The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 56

daybreak, a baffling fog closed on us and we put to sea again, hearing very distant booms to the south that we hoped were thunderclaps. At twilight, the fog lifted enough for us to observe several cutters well to port, making for Port Stanley. We came about to the south, back into fogbanks. We passed where I put the southern shore of East Falkland at moonrising, and decided to risk one of the out islands. I chose Mead’s Kiss, on my chart several miles off the southern cliffs. I was anxious by then, because my charts were too general; I had become acutely aware that one of the chief things we needed for Tierra del Fuego was better sailing information. We circled the lee shore of Mead’s Kiss, fighting contrary winds and another squall. There were campfires at several places on the north shore, so I chose what seemed a deep cove on the southern shore, and at dawn, with an opening in the fog, I took the jolly and a party to reconnoiter. I found a dilapidated weather station and a stone-built sealer’s shack. At my signal, Grandfather brought Angel of Death into the cove. That morning, we ate our first meal on land in more than three months.

The first days we gave to reconnaissance, security, and rest. Mead’s Kiss was a four-mile-long triangle of treeless moors, penguin and seal rookeries, and battered cliffs. It seemed pastoral to us, more forgotten than desolate, a sense confused by the many sheep skeletons we found and by an unusual layer of black soot gathered in drifts in the rock crevasses. The campfires on the north shore of Mead’s Kiss were those of two large refugee parties. We avoided contact. When some of their number spied on us, we brandished our guns and showed our dogs and they scampered back to their part of the island. It is sad to suppose that they were more frightened of us than of their plight. Their ships were finished.

After establishing our defense, we worked at rehabilitating ourselves and Angel of Death. We fixed the sealer’s shack against the incessant wind and filthy rains. We fashioned a makeshift dry dock to get to the bow damage, removed the broken foremast to retop it by lashing on the mizzenmast pilfered from The Free Gift of God. At Gizur’s direction, we mended our sails; at Grandfather’s command, we reconditioned and cleaned Angel of Death.

Grandfather was blunt that we must leave before the storms that would begin in March. Within two weeks, we were set, except for two essentials: We were very short of fresh food; we had no information of conditions in the Strait. At a council, a reconnaissance to East Falkland was proposed, debated, voted upon in the affirmative. I was to lead the party. Grandfather dissented implacably. Grandfather had been unseated in his authority over us the moment we touched land, and knew it, and yet would not acknowledge it. He would not directly denounce Israel and Guy. He talked through me. He said that our fortnight on Mead’s Kiss was “Lord God’s grace,” and that we were fools to divide ourselves. He added, “They opposed me landing here. They oppose me when I want to leave. They are sheep! Like those bones there, they will not gather to their shepherd. I say damn them, damn all men who have eyes and ears and hearts but will not see and hear and turn to understand Lord God’s judgment on the sins of unbelievers!”

Israel and Guy scoffed at Grandfather’s advice; indeed, they seemed reinforced in their opinion by his prejudice against them. I was more upset by the quarrel than either side was. They were comfortable in their contempt for each other.

I recall that, soon after the council, I challenged Cleopatra with Grandfather’s declaration that we should not separate. I repeated it exactly. And why? I think that I wanted to engage her in order to test myself against her mind. I simply wanted to get her attention. And she shocked me. She was not unmoved by Grandfather’s warning. She spoke seriously of him and what she called “the Norse reach.” I felt proud. She had inadvertently used my way of thinking of myself. It was as if she admired my seamanship, more, for she seemed to evidence appreciation of my birthright. Cleopatra did not actually intend her remarks that way. She meant near opposite, adding, “You and he are crude, prototypical in some fashion new to me. You get what you want by pursuing ends without doubts. I’m curious if it is that you can’t recognize my world or I yours. How can you be certain like this? I have studied you. You don’t hesitate, or flinch, or reverse. You do this because you say it has to be done, then you do that. Do you think abstractly? Do you have an imagination? Are you happy or sad or afraid? Lazarus and I talk about what it could be you two have or know that makes you like those wolves of yours. Your dogs live in the shade of your existence. They would sleep on that fire for you because they believe in you completely. What do you believe in? Or is it that you are utterly primitive? That to crash through each experience is what you do, all you know to do, and I am irrelevantly imposing a pattern on you? Am I making the mistake of anthropology, presuming you have reasons when you only have reactions? Your Grandfather’s ‘Lord God’ seems to mean something to him. What? He’s no theologian. He’s a power. You’re a power. This fascinates me. If you wanted me, for no reason, because I was there to take, I doubt you could be stopped. Could you be? What would stop you? If we are sheep to you, to your Grandfather, does that make you the wolf? Who could your shepherd be? Do you know what I’m talking about? Mother says