The Ice Maiden

by Sara Sheridan

  On the Terror, Karina was hauled out of her daydreams by the neck. She had fallen fast asleep with the vision of Ven before her eyes and now it was dawn, she realized in a rush – her fourth day without a scrap of food. As rough-skinned fingers curled around her throat, her limbs lashed out and she struggled like a sparrow trying to fend off a hawk. The man who had hold of her was a giant. Her mind raced and if she had hoped for kindness, she realized now it was a forlorn notion. Across the open space of the deck she could make out the sailors she’d been listening to all these days – the men she’d seen only in snatches – a torso here and the rim of a hat there. They seemed suddenly huge, clustering in a mass as the sky lightened, calling for the mate, struggling to see the stowaway who had been uncovered. There was a whiff of stale rum and sweat on the air.

  Round her neck, the fingers didn’t loosen and Karina panicked that the man who had laid his hands on her was set on murder. He squeezed her windpipe and she wheezed as she steadied her limbs and forced herself to slow down and concentrate on breathing – staying alive. There was no measure in struggle. He stared glassy-eyed, as she made him out – a hefty black seaman with an immoveable jaw and fingers carved of stone. Another squeeze and her shoulders rounded and her knees gave way. The man sighed almost inaudibly as if he was bored by her fragility. If he kills me, he kills me, she thought, flat as if it meant nothing. A man like that could kill you by mistake.

  The others, gathering behind the negro sounded increasingly bloodthirsty as she showed her weakness. Karina knew a thin, shivering lad by the ropes was only an occasion for sport. Men like these valued the entertainment in flogging a man or hauling him under the keel. Thebo’s voice sounded in her head. The sea is not kind, why should we be? ‘Go on,’ the crowd jeered. ‘Do for him. Do it.’ Her eyes flared. For all the reputed English sense of fair play, she could feel the baying crew turn mob-handed and there was nothing she could do. Would they decide to hurl her overboard into the icy ocean? There were blocks of ice floating on the swell. No one could last long in that.

  ‘What have we got here then?’

  The voice was easy to discern. Later she would come to realize that the words of the officers were easier to follow than the words of the men, except one seaman who she would learn hailed from the Orkneys. The way the man formed his words sounded almost Norwegian and she picked out what he said more easily than the others.

  ‘A stowaway is it? A stowaway?’ This voice like cool air, like clean water – refreshing somehow.

  The crowd was still growing. They came from all quarters. Karina scrambled again, though it was useless. She knew it would come to this. She could not stowaway for months of the journey without being discovered. Eventually she would have to eat.

  ‘Well, let me through.’

  The crowd parted as the young officer pushed forward and took charge. He was only a midshipman. The boy was dark-eyed and wore a cruel expression. His slick, pink mouth opened in a moist sneer like an oyster as he sized her up.

  ‘This one is set to piss himself,’ he said. ‘And quite right. We do not take kindly to thieves and stowaways on board this ship.’ He waved a hand as if conducting an orchestra. The black man loosened his grip and set Karina down, gasping.

  ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘I have stolen nothing, sir,’ she scraped the words out.

  ‘I have stolen nothing,’ the midshipman repeated, aping her accent, playing to the crowd. ‘Except your passage. Where are you from, boy?’

  ‘I am Swedish. Here by way of Chile.’

  ‘We did not dock in Chile, my fine gentleman. Play fair.’

  She swallowed audibly, her mouth dry as sand. ‘Deception Island, sir.’

  ‘The whaling not to your taste?’

  ‘I want to go home, sir. I want to work my passage.’

  He circled, sizing her up to see how useful she might prove. What he saw was a mere wisp of bone and muscle but there was no saying that she was not strong. ‘Well now, let’s see.’ The midshipman was relishing this. He paused, about to pronounce judgement when, called by the commotion, the captain suddenly appeared behind him. Every man stood tall. Karina shifted. The midshipman’s tone changed. ‘Captain Ross, sir. We have a stowaway. The lad came on at Deception Island.’

  Ross took in the scene. They allowed him space, Karina noticed. But then a captain always stood alone. It was, she realized, not the first time this man had found a stowaway on board his ship. ‘A sharp dozen,’ he prescribed without hesitation, almost as an aside.

  This was the least she was expecting. It would be impossible to take her onto the crew without administering punishment for deserting her last station, whatever it might have been. She felt a sense of relief that she endeavoured to hide. The captain glared.

  ‘It’s a while before you’ll see home, laddy.’ He sucked his teeth.

  Her eyes darted. ‘Yes, sir. England will do as well.’

  ‘England?’

  Behind him the crew laughed, only barely managing to control themselves as Ross cast his eyes to silence them.

  ‘England? We are not for England, boy. Nowhere near. We are for Antarctica. Did you not check before you stowed? There’s no turning back. That will teach you!’

  Karina coughed. She reeled in shock. She had taken this risk – this huge risk – and this little fleet was sailing in entirely the wrong direction. No one ever goes south, she thought, trying to take it in. No one. And yet these ships, the only ships in months … Her eyes filled with tears and she struggled to control herself. Her limbs felt weak. This meant no Marijke. This meant no Amsterdam. She had failed.

  ‘Antarctica?’ she croaked.

  The captain did not reply. The matter was not up for discussion. ‘Mr Bevan,’ he called the cook. ‘Could you use this one in the galley? He looks too scrawny for real sailing.’

  Si Bevan stepped forward from the huddle of onlookers. His huge belly attested to the man’s passion for his position. Karina, her mind still racing, could feel heat radiating from his body. The cook’s skin seemed too pink, as if a child had drawn him. It struck her that she wouldn’t be hungry any more. They weren’t going to keel haul her. She would live. But here, not in the green, easy north. She would be further from home than before.

  Bevan grinned, revealing a startling paucity of teeth. All but four or five were missing.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he managed. ‘I can always use a pair of hands in the galley.’

  ‘I helped in kitchens before, sir,’ Karina managed.

  A snort emanated from Bevan’s throat. The captain gestured to one of the crew. ‘Well, first things first,’ he said, and strong hands came down on her shoulders as she was taken away. All she could think was We are heading south. She had been so stupid.

  At the mizzen, the bo’sun was ready to dispense twelve lashes without ceremony but still she kept thinking on what had happened. It made no sense. South? There’s nothing there. Why on earth would they want to go south?

  The bo’sun was half-hearted. He didn’t remove her sweater. She was glad of it, though she was so thin now, she might as well be a boy. There was not a scrap of fat on her, not even there. It was months since a man would have noticed her breasts.

  Most of the crew, already bored of the discovery, descended to the comparative warmth below decks. Only a handful clustered, lingering to see if the stowaway might scream. Karina contained herself, determined to show no weakness. She made herself focus on what was important – how long it might be until the ship turned northwards? A while, the captain had said. She fixed her jaw so no sound could escape. At least I am moving, she thought, albeit in the wrong direction. Saan er det bare. That’s just life. If I work, they will feed me.

  The bo’sun’s first lash sliced the icy air and caught her unaware, but her jaw held. The man didn’t put his back into it, but the leather still stung. Nauseous, she steeled herself for the next blow. The bo’sun struck in a perfunctory fashion but she counted t
he punishment carefully. Two. Three. Four. And breathe. In five minutes, she told herself, it will be over. In four minutes. In three. Eight lashes, and a pause. Nine. Ten. His arm is tired, she thought. Eleven. She gasped out loud at the last of the dozen for which the bo’sun allowed himself a final flourish. She felt sick as she was untethered, but there was nothing in her stomach to vomit. Her head reeled.

  ‘Here, lad,’ the bo’sun said, nodding at the black man who had found her. Karina looked up and realized the fellow had a ring in his ear. She wondered how she hadn’t noticed before. ‘Hepworth will see you to the galley.’

  The negro said nothing. Not then or any time after. Without even checking whether she was following, he led on. She couldn’t help thinking that she didn’t require an escort. Any fool could find the galley on a ship, let alone a fool who hadn’t eaten in days. The corridor smelled of baking bread.

  ‘Ah.’ Bevan looked up as Karina stepped into his domain. His skin glistened by the light of the lamp. The smell of boiled pease hung in the air. The galley was dark, the walls lined with planks of wood the colour of well-toasted bread. ‘We’ll make a fine pair. A fat old cook and a half-starved scrap of a boy, eh?’

  Hepworth nodded. His job completed, he disappeared down the corridor. Bevan cast an eye over the sorry state before him. He motioned for her to turn around and lifted the thick knitted top to inspect her injuries.

  ‘He hasn’t drawn blood,’ he diagnosed. ‘There’s a bruise, is all. A graze really. It’ll settle down. You took the beating well, lad.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You think you were the first down here? Everyone knows everything on a ship such as this.’ Without asking whether she was hungry, the cook handed her a horn cup of milk from one of the ship’s goats. ‘You could use some feeding.’

  She didn’t argue. The milk was warm and a thin wisp of steam rose, as the cup quivered in her hands. She couldn’t stop quaking. Bevan ignored it. Kindness at last, she thought, as she slurped. It was difficult to restrain herself from gulping the rich creamy fluid without swallowing. She could have bathed, almost, in the smell of it.

  ‘What did the captain mean, Mr Bevan?’ she asked as she surfaced. ‘We’re not returning to England?’

  ‘Not directly.’ He spoke slowly. His accent it would transpire, was from the West Country and over time she would learn to discern it. ‘We are for the Far South, boy. Captain Ross has led two expeditions to the Northern Circle. The Arctic, that is. And now he is set upon the southern continent. We have spent the last three years hereabouts. Half the year on the ice and half for resupply. He is gathering the measurements for a map, see.’

  Her heart sank, even as Bevan handed over a chunk of rye bread with a thick crust. She dipped it in the milk and tried to slow her pace further. The food tasted alien. It had been a long time. A burst of malt opened on her palette as she relaxed enough to taste it. The feeling of warmth in her belly was both compelling and unsettling. It felt as if she was drunk and this exchange was some kind of heady dream. But the dream was Amsterdam. The dream was Marijke – her sister’s freckled cheeks and blonde hair. The way she smelled of fresh hay and silk still warm from the iron.

  ‘How long will we stay in the south?’ she asked.

  The cook shrugged.

  ‘We’ve food for more than a year on board as long as there’s fishing. But we can restock near enough by. Deception Island or the Shetlands, I guess; the coast of the Australias or Van Diemen’s Land, if we have to. We’ve done it afore.’

  Her heart sank further. This meant that she might end up exactly where she started or, worse, even further away. Whatever happened, it would be a long time before she would see Amsterdam’s wide harbour. That was sure. The food lulled her and sated now, her temper flared only slightly. Such bad luck again.

  ‘But the ship will go back eventually. Home? Northwards?’ she said.

  Bevan had lost interest. ‘What do you call yourself?’ he asked.

  Karina thought for a moment. She had no idea. She cursed herself for not planning better. For not checking where the ship was headed. For dozing like a fool, daydreaming about childhood days that were impossible to recover.

  ‘You’ve got a name, haven’t you, boy?’ the cook checked.

  She nodded. ‘Karl.’

  There it was, arrived out of nowhere; as close to her real name as she could muster.

  She had a cousin Karl. Her mother had nursed the boy through the fever and then fell ill of it herself. She lasted only three days when her turn came. And that had been their escape in the end. A service was held in the little church. The priest gave a sermon. He said her mother had had heaven on earth. Himlem par jorden. Afterwards Karina had asked Marijke what that meant. ‘Well,’ her sister squared up, ‘she’s in heaven now, I suppose, wherever that might be.’ The girls looked around furtively, for there was no saying.

  Her uncle expected them to live with him. The death had transpired, after all, from the saving of his son’s life. But he was their father’s brother and Marijke swore their mother had told them to go and live with her cousin in Copenhagen. Karina nodded, sagely, backing up her sister’s story. It was her mother’s dying wish, the little girls held their ground. It was her instruction. Only thirteen, Marijke turned down all help. She had refused to listen to advice or reason. The village bustled, but there was nothing they could do. In the end, their uncle bought their tickets.

  Efficiently, the girls sold everything and Marijke boarded herself and the eleven-year-old Karina onto a trawler and took passage across the sound. It had felt like she knew what she was doing. The two of them stood on deck holding hands as they watched Ven get smaller. This was how the summer visitors left. This is what they had been watching all the years. Karina hugged Marijke, nuzzling her sister’s skin. That day she smelled of the island in summer, of grass and berries.

  ‘You know how to make posset, lad?’ Bevan asked.

  Karina nodded, blinking as her mind swam.

  ‘Show me.’

  She put down the cup of milk and set aside the bread. ‘The captain’s partial,’ Bevan chatted. ‘He’d have posset every meal if we had the cream for it.’

  The only way in life was to work hard. She lifted a bowl and began.

  THREE

  Life in the galley was familiar. When the girls finally reached Copenhagen, Marijke secured a job with a dressmaker. She had inherited their mother’s skill with a needle. The shop was five minutes’ walk from Amalienborg and was frequented by women from the palace, though not the Queen. Still, it was a start. Marijke showed her embroidery folio and was immediately given room, board and a wage. Karina, however, had no aptitude with a thread. It always seemed to her that material (even fine material) was not malleable enough. With the help of Marijke’s new employer, she found a job as a kitchen maid five minutes away, in the house of a French family who owned a string of bakeries. And there she encountered her first love – a meek and adoring thing that never came to fruition. Monsieur Albert came from Lyon and he ran the kitchen.

  On the Terror, the first time Karina pulled a fruit pie from the oven, Si Bevan cut a slice and sank onto the galley stool. His eyes clouded.

  ‘Where did you learn to fashion pastry?’ he asked.

  ‘My mother taught me,’ she lied. The galley would hide her well, she realized. It kept her away from the sailors.

  Si eyed Karina with dubiety. ‘Well I never, lad.’

  ‘I know what to do with cacao and honeycomb.’ She nodded towards the storeroom where she had found the potted fruit and a myriad of other culinary treasures. The sheer scale of the ship’s supplies had quite overcome her. The storeroom smelled of malt and butter.

  ‘Cacao? And where did you learn that?’

  ‘Chile, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you sir me, boy. Si will do fine.’ The old man laughed and paused before taking another bite of the pie. ‘Extraordinary,’ he proclaimed. ‘My mother was considered a baker, but this …’


  Ross had a sweet tooth, it transpired, and the new cabin boy made his mark at the captain’s table. Hepworth took up the dishes – baked fish and rice. Cheese and cornbread. And then Si Bevan grinned as he handed over the final plate.

  ‘Baked chocolate cream,’ he announced. Hepworth raised a single eyebrow. Bevan sat on the stool, amusement emanating from his quivering frame. ‘Go on then, take it in,’ he instructed. ‘Karl made it.’

  The galley was cleared for the night and Karina was alone. Bevan slept in a hammock below, with the other men, but he’d given dispensation for the boy to sleep on the floor and mind the oven. After her bones being permanently chilled on Deception Island, on this first night the galley felt too hot and Karina struggled to sleep. The ship creaked, wood on wood, and there was no conversation or activity to distract her mind from falling into these cracks. It would take time to settle. Still, the work was hard and it felt good to be tired out after a long day. Here, she realized, she wasn’t a burden. She had felt herself a burden too long. Slowly, the heat from the oven soothed her and creaking of the wood became a strange kind of lullaby.

  It was after midnight when there came a knock on the frame of the door. Karina got up and pulled it back. The hard-eyed, dark midshipman stood in the passageway holding a candle. Karina caught a whiff of spirits as he leered drunkenly in her direction. Her heart skipped. ‘Karl, is it?’ he checked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s the pastry.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I was on shore leave in Argentina and they had this tart.’ The boy gestured and Karina pulled back into the shadows. The midshipman laughed heartily. ‘A tart. A baked tart. I’m not that way, boy. I prefer women.’

  She felt herself blush.

  ‘John Pearse,’ he held out his hand.