The Surfacing

by Cormac James

  OUT! Morgan roared, and there was now great ambition in his voice.

  Cabot scrambled past him. The door slammed shut. Morgan dragged MacDonald off the floor and held him up. He lifted a fist and the man whimpered like a child. Disgusted, Morgan flung him bodily away, as hard as he could, into the great man’s mirror screwed onto the wall, in which he had so often studied his own sorry face.

  You too, Morgan said eventually. It sounded like he was talking to himself. He sat down on the edge of his bunk. Get out, he said mildly. Get out of my sight.

  He sat on the edge of his bunk, waiting for the news, like a condemned man in his cell. DeHaven was in MacDonald’s cabin now, on the other side of the wall. Waiting, Morgan felt neither fear nor impatience. What he felt was a curious kind of inertia, a physical resistance, his body’s refusal to move. Strangely, he seemed to have been waiting for this moment for years. The braver part of him already knew it was true. In his mind he was already rehearsing the announcement, testing the words. The right words seemed not to exist. Somehow, to announce they were to have a child aboard. No, he thought, reaching for the brake. Not a child. A pregnant woman. It was not necessarily the same thing. No matter, these were words should never be pronounced on a ship. They were a betrayal. Of what kind, he did not know. He wondered who should be most disappointed with him. Who had earned that right. He himself was not particularly outraged. Merely surprised it had taken so long – thirty-six years – for such an indignity to come to light.

  Sooner or later they would come to summon him, to appear before his captain. All he wanted now was for it to be done. The news unparcelled, set adrift, irretrievable. He sat staring at the calendar, giving it one last chance to prove her wrong.

  The door opened and DeHaven stepped in. The man looked slightly ashamed, as though he had a tale to tell on himself.

  Well? Morgan said.

  She wants to see you.

  Fine. But the examination?

  She wants to tell you herself.

  I’ve been waiting long enough.

  She made me promise.

  With an insubordinate sigh, Morgan stood up and strode out into the corridor, banged hard on MacDonald’s door.

  Who is it? asked a woman’s voice.

  He flung the door open and slammed it shut – but slammed too hard, and the door bounced back at him.

  You don’t need to tell me, he said. I already know.

  He told you? she said. She sounded nicely surprised, nothing more.

  If it was good news you wouldn’t have asked him to keep his mouth shut.

  She had nothing to say to that.

  In any case, Morgan told her, she – they – would have to wait for the end of the month, the second month, whenever that was going to be, before she could even begin to be sure.

  One week next Monday, she said, but Morgan hardly cared, the exact delay did not matter, all he wanted now was something to hold the danger at bay.

  Well, we’ll have to wait and see, he said. As though the decision ultimately resided with someone else, in some other place. As though no one aboard, not even DeHaven, had the proper authority.

  How can he be so sure? he said, pointing at her belly. A quick examination like that? Just lying you up on the bed?

  He’s a doctor, she said.

  That’s what he keeps telling us.

  Inconvenient, isn’t it?

  There was a knock on the door, and Morgan opened it instantly. Showing them that, from the first, he refused to hide.

  It was Cabot. Dinner is served, he said, then turned his head slightly, to nod. Mademoiselle, he said.

  They listened to him go.

  Dinner is served, Morgan told her.

  Go then, she said. Go and eat.

  Morgan stood in the open door, behind Myer’s back, as Myer ferried his soup spoon from bowl to mouth. MacDonald was sitting at the end of the table, head down. Myer would have been told, of course, but Morgan wondered would the man force him to make the announcement himself, here, in public. Myer finally set his spoon on the table and twisted round to face his second-in-command. Above all, Morgan saw, he did not want to seem surprised.

  I suppose I should shake your hand, Myer said. But he did not stand up, or turn around properly, or reach out his arm.

  There were two empty places waiting, fully set. One on each side of the table, at opposite ends. Morgan sat with his back to the door, so that he would not be obliged to look up or ignore her if she came in. Cabot set a bowl of soup before him, almost as soon as he sat down. Apart from Myer, the others were all still eating when she arrived.

  You’ll remember all my colleagues, Myer said. He named them all, one by one. And of course Mr Morgan, he said. Gentlemen, you all remember Miss Rink.

  She looked around. Very nice, she said. Very cosy.

  Everything a man could possibly want within easy reach, DeHaven said.

  And how many of you in here?

  For the moment, four, DeHaven said. He glanced at MacDonald. It was hard to see how they might fit another one. The cabin was not much bigger than a penitentiary cell. Two berths on each side, each two and a half feet wide. The six feet in-between – ‘the country’ – was completely occupied by the hinged table and benches.

  You’ll have to excuse the cook, DeHaven said. He didn’t know we’d be having company.

  What is good enough for you all, she said. The thing felt like wet flour in the mouth.

  She ate quietly, like a woman eating alone. There was the occasional polite inquiry from Myer. Was it warm enough? Not too warm? Had she had enough? She nodded obediently.

  A bit rich tonight, Cabot, the sauce, MacDonald said.

  The other men did their best to answer him, to chat. It was like the first effort at conversation between strangers. Only Morgan said nothing at all. They would have plenty of time in each other’s company, he knew, to say what they wanted to say. So far into The Pack, so late in the season, there was no question of another about turn. Saving another accident, Beechey would be their next port of call.

  You’d think the mushrooms would have come out stronger, wouldn’t you? MacDonald said. He sounded puzzled. He was prodding the mess suspiciously, as though searching for something important, that he was determined to find.

  She rose to go to bed early, said it had been a tiring day. No one offered to accompany her to her cabin. Goodnight, MacDonald said, that was all.

  As soon as she was gone, Myer downed his cutlery and pushed his plate away. Cabot, he said, lifting a phantom glass to his lips. His forefinger turned a neat little circle. For everyone, he said, even as MacDonald made to stand.

  The measures were poured. With great formality, Myer lifted the little glass. The other men did the same. Some of the hands were trembling. Only Morgan had not touched his.

  To Miss Rink and to her child, Myer said. Good health and a long life.

  Several voices echoed him. Except Morgan, they all drank.

  You’re not drinking? Myer said.

  I’m not thirsty, Morgan said.


  I don’t think he should feel obliged, DeHaven said. I think that’s quite contrary to the spirit of the thing.

  I will drink if you order me to drink, Morgan said.

  The other men sat in silence, feeling it go down. Afterwards Cabot began to ferry the dirty dishes away, everything but Morgan’s glass. Myer got to his feet and wished them goodnight. They watched him go. For the first time ever, MacDonald did not follow. He had been asked to move in with the other officers, and Hepburn to move down to berth with the men.

  Morgan sat awhile in silence, studying the full glass before him, as though suspicious of the workmanship. In the end he handed it to Cabot, who threw it back in a go.

  You know I said my wife was expecting another one? Brooks said.

  Morgan nodded.

  Well, there was a letter from her in Parker’s bag.

  False alarm? Morgan said.

  False alarm or false start, I don’t know what exactly women call these things.

  I suppose she was upset, Morgan said.

  I suppose, Brooks said. Still, it wasn’t her first, and won’t be her last, if ever I’m let at her again.

  Morgan nodded to show he understood. Already one part of his mind was in riot, clamouring for the worst, the perfect solution. For her, he had to imagine, the grief would be an ordeal of definite length, like a body of water to be waded through, traversed, emerge on the far side.

  12th August

  The next day was Sunday. One by one, the whole ship came up on deck for the service, even their guest. They stood to listen, bowed their heads.

  Even now, as much in station as in motion, MacDonald told them, we offer our heartfelt gratitude for the love and mercy of He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.

  And of course I cannot let this opportunity pass without expressing publicly my congratulations to Mr Morgan and Miss Rink, MacDonald said, after his sermon.

  There was a long, loud round of applause. To Morgan it sounded like a slab of meat slapped onto a sizzling pan. He kept his face blank, refused to in any way acknowledge it.

  L’heritier, I think he meant, DeHaven said when it was done.

  Ah, Morgan said. Is that what it was?

  The entire ship is quite delighted for you, DeHaven said. As you must imagine.

  Delighted for me, or delighted at the news?

  They seem happy, that’s all I will say.

  Well, Morgan said, I’m glad I could be the source of so much joy.

  Afterwards, he helped her down the ladder again.

  A lovely service, she said. This morning.

  I suppose it’s a useful distraction, he said. It breaks the monotony, marks the passage of another week.

  He looked around MacDonald’s cabin. Already she’d made herself at home. The desk was swarming with needles, hairpins, spools of thread. Under the bed, a pair of her button-up boots. They looked brittle. They looked too small. They looked like things from another age, for another race.

  Do you believe? he asked her.

  No, she said.

  Nothing of any persuasion? Morgan said.

  No, she said. It was as simple as that. Talk of God, at even the greatest remove, merely irritated her.

  You’ve played MacDonald fairly smartly then, he said. I wonder would he have been so quick had he known he was helping a heathen.

  Nonsense, she said. He thinks of nothing but their salvation. Why else is he out here? Have you seen the way he hounds Petersen?

  He has his work cut out for him there.

  All those nights I had to lie here listening to his blather, she said. He used to read me passages from the Bible, von Kempen, all that.

  Caught in a little nook with a little book, Morgan said. How lovely.

  He has great plans for me, I fear.

  Does he not realize you may have plans of your own?

  They talked. They felt quite alone. It was noon. Almost everyone else had stayed up on deck, greasing their leather, worshipping the sun.

  Did you say goodbye to your brother? Morgan said.

  What good would that have done?

  You can’t leave him thinking you’ve just vanished off the face of the earth.

  I’d wager he hasn’t even remarked I am gone.

  You’re wrong, he’ll be worried for you.

  I won’t go back, she said.

  You may be obliged to go back.

  I’d rather jump overboard.

  Be careful or you’ll break a leg.

  I’m clear in my mind, she said.

  I wonder will you be quite so sure of yourself by the time we get to Beechey. If we ever do.

  She said her mind was fully made up. She said she’d already written her brother a letter, that she would send back from Beechey. She took it from her journal and held it out.

  He looked at the name, the address. The devout schoolgirl’s script. Then, with a feeling of foreboding, mortal, he slid his finger under the seal. She said nothing to stop him. The letter was written in prim little strokes on a watermarked sheet. It was only three lines long: Dear Edmund, it said. It said she was never coming back. He should not expect further news. There was neither thanks nor reproach. It said: I hope you will understand, but expect you will not. Your sister, Kitty.

  Until now he’d always seen her as a coward, and a simpleminded one, who wanted nothing more than sympathy or admiration. That, he’d always believed, was why she’d left everything to come out to Greenland and look after her brother, for whom she’d never even registered on the scale. Now he saw quite clearly that this picture was too simple, and altogether false. She was much more original, and much more complicated than that.

  13th August

  You must have something on your conscience, said DeHaven’s voice.

  He’d been shaking his friend by the shoulders. For Morgan, the shaking had been a crucial part of his dream. His eyes searched the dark cabin for bearings. There was the taste of old age in his mouth. He’d been asleep for no more than an hour, after his watch.

  You were talking in your sleep, DeHaven said.

  Morgan sat up and sat there gripping the frame, holding himself in place.

  I confessed everything, I suppose?

  I couldn’t repeat it, DeHaven said. Pure filth.

  Morgan peered out the open cabin door, considered the corridor’s twilight.

  Did I mention any lady in particular?

  Not by name, no. Unfortunately.

  Blindly, his hand was groping the upright, for the little hook. But his watch was not where he needed it to be.

  What time is it? What’s going on?

  Come and see.

  What?

  Come and see for yourself. Come on, shake a leg.

  Scowling, Morgan stepped out into the light. As far as he could see, in every direction, the floe was alive, shivering. He lifted the goggles out of the way, propped them on his
forehead. He was squinting fiercely, seemed disgusted with what he saw. The entire floe was covered with birds. Little auks. Tens of thousands of them.

  Goggled, owl-eyed, the two men walked out amongst them, under the blind stare of the sun.

  They stepped through the crowd in a silent pantomime, as though through a slumbering mass of bodies they were afraid to wake. Each man was carrying an oar.

  Don’t be afraid, DeHaven whispered with his kindest voice, as one wandered towards him. You won’t feel a thing.

  He lifted his oar. Shots would only frighten them all off, they had learned.

  They killed all afternoon. Again and again Morgan raised his oar. Again and again he brought it down. Occasionally DeHaven stopped to watch him, the exhibition of rage. It was a release, sheer savagery – the force with which the blade came thundering onto each bird. Again and again, beyond mere killing, as though trying to drive it into the ice.

  He kept at it until his arms were useless from fatigue. In the end he sat with his back up against a hummock, propped his elbows on his knees. He was too tired even to lie down. With a studied movement, he shoved his goggles up onto his forehead, to rub his eyes. Scraps of purple flesh went scampering down his smock.

  He had destroyed as many as he was able, yet all around him he could hear them bustle, the horde as vast and as happy as ever, gloating noisily, crops gargling with shrimp. For all his effort, he seemed not to have killed – even frightened off – a single one.

  It’s not a good sign, DeHaven said. He flung another bloody heap at Morgan’s feet.

  It was true. It meant their summer was over. They were heading south.

  14th August

  In the officers’ cabin, MacDonald was standing between the bunks, leaning forward, hands flat on the inner hull, as though to hold it in place. It was not enough merely to hear what was happening. The man needed to feel it, physically, every twinge.