Garman and Worse by Alexander Lange Kielland

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The company at Anders Begmand's had been busy that evening, especially
Tom Robson, and by the time it was about ten o'clock he was pretty well
tipsy. Woodlouse was no better; but Torpander kept as sober as usual,
looking towards the door every time he heard a noise. With the darkness
a fresh breeze began to blow up from the south-west, which swept over
the open ground above Sandsgaard and down on to the fjord. It made the
old cottage shake again when the wind came back in eddies from the hill
behind it, and Torpander got up every moment, thinking that the door was
opening, to the endless amusement of Mr. Robson.

Martin drank in silence, and looked even more gloomy than usual. The
whole winter he had been out of work. Tom Robson had lent him money, and
that made him even more morose, for he was proud after his own fashion,
and gratitude was not in his nature.

At last Marianne came. Torpander greeted her in his usual respectful
manner, to which she answered with a faint smile. She looked almost
ready to fall from weariness, as she passed hurriedly through the room.
"Hulloa!" cried Tom, who only saw her when she had reached the kitchen
door, "here comes my sweetheart! Marianne, my darling! the ship is ready
now, and Tom Robson has got some money. Let's have the wedding;
to-night, if you like! Come along!" cried he, struggling to get over the
bench.

Martin thrust him back. "Will you let my sister alone?"

"I suppose she is not good enough for an honest seaman, because of that
infernal young Gar----"

He did not get any farther, for Martin aimed a blow at him and struck
him behind the ear. Marianne hastily left the room. Torpander now threw
himself courageously on his ancient enemy from the other side, and a
frightful scuffle ensued.

Tom Robson put himself in position like an English boxer, drunk as he
was, and squared his arms and elbows for the fray.

At first he made a few feints at Martin, which were not meant to be
serious. But when he had received a few blows which were really painful,
he sprang away from the table so as to get more room. Torpander had not
the least idea of using his fists, but hammered away like a blacksmith
with his long skinny arms, either at Tom or else in the air, just as it
might happen. Mr. Robson gave him a tap every now and then which made
his bones rattle again, but on the whole he allowed the Swede to hammer
away at his back as much as he liked.

Woodlouse looked on for some time with the greatest satisfaction, until
the idea struck him that he would clear the room. He accomplished his
object with the greatest perseverance, and what with butting with his
head and pushing his heavy body between the combatants, he at length
managed to get the whole lot turned out of doors. Begmand threw their
hats after them, and shut the door.

The fresh wind had a cooling effect on them all, and on Woodlouse's
suggestion a truce was concluded. In order to ratify this, it was
arranged that they should go to Tom Robson's house, and have another
dram and a bit of English cheese.

They then clambered up the steep path at the back of Begmand's house,
Tom Robson leading, and as he was helping himself with his hands up the
steepest places, he chanced to get hold of a loose stone, which, in pure
drunken wantonness, he threw at Marianne's window, where he happened to
see a light. The stone struck with such force, just where the bars of
the window-frame crossed, that all the four panes were smashed, and the
glass came clattering down.

"That was Tom Robson!" yelled Martin, who was the last. "Let me get up
to him! Out of the way! Only let me get my hands on him!" and he worked
his way past the others, and got up to Tom, just as he had reached the
top of the slope where the flat meadow began.

Martin went at him with such violence that the other had not time to put
himself in position. Blow after blow rained down on him, until he fell
to the ground half stupefied. Martin threw himself upon him, put his
knees on his breast, and struck him in the face, and then continued
hitting and kicking at random until he could do so no longer.

The others now came up, but did not get between the combatants. Martin
was now perfectly wild, and went on in front, swinging his arms, cursing
and swearing horribly. Tom Robson came limping behind; but no sooner did
Martin catch sight of him, than he threw himself upon him a second time,
until he again lay apparently dead upon the meadow. They thus continued
their way over the field, but just as Martin was making a third attack
upon Tom, a tall, slender boy came springing over the field, and put
himself in front of Martin. It was Gabriel Garman.

"Will you leave him alone, Martin?" he cried, breathless from running.

"Oh!" cried Martin, "here is one of the bloodsuckers! You have just come
at the right time. I will wreak my vengeance on you, you infernal young
scoundrel!"

But just as he was on the point of attacking Gabriel his arms were
seized from behind.

"Are you mad, Martin? It's Gabriel, the Consul's son. You are out of
your senses, lad!" cried Woodlouse. Both he and the Swede threw
themselves upon Martin, and held him fast. Martin yelled and struggled,
until he at length fell back, wearied with his efforts, and lay still.

Tom Robson did not know much about what was going on, but managed,
however, to stumble up to his house, which was close by.

"You have no occasion to be afraid, Mr. Gabriel," said Woodlouse, in a
fawning tone; "we have got him tight."

"That is what you ought to have done before," answered Gabriel. "I
should have been able to look after myself."

He was so slight and slender that Martin could have crushed him, mad as
he was; but Woodlouse could not help saying, as he went down the slope,
"There is good blood in them."

Martin, whom they had now let go, raised his head. "Blood, do you say?
Yes, there's blood in them--the blood of the poor that they have sucked
from father to son. And all that blood have they turned to
gold--shining, blood-red gold; but," added he, mysteriously, "I will tap
the gold out of them--I will--till it shines as red as blood all over
Sandsgaard! Just wait a minute!" And off he rushed down the slope with
the activity of a deer. Woodlouse and the Swede looked at each other
meaningly, and each went his way without saying a word.

After the window had been broken, Marianne quickly put out the light.
She took her petticoat, and tried to stop up the window, but the wind
was blowing so hard that she could not manage to make it tight. She
shivered with the cold as she stood, and hurriedly got into bed. But
every time a blast came she felt the cold draught, and could not get
warm.

In the room below she heard her grandfather stumbling about, drinking up
what was left in the glasses. Marianne clasped her hands, and prayed
that she might die; but in the night she got up, and felt herself
throbbing with heat and shivering with fever. She thought she could hear
a tumult, and the sound of many voices.

CHAPTER XVII.

Mrs. Garman had already gone to bed after her long and tiring day.
Madeleine had also slipped out of the way, as she always tried to do
when Fanny came. Both Fanny and Morten were at Sandsgaard that evening.
The latter behaved to Madeleine just as before, and was so smiling and
kind that Madeleine had often to ask herself if she had not, after all,
been dreaming on that moonlight evening.

It was nearly eleven o'clock, and Gabriel had just returned from his
expedition to the field above the West End. He had heard a noise up
there when he had gone out to see how the wind was.

The Consul and Uncle Richard were playing chess. Morten, Fanny, and
Rachel were talking of to-morrow's ball, and they every now and then
addressed themselves to Miss Cordsen, who was sitting by the fireside
polishing the silver.

"It is a south wind, is it not, Gabriel?" said the Consul, as he
listened to the sough of the wind through the trees.

"South-west, and blowing fresh, father," answered Gabriel.

"Good!" said the Consul. "It won't do us any harm if only the wind
doesn't get round to the northward, because that drives the sea right in
on to the yard."

The ladies were getting up to say good night, and Morten was just
going to brew himself another glass of toddy, when excited voices
were heard below. Some one came hurriedly up the staircase, the door
opened, and in rushed Anders Begmand. His face was as white as it
could be for sweat and pitch, his stiff hair was standing on end,
while, hat in hand and with his eyes fixed on the young Consul, he
began--"The--the--the"--quicker and quicker. It was quite plain that
it was something of great importance, and his face grew as red as fire
with the effort. "The--the--the--"

"Sing, will you?" shouted the young Consul, stamping on the floor.

Begmand began singing to a merry little air, "A fire's broken out in the
pitch-house!"

At the same moment some one in the yard below shouted at the top of his
voice, "Fire! fire!"

Morten tore aside the blind, and the red glare could be seen on the dewy
panes. Every one sprang to the window.

"Silence!" cried the young Consul, while every one paused and looked at
him. The little man was standing as erect as an arrow, his eyes calm and
clear, and his lower jaw projecting as usual; and as if conscious that
he was the chief of the house, he said, "A fire has broken out in the
building-yard. You, Morten, go and get the two engines from the
warehouse. The keys are hanging in the men's bedroom. Take the
fire-buckets with you."

Morten dashed off.

"Dick, you must go up to the second floor in the same building. There's
a large sail there; put it in the sea, and stretch it over the roof of
the storehouse. You understand? The storehouse must be saved, or else--"

Uncle Richard was already out of the door with Anders Begmand.

"Gabriel! you run up to the farm! Gabriel!" cried the Consul. But there
was no Gabriel to be seen; he had already vanished through another door.

"Oh! what a wretched boy it is!" said the young Consul, in spite of
himself.

There was something uncanny about the black smoke, and the dark red
flame, which seemed every moment to get a surer foothold, and to gather
strength without a soul to oppose them. Gabriel noticed nothing: he saw
only the red glare on the ship, which loomed against the dark grey sky,
and off he ran like a madman over the field above the house. When he saw
the ship was in danger, Tom Robson was his first and only thought, and
he went straight into the house where he was so well known.

"Mr. Robson! Tom! Tom!" he shouted into the dark room, which smelt like
an old rum-cask. "She's on fire, Tom! The ship's on fire!"

He groped his way to the bed, and gave Mr. Robson a good shaking. The
landlady, a slatternly sailor's wife, now entered with a light. Only a
few minutes before, she had managed to get Tom undressed, somehow or
another.

"Oh no! can that be Mr. Gabriel?" said she, drawing her night-dress
closer to her. "Is it a fire? Mr. Robson!" she cried, and helped Gabriel
to shake him.

"What's the matter?" muttered he in English, turning round his face, all
bruised and bloody as he was.

"Oh no, no!" whined the woman, "how beastly drunk he is! Isn't it a
shame for such a fine fellow to make himself just like a pig? Tom! Tom!
Oh dear me, how tipsy he is!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Gabriel dashed the contents of the basin
in his face. Mr. Robson sputtered and blew, and raising himself on his
left arm, swung the right feebly over his head, and shouted, "Three
cheers for Morten Garman! Hip--hip---" But before he got to "Hurrah," he
fell back on his side and was snoring again. Gabriel left the room;
there was nothing to be done with Tom.

The wind was sweeping down over the meadow, and driving the thick smoke
from the pitch-house out over the fjord. All round the house it was as
light as day. Long tongues of flame were flying far away over the
fields, shedding their glare here and there on the front of a
whitewashed house, while up above on the level ground it was still dark,
under the shadow of the vessel. And now a glitter was seen, and a rumble
was heard in the direction of the town. The fire brigade was on its way.
And from the farmhouses which lay near, down over the fields, but
chiefly in the avenue leading from the town, people were to be seen
running, first singly, then two or three, then several together, until
the crowd in the avenue appeared like a close black mass, dotted here
and there with red-and-white specks. When Gabriel got down again to the
house he was at his wits' ends, and, leaning against the garden wall, he
sobbed aloud.

Some one came skirting along the wall; it was the schoolmaster, Aalbom.
He recognized Gabriel, and stopped. "Isn't it what I always said?" cried
he, triumphantly. "You are a regular Laban, standing here blubbering.
You might at any rate manage to lend a hand with the water, you lout!"

Gabriel sprang up, as if seized with a sudden inspiration, pushed the
master aside, and dashed down towards the building-yard.

"An ill-mannered cub," muttered Aalbom, as he continued his way to get a
good place from which to see the fire.

Rachel was naturally most anxious to make herself useful, but there was
nothing for her to do. She therefore stood on the steps in front of the
house, and watched the crowd streaming up from the town, while the fire
threw its ever-increasing glare down the highroad, which was now
thronged with people. Suddenly she heard a voice she recognized. "Out of
the way! Let the engines pass! Look out there--the engines! Out of the
way!" The crowd opened, and out of the throng came two rows of men,
dragging the red-painted fire-engine by a long rope. Jacob Worse was
running in front, shouting and giving his orders. He gave her a hurried
greeting as he passed, and away rumbled the engine towards the
ship-yard. It struck Rachel that his face was the only one that showed
any feeling of sympathy or sorrow; all the rest appeared indifferent,
and some showed, openly enough, that they thought the fire glorious
sport. Rachel turned away and went into the house.

All this time the young Consul was standing at the corner window, on the
north side of the small sitting-room. The pitch-house was now blazing
inside; the flames came bursting out of the door, and followed the line
of melted pitch which flowed along the ground. The thick wooden walls
were glowing with the heat, and he could see the people shrink back when
they got too near them. The wind was blowing so strongly, that it beat
down the smoke and shrouded the engines and spectators from his view,
but upon the roof of the storehouse he could see Uncle Richard, in
company with some other forms, working away with the wet sail. The
storehouse was only a few yards distant from the pitch-house, and was
thus so close under the stern of the ship that she was as good as lost,
if the fire once happened to catch the former building.

The Consul could see that they had got the sail drawn over the roof; but
at that instant the tiled roof of the pitch-house fell in, and the
flames suddenly shot high into the air, and were borne by the wind right
down on to the storehouse. The _attache_, and those that were with him,
had to get down from the roof on the other side as best they might.

A step was heard running up the stairs and through the passage.

"Father! father!" It was Morten, who dashed in breathless and dripping.
"Father, we must have some powder; the storehouse must be blown up!"

"Nonsense!" answered the Consul, drily. "Why, it is right under the very
stern of the ship."

"Well, I don't know," answered Morten, "but something must be done. I
don't see much good in those old fire-engines."

The young Consul drew himself up; he seemed to hear an echo of all the
disagreements there had been between them. It was the old story, the new
against the old, and he answered shortly and coldly--

"I am still the head of the firm. Go back and do your duty, as I
directed."

Morten turned and left the room with an air of defiance. The idea of
using powder had taken his fancy, although it was not his own. An
engineer had been standing behind Morten with his hands in his pockets,
after the manner of engineers, and had said, as engineers do say, "If I
had my way, I'm blest if I wouldn't do different to this."

"What would you do?" asked Morten.

"Powder!" answered the engineer, curtly, as engineers have a habit of
answering.

It was hard for Morten to give up his powder, and he muttered many ugly
oaths as he went down the staircase.

When the Consul again looked out of the window after Morten had gone, he
involuntarily seized the damask curtains tightly in his grasp, for the
change which had taken place in these few minutes was only too apparent.
The wet sail had already turned black, and in another minute was
beginning to shrivel; while the whole of one side of the storehouse
burst into a bright yellow flame, which came streaming down over the
roof, flashing amid the thick smoke, and long fiery tongues began to
lick underneath the vessel.

The Consul knew what there was in the building--tow, paint, oil, tar.
The ship was hopelessly lost; the good ship of which he was even more
proud than any one suspected.

After the first feeling of despair, he began to calculate in his head.
The loss was heavy, very heavy. The business would be crippled for a
long time, and the firm would receive an ugly blow.

And yet it was not this which seemed to crush the determined little man,
until it almost made his knees quiver. This ship was to him more than a
mere sum of money. It was a work he had undertaken in honour of "the
old" against "the new;" against the advice of his son, and with his
father always in his thoughts, under whose eye he almost seemed to be
working. And now all was thus to come to such an untimely end.

The large engine belonging to the town managed to reach up just so high
as to keep the ship's side wet as far as the gold stripe which
surrounded her; but in under the stern the water could not get properly
to work, and small points of flame soon began to break out, and the
Consul could now see that the fire had caught the stern-post.

The side of the ship which was towards the fire became so hot that the
steam rose from it every time the thin stream of water swept over it.
And now all at once a large part became covered with small sparkling
flames, just as if sheets of gold leaf had been thrown against it, which
crackled in the wind, and at last got fast hold in the oakum seams
between the planking. The hose played upon them and swept them away; in
another moment they were there again. They broke out in other places,
ever gaining ground, taking fast hold with their thousand tiny feet
until they got up to the gold band, and even beyond it; and see! the
flames now seemed to take a spring, and seize upon the name-board, and
the shining letters stood out amidst the flames. It could be read by
all. The Consul saw it. There it stood: _Morten W. Garman_. It was the
old Consul's name--his ship--and now what was its fate?

"Look at the young Consul; how pale he is!" said one of the spectators
to his neighbour.

"Where? Where is he? I don't see him."

"He was standing close by the corner window. He looked as pale as death.
I wonder if he was insured?"

But the young Consul lay stretched upon the floor, and had pulled down
the heavy damask curtains with him in his fall.

Miss Cordsen came into the room. When she saw the Consul, she pressed
her hand to her heart, but not a sound escaped her lips. For a moment
she stood collecting her thoughts, then she knelt down, freed the
curtain from his grasp, and lifted him in her long bony arms.

He was not heavy, and she managed to raise herself with her burden. At
this moment her glance fell on the mirror opposite. A shudder passed
through her, and it was with difficulty she kept herself from falling. A
whirlwind of recollections swept through her brain as he lay on her
shoulder; and she bore him along, an aged and withered man. But she
pressed her lips together, and drawing herself up, she carried him along
like a child; and, as all the doors were open, she was able to get as
far as the staircase. There she called to one of the maids, who came to
her assistance.

CHAPTER XVIII.

After Uncle Richard had been driven from the roof of the storehouse, and
could see that all hope was over, he went off to take his turn at the
engines. He worked at the pumps with all his-might and main, as if to
deaden his sorrow; but now and again he looked towards the house and
thought, "Poor Christian Frederick!"

Jacob Worse was directing the operations, and had had the planking,
which surrounded the building-yard on the side where the warehouses lay,
pulled down in order to get room for the engines. He managed to get some
order among the men who were handing the water, and drove the idle
spectators up into the yard near the house. As he happened to pass Uncle
Richard, the latter asked him, "Do you think there is any hope, Worse?"

"No!" answered Worse, in a low tone; "I am working in sheer
desperation."

"So am I," said the _attache_, with a nod; "but think of poor Christian
Frederick."

Just then a murmur went through the crowd, who could read the name of
the vessel--_Marten W. Garman._

"Why, that's the old Consul's name," said several voices.

Uncle Richard had already heard the name from his brother, and, looking
up, he saw the name of their father standing out in its gold letters
amidst the flames, which were curling up the vessel's side. Jacob Worse
seized the nozzle of the hose, and with one sweep forced the water to
such a height that the fire was quenched for the moment.

But now it was plain to all that the ship's fate was sealed, and even if
there were some among the spectators who might owe Garman and Worse a
grudge, still they could not but feel that it was a pity for the proud
ship to be thus doomed to destruction.

Morten had returned after his interview with his father, and was
standing close by Uncle Richard. Every eye was fixed on the ship. The
fire increased every second, and with a loud roar the flames burst out
above the roof of the storehouse, and at each blast of wind the
conflagration waxed higher and higher, until the heat by the engines
became almost intolerable. The more furiously the fire raged, the more
silent grew the crowd. No orders were heard, and the shouts of
encouragement from the seamen died away; while the strokes of the pump
no longer fell with the same determined regularity. Even Jacob Worse
lost heart.

But now a shout is heard from a small boy belonging to the West End, who
had climbed up into the rigging of a coaster which lay off one of the
warehouses. "She's giving way! She's off! Hurrah! She's off!"

A murmur of disapproval went through the crowd at this ill-timed joke.
But see! it almost seems as if the joke were a reality. The excitement
increases every moment, and with it are heard cries of hope and fear.
Yes!--no!--yes! she really is moving. She's off! The pumps are deserted
amidst breathless expectation, while the sound of voices waxes higher
and higher, not only in the yard itself, but among the crowd who
surround it, till it becomes a cheer, a joyous cry of hundreds; men,
women, boys, all shouting they know not what, till all is mingled in one
tumultuous roar.

For see! she's starting. The huge dark mass begins to move; and inch by
inch, with ever-increasing speed, the massive hull glides out through
the flames; her shining sides disappear foot by foot through the smoke;
the golden band flashes in the glare, and high as if in triumph does the
bow rear itself heavenwards, while the stern dives deep into the waves.
Then is heard a hissing and a crackling as if a hundred glowing irons
had been cast into the water, as the burning stern cleaves its way into
the billows, which come foaming up over the sides, and in under the
counter, while the tiny flames which were flickering along the seams are
quenched by the rush of air.

The wind, which got more power now that the ship was away, swept down on
to the still burning buildings, and, spreading out over the ground, hid
from view the vessel, which was gliding out into the harbour, by a
curtain of dark smoke fringed with flame; and in the midst of the place
where she had stood, which looked vast indeed now she was gone, stood a
little band of bent and tar-stained men, fanning their faces with their
caps. In the midst of the band was seen the form of a tall and slender
youth, his face glowing red in the light of the fire.

"Gabriel!" shouted Uncle Richard. "Gabriel!" was repeated by a hundred
voices. The _attache_ elbowed his way towards him, followed by some of
the crowd, who, however, stopped and formed a respectful ring round the
hero of the day. Uncle Richard gave Gabriel a hearty embrace, and then
turning round to the crowd he cried, "Three cheers for Gabriel Garman!
Hurrah!" He was about to wave his hat, when he discovered that he was
bareheaded.

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