The Surfacing

by Cormac James

  They pushed on farther from the ship than Morgan had ever gone before. Finally, they squatted down in the lee of a hummock, by a fresh ice-hole. Petersen squatted down onto his hunkers. He had drawn his knife from his belt, was holding it point and handle and scraping the flat of the blade over and across the ice, as on a whetstone. This was a seal’s flipper, apparently, scraping out a hole. After two or three minutes of that, he took up his length of bamboo. He slid one end into the ice-hole, put the other to his mouth. Much like a spoiled child, he began to whine.

  Come on up, Morgan said nicely. Just for a second. Just for a little look. It’s a wonderful world up here.

  They waited almost an hour for the first one to appear. The young face was quite human, even to the tear-filled eyes. Morgan settled his stock, lined his sights, and pulled the trigger. It seems so easy, he thought, if you have the patience. The bullet went straight through the head, and it popped like a balloon.

  Cabot says the liver can be quite a delicacy, if cooked right, Morgan said.

  Petersen stopped what he was at with the grappling hook, and looked around. Cooked? he said. One day you will eat it raw, if you can get it. All of you.

  26th August

  They finally gained the sheet of water Myer had taken to calling The Lake. Up in the yards the sailors were roaring bawdily to each other, like sailors coming into port. Morgan made a point of timing how long before they touched the ice on the far side. 110 seconds of sail, he wrote. He had not been counting the seconds up, but counting them down. He wrote the figure where it belonged. He closed his chronometer, closed his notebook, and went to the bow to watch. Myer was already dancing about below.

  He watched his captain thrashing at the ice with a steering-oar. The man was a lunatic. Suddenly, the lunatic disappeared. Where he’d stood just seconds before, there was now only a dented hat. The men stood looking in silence at that sacred spot. Finally Brooks bent to lift it up, to see was there anything underneath.

  That night Morgan spent the whole of his watch aloft, searching the northern horizon again, until his eyes were full of water. He let down the glass, and with the naked eye saw something the size of the moon branded into the sky. What it was he could not tell. He came off his watch at four tingling with fatigue. He could not remember when last he’d had a good, full night’s sleep. It was the unfailing light. All day now he felt as though he’d been drinking strong coffee, and too much of it. His skin felt shrunken, tight, like the skin of a smaller man.

  On his bunk, he turned his face to the wall, shut his eyes, let slip the moorings, and begged the current to draw him away. But even with his eyes closed and his back turned, he could not ignore the light. He could feel it coming for him. This past week, coming off the middle watch it was always the same. Myer had ordered the hatches and bull’s-eyes all left open, and by the time Morgan lay down a grey mould was already creeping over the floor. By now it would be creeping up the walls, up the legs of the bed. By now the rind of light about the cabin door would be grown to a brilliant thrill. He knew well how it would end. Soon or later the bell would strike, and boots would march across the deck. He would hear them march down the ladder, and along the corridor. He would hear the door-handle turn, and the light would come flooding in.

  27th August

  Cabot came carrying the breakfast plates to their table. Morgan could see he had something he wanted to say. Even after they’d finished eating, Morgan and DeHaven lingered, until Cabot came back to clear up.

  Put your goggles, Cabot told them quietly. And come.

  He led them back to the edge of The Lake.

  Watch, he said.

  He took a coin from his pocket, bent low and flung it away. They watched it skip neatly over the water. The thing was well launched, and the life in it refused to die. In the end it stuttered and failed, but did not disappear. It lay there on the surface. Cabot stood grinning, proud. The ripples settled. Morgan crouched down for a closer look. Beneath the bright veneer, there was young ice.

  It was the proof he’d been waiting for. The gates were closing, one by one.

  The next evening, DeHaven and Morgan and Kitty went to watch the men skate over The Lake, where The Lake had been, where the ice was least likely to hold them. They were playing tickly-benders. The rules were simple. A leader skated over a thin patch and if he managed to cross without a collapse cried ‘I survive!’ The brave followed. The more men passed over it, the weaker the ice became.

  More light than heat, DeHaven liked to say, and he was not wrong.

  She touched her boot to the surface, in a half-hearted test.

  It’s perfectly safe, Morgan said.

  Why so are you not out there?

  As though to prevent her from falling, he gently took hold of her arm. The grip tightened. He began to push, to pull. The soles of her boots were scraping along the edge. DeHaven was smiling. He looked as happy as he’d ever been. She let her legs buckle and let herself sag, but instantly both men had their arms under her, to lift her up. They swung her back and forth. She hung weightless at the top of the arc.

  She sat panting. Morgan was afraid she was going to cry. They watched her tramping sullenly back to the ship.

  She spends too much time in her cabin, DeHaven said.

  She’s making herself a whole new set of clothes. What for, I don’t know. I haven’t seen the slightest change. Sometimes I wonder if she isn’t just pulling our leg.

  It won’t be long coming, DeHaven said. Eight weeks next week. What he meant was, it was almost time to examine her again.

  I’ll take your word for it, Morgan said.

  I’m simply going by the dates she’s given me, DeHaven said. He was offering Morgan a chance to contradict, to withdraw.

  Morgan made no answer. He refused to regret or protest. It was still far too early in his mind. There was still too far to go.

  Yet when he went later to call her for dinner, the clothes were all laid out on the bed, on display. They were not all the same size. They were for now, and for later. They had a story to tell. I see you’ve been working, he said. And before he could object she was in her shift, shuffling one of them over her head. It was in the Empire style, flaring loosely from under the bosom, with plenty of room farther down. She took a cushion from the bed and slid it up under the dress, paraded her new self across the cabin, those few little steps, and back again.

  29th August

  It was mid-afternoon. On the other side of the wall, in their tiny washroom, she was taking a bath. He could hear the water rattling against the sides of the tub. It seemed to him he’d not heard the splashing of water in an age, since Disko.

  The hatches were open, Cabot had a lump of bear in his oven, and the smell of roasting rosemary and fat was rampaging through the ship, would ambush her as soon as she opened the washroom door. In it there was nothing she could complain of. It was the smell of Sunday roasts, of Christmas, of home.

  They sat together in her cabin. She was fiddling with a ball of wool. He was paring his nails. They were waiting for the dinner bell to ring.

  She showed him the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

  About three inches, she said. He says.

  Tha
t’s not three inches, he said. That’s more like five.

  Already, he thought. The ambition. As though the numbers were in some way a measure of herself. He reached and took the seamstress’s tape from the sewing-box, rolled a foot of it out on the spread. With forefinger and thumb, he showed her what she had showed him.

  She considered him hatefully. His useless precision. Regardless, she said, it’s growing bigger and bigger every day.

  He brushed his parings into his cupped hand and stretched to sprinkle them into the stove-box.

  He’s a handsome man, Morgan said.

  Who? she said.

  Cabot. Myer. Banes, Morgan said. Who do you think?

  I will openly admit it, Dr DeHaven has a handsome face.

  More handsome than me, Morgan said. Don’t you think?

  I suppose that would be a matter of personal opinion, or personal taste.

  And what’s your personal opinion?

  Well, he’s a little younger than you, I suppose. He certainly has that in his favour.

  I’m July, he’s December. The same year.

  You wouldn’t think it, she said.

  He’s led a very sheltered life. Compared to me.

  That must be what it is.

  We’ve known each other since we were boys, Morgan said. We were in the same class, all through school. Afterwards, we were in India together, for a little while. Our families are still neighbours. The story has it we even shared the same wet-nurse. Sucked at the same teat, if you will.

  He obviously sucked a little harder than you, Kitty said.

  I’d have made more of an effort, Morgan said, had I known at the time it would make such a difference.

  What’s done is done.

  Indeed.

  I thought once a man went Army or Navy, he had to stick with it for life.

  Usually, but I managed to wriggle out of it. One of my father’s friends.

  Another false start.

  One of many, Morgan said.

  Is it true his brother is on the Terror?

  It is. Even so, it was no easy matter getting him signed up. I had to pull a few strings. More than a few.

  So he came out of his own free will?

  Yes and no. Likely he feels that somebody somewhere forced his hand. That he had to at least make a token effort, for his brother’s sake.

  I wish he wouldn’t rail about everything, all the time, she said.

  That’s just his character, I’m afraid. He’s always been a man who’s very easily unimpressed.

  30th August

  They had another storm. All day and all night MacDonald lay on his bed, listening to the noise. He felt very alone. As often as he could, he thought of Christ in Gethsemane. This was how He must have felt, he told himself. He liked the comparison. The effect was calming. He reached for his Bible, read the passage over, though he knew it by heart. Each word was where he’d left it, in exactly the right place.

  In the early morning, Morgan went up to admire the wreckage. The floe had been shattered completely. Still the wind was blowing hard, but now swinging round to the southeast. Immediately he heard that, Myer gave the order to cast off their ice anchor, set their mainsail, and begin boring, due north.

  Morgan steered through the clutter as best he could. Some of the slabs in their path were ten feet thick. The hammering sickened him, but Myer insisted he keep his course. They would not haggle their gift, Myer said. Everything depended on riding this slant from the south, as long and as far as they could.

  By afternoon their precious southeasterly had settled and stilled, and they were stuck exactly as before. Morgan stared hatefully at the web, that stretched to the sky on every side. The wind had done its work well, jamming all the pieces together again.

  That evening Morgan climbed above, as though to get out of range. And from on high, inexplicably, he saw a solid shadow on the northwestern horizon. He had often dreamed of it, from out of the sky the wicked voice crying Land! Land! And here, now, was something very like land, to the northwest. But he held his tongue. He confirmed it through the glass. After a time he got out his pipe and knocked it out, let the ash fall and flare. It did not matter who was below. Nothing else mattered at the moment. There was a single consequence now, that drowned everything else. They would get through.

  When his watch was over he went down again, sat on a crate. Myer was gone. It was Cabot to deal. The hands moved clumsily. The cards came one by one, rationed out.

  What will happen now? Cabot asked, tilting his head towards the bows. The closing ice, he meant. Their latest impasse.

  Morgan did not offer an opinion. He’d said nothing to anyone yet of what he’d seen from above.

  Don’t worry your little head, DeHaven said. I have it all figured out. It’s not the ice is holding us back, it’s the ship. He showed it to them, proudly. All we have to do is get out and walk.

  That’s fine for us, fine mints of men one and all, Morgan said. But what about her?

  She’s the one wanted the life of a rover, DeHaven said. He considered MacDonald, and pointed him out. There’s the man brought her aboard, he said. I wonder does he think now was it such a wise choice.

  I’m sure we can all understand the inconvenience, MacDonald said. At least as far as Mr Morgan is concerned.

  Not only me, Morgan said. The entire ship.

  Her presence seems to me to have had little effect thus far. A general improvement in manners, perhaps. Perhaps you begrudge her the extra bed, and the extra food?

  I begrudge her nothing. You know well that’s not what I mean.

  Afterwards, Morgan spelled it out, the future that Cabot saw. If we’re caught, he said, we may well tough it out till the spring, the thaw. Other ships have done it. Or – He stamped his boot loudly on the boards, then turned up the sole, to let them see. Underneath was something that had been alive, with a definite shape, only seconds before. Now it was pulp.

  He had decided to play, to enjoy his reprieve. They were no longer condemned. From the foretop he’d seen a definite shadow beyond the mist. At Beechey Island all the other expedition ships would be waiting, and they could put her on the supply ship, the steamer, to bring her back to Disko, or England, whichever she preferred.

  Then our geese, they are cooked? Cabot said. The lilt made him sound almost hopeful. He threw down a worthless club.

  Our goose is, MacDonald said.

  My goose, his goose, our geese, Cabot insisted.

  Absolutely spot on, DeHaven said. He showed them his card and gathered his trick. My goose, his goose, our geese. Are all cooked. Good man Cabot. We’ll teach these bastards a bit of plain English yet.

  That night, Cabot served the officers up a Salmis of Auk.

  Dugléré himself would be proud of it, DeHaven said afterwards, and Cabot actually blushed.

  If you’ve ever had the pleasure of Muscovy duck –, Morgan announced. He jabbed a finger at each of his accusers. He had forgotten what he wanted to say. Only seconds before, it had been of the utmost importance.
He was very drunk, with no obvious occasion. It was the water-sky he had seen to the west. Still he had shared the news with no one, not even DeHaven. He needed time, to figure out how to enjoy it properly.

  Now that it was over, he managed to think – and instantly corrected himself. Nonetheless, what he felt just now was more than relief. It was almost a thrill. They would get through. For the first time in months, he felt certain. The thing felt solid, and he liked the weight of it. Nothing his mind could concoct had spoiled it yet. They would get through. They would catch the other ships at Beechey, where they could be rid of her. His drinking tonight was a celebration, he supposed.

  Now musk ox, he declared, with time, respect, and the right marinade – He did not finish the phrase. They were drinking gin. He could no longer pronounce the word ‘palatable.’

  The clock sounded midnight. It was another day, another month. The world was an older place.

  September, DeHaven said.

  It was something that had been dropped on them out of the sky. Sadly, Cabot nodded his head. The faces were sullen. They were slowly working their way through another bottle of wine, as though determined to leave nothing behind.

  10th September

  Starboard, ruined pyramids were scissored into the sky. That was Greenland, sweeping down again from the far north. On the western horizon, from the foretop, Morgan had yesterday seen great masses of smoke, that meant open water, that looked like a city in flames. That was where they wanted to go.

  The night before, they had tied up to the land floe – a frozen ledge lipped far out over the sea, like a vast, silken sweep of white sand. According to the whims of wind and current, the outside floe battled against this shore, or was sucked away from it, to open up a treacherous canal. This was the only way forward now.