The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 42

Grandfather than I could have denounced and turned from one of those wearying, mesmerizing, indefatigably brutal prophets of Judah who harassed, cursed, condemned, and finally saved their kinsmen from another period of the same sort of “darkness” Grandfather announced to me. Grandfather was mad, in the rational sense Israel meant. That must be established: Grandfather lacked reason. Yet there was grandeur and savvy in him. It should not be forgotten now, when the heat and rush of those times can seem as long ago as Noah’s flood, that those times called forth the extraordinary in creation, like a Leviathan. We aboard Angel of Death had my grandfather. I remember Israel joking to me once that if the world really was a stage, then there must be some big parts. Grandfather was a big part. For all his meanspiritedness, he was our deliverer. I learned to believe in him intrinsically. I learned to trust him as a foundation of my faith. I learned to worship him.

I thought hard on his warning, irrational as it seemed. What was Greenland to Grandfather? To the ancient Norse, it had been a desperate refuge, temporary, sad-minded, from which they had usually planned to return to action and retribution. And what of Grandfather’s talk of arks? If Sweden was an ark, were there other arks? And what of his “German wolf”?

There had been a cutter to starboard that afternoon. It might have been German. I had seen no threat. On reconsideration, it had seemed to be monitoring us as we slipped into the North Sea. Later that night, after my talk with Grandfather, we did hear thunder to the east. It might have been gunfire. The next evening, we sighted a group of large trawlers to the north, under power and in concert, suggestively belligerent. The following afternoon, we spied wreckage across a wide front, and passing south of it, thought we saw bloated animal corpses, dogs and cattle. Grandfather came to the railing at the sighting. I asked him what he saw now. Grandfather raised his voice so that Israel and Molly would hear, “There was a battle here.”

That evening, in our routine council, Grandfather tried to insert himself in our decision-making for the first time. He urged we change course, making for the Atlantic north of Scotland, what would have been a rugged sail that time of year, huge seas and ice floes. Israel was instantly opposed to Grandfather’s recommendation and said so gruffly, having me translate his English rather than himself addressing Grandfather in Swedish. It was an excessive display of disregard. This exchange is where I mark the beginning of the spiritual battle for control of Angel of Death, a contest in which I would find myself pawn, traitor, and bounty: yes, Grandfather was always in command of the ship, owner and captain; but for those first weeks out of Stockholm, Grandfather was not overlord of his passengers. And this pained him. He listened to my abridged version of Israel’s remarks, and then left the galley. I thought him frustrated; he was actually maneuvering, biding his time. The council’s resolution—approved by our ruling triumvirate of Israel, Guy, and Thord—was to continue to the English Channel.

A British patrol, two well-armed cutters, intercepted us at dawn. The lead ship sent automatic-weapon fire across our bow before hailing us. They made no attempt to communicate on ship-to-ship radio. I got topside hurriedly. I relieved Earle at the helm, sent the watch to trim us smartly. Orlando the Black was ready to uncover our fixed automatic weapon, and it was only the quickthinking intervention of Otter Ransom, screaming “No! No!” that saved us from an answering barrage. Otter Ransom had been appointed our weapons officer, and this had already caused disagreements with the Furore brothers, who had been obliged to surrender their firearms to the arsenal. Otter Ransom ordered Orlando the Black and Babe below decks, shouted into the hatch that the two convicts we had rescued with Father were to keep everyone out of sight. I note that those two convicts were not idly chosen for their part in the rescue, had once been some of Thord’s best smugglers, a Laplander named Skyeless and a grizzly little man whom Orri called Tall Troll.

Grandfather came on deck and took charge. We ran up our Swedish flag. Grandfather had Israel bring Molly and Cleopatra up to make us appear a pleasure craft; Guy came up without permission. The second cutter closed on us at high speed and sent a wake that listed us suddenly. Guy shook his fist. Grandfather said to stand easy. He then cupped his hands and boomed across that we were Swedish nationals, bound for the Americas. The lead cutter flashed a light across our length, pausing at the tarp covering our automatic weapon. A portly officer in a great blue coat appeared with a bullhorn and called across his name, rank, and ship’s nationality. He continued, in a tired way, and warned us not to attempt to land on British soil, including the Channel Islands, and that all British ports were closed to “unauthorized refugees.” Guy screamed out, “What’s authority, then?” Grandfather nodded in approval and then drowned out the sea with a condemnation of the officer’s birthright, his navy, his country, every man who would dare to support a policy that excluded him and his ship. Grandfather demanded to know what right the British Navy had to open fire on a Swedish ship in international waters.

The officer, apparently disgusted by his task, but the good seaman throughout, said one word: “Cholera.”

We lost the British when we left the Strait of Dover, but soon spied some French cutters to the southwest. We did not want to risk their accuracy across our bow, and kept far north of the Bay of the Seine while at the same time endeavoring to avoid more British patrols. Our task was grueling, given that we were also struggling with the wind and current from the west. It was