Someone shouts from the congregation. Down with the king, Didrik translates.
But we will not bow down to the king, says Habakuk. Again, a shout: Down with the king! He is not our king, says Habakuk, and now he must raise his voice in order to be heard. He is their king. He points at Falck and Bjerg. The angry murmur increases. They come here with their guns and their warrants and their chains and their stories of children drowning. But we are not children, we are grown men and women and this is our country! We shall do as we please in our own country!
A shrill voice cries out: Down with the priest! The words are repeated by others. The commotion is becoming unpleasant; it echoes now from the crowd outside the church. But Habakuk lifts one hand and it is as if the noise is a ball he catches in mid-air, for at once everyone falls silent.
We Greenlanders are polite and friendly people, he says, and hospitable, as the priest has noted. Sometimes we may be too hospitable for our own good. We welcomed the priest and his constable among us, they have eaten our food and slept on our soil. They have done so because we are hospitable people. But our hospitality has been abused. These people have not behaved as guests ought to behave. They have harmed a person in our midst.
Falck and Bjerg exchange glances. Bjerg feels at once stricken by terror, though he has no idea where such a feeling should come from or why it should present itself.
Habakuk beckons to someone in the congregation. Some people come walking up the aisle. At first, Bjerg cannot see who it is, but then he recognizes Rosine and Amanda. Together with them are two elderly people. Bjerg recognizes them to be the couple who lay on the sleeping bench in the house in which he spent the night with Rosine. Now Didrik goes over and stands next to Rosine.
Habakuk takes Rosine by the hand and speaks to her in a kind voice. She replies almost inaudibly. He straightens his back and looks directly at Bjerg. He smiles as though in triumph.
This woman, he says in Danish, tells me that you, Rasmus Bjerg, committed an outrageous offence against her own and her husband’s dignity.
A hundred faces turn and two hundred eyes fall upon Bjerg. He stands paralysed. He registers that those in his immediate vicinity step back from him.
Is the Constable not aware, says Habakuk, that violation of marriage contravenes the laws and regulations set out by both the Bible and the Royal Greenland Trade?
Falck speaks. Violation of marriage? How so? It may be the case that Constable Bjerg has acted inappropriately, that he has taken liberties and has allowed himself to be led into temptation, in brief that he has erred. But the dear little Rosine cannot be married, surely?
She is now, says Habakuk, and smiles. I married her myself yesterday in the name of the Lord and to this young man. He points at Didrik, who glares furiously back at Bjerg.
You have no authority, says Falck calmly.
I have the authority invested in me by my own people, Habakuk snaps. And now we wish the priest and his constable to take their leave.
You are a sly scoundrel indeed, says Falck. Your sin, sir, surpasses by far Constable Bjerg’s human error. You and those who dance to your tune will burn in Hell for an eternity of eternities! Come, my dear Bjerg, come with me.
There is only one way out, and it leads them past Habakuk and the small group gathered around him. Bjerg fixes Rosine’s eyes in his gaze, yearning for one last look from her. He still feels her skin against his palms and the salty taste of her sex on his tongue. She stands with Didrik. Amanda is beside them. He sees, or senses, that all three laugh at him with malice, and the feeling of it is more than he can contain. He expels a scream and hurls himself at the kayak man. The surrounding congregation steps back; they are given space in which to fight. Bjerg has floored him; he fumbles around for something to grab, finds a wrist, only for it to twist from his grasp. He takes him by the collar, then feels the other man’s hand clutch at his hair and heave. He senses a searing pain in his scalp and thinks that if he does not do something fast the skin and its attached hair will be torn from his skull. He thrashes his fists, but the men are too entangled, they roll this way and that on the floor of the church. He endeavours to thrust his knee into Didrik’s groin. Seemingly, he succeeds, for Didrik emits a cry and curls into a ball. Bjerg twists free and as he glances up he sees the ring of people surrounding them begin to close in. They will string me up in their gateway! he thinks to himself. He reaches swiftly into his boot and pulls out his pocket knife, locks his arm around Didrik’s neck and hauls him to his feet. He holds the blade of the knife against his throat, turning it slightly in the light so that all may glimpse the steel. They step backwards.
I arrest you in His Majesty’s name, he splutters, for assaulting a king’s officer and putting his life at peril.
He begins to drag Didrik towards the church door. A path opens up in the congregation before them. The people stare at the two men, then all eyes turn to Habakuk, who smiles and nods and waves his hand dismissively. Let them go. And for that reason no one tries to prevent him as he bundles the kayak man away.
In the king’s name, Bjerg repeats, and then again. In the king’s name. He waves the knife in the air, then puts it to Didrik’s throat once more. Mr Falck! he shouts. Please follow me! We have a long journey to row!
With puzzlement he realizes they will be allowed to go. Some even offer to help him with his prisoner. Down at the boat they find a thin rope and tie the man’s wrists together behind his back, then throw him into the vessel. He remains lying there, protesting vociferously. Bjerg cannot understand why no one attempts to free him.
Falck has followed on at a trot with a handful of men to help them put out. He has Bjerg’s flintlock with him.
I took it to prevent you doing yourself harm, he says.
So you knew what would happen?
Only in part. Someone was kind enough to send me a warning. I think it came from Maria Magdalene. But I had not reckoned on them turning against us in such manner.
But now they will let us sail away with this man?
I suppose they consider it a small price. He is not one of their own. Perhaps they feel obliged to give something up to the king.
And who is going to come with us?
We are on our own, I fear, says Falck. The two of us and our prisoner. The women prefer to remain here, and who can blame them?
Are we to row all the way home?
I’m afraid it is all most unfortunate, says Falck. I cannot help but feel it would have been better had we not come here at all.
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 w
ere 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 w
ill 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.
The Prophets of Eternal Fjord Page 29