He picked himself up, however, without any serious damage, and as there was a momentary lull in the storm, he half rolled, half crept up toward the prow, where a couple of lanterns were swinging in the fore-royal stays. Nevertheless it was so dark that he could not discern an object ahead of him, and only groped his way along the bulwarks, until he stumbled upon a demoralized mass of rope which he knew to be the anchor-cable.
“Annibale!” he shouted at the top of his voice, “are you here?” But before he had time to receive a reply the ship plunged into a monstrous wave, which rose in a storm of spray and drenched the whole forecastle up to the mainmast. Truls, in his effort to keep his footing, tumbled forward and grabbed hold of something wet and hairy, which slid along with him for a couple of yards, and then was hauled back by some unseen force. The boy crawled along in the same direction and shouted once more, “Annibale! where are you?” And a voice close to his ear answered:
“Ah, Monsieur Truls, Garibaldi et moi, nous sommes à demi morts.”[11]
“Now, don’t jabber at me, Annibale,” Truls observed, making his voice heard above the wind; “but if you will come along with me, Alf and I will give you half of our berth; and Garibaldi can sleep at our feet.”
Whether Annibale understood the words or not, he could not fail to comprehend the friendly gestures which accompanied them. He eagerly seized Truls’ hand and they plunged bravely forward, but slipped on the wet deck, and the bear and the boys slid with great speed in the direction of the descent to the steerage. They were drenched to the skin and considerably bruised when, after several unsuccessful efforts, they seized the door-knob. Alf, as it turned out, feeling too ill to keep watch, had already preceded them to bed. Garibaldi, who seemed keenly conscious of his disgrace since the day he molested the purser, slunk along as meekly as possible, and only now and then shook his wet skin and coughed in a dispirited fashion. He was not as grateful, moreover, as might have been expected, when he was assigned his place on the straw at the foot of the berth, but gradually pushed himself upward until his nose nearly touched that of his master; whereupon he curled himself up comfortably and went to sleep. It was a very pretty sight to see the blond Norse boys and the swarthy Savoyard peacefully reposing on the same pillow, with the shaggy head of the bear between them, and the Savoyard half unconsciously clutching his pet in his embrace.
Toward morning the storm began to abate, and the dim light peeped in through the port-holes. The steerage was comparatively quiet. Fiddle-John arose and went on deck; a strange oppression had come over him. The dim, gray light, the all-enveloping dampness, and the incessant throbbing and clanking of the machinery wrought upon his sensitive soul, until he seemed in danger of going mad. The world seemed so vast and so empty! The waves heaved and wrestled in their gray monotony, until it made him dizzy to look at them. Merely to rid himself of this terrible oppression, Fiddle-John lifted up his voice and sang wildly against the wind; his beautiful tenor seemed to cut through the fog like a bright sword and to flash and ring under the sky. His soul expanded with his voice; the sun broke forth from the clouds, and he felt once more free and happy. He scarcely knew how long he sang; but when by chance he turned about, he saw to his surprise that a crowd of well-dressed cabin passengers had gathered about him. His three children stood holding one another’s hands, looking in astonishment at the fine ladies shivering in fur-trimmed cloaks, and wondered why their father was attracting so much attention.
“Charming!” “Wonderful!” “Magnificent!” exclaimed the fine people, when Fiddle-John had stopped singing; and a portly American gentleman, with gray side-whiskers, who seemed more enthusiastic than the rest, gave him a slap on his shoulder, and said that if he himself were ten years younger, he would undertake to make a fortune out of Fiddle-John, which, of course, was a very generous offer on his part. Jens Skoug, the emigration agent, translated the remark; and as the American seemed to have more to say to Fiddle-John, offered his services as interpreter.
“What is your trade?” asked the gentleman.
“I sing and play,” said Fiddle-John.
“But I mean, how do you make your living?” repeated his questioner.