The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 49

us at the pumps. We beat up hard toward where Ascension should have been. A sharp squall picked us up, drove us southward. I was not yet a certain navigator, but good enough to tell Grandfather that unless I was backward, Ascension should be to the east when the weather broke. It was not, more fog and rain. We took a new tack, listened for a foghorn, watched for lights. I reworked my figures. It was twilight, and I was going topside to admit my miscalculations again, when, simultaneously, Wild Drumrul cried, “Land to port!” and we heard the screams.

Did we hear anything? Did we see anything? I must explain that I was assuming that we had missed Ascension during the night. I blamed the squall for driving us more south than I had been able to determine: our instruments were antique, and without the stars to resight (even with them, for the southern heavens were new to me and Grandfather), I was mostly guessing. When Wild Drumrul cried, “Land to port,” I quickly supposed that the land he sighted was not Ascension, was rather uninhabited volcanic formations, of the sort that poke up from the mid-Atlantic ridge, treacherous for uninformed sailors like us.

The screams dumbfounded us. The half-moon gave enough light to risk a pass close to the lee of the largest visible peak. Wild Drumrul cried again, this time a new surprise, “Light to port!” He identified the source as a ship at anchor a mile off the rocks. We scrambled to a new tack to take us toward the light. As we came about, there were more screams. We strained our eyes into the dark. We could make out a natural harbor, shaped by two hornstone ridges slanting down into the sea. In that cove appeared a heap of man-made things—boats, barges, rafts, frigates. The waves jammed them against each other, making snapping, thumping, squeaking sounds, some ripping open, some slipping underwater. We studied the ridges for signs of the crews and passengers. The rocks were barren of vegetation. There were no campfires. I called to Wild Drumrul that he must see signs of life. There were none. There were more screams.

“The wind, through the rocks, it’s possible,” said Israel.

“Speak your blind lies, Jew,” said Grandfather, ordering us to shorten sail.

“I can see them!” cried Gizur to Orri, pointing to the rocks.

There was nothing to see. That is accurate. Yet when I swung free of our foresail, I did see something. I asked Babe with a shrug. Though he was deaf, he nodded yes. I asked Little Dede Gone; he ran to his brother. I went back to Grandfather. Angel of Death caught the wind and listed. Cleopatra came up top with Lazarus. They were arguing. I turned to them as another scream startled us, a barrage of screams, a chorus in pain.

“What is it?” said Cleopatra, more to me than Lazarus.

“Port of the damned,” said Lazarus. He was angry. I understand now that he was jealous of me.

“You don’t believe that,” I said to Lazarus. “Those are just derelicts piled up here by the storms.”

“And you don’t believe that,” said Lazarus.

Orlando the Black swung down beside us. He looked stern. He spoke patiently. “I see three sharp ridges forming a peak. Ocean, and clouds over the moon. Flotsam and jetsam. That is all.”

Grandfather ordered us to stations; we came about one more time. Otter Ransom and Tall Troll readied for combat. We chose not to talk more of those screams, of those shapes and figures on those rocks, which none of us saw, which we only thought we saw, which we sensed. The ancient Norse held that an unburied corpse, especially if death was by misadventure or murder, can seek out the living, can walk and talk and scream, for retribution, for their regrets. Did we see the dead? We were exhausted, frightened, lost. It was the wind. We did see that lone ship’s light.

They said they were missionaries. Their ship was a badly dilapidated cargo bomb, nearly a century old, a wooden hull, four masts for sail, and aged diesel engines added at some point in a makeshift reconditioning. It was named The Free Gift of God, out of Luanda, which Lazarus told me was the capital of the People’s Republic of Angola. At our first pass, several of the missionaries appeared on the forecastle, robed, ebullient, and threw us greetings in English and Portuguese, holding up a crude wooden cross, calling “Hallelujah!” We chose to drop anchor off a small rock formation at a good distance from the freighter’s stern, wary of the tide and unseen rocky teeth. Once we had anchored, our cable out forty feet, the weather cleared enough for me to resight our position. I remember no special shock at my discovery that the land behind us was indeed Ascension Island, marked on my charts as populated by four hundred people.

“I never doubted it,” said Grandfather when I told him.

I did not go in the jolly with our lead party of Israel, Guy, and the Furores. The Furore brothers returned within the hour in dismal moods. Lazarus said the missionaries seemed Roman Catholic mendicants, a lay order, possibly a rogue order. They offered us assistance and what supplies they had. Lazarus also said they behaved strangely, as if none of what we were witnessing was out-of-the-ordinary. Lazarus said that Israel wanted me, Grandfather, Otter Ransom, Tall Troll, and Wild Drumrul to row over in Black Crane as soon as possible.

The Furores brought back with them two of the missionaries: a thin, old man of mixed blood, Father Hospital; and a nimble, middle-aged, very dark Negro, Father Novo Pedro. They spoke Portuguese, had some corrupt, plausible British-English, were dressed in heavy robes and skullcaps, and carried ornate crucifixes. The first thing they did was to announce they were ready to hear our confessions as a prelude to offering Holy Communion. Father Hospital asked me if anyone was in need of the