Devotion(73)

‘What? More Englishmen?’ roared Gottfried Volkmann. The mood was euphoric.

The sheep were hoisted on deck by ropes, bleating in bewilderment, their legs dangling.

‘They’ve been sent for your refreshment,’ the captain explained. ‘You all made an excellent impression.’


That last night on board the ship stank of mutton fat. People talked until late in the evening, then fell asleep in their clothes, ready for disembarkation in the morning. Neat bags lay ready at the foot of each bunk, and without the usual bunting of drying washing and sheets and belongings, the tween deck looked forlorn and bare. Even the curtain separating the bow from the other quarters had been taken down.

As I sat cross-legged on Thea’s bunk, a vision of my body appeared in my mind’s eye. Hair suspended in the water like a dark aura. Bubble of air trapped in my eyelashes, fish peering into the whorl of my ear, canvas shroud torn and caught about my legs. Skin milking into nothingness.

I could feel salt stinging my gums as I lay down next to her. Water pearled down my neck, dripped into the blankets. I felt something under my tongue and pulled a fragment of abalone shell from my mouth. It glistened.

‘Don’t forget me,’ I said. And I slipped the shell into Thea’s mouth as she slept.


There was no wharf at the port. One after another, passengers threw their legs over the side of the Kristi and climbed down a rope ladder to where the sailors waited in a small boat, which then was rowed out until the water was waist-height. It was windy and hot – the oarsmen struggled to keep the boat in the channel. Once as close as possible to the firmer ground of the sandhills, the sailors and men climbed out, splashing through the shallows and mud of the marsh, trying not to drop their wives and children and luggage. I lifted my legs over the gunwale and perched on its edge, watching everyone leave in handfuls.

Visions of my body buried at sea kept me clinging to the rail. What would happen if I fell into the water? Would I be drawn back to those turning bones, whittled clean by wave and creatures sucking the flesh from them? How would I follow if I could not swim?

I felt myself tip towards the sea beneath. If I fall, do I disappear? Do I sight God? Do I remain?

There was a ruffle of suppressed laughter on deck and I looked up to see that Magdalena Radtke, who had just been rowed out with her family, was refusing to be carried at all. She had jumped into the water from the boat, skirt and blouse immediately soaking and heavy, pulling her down with every step. She waded to shore, kicking through the shallows, whipping her head behind her as if she could hear the remaining passengers chuckling at her expense. Everyone pretended not to see when she stumbled forwards onto her knees, drenching herself entirely. I watched her haul herself to her feet, wipe the mud off her hands on the shoulders of her jerkin and set off grimly once more.


My father insisted on placing all other families before his own; the sun was blaring in the west by the time he beckoned Mama and Matthias, Hermine sleeping in my brother’s arms. The ship’s arrivals were a dark mass on the sandhills in the distance. I imagined they were waiting for instruction as to where to go.

When Matthias and Mama were seated in the small boat, belongings at their feet, I left my place on the gunwale and approached the ladder hanging over the side. I peered over the edge and saw my father step carefully from the ladder into the boat, gripping the arm offered by one of the sailors.

‘That’s all then?’ the oarsman asked.

‘We are the last,’ my father replied. He turned to my mother, face beaming. ‘This is it, Johanne. Our life begins anew.’

Go, I thought. Hanne, you must go now. Quickly!

I felt the rope strain against the arches of my feet. Down, down, until the suck and slap of the sea was just below my heels. As I lifted my foot off the rung, shifting my weight for the drop into the boat, the sailor used his oar to push off from the side of the ship. I fell, scrambling at the rope as water rose up about me. Panic set in, hard and flailing, all thrashing fear, until I remembered that I had no need of air, that I could not drown.

The sea pulled me down and I let it. I opened my eyes, saw the silt stirring through the water, felt my feet sink into the softness of the sand and dirt and sediment. I opened my mouth and the water flowed in, warm and full of grit.

I know your taste, it said. I know the flavour of your bones.

I struggled to move. I did not know how to swim.

All things come to shore eventually, the water said, mouth accented with marsh. The shore is made of the dead. And it filled my throat and darkness took me.


I woke smelling swamp and mud and mangrove, hands filled with reeds. It was night. A strong wind was blowing and sand was stinging my skin. I was on the shoreline. Squinting through the darkness, I stumbled up over the rise of sandhills and saw a cluster of lights in the distance. I headed towards them, leaving the ocean pushing in hungry against the mudflats.

I had thought the lights might indicate a town, but as I grew closer I found only three houses abutting a lane of cracked earth, light escaping under doorways and through gaps in the walls. There were no windows. The snap of canvas behind me made me turn, and I saw a long row of tents on the other side of the track, sand hissing against them. There were no lamps – I wondered whether any could be lit in such a gale – but the moon was full and the wind high enough that any cloud was quickly blown over its surface. I counted thirty tents and crept past each until I heard familiar voices. I dropped to my knees and crawled inside, and found Friedrich, Thea and Anna Maria sitting together in the darkness. There was another family with them too, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw the sleeping forms of Augusta, the wet nurse from Klemzig, her husband Karl and baby Wilhelm. I crept into the farthest corner of the tent.