Read Online Dreamsongs, Volume I by George R. R. Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: George R. R. Martin
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his words rang with bitterness and scorn. “I would not count on Swedish aid, Colonel. A look at their history would teach you better than that. Where was Carl XII during the Great Wrath? All over Europe he rode, but could not spare an army for suffering Finland. Where is Marshal Klingspor now, while the Russians lay waste to our land and burn our towns? Did he even fight for Finland? No! He retreated—to save Sweden from attack.”
“So for the Swedes who do not aid us fast enough, you would trade the Russians? The butchers of the Great Wrath? The people who pillage our nation even now? That seems a sorry trade.”
“No. The Russians treat us now as enemies; when we are on their side things will be different. No longer will we have to fight a war every twenty years to please a Swedish king. No longer will the ambitions of a Carl XII or a Gustav III cost thousands of Finnish lives. Once the Czar rules in Finland, we will have peace and freedom.”
Jägerhorn’s voice was hot with excitement and conviction, but Anttonen remained cold and formal. He looked at Jägerhorn sadly, almost wistfully, and sighed. “It was better when I thought you were a traitor. You’re not. An idealist, a dreamer, yes. But not a traitor.”
“Me? A dreamer?” Jägerhorn’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “No, Bengt. You’re the dreamer. You’re the man who deludes himself with hopes of a Swedish victory. I look at the world the way it is, and deal with it on its own terms.”
Anttonen shook his head. “We’ve fought Russia over and over through the years; we’ve been foes for centuries. And you think we can live together peacefully. It won’t work, Colonel. Finland knows Russia too well. And she does not forget. This will not be our last war with Russia. Not by any means.”
He turned away slowly, and opened the door to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he paused and looked back. “You’re just a misguided dreamer, and Cronstedt’s only a weak old man.” He laughed softly. “There’s no one left to hate, Jägerhorn. There’s no one left to hate.”
The door closed softly, and Colonel Bengt Anttonen was alone in the darkened, silent hallway. Leaning against the cold stone wall in exhaustion, he sobbed, and covered his face with his hands.
His voice was a hoarse, choking whisper, his body gray and shaken. “My God, my God. A fool’s dreams and an old man’s doubts. And between them they’ll topple the Gibraltar of the North.”
He laughed a broken, sobbing laugh, straightened, and walked out into the night.
“—SHALL BE ALLOWED TO DISPATCH TWO COURIERS TO THE KING, THE one by the northern, the other by the southern road. They shall be furnished with passports and safeguards, and every possible facility shall be given them for accomplishing their journey. Done at the island of Lonan, 6 April, 1808.”
The droning voice of the officer reading the agreement stopped suddenly, and the large meeting room was deathly quiet. There were mumblings from the back of the room, and a few of the Swedish officers stirred uneasily in their seats, but no one spoke.
From the commandant’s desk in front of the gathering of Sveaborg’s senior officers, Admiral Cronstedt rose slowly. His face was old beyond its years, his eyes weary and bloodshot. And those in the front could see his gnarled hands trembling slightly.
“That is the agreement,” he began. “Considering the position of Sveaborg, it is better than we could have hoped for. We have used a third of our powder already; our defenses are exposed to attack from all sides because of the ice; we are outnumbered and forced to support a large number of fugitives, who rapidly consume our provisions. Considering all this, General Suchtelen was in a position to demand our immediate surrender.”
He paused and ran tired fingers through his hair. His eyes searched the faces of the Finnish and Swedish officers who sat before him.
“He did not demand that surrender,”
“So for the Swedes who do not aid us fast enough, you would trade the Russians? The butchers of the Great Wrath? The people who pillage our nation even now? That seems a sorry trade.”
“No. The Russians treat us now as enemies; when we are on their side things will be different. No longer will we have to fight a war every twenty years to please a Swedish king. No longer will the ambitions of a Carl XII or a Gustav III cost thousands of Finnish lives. Once the Czar rules in Finland, we will have peace and freedom.”
Jägerhorn’s voice was hot with excitement and conviction, but Anttonen remained cold and formal. He looked at Jägerhorn sadly, almost wistfully, and sighed. “It was better when I thought you were a traitor. You’re not. An idealist, a dreamer, yes. But not a traitor.”
“Me? A dreamer?” Jägerhorn’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “No, Bengt. You’re the dreamer. You’re the man who deludes himself with hopes of a Swedish victory. I look at the world the way it is, and deal with it on its own terms.”
Anttonen shook his head. “We’ve fought Russia over and over through the years; we’ve been foes for centuries. And you think we can live together peacefully. It won’t work, Colonel. Finland knows Russia too well. And she does not forget. This will not be our last war with Russia. Not by any means.”
He turned away slowly, and opened the door to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he paused and looked back. “You’re just a misguided dreamer, and Cronstedt’s only a weak old man.” He laughed softly. “There’s no one left to hate, Jägerhorn. There’s no one left to hate.”
The door closed softly, and Colonel Bengt Anttonen was alone in the darkened, silent hallway. Leaning against the cold stone wall in exhaustion, he sobbed, and covered his face with his hands.
His voice was a hoarse, choking whisper, his body gray and shaken. “My God, my God. A fool’s dreams and an old man’s doubts. And between them they’ll topple the Gibraltar of the North.”
He laughed a broken, sobbing laugh, straightened, and walked out into the night.
“—SHALL BE ALLOWED TO DISPATCH TWO COURIERS TO THE KING, THE one by the northern, the other by the southern road. They shall be furnished with passports and safeguards, and every possible facility shall be given them for accomplishing their journey. Done at the island of Lonan, 6 April, 1808.”
The droning voice of the officer reading the agreement stopped suddenly, and the large meeting room was deathly quiet. There were mumblings from the back of the room, and a few of the Swedish officers stirred uneasily in their seats, but no one spoke.
From the commandant’s desk in front of the gathering of Sveaborg’s senior officers, Admiral Cronstedt rose slowly. His face was old beyond its years, his eyes weary and bloodshot. And those in the front could see his gnarled hands trembling slightly.
“That is the agreement,” he began. “Considering the position of Sveaborg, it is better than we could have hoped for. We have used a third of our powder already; our defenses are exposed to attack from all sides because of the ice; we are outnumbered and forced to support a large number of fugitives, who rapidly consume our provisions. Considering all this, General Suchtelen was in a position to demand our immediate surrender.”
He paused and ran tired fingers through his hair. His eyes searched the faces of the Finnish and Swedish officers who sat before him.
“He did not demand that surrender,”
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