tears and his lower lip was vibrating.

  “Don’t cry,” Willy said. “It’ll all work out in the end. You’ll see.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Willy. It probably won’t—not for me. You and the twins are young and have your entire futures ahead of you. Not like me. Here I am, with broken arms and no Joséphine. An old drunkard... I might as well take my own life. Hand me your gun, s'il vous plaît. You’ll have it back in no time.”

  “Oh, but Armel,” Odd consoled the first mate. “Don’t say that. I’m sure Willy will find a solution.”

  “Yeah,” Jens said. “Willy will fix this, I’m sure of it!”

  FREDRIKSHALD

  OCTOBER 28TH, 1807

  “You’re too careless with your words,” Maxim said to Raja. They had been released from an interrogation by a commander at Fredriksten Fortress. The entire family had been present, but the others had gone ahead as soon as they’d been told the interrogation was over. They had to get back to their campsite, located in a cave in the mountains by the Tista River. It was in the direction of Tistedalen, not too far from the fortress. Maxim, however, had consciously taken his time so he’d get Raja alone.