The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (34 page)

What about our merchandise? says Bjerg. And the firearms?

I think we should be grateful for being allowed to leave at all, don't you agree?

They enter the boat and are shoved away from the shore. They glide out into the bay, seat themselves on opposite thwarts and begin to row. A fresh breeze comes down from the ridge and blows them gently away through the ford. With two of the oars and part of their tent skin, they organize a makeshift sail that is useful as long as the wind is behind them. They row until darkness begins to fall, then pull the boat ashore, turn it upside down and sleep beneath it. They loosen the ropes around Didrik's wrists and take turns to keep watch on him. But he shows no signs of wishing to escape. When they row on the next day, he is at one of the oars. He watches Bjerg from the corner of his eye, as though expecting him to leap on him again at any moment, notwithstanding that he no longer seems to be angry with him. They survive on berries and mussels and a bird shot by Bjerg. It begins to snow. A wind comes in from the north; a strong, icy wind that causes waves to break and the boat to heave and pitch. But at the same time it pushes them onward at speed. In increasingly tempestuous winds and showers of sleet and rain, frozen to the bone, exhausted, hungry and coughing convulsively, they reach the colony three days later.

Kragstedt laughs when he sees them. You almost frightened the life out of us, the state you're in, he says. We were beginning to think you'd joined the prophets.

Four of us did, says Falck. This movement is greater than us, Kragstedt. How is your wife?

My dear wife is not quite well, the Trader replies. She has been on the decline since the spring. I think she is soon prepared to submit herself to the Magister's medical skills.

The constable delivers the prisoner to the Trader and briefs him on what has occurred.

We shall carry out proceedings against him in my parlour, the day after tomorrow at two o'clock, says Kragstedt. He turns to the smith. Hammer, take the prisoner to the blubber house. And keep watch on him.

Bjerg is overcome by intense feelings of release on retiring to the crew's quarters and flopping down on his bunk. He sleeps for fourteen hours, though his sense of humiliation and loss is unrelieved.

Rasmus Bjerg at the Trader's long table, two days later. The blood sausage is fat; the cabbage soup thick and rich; the steam billows from the tureen each time the lid is lifted. The missionary Falck is seated at his right, next after him Dorph the cooper. Opposite is the smith Niels Hammer, then the Overseer Dahl, the cook, and Madame Kragstedt. The carpenter is absent. The Trader himself sits at the head. Outside it is raining; the wind whistles in the chimney. Grey daylight seeps into the parlour. They eat in silence.

Falck has provided what for all parties involved is a considerate report of their journey and events at the settlement of the prophets. Kragstedt clicks his tongue in dismay and regret. He is infuriated at their leaving merchandise there without receiving payment. And now it is too late in the year to sail and enter the ford again, regardless of the fact that it would hardly serve any purpose. We must await the next ship, he says, and then we shall rid them of their faithlessness with gunpowder and grapeshot.

I hereby volunteer to take part in the punishment, says Bjerg. I feel in no small part responsible for the failure of our mission.

Heard, says Kragstedt. Note is taken.

Violence is hardly likely to lead anywhere, Falck points out. It will merely instil in them an even greater sense of community. Moreover, they are well armed.

Indeed, we've been very obliging on that count, says Kragstedt with a glare in his direction. But as far as I can see, prayers and preaching have failed to achieve the desired result.

Falck does not reply.

The Overseer speaks. I know these people, they're terrified of losing face; it's a fate worse than death for them. If we restore the whipping post and announce that it is intended for Habakuk and his woman once we get hold of them, it will surely have some considerable deterrent effect.

That's a good idea, says Hammer. I'll forge the shackles and make it ready.

All right, says Kragstedt. Our prisoner in the blubber house might fittingly inaugurate it.

May I point out, Trader Kragstedt, says Falck, that the man has not yet enjoyed his right to a fair and decent trial?

You may. But he will have one to enjoy, as the Magister puts it, in just a moment.

Very well, says Falck. I should like to represent him as his defence.

Out of the question, says Kragstedt. The Magister is himself a party in the matter.

We are all parties in the matter, Falck protests. All of us have suffered in one way or another as a result of our failure, either personally or financially.

The accused is guilty by his own confession, Kragstedt interrupts. The only issue to be addressed is the punishment.

I must protest, says Falck. This is disgraceful!

Shut up, Magister!

Bjerg stifles a nervous snigger. The smith and the cook grin smugly and hang their heads. The Overseer prods at his food. The cooper looks ill at ease and moves crumbs about on the table.

Falck rises with a scraping of his chair. I refuse to be part of such a mockery, he says. I shall compile a comprehensive report on what occurred and whichever authority it may concern will then have to pass judgement.

That's your entitlement, says Kragstedt. We can hope the letter will arrive in, let's see, just over a year's time. Or perhaps you were thinking of approaching your old friend Inspector Rømer and asking for his help in the matter? I'm sure he remembers the Magister from the time he paid a visit on him down at Godthåb and wrote reports on him.

Falck looks for a moment at the Trader, who spoons his soup imper­turbably. Then he turns on his heels and marches to the door. Madame Kragstedt emits a strange whimper. She jumps to her feet and darts out into the hall. Bjerg hears them speak in hushed voices. Kragstedt's fingers drum on the table. The Madame returns. She seats herself. Kragstedt places a hand of comfort on her arm, only for her to pull away. The men sit bent over their soup. Kragstedt glares furiously at Bjerg, who instantly lowers his gaze.

Gentlemen, says Kragstedt. An unpleasant task has fallen upon us and I suggest we make short shrift of it.

Heard, mutter the smith and the cook in unison.

We have a confession, the Trader continues. Is that not correct, Hammer?

Indeed, says the smith with a grin. A full confession.

And what is the wording of that confession?

The smith produces a document, which he reads aloud in a toneless voice.
I, Didrik, a hunter, do hereby declare that on this past Sunday, the twentieth of September, I did assault a king's officer, one Rasmus Bjerg, constable of the Sukkertoppen trading station, with the intent of causing him bodily harm and thereby preventing him from carrying out an order of the king.

Is the confession signed? The Trader takes the document from the smith's hand and studies it.

Signed in his full name, Mr Kragstedt.

Was he shown the document, and were its contents explained to him before he signed?

Yes, Mr Kragstedt. The man speaks Danish well. He acted as interpreter on the trip into the district.

Excellent, excellent indeed. We shall now proceed to fixing the punish­ment. I suggest twenty lashes and a stand at the whipping post of three days and nights. The gentlemen will now by turn state whether they agree or wish the punishment either reduced or increased. The Trader looks around the table. Is that understood? The men nod.

Overseer Dahl?

I have no objections to the suggested sentence, says the Overseer.

Hammer?

The same here.

Constable Bjerg?

Who is to mete out the punishment? he asks.

Usually the smith has the pleasure, says Kragstedt. Perhaps you wish to relieve him of the duty?

If the Trader permits.

Very well. The exercise will do you good, I'm sure, Kragstedt says with a laugh.

Thank you, says Bjerg. He feels his heart pound.

Karlsen? Kragstedt turns to the cook. Do you have any objections to the sentence?

I suggest the punishment be reduced to ten lashes and a stand of two days at the post, says the cook.

On what grounds, Karlsen?

The weather, says the cook. It's getting cold. Tonight it will snow. Three days and nights would be the same as death, and the man is hardly likely to learn his lesson if he pops his clogs.

All right, says Kragstedt. Your objection is noted and seems indeed reasonable. Let us then say twenty lashes and a stand of two days and nights at the whipping post. Any protests?

The men say nothing. Madame Kragstedt holds a handkerchief to her face. Her shoulders tremble. Bjerg cannot help but look at her. What ­ever can be the matter with the lady? One ought not to allow women to be present in cases concerning corporal punishment, they are far too nervously disposed to hear of such matters. The Madame gets to her feet and disappears through the door into her chamber.

Proceedings are concluded, Kragstedt declares. Pass round the sweet wine. There will be pudding.

Bjerg and the smith decide to construct a new whipping post that will be visible from afar. The constable helps Hammer drag a heavy beam of oak from the warehouse and holds it steady while he drives an iron wedge with an eye into it. To this eye they attach ropes of a suitable thick­ness. The chains and the irons he will forge later, says Hammer. For the moment this will suffice. They dig a hole in the ground, one shovel deep, until they strike the rock. They erect the post and pile up stones to support it.

A fine flagpole, says the smith and laughs. Now all we need is to hoist the flag.

They fetch the prisoner from the blubber house, where he is sitting cross-legged, staring into space. When they grasp him under the arms, he gets to his feet voluntarily and offers no resistance as they lead him to the whipping post. Bjerg smells strong fumes of alcohol on the man's breath. The priest must have stupefied him. They tie him to the post and leave him out in the rain. A while later an audience of natives has gath­ered on the rocks behind the colony house. They stare at the prisoner with empty expressions. He moans softly and protractedly. It sounds like he is crying.

Kragstedt comes. He is in uniform, with his sabre and tricorne hat. He looks satisfied, happy almost. The Madame is not with him. He approaches the prisoner and studies him at length. The man coughs, a hollow rattle, his arms are raised and his head hangs down.

More people come. The Overseer, the catechist, the cooper, even the ailing carpenter has left his sickbed to witness the punishment. The pris­oner begins to sing. Bjerg listens to the words; he sings in Danish.
My Heart Always Wanders
. One of Brorson's carols, he recalls, and a strange feeling passes over him. How often he heard it sung in the church at home in Horsens.

Constable Bjerg, says Kragstedt firmly, fixing his eyes on him. Perform your duty!

The smith shows him how to tear off the shirt of the prisoner so as to expose his back. He grips the linen and rips it apart. It makes a loud searing noise. Great drops of rain splash against the man's bare skin. He continues to sing, unabated.

Bertel Jensen, says Kragstedt to the catechist. Since our pastor has elected not to participate, perhaps he would be so kind as to say the Lord's Prayer.

The catechist steps up and obediently positions himself before Didrik with his head bowed. He rattles off the prayer, then returns to his place next to his wife. The prisoner now sings a hymn:
Vain World, Fare Thee Well
. Bjerg thinks of Rosine; he sees the gloating faces in the church and the rage he felt on realizing they had tricked him wells up inside him once more. He sees Rosine, naked, her arching back, her expressionless face as he writhed, so helplessly abandoned to ecstasy. The smith hands him the whip. The Trader gives the signal with his sabre.

One!

He strikes. It is not a good stroke.

Vain world, fare thee well. I purpose no more in thy bondage to dwell.

Two!

He flicks the whip backwards at the moment it strikes home and senses immediately how much better it seizes.

I spurn thy allurements, which tempt and appal.

Three!

The whip stings. Its lashes fall like hail.

'Tis vanity all!

The sabre is raised, the sabre is lowered. Four!

The whip licks the bare torso.

It is naught but bubbles and tinctured glass.

Five!

Bjerg sees a man's back. He sees Rosine's arched back. He swings the whip.

O, honour and gold!

Six! says the sabre.

Bjerg stands in a hailstorm of lashes. They circumvent him and seize the exposed back before him.

False are your affluence, your pleasure and fame.

Seven! Kragstedt intones.

Now he sees the blood break through the skin. He smells it. Some of it accompanies the whip as it returns; he feels it spatter against his face.

Your wages are envy, deception and shame.

Eight!

The blood flows; it gathers at the waistband of the man's breeches. Bjerg strikes harder. He regrets not having used his full force from the outset.

Your garlands soon wither, your kingdom shall fall.

Nine!

The whip unfurls and retracts. It is a hand with many fingers, clawing to tear the bloody flesh.

'Tis vanity all!

Ten!

Now the blood splashes and sprays. The onlookers step back, so as not to be soiled. Kragstedt halts the proceedings.

Water! he commands.

The smith fetches a bucket and douses the prisoner's back. The man screams.

Keep singing, says Hammer. There are many verses yet in that hymn.

Eleven! says Kragstedt and his sabre slices the air.