When, in his old age, Orm used to tell of his years as a galley-slave, he still remembered all the positions that his fellow Vikings occupied in the ship, as well as those of most of the other slaves; and, as he told his story, he would take his listeners from oar to oar, describing what sort of man sat at each, and which among them died, and how others came to take their places, and which of them received the most whippings. He said that it was not difficult for him to remember these things, for in his dreams he often returned to the slave-ship, and saw the wealed backs straining before his eyes, and heard the men groaning with the terrible labour of their rowing, and, always, the feet of the overseer approaching behind him. His bed needed all the good craftsmanship that had gone into its making to keep it from splitting asunder as he would grip one of its beams to heave at the oar of his sleep; and he often said that there was no happiness in the world to compare with that of awakening from such a dream and finding it to be only a dream.
Three oars in front of Orm, also on the larboard side, sat Krok; and he was now a much changed man. Orm and the others knew that being a galley-slave fell harder on him than on the rest of them, because he was a man accustomed to command, and one who had always believed himself to be lucky. He was very silent, seldom replying when his neighbours addressed him; and although, with his great strength, he found no difficulty in doing the work required of him, he rowed always as though half asleep and deep in reflection on other matters. His stroke would gradually become slower, and his oar would fall out of time, and he would be savagely lashed by the overseer; but none of them ever heard him utter any cry as he received his punishment, or even mumble a curse. He would pull hard on his oar, and take up the stroke again; but his gaze would follow the overseer’s back thoughtfully as the latter moved forward, as a man watches a troublesome wasp that he cannot lay his hands on.
Krok shared his oar with a man called Gunne, who complained loudly of the many whippings he received on Krok’s account; but Krok paid little heed to his lamentations. At length, on one occasion, when the overseer had flogged them both cruelly and Gunne’s complaints were louder and his resentment greater than usual, Krok turned his eyes towards him, as though noticing his presence for the first time, and said; ‘Be patient, Gunne. You will not have to endure my company for much longer. I am a chieftain, and was not born to serve other men; but I have one task yet to accomplish, if only my luck will stretch sufficiently to allow me to do what I have to do.’
He said no more, and what task it was that he had to perform, Gunne could not wring from him.
Just in front of Orm there sat two men named Halle and Ogmund. They spoke often of the good days that they spent in the past, of the food and the ale and the fine girls at home in the north, and conjured up various fitting deaths for the overseer; but they could never think of a way to bring any of them about. Orm himself was seated with a dark-brown foreigner who, for some misdemeanour, had had his tongue cut out. He was a good oarsman, and seldom needed the whip, but Orm would have preferred to be next to one of his own countrymen, or at any rate somebody able to talk. The worst of it, as far as Orm was concerned, was that the tongueless man, though unable to talk, was able all the more to cough, and his cough was more frightful than any that Orm had ever heard; when he coughed, he became grey in the face and gulped like a landed fish, and altogether wore such a wretched and woebegone appearance that it seemed impossible that he could live much longer. This made Orm anxious concerning his own health. He did not prize the life of a galley-slave very highly, but he was unwilling to be carried off by a cough; the tongueless man’s performance made him certain in his mind of that. The more he reflected on the possibility of his dying like this, the more it dejected his spirits, and he wished that Toke had been seated nearer to him.
Toke was placed several oars behind Orm, so that they seldom had a chance to speak to one another, only, indeed, while they were being led ashore or back to the ship; for, in the slave-house, they were tethered together in groups of four in tiny cells, according to their places in the ship. Toke had, by now, regained something of his former humour, and could still manage to find something to laugh at, though he was usually at loggerheads with the man who shared his oar, whose name was Tume and who, in Toke’s view, did less than his share of the rowing and ate more than his share of the rations. Toke composed abusive lampoons, some about Tume and some about the overseer, and sang them as shanties while he rowed, so that Orm and the others could hear them.
Most of the time, however, he occupied his thoughts with trying to plan some method of escape. The first time that Orm and he had a chance to speak to each other, he whispered that he had a good plan almost worked out. All he needed was a small bit of iron. With this, he could prise open one of the links in his ankle-chain, one dark night, when the ship was in port and everybody except the watchmen would be asleep. Having done this, he would pass the iron on to the other Vikings, each of whom would quietly break his chain. When they had all freed themselves, they would throttle the watchmen in the dark, without making a noise, and steal their weapons; then, once ashore, they would be able to fend for themselves.
Orm said that this would be a fine idea, if only it were practicable; and he would be glad to lend a hand in throttling the guards, if they got that far, which he rather doubted. Where, though, could they find a suitable piece of iron, and how could naked men, who were always under close observation, manage to smuggle it aboard without being detected? Toke sighed, and admitted that these were difficulties that would require careful consideration; but he could not think of any better plan, and said they would merely have to bide their time until an opportunity should present itself.
He succeeded in having a surreptitious word with Krok, too, and told him of his plan; but Krok listened to him abstractedly, and showed little interest or enthusiasm.
Not long afterwards, the ship was put into dry dock in one of the Caliph’s shipyards to be scraped and pitched. Many of the slaves were detailed to assist with the work, chained in pairs; and the Northmen, who knew the ways of ships, were among these. Armed guards kept watch over them; and the overseer walked his rounds with his whip, to speed the work, two guards, armed with swords and bows, following him everywhere he went to protect him. Close to the ship, there stood a large cauldron full of simmering pitch, next to which was a barrel containing drinking water for the slaves.
Krok and Gunne were drinking from this barrel when one of the slaves approached supporting his oar-companion, who had lost his foothold while engaged in the work and had so injured his foot that he was unable to stand on it. He was lowered to the ground, and had begun to drink, when the overseer came up to see what was afoot. The injured man was lying on his side, groaning; whereupon, the overseer, thinking that the man was shamming, gave him a cut with his whip to bring him to his feet. The man, however, remained where he was, with everybody’s eyes fixed upon him.
Krok was standing a few paces behind them, on the far side of the barrel. He shifted towards them, dragging Gunne with him; and suddenly it seemed as though all his previous apathy had dropped away from him. When he was close enough, and saw that there was sufficient slack in the chain, he sprang forward, seized the overseer by the belt and the neck and lifted him above his head. The overseer cried out in terror, and the nearest of the guards turned and ran his sword through Krok’s body. Krok seemed not to feel the blow. Taking two sideward paces, he flung the overseer head downwards into the boiling pitch, as the other guard’s sword bit into his head. Krok tottered, but he kept his eyes fixed on what could be seen of the overseer. Then, he gave a laugh, and said: ‘Now my luck has turned again,’ and fell to the ground and died.
All the slaves raised a great shout of joy, to see the overseer meet such an end; but the gladness of the Vikings was mingled with grief, and in the months that followed they often recalled Krok’s deed and the last words that he had uttered. They all agreed that he had died in a manner befitting a chieftain; and they expressed the hope that the overseer had lived long enough in the cauldron to get a good feel of the pitch. Toke wrought a strophe in Krok’s honour, which ran thus:
‘Worse than the whip-lash burned
The whipper, when his head
Was drowned deep in the hot wash—
Tub of the sea-mare’s bows.
Krok, who, by cruel fate
Had slaved