Devotion, page 23
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.
‘Mama, you’re scaring me,’ Thea was saying.
‘Anna Maria, we do not have that option. Our livelihood is tied with our congregation. It is the only means we might be assured of land. Of credit.’
‘Shh,’ whispered Anna Maria. She jerked her head around, eyes searching the darkness.
‘If they go to the pastor –’
‘What was that?’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Augusta, is that you?’
‘Mama, Augusta is asleep.’ Thea sounded tired.
‘Someone has come in.’
‘It’s the wind. This place is a desert.’ Friedrich’s voice, low and soft.
‘No . . .’ Anna Maria lifted herself up onto her knees and peered in my direction. ‘I saw something come in.’
‘Liebling, it’s late. We’re all exhausted.’
‘Maybe it was an animal.’
I could see the whites of Friedrich’s eyes as he rummaged tentatively amongst the canvas bags, the opened trunk. ‘There’s nothing, Anna Maria.’
Anna Maria did not say anything, but I could hear her breathing, feel her eyes searching the dark. ‘Lord protect us,’ she whispered. ‘I saw something.’
‘It’s me, Hanne.’ My voice sounded strange. ‘You don’t need to be afraid.’
‘You have it safe, don’t you, Thea? You packed it.’
Thea’s voice was tense. ‘It’s swaddled in a sheet. In the bag.’
Friedrich placed a steadying hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘Come now, get some sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.’
Thea and her father settled themselves, their breathing deepening into sleep within minutes, but for hours into the night the Wend lay awake, eyes searching the corner of the tent where I sat.
While on the Kristi I had heard one of the sailors refer to the harbour as Port Misery, and when I left the Eichenwalds sleeping the next morning and stepped out into bald daylight, I understood why. Stagnant waters lurked around mudflats that varied from mire to grey banks scorched and cracked from a hard sun. The tide had deserted the place, and I could see the Kristi stranded in low water some distance away, the trickle creeping in from the river at the harbour mouth doing little to alleviate the reek of its stagnancy.
It was already very warm. At the sound of a cough I looked across the lane to see Elder Fröhlich relieving himself against the trunk of a small, harassed tree. He was sweating hard, rivulets running down his neck and his shirt damp at his back. Passengers were emerging from the squalid little canvas tents, looking about for a place to wash or fuel to cook with. I saw Mama duck out a few tents down, holding Hermine on her hip, her ship’s mug in hand. Papa followed her.
‘The remainder of the surplus provisions ought to be here by afternoon,’ Papa was saying to Matthias, who stepped out behind him. ‘We must see to it that they are equally distributed. Remember, the doctor gave some families more rations than others. We must see all is made equal and right.’
‘Did he keep a list?’
‘Who knows? We shall speak to everyone. Learn who received their full allocations of fish and bacon.’
‘People may lie.’
‘Then the sin is on them.’
I followed as Matthias and Papa walked down the dunes, feet sinking into the sand. ‘Captain Olsen said we might expect Pastor Flügel today. He sent for him at Holdfast Bay. Praise God! He will be able to tell us more.’ Papa paused at the edge of the marsh, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the flats, then bent down, scooped a handful of water to rinse his mouth, and spat. ‘Has anyone found fresh water here?’
‘There is none,’ Matthias said. ‘Apparently it is all brought by bullock from the river in the town.’
‘Adelheid.’ Papa scooped another handful of water and washed his face with both hands. He stood a moment, beard dripping. ‘Go see if the water barrels were brought ashore yesterday, Matthias. People will be thirsty. They will want to wash the journey from them. Especially once they learn that we may be reunited with our pastor.’
The congregation immediately found new zeal and energy at the news of Flügel’s expected arrival. I watched as women scrubbed their faces in the filmy waters at the edge of the mud, and Daniel’s scissors were passed amongst the men so that beards might be trimmed, nose hairs and runaway eyebrows tidied.
As soon as the travelling party was sighted coming from the Adelaide road, the passengers gathered together in the sun and, swatting the flies from their open mouths, sang one of Pastor Flügel’s favourite hymns, ‘Nun danket alle Gott’. I sat in the shade cast by the shanty houses opposite the tents and watched the pastor arrive like Jesus into Jerusalem. Even though I felt brittle and bitter, believing myself to be deserted by the God they were all thanking, I could not help but marvel at the reunion. The last time the congregation had sung with Flügel, the church in Kay had still had its bell and Gottlob had been alive. Now here they were, on the other side of the world, sweating into their heavy clothes under a sky so wide and blue it seemed to devour the earth.
The elders helped Flügel off his horse and there was a great cheer as his boots touched the ground. Flügel lifted his arms up in praise and invited everyone to pray. ‘The Lord is great, His mercies have no bounds. Blessed be His holy name!’
The pastor bore evidence of his persecution. I remembered him as stout, but now he was thin, his face lined and whiskers greying. The ridge of his prominent nose was peeling badly, and when he removed his hat to pray I saw that his forehead, too, had become mottled with sun. In life I had always been a little afraid of the pastor, awed by his power. I had not liked to look him in the eye, and I had never spoken to him beyond a few murmurs of assent, even when he had schooled me for confirmation. But dead, and no longer under the weight of his religiosity, I could regard him as a man rather than as Christ’s authority on earth. I had never noticed the hair sprouting out of the pastor’s ears before, or the purple hollows in the corners of his eyes. His hair was fine and thin and he had a loose neck which wobbled as he spoke, out of time with his words, so that he reminded me of a beady-eyed rooster, wattle jiggling.
Flügel placed his hat back on his head as the congregation murmured, ‘Amen,’ the broad smile on his face showing a missing incisor. ‘There is much to talk about,’ he said, shaking hands with the men and nodding at their wives and children. ‘Let us spend the day in conference. Let us rejoice at our freedoms and praise His name for so swiftly delivering you to this paradise!’
As soon as Flügel intimated he would speak with each elder from his congregations first, Magdalena pushed her husband in the small of the back, mouth close to his ear. Samuel glanced at her, uneasy. I followed him as he approached the pastor.
‘Elder Radtke.’ Pastor Flügel gestured to a grey-green tree, the same one I had watched Elder Fröhlich piss under that morning. ‘Shall we sit? The English call this particular tree a she-oak. There isn’t a great deal of shade, but we might hope for a breeze.’
As soon as they had made themselves comfortable and prayed together, Samuel gave his account of the journey. He spoke of Elizabeth’s death, his fear for her soul on account of her christening performed at home, and seemed greatly relieved when Flügel, voice gentle, assured him that Elizabeth was with Christ, in glory.
A little distance away, Magdalena was staring intently at her husband. The pastor noticed. ‘Would Frau Radtke like to join us?’ he asked.
Samuel shook his head then, changing his mind, called for Magdalena. She made her way over, lips stretched over her teeth, face going red. ‘Pastor Flügel. We are overjoyed to see you in such good health.’
‘Your husband says you have something you wish to discuss.’
Samuel was staring at the ground, boot toe nudging the sand. Magdalena shot him a look of irritation. ‘I don’t mean to burden you so soon after our arrival here, Pastor,’ she began, eyes flicking back to Flügel, ‘but something quite grave, quite concerning, occurred on the journey.’ The pastor waited for her to continue, hands on his knees. ‘I have reason to believe that a member of our congregation has a book of the occult.’
Pastor Flügel frowned.
‘There were some incidents on the ship.’ She cleared her throat. ‘A paper seal bearing occult symbols was found on the body of a man who perished. I have reason to believe that the seal was placed there by the same person who, against the direction of the ship’s surgeon, practised herbalism upon the sick. The same person whom Christiana witnessed pressing a book of the devil on the chest of her dying daughter. The daughter in question was expected to die.’ Magdalena glanced across the port to where Anna Maria and Thea were dragging a branch along the ground. ‘She made an unusual recovery,’ she murmured.
The pastor followed the direction of Magdalena’s gaze, hand lifted against the sun. ‘You know who this person is?’
‘Her, there,’ Magdalena said. ‘Anna Maria Eichenwald.’
Pastor Flügel nodded. ‘I have not met this woman.’
‘She is a Wend,’ Magdalena elaborated.
‘Married to a German, Friedrich – a good man,’ Samuel added, eyes still lowered.
‘And have you confronted his wife?’ the pastor asked. ‘Where is the book now?’
Magdalena hesitated. ‘I don’t know where it is. I presume she’s hidden it.’
Pastor Flügel bit his upper lip. ‘I will speak to her.’ He shook Samuel’s hand again. ‘Thank you for telling me. Now is the time that we must work to preserve the purity and sanctity of our faith, as we build our community and lay its moral foundations.’
I remained by Flügel’s side that afternoon, as he spoke with the head of each family and listened to their concerns and questions. It was hot and unpleasant, but Flügel did not complain nor ask for respite from his congregation, and as much as the reverence shown him troubled me, I saw that his faith and conviction gave them comfort.
Flügel prayed over the passengers who still suffered from scurvy and reassured those who were afraid of the great sum of money owed to Angas, the English benefactor. Several families came to him with new, unanticipated concerns: some had not realised that the land was inhabited by ‘Eingeborene’ and, having spent the morning speaking with the occupants of the shanty houses and the sailors, were now afraid of being speared.
‘We see much of them at Neu Klemzig,’ said the pastor, speaking of the village he had founded. ‘The English call them Cowandilla, though they themselves do not use that name. You will see them, but you have little to fear. The greatest threat to our way of life are those who live in a profligate manner. I do not like that Neu Klemzig is so close to Adelaide. I worry for the young amongst us, that they should be so close to places of drunkenness and gambling.’
I knew that my father was anxious to speak to Flügel. He did not let the pastor out of his sight all afternoon, and I imagined that he wanted to learn as much as he could about Neu Klemzig. Papa was a farmer, after all: if he had any earthly appetite in his body, it was lust for good, friable soil. I was surprised, then, when Papa sat beside Flügel in the pitiful shade and spoke not of Neu Klemzig, but of me.
‘Pastor, I ask for forgiveness. I hope you will pray for me.’
‘What is it, Heinrich?’
Papa turned his hat in his hands. ‘My daughter Hanne – Johanne – died on the journey here.’
‘I am sorry.’
I crept closer until I was kneeling by his side. Tears were flowing from my father’s good eye. He wiped them from his face. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Your grief is understandable.’
‘I know that our Lord is just. But there is such . . . anger. There is such anger in my heart.’
‘This is the second child you have lost?’
At this my father broke down and I felt my own chest crack open. ‘Papa,’ I said. ‘Papa!’ I wrapped my arms around him.
‘Great afflictions are great instruments, Heinrich. They open the hidden treasures of God’s mercies.’
My father nodded, weeping still.
Flügel placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. ‘I shall pray for your daughter.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I snapped. I wanted to bite him on the knuckle. ‘I’m right here.’
‘Thank you,’ Papa said.
‘How is Frau Nussbaum?’
‘She is well, thank you.’
‘And Matthias?’
‘Healthy, thanks be to God.’
Pastor Flügel squeezed Papa’s shoulder. ‘How old is he now?’
‘Seventeen. A man.’
Flügel glanced over to where Matthias sat next to Hans, both laughing at the cat as she chased the flowering head of a reed they were dragging along the ground.
‘There is a great need for labour here,’ Flügel said. ‘When we arrived, we were swamped with visitors looking for workmen, farmhands. No doubt Matthias will be invited to go out to the stations. You too, I suspect. Women will be invited to leave and work as servants. Now, I understand that all of you are anxious to repay your debts and avoid further interest, and Matthias, I am sure, will be eager to do his part. But it is my sore hope and prayer that we do not give in to fear of poverty and disband. We cannot disperse. Do not let our young men be tempted by such offers – we cannot know anything of the character of employers, cannot be assured they will permit our people to worship and rest on Sundays. There will be work and opportunity enough when we settle.’
‘At Neu Klemzig? Is there land enough there for us?’
I saw the pastor hesitate briefly before he nodded. My father noticed it also.
‘I have spoken to the captain,’ Papa ventured. He looked uncomfortable, was still wiping his cheeks with the heel of his hand. ‘He has advised us to go there and form our own opinion of the land.’
‘Yes, go, form your own judgement, Heinrich. But remember, we have all emigrated for the sake of our faith.’
My father smiled. ‘Faith. Yes. But, as the captain said, “God has given us bodies as well as souls.” He is concerned that the settlement at Neu Klemzig will expose us to hunger and worry.’
Pastor Flügel looked over to where the captain stood, conferring with his first mate. ‘It is the land provided to us by Herr Angas. I have secured a loan of twelve hundred sterling so that we at Neu Klemzig might buy cattle.’
‘With interest.’
Flügel smiled. ‘Ten per cent. “Render unto Caesar . . .”’
‘But cattle must be fed. The earth must be able to produce something for us.’ Papa lowered his voice. ‘The land is not good. Pastor Flügel, we know. We have been warned not to go there. How might we live as an independent community, if we are unable to pay our debts? If we are unable to feed ourselves? Would it not be better for those at Neu Klemzig to remain there, and for us who have come on the Kristi to form our own village? We would remain your congregation. You could move between several congregations, several communities. As it was in the old country?’
‘As I said, Heinrich, you are welcome to assess the land in question and form your own opinion.’ Flügel reached for my father’s hand, shaking it firmly. ‘I remember your daughter. I shall pray that the Lord eases your suffering.’ He pulled my father in closer. ‘“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.”’
‘Thank you, Pastor.’
A greasy-fingered light was setting across the mudflats when Pastor Flügel approached Anna Maria. She and Thea were cooking rice over an open fire in the sand behind the tents. They looked up at the sight of the pastor squeezing between the canvas walls.
‘Good evening,’ he said. He gestured to their fire. ‘May I sit?’
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Pastor Flügel,’ Anna Maria said, dipping her head. ‘The congregation of Kay have been exceptionally kind to us.’
