The Wind from the West
By Emily Gregg
I nudged my beggar’s cup closer to the path as the group of soldiers sauntered by. I knew what they were thinking. A woman? Of fair hair and proper dress? Begging? I had observed the men of Stockholm for some time now and knew exactly the angle to lower my eyes and tilt my breasts in order to draw the attention of not one, but several. Though for some, it was not enough to distract them from their destination, the warship Vasa, who loomed over the city with her colorful figureheads and guns aplenty.
“I want to see the great ship Vasa. Please, oh please won’t you take me with you,” I called to them. It was not polite for a woman to beg for anything more than loose coin, but I was not looking for the kind of man who cared about keeping his women polite.
I was about to offer a scandalous smile when one of the men slowed. “What sort of mischief is this?” he said, doing everything in his power not to stoop to my level.
“Please, brave soldier.” I found the voice I knew he would expect. A voice he would be unashamed to have on his arm in public. “I must see the ship for myself. Not from the shore as everyone else, but from the deck. Take me to sail her maiden voyage. I have ways to pay you for the kindness.” I caressed the leather strap around his shoulder. He did not flinch away. I had certainly caught the right fish.
“Our king would not approve of unmarried women on board. Women are bad luck for seafaring."
I cared much for what this soldier thought of me, but little for King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. For he was not here.
And he was not my king.
“But today! Today the soldiers are allowed to bring their wives! I see you have no ring. I have brought two for the both of us.” I brandished two iron rings from my satchel. “I am certain no one will question a fine, trustworthy gentleman as yourself when you introduce me as your wife.”
The soldier looked around. Upon seeing that his fellow men were further along, almost to the water’s edge, he offered me his hand. I rubbed his palm with my thumb the way only a wife could. To a handsome man like him, it rarely mattered if he already had one.
“Yes, that is true,” he said, seduced by my gentle touch already. “It would be nice to have a hand to hold as we set sail, but you will be forced to leave the ship once we leave the harbor at Vaxholm.”
“Of course! I only want to experience its majesty.” The words were sour on my tongue.
“You must cover your hair,” he said, ripping his hand from mine. “I will not be seen with a wife who fails to follow custom.”
You would rather that than a Danish wife, I thought, amused. I pulled a bonnet out next, though it was not as luxurious as the ones atop the women I had seen in the square, in their finest cloths for the celebration of Swedish supremacy. Helvede, it ached to even have the thought as we slipped the rings on our fingers and turned toward the waterfront.
The rumors had leaked from Stockholm like the plague, all the way to my doorstep in Copenhagen. Sweden had built a ship mightier than any in the Baltic. Sixty-four cannons, the bulk made of solid bronze, and enough ammunition to sink a fleet of Danish ships. I had thought it surely an exaggeration, but as the Vasa came into view, I recognized my mistake. It was just as magnificent as the stories described, glinting in the sunlight of a bright, clear day. I envisioned the destruction of my countrymen. They would enjoy the beauty of the ornate, towering stern as they sank to their deaths.
Swedish might had never looked so…believable. I bit my tongue. There would be time later to organize my recollections and observations to King Christian IV’s advisors. Mad though he may be, he was my king. A sneaky thought weaseled its way into my mind. I shook it away with the accompanying gust of wind. I was here for information, not sabotage.
The ship creaked as it filled with soldiers and their families. I had little experience pretending to be married, so I mimicked the woman in front of me. Her husband never let her off his arm. Was it love, protection, or control? When we lined the great deck, I stepped in front of my soldier. His hands were already twined in the ties of my skirts.
“I want to see where you will work,” I whispered.
“Follow me.” I took his hand and let him lead me to a lower deck. Rows upon rows of cannons, stockpiles of artillery to outlast any ship by hours in battle. I counted. This was only the first of two gun decks. My skin crawled in what this meant for my navy, soon to be overpowered in the frigid abyss of the Baltic.
My attention was torn away for a moment as cheers erupted from the waterfront. A summer breeze caught the sails for the first time.
“I am so excited,” I cooed into the shoulder of my guide. He allowed me to gaze out the gun port, giving me a perfect view of the Stockholm harbor and all the vulnerabilities it held.
Light wind turned to gust, and the ship lurched. My yelp was real this time. Cannons rolled, crashing into the side walls and sending soldiers and families scurrying. A testament to Swedish ingenuity, or lack thereof. Any Dane would have known to tie them down.
“Just a bit of wind,” I heard my soldier call over the chaos. “She will right herself soon enough.” He was holding onto the edge of the gun port, more confidence in his face than his arms.
She did right herself, and I hated to say it, but I grabbed my soldiers arm in earnest. It took a few moments for the jovial spirit to return to the crowded deck. How would a Swedish woman of good birth be excepted to respond? I glanced around. Women prayed in their husbands’ arms, kneeling at the sides of the ship to bless the wood.
“The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in,” I said, giving my guide a reassuring nod. He seemed pleased. This was perhaps my easiest act of the day. Though I had never been earnest in my devotion, I played the part of a pious woman in Denmark, too.
Ten minutes passed without incident. My soldier was getting more touchy, fixing a strand of hair that had fallen from my bonnet. “Will you wait for me to return from sea?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said, knowing I had no intention to do such a thing.
As if detecting my lie, the ship caught another gust. Screams rose as the floor tilted. It was more severe than before. I lost my grip on the sailor and watched him topple into a pile of people against the far wall. I reached for him and dragged him up the slope with the arm that wasn’t clinging to the gun port frame. I would still need him by my side to be allowed to stay on board.
But we were tilting too violently. Water, and lots of it, rushed through the gun ports. My heart raced with panic. I would not die with the shore a short swim away, and in Swedish waters at that.
“My sweet, my dream, do not let go! I will save you!” the sailor cried. I tried to pull him toward me, but he seemed to be stuck on something.
Then I saw it. His leg crushed by a heavy bronze cannon. It would take five strong soldiers to lift it off him with the list of the ship as it was. And those soldiers were already in the midst of drowning beneath us.
I saw my window of opportunity closing, so I leaned in as close as I could. “It may be bad luck to bring a woman aboard, but it is treason to bring a Dane,” I said, and released my grip.
He was still yelling as I pulled myself up and out of the gun port. The water churned below, already full of bodies fighting to escape the quickly sinking ship. What I lacked in strength I made up for in skill and intellect. I could outswim a Swede on my worst day. I dove into the water.
Instead of racing for the shore, I stayed deep, out of sight for as long as possible. I unclipped my skirts to move more freely, revealing the pants I had hidden underneath. Surfacing at the last moment before my breath ran out, I pushed my body further, aiming for the first spot of land without a structure. Much easier to disappear into dense archipelago foliage than a village.
When I hit rock, I pulled myself out of the water and turned to look at the scene one last time. The steep bluffs were already lined with onlookers, watching the Vasa, Sweden’s pride and joy swallowed by dark, still water. She was just out of the harbor, a stone’s throw from land, drowned by a light breeze on a clear day.
I smiled at the wreckage, memorizing the sounds of the screams so that my king could relive the moment, and slipped into the trees toward Denmark.