Tim Severin - Sworn Brother

This was when the original failure of her construction began to tell. A deep-sea merchant ship, properly built to our favoured Norse design, would have had a neat stern, so she rose effortlessly to the following waves, as a sea-kindly gull sits on the water. But 'The Clog's broad, ugly stern was too ungainly. She did not lift with the waves, but instead squatted down awkwardly and presented a bluff barrier to the force of the sea. And the sea responded in anger. Wave after wave broke violently against that clumsy stern. We felt each impact shake the length of the little vessel. And the crest of every wave came rearing up and toppled onto the deck, washing forward and then cascading into the open hold. Even the least experienced seafarer would have seen the danger: if our vessel took on too much water, she would either founder from the added weight or the swirl of the water in the hold would make her dangerously unstable. Then she would simply roll over and die, taking all of us with her.

Without being told, our crew - myself included — bailed frantically, trying to return the sea water to where it belonged. It was back-breaking, endless labour. We were using wooden buckets, and they had to be hoisted up from the bilge by one man to a helper on deck, who then crossed to the lee rail, emptied the bucket over the side, lurched his way back across the heaving and slippery deck, and lowered back the bucket down to the man working in the bilge. It became a never-ending, desperate cycle as more and more water came gushing in over 'The Clog's' ill-begotten stern. Our skipper did what he could to help. He steered the ship to each wave, trying to avoid the direct impact on the stern, and he ordered the now-useless mainsail to be rigged as a breakwater to divert the crests that leaped aboard. But the respite was only temporary. After a day of unremitting bailing, we could feel 'The Clog' beginning to lose the battle. Hour by hour she became more sluggish, and the man who stood in the bilge to bail was now up to his thighs in water. The previous day he had been able to see his knees. Our ship was slowly settling into her grave.

All the time, as we struggled to save the ship, Grettir lay on deck like a dead man, his face turned to the bulwark, soaked to the skin and ignoring us. It was difficult to credit his behaviour. At first I thought he was one of those unfortunates who are so seasick that all feeling leaves them and they become like the living dead, unable to stir whatever the emergency. But not Grettir. From time to time I saw him turn over to ease his bones on the hard deck. I found his attitude inexplicable and wondered if he was so fatalistic that he had decided to meet calmly whatever death the Norns had decreed him.

But I had mistaken my friend. On the fourth morning of our voyage, after we had passed an awful night, bailing constantly until we were so exhausted that we could scarcely stand, Grettir suddenly sat up and stretched his arms. He glanced over to where we were standing, our eyes red-rimmed with tiredness, muscles aching. There was no mistaking our expressions of dislike as we saw him finally take an interest in our plight. He did not say a word, but got up and walked over to the edge of the open hatch leading to the hold and jumped down. Silendy Grettir held out his hand to the man who was standing there, crotch deep in the water. He took the bailing bucket from him, waved him away, then scooped up a bucket full of water and passed it up to the sailor who had been emptying the bucket over the rail. Grettir made the lift look effortless even though he had to reach above his head. When the bucket was empty, it was handed back and Grettir repeated his action so smoothly and quickly that the full bucket was back on deck level before the startled sailor was ready to receive it. He staggered across the pitching deck and emptied its contents over the side, while my friend stood in the bilge and waited his return. Now Grettir caught my eye and gestured towards a second bucket lashed with its lanyard to the mast step. I saw immediately what he meant, so fetched the bucket and passed it down to him. He filled that bucket, too, and handed it back up to me so I could dump the water over the rail. Back and forth we went, the sailor and I, emptying our buckets as fast as the two of us could cross the deck while Grettir stayed below and went on scooping and filling our loads. When I was too tired to continue, I handed my bucket to a second sailor, as did my workmate. Grettir did not break his rhythm. Nor did he falter when the second pair of helpers had to rest, but kept on filling bucket after bucket with water from the bilge.

He kept up his amazing feat for eight hours, with only a short break after every five hundredth bucket. None of us would have believed such stamina was possible. He was tireless and kept pace with the crew as they worked in relays. The men who had glared and complained about his indolence, now looked at him in awe. Inspired, they found an endurance of their own and worked, turn and turn about, to win the race against the water level in the bilge. Without Grettir, they and their ship would be lost and they knew it. For my part, I knew that Grettir was saving my life for a second time and that I owed him my unswerving friendship.

'The Clog' nearly overshot Iceland altogether as she ran before that tyrannical east wind. When the gale finally eased, our shaken skipper managed to edge his ship into the lee of the land off the Hvit River and we found that, by 'The Clog's' lumbering standards, we had made a record passage. Our sailors went ashore boasting about their prowess, though their greatest applause was reserved for Grettir. He was the hero of the hour. The skipper went so far as to hand him back half our passage money and announced that Grettir was welcome to stay on board as long as he wished. After such a shockingly desperate voyage the skipper vowed that he would keep 'The Clog' safely at anchor until the proper sailing season.

'Why don't you take up his offer, at least for a day or two?' I suggested to Grettir. 'You stay on board. It will give me a chance to go ashore and find out what sort of a reception you may get when people learn that you have returned before completing your three-year exile.'

'Thorgils, you know very well that I don't care what people will do and say. I'm planning to go to see my mother, Gerdis, to bring her news about Thorstein, and find out how the rest of my family is getting on. I left two brothers here in Iceland when I went away, and I fear that I abandoned them just when they needed me most. We were in the middle of a feud with neighbours and there was talk of bloodshed and reprisals. I want to know how that quarrel turned out. If it is unresolved, then perhaps there's something I can do. So I'll find a good, swift horse to carry me across country to our family home.'

'Look, Grettir,' I told him. 'I spent some time in this district when I was a lad and I know the leading chieftain — Snorri Godi. Let me get his opinion about whether there is any way you can get the final part of your sentence waived.'

'It will be a wonder if Snorri Godi is still alive. He must be an old man now,' said Grettir. 'I know his reputation as a shrewd lawgiver. So he's not likely to approve of someone flouting the rules of outlawry.'

'Snorri always treated me fairly,' I answered. 'Maybe he'll agree to act as an intermediary if you offer to pay compensation to the family of the man killed in the quarrel over the bag of food. It wouldn't cost very much because you've already served most of the sentence.'

But when I put that suggestion to Snorri Godi two days later, his response came as a body blow. He said quietly, 'So you haven't heard the Althing's decision?'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

I had travelled a day's journey to Snorri's substantial farmhouse, and the farm looked even more prosperous than I remembered it. Snorri himself now had a head of snow-white hair, but his eyes were as I remembered them — grey and watchful.