By Hanns Heinz Ewers 1921
Translated by Joe E. Bandel 2008
Copyright 2008 by Joe E. Bandel
Protected under United States Copyright Law as a derivative work of a foreign Author originally published prior to 1923
He laughed bitterly. Neither of these were the Fatherland that the man from Todi had been thinking of when he called upon the Mother of God! The Fatherland that he had been thinking of was not his Todi that was even then sending 40,000 men of foot and on horseback against the neighboring city, Perugia, the capital city of the Province of Umbria.
These provinces and cities had been commanded to fight against each other for Pope and for King, most certainly not for Italy! In this battle of Pope, King, Kaiser, Province and Prince they were devouring each other! Italy was no country, it was just a mark on the map, a murderous ocean in which the big fish devoured the smaller ones!
The poor fool Jakob’s Fatherland was the quiet peace of the Holy Virgin’s glorified womb. And the other, the Hohenstaufen Kaiser Frederick, what was his Fatherland? This Christ and the Christian prophets that he sneered at as he did the Jews and the Arabs? This German that held court in Palermo, this Chancellor, this poet from Pisa, whose best friend was a Jew from Jaffa and who gave wise counsel to the Saracens, to the Muslims! No, that Kaiser laughed just as lightly over the hoax of Fatherland as he did over religion!
Fatherland? This ship was his Fatherland now! With its German officers and engineers, its Chinese stokers for the engine and its passengers, the circus people. They were an outcast folk of French, Flemish, Spanish, Basque and British solidly forged together and now shaking and howling under the lash of a yellow demon!
The day before yesterday the stable master died and so did the humpbacked stable hand. Last night near Panama it was the sword swallower. Who will feed the ocean today?
The mighty lion tamer was lying there in front of the lion’s cage. Near him was the flabby director. Blond Louison was crouched on the stairs. She was not playing, not laughing, just nervously plucking at the silver beads of her rosary. Not her, not the little Louison! Dear Virgin Mother, not little Louison!
* *
*
He headed back to his cabin, heard noises below deck, yells and excited voices. He went down, threw open the door to the officer’s mess. The noise was coming from the cabin boy, the ship’s officer and the engineer. They were laughing and drinking.
“Prosit! Doctor!” The third cried, handing him a glass of beer. “Long live Alexander von Kluck!”
“What the devil is going on?” Frank Braun asked.
The engineer was leaning over the table eagerly reading the papers that had been spread out on it.
“Brussel,” he cried. “Here too! They have Brussel! Now they will go after Antwerp! The Germans are winning doctor,” exulted the second. “They kept Liege, have taken Namur in Belgium and Lille in France! They besiege Maubeuge and beat the God damned English at Mons! They are marching on Paris!”
He ripped open a newspaper and held it in his face. Here, read for yourself! It tells everything, only it’s hidden somewhere on the sixteenth or seventeenth page. The headlines are a pack of lies. These American swine newspapers the English must have paid them to lie to the readers!
Frank Braun took the newspaper, “And the war with Serbia and Russia? The naval battle where nineteen German battleships were sunk? And-”
The little assistant paymaster pounded his fist on the table. “Lies! All stinking lies! The Germans are winning! Dear God, how is that even possible!”
He raised up another glass, “Drink doctor, drink. For the love of Germany, for the love of the Kaiser!”
Frank Braun decided and raised his glass, “For love of the Fatherland.”
They bellowed and exulted, “The Fatherland, our German Fatherland.”
“Cut out the articles and bring them to the Captain,” he said. Then he left.
* *
*
Strange that he, Frank Braun, had drunk to Germany and to the Kaiser! To the Fatherland. He was certainly not serious about it. But he had felt obliged because those fellows were so happy. How their eyes shone! How their hearts rejoiced and exulted! How it made them forget everything else, forget the yellow fever, the menacing death that clawed at them and hunted them down like lepers on the merciless ocean!
That was all they could think of, all they could feel, “The Germans are winning!”
It was true, the news made him happy too, but it was only a light tickle, some pleasant scribbles to scratch his itching soul. It didn’t grab him, didn’t thrill him like it did the others.
Excite? Him? “Oh, yes,” but only because this lighthearted rejoicing, this wild enthusiasm gave them all a break, something different, something common, something volcanic. That was a good thing, that alone.
It would really be good if he could be over there, able to see, to feel, to experience the powerful ocean of the German masses, things that he could only see here in the raised beer glass. The immense power of suggestion, this delirious belief, on a hundred million people. Oh yes, now that could move mountains! That would be truly great! That would be beautiful!
* *
*
None of the circus people died that day, but three coolies and a German sailor did. They called at Corinto, Nicaragua, and were turned away, they were chased out of La Libertad, Peru. It was the same at Salvador and San Jose in Guatemala.
Three more of the crew died, two Chinese and two Spanish stable hands. The red haired clown died and the old dancer. The third officer died too, the tall blond youth from Rostock. The Chinese refused to touch the bodies so the helmsman and the cooksmate took them. Three days later they were dead.
On deck, the cabin boy, Moses, died. Two hours later the director died. She had made up a will for Louison Gunster leaving it in the custody of the Captain. If the little one died everything should be given to the surviving members of the circus troop. Everything, the animals, the circus tent, the wardrobe, the boxes and crates and the little bit of money.
Her death was hard. She screamed and raved, fought so long, always calling out for a priest.
On the day she died an English cruiser stopped them, shot twice over their bow and commanded them to turn around and drop anchor. They lay there as the launch came alongside and an officer sprang up the steps.
“Where is the Captain?” He asked.
The Captain was standing right in front of him. “Here,” he said. “What do you want?”
“You are my prisoner!” said the Englishman. “You are coming aboard the Glasgow. I am taking command of your ship. Lower the German flag.”
“I can’t,” said the Captain. What about the other flag?”
“What?” Commanded the officer, “What? Are refusing my order to go back to my ship?”
“I refuse,” said the German.
The Englishman blew his whistle and six sailors immediately sprang up onboard from the launch.
“Seize him!” He commanded.
“Don’t touch me,” said the Captain “It will be much better for you.”
He spoke so quietly and calmly, so certainly and convincingly that they hesitated.
“We have Yellow Fever on board.” He waved around him. “Eighteen dead, both crew and passengers. Two corpses are still on board.”
He pointed with his hand to the yellow flag flying overhead, then signaled his first officer, “Bring the Gentleman the ship’s log.”
“It is all a hoax,” cried the Englishman. But he sent the boat back to the cruiser for the doctor. The first officer tried to give him the logbook but he waved it scornfully away.
“I can’t read German,” he said. “You could have written anything in there.”
The doctor came and they showed him the sacks the corpses were sewn into.
“Cut them open,” he commanded.
“Cut them open yourself,” the Captain came back at him.
The second grinned. The doctor waved an English sailor over. He opened it skillfully enough cutting through the seam and parting the canvas. The doctor bent over the ghastly remains that had once been the circus director. Then he went back and spoke lightly with his officer.
“Would you like to see the sick ones?” The Captain asked. “I have nine more, one or two may be dead by now.”
The doctor didn’t answer. The officer straightened his shoulders, turned back to the Captain.
“I will see what my Commander orders. In the meantime stay quietly right where you are. I will leave these six men to keep watch on you.”
He saluted lightly and turned to go back to the launch but the Captain stood in his way.
“Just a minute Sir,” he said. “Please take these six men back with you. Instead, let me sew my corpses back into the canvas and throw them overboard. Tell your Captain that I don’t care what command he gives.
After you get back on board I will wait exactly ten minutes, do you hear me! That gives you time to speak with your Commander, to give your report. Then I will steam away.”
The Englishman swallowed an oath. He spit over the railing, cleared his throat and said as quietly as possible.
“Be reasonable man! Our cannons will sink your tin can as soon as a mouthful of smoke comes out of your stack!”
The Captain did not back down.
“Explain that to your grandmother then. I have passengers on board, Spanish, Belgian, Hollanders and Frenchmen. Shoot then if you want to be a hero!”
The officer didn’t say any more. He signaled his crew to get back into the launch. You could see the sailors were glad to be leaving the fever ship.
The Thuringia waited until the ten minutes were up, then the Captain gave the order to steam ahead. He stood above on the bridge, beside the helmsman. He swung the bow around beautifully, just missing the English cruiser. Then he set off to the North.
The Glasgow fired once over their bow and then once more. Then a sharp shot high over the mast that splashed far away into the ocean.
The Thuringia answered with her flags. Three times they raised the Union Jack till it touched the German flag in greeting. They didn’t stop for a second but crawled slowly Northward at a snail’s pace. The Captain looked for a long time lovingly at his black, white and red flag that bore the iron cross.
The English cruiser veered away to the south. Its Commander knew all right, knew that the Thuringia was the Devil’s Kiss, a fever ship.
