The Surfacing

by Cormac James

  So, he said brightly. He was putting it back up onto the shelf. It had been acknowledged. The pain and the loss, and the pain to come. Now he wanted them to talk about something else.

  He ate little, left as soon as he could. The others listened to the door close. Still they said nothing. They were waiting until they heard the door close at the far end of the corridor.

  Mr MacDonald, Kitty said. If you had the slightest respect for that man’s loss you would have kept your mouth shut.

  There was total silence in the room. MacDonald turned in his seat to face her properly.

  I can see you feel very strongly about the matter, Miss Rink, he said. And I suppose considering your condition we should none of us be altogether surprised at the fact. Nonetheless, you must admit that in such a trial religion can be a great comfort.

  To whom? she said. To you, perhaps.

  I am merely quoting Cabot himself, what he said, the succour he expects his wife to find in her faith.

  He said that to shut you up, Kitty said. It’s a ready-made answer, that’s all, your faith, as you like to call it. What do you actually know or care about Cabot’s wife?

  MacDonald nodded in concession. I am prepared to write to the good woman if her husband thinks that might be of some comfort, he said. Someone would have to translate, of course.

  Did you write to Giorgio’s father? she said.

  No, I did not, MacDonald said. I ought to have written. I will readily admit that.

  Why didn’t you?

  I have to say, Miss Rink, I am surprised at your rather belligerent attitude towards me this evening. If nothing else, it reeks of ingratitude, considering all I have done for you, and at no small risk to my own position, I might add. I can only allow that the sad news we have had has touched a very tender nerve in you.

  23rd September

  In the late evening, in the cracks the sea was now the colour of port. On the land, the shadows of the headboards reached far across the snow, for home, and Mecca, and Jerusalem. The wind was due west. The ice grumbled against the hull. At night Morgan lay and listened to it burrowing in through the planks, searching him out. A cabin was being cleared for her aboard the North Star, but still Myer had not gone into the bay, to join the other ships.

  What is he waiting for? DeHaven asked his friend.

  It was the 23rd of September. The last traces of summer were gone. To the north, the Wellington Channel was a wreck, a new kind of wilderness. Morgan had never seen the like.

  Think of it as sugar, DeHaven said, who had caught his friend staring again. A million sugar loafs. Ten thousand shiploads. A lifetime’s supply, gratis. It’s a child’s paradise. Why would anyone in their right mind want to go anywhere else?

  That makes me feel immeasurably better about our prospects, Morgan said.

  Here and there a lead still threaded its way through it all, for Myer to look at longingly. They would not last. Even here at the mouth of the bay, the ice was now closing up.

  Finally, the North Star was ready to go home, the next day if all went well. Morgan expected a scene, when he went to her cabin, to announce the news that she was being transferred.

  You managed to get this far, Kitty, he said. And for that, I tip my hat to you.

  She did not answer him. She seemed not to have heard.

  Even if I wanted you to stay, he wanted to say. Myer was against it, and DeHaven. A medical doctor. He was ready to plead. He had all his arguments ready, and all his rage, but she didn’t say a word. She stood with her back to him, folding up her petticoats.

  Afterwards he sent Cabot in to help her with the packing, and went to find DeHaven, and together the two men rowed over to the land to walk about, not to be aboard when the time came to take her off. They walked up to the stone house now built as a refuge for Franklin, or any other shipwreck. Morgan stood in its shadow and found the ship with the glass. He watched the stiff farewells, watched her climbing into the whaleboat. A small trunk was handed down. MacDonald was sitting beside her. Daly and Cabot at the oars. They started to pull.

  I should have brought champagne, DeHaven said.

  Liar, Morgan said. A blind man could see you’re sorry to see her go.

  I admit there are things I’ll miss.

  A woman’s presence, you mean, Morgan said. Her civilizing influence.

  Exactly.

  That and her scintillating repartee.

  Now now, DeHaven said. She gave it to MacDonald the other night very nicely indeed.

  True. I didn’t think she had that class of beef in her.

  Another few months and she’d have had us all marching in line.

  At one stage I thought she was actually going to bite him, Morgan said.

  I’d say it was stewing a long time. Can you imagine being cooped up in that little cabin three whole weeks, with just him and his Bible? Thanks be to God he’s moving back, is all I’ll say. Another week of his lectures and I’d be cutting his throat in his sleep.

  Morgan lifted the glass to his eye, watched the whaleboat go round the far side of the North Star. He did not find her again.

  I could smell her in the washroom this morning, DeHaven said reverently. He lifted his sleeve to his nose. I think I even have her on some of my clothes.

  Why don’t you go along, if you’re going to miss her so much?

  Don’t encourage me.

  You wouldn’t dare, Morgan said. You wouldn’t leave me alone out here with this circus.

  DeHaven lifted his other sleeve, pushed his face into it, inhaled deeply.

  What happens between a lady and a lady’s doctor, I wish not to know, Morgan said.

  She’s a fine-looking woman, DeHaven said. I’ll give you that.

  Is that a compliment to me or to her?

  And the approach of motherhood has done her no harm. No harm at all.

  I know, Morgan said. He sounded quite bereaved. I never before knew what they meant when they said blooming, but the word is wonderfully apt. These past few days there’s been an actual glow off her. I shouldn’t be surprised, perhaps. Her personal physician has been marvellous with his care.

  That afternoon, Myer told Morgan they might now unpack the organ. He had them set it out in the men’s mess. Almost to himself, Myer spoke of the benefit to the men’s morale, even their health, whilst Petersen worked the pump, in something like a trance. Both his head and Myer’s nodded mechanically. Morgan watched them both, and wondered which man – which persuasion – he hated most.

  The music funnelled up through the hatch, drifted fragrantly across the still air of the bay. It was an old, familiar hymn, and on each of the other ships men began to appear on deck. There was no rush, no commotion. They were like the ragged figures he had often seen in the fields, pinned in place by the angelus bell. They stood there like sleepwalkers, revelling sullenly, snared in the dream. There was no more hammering, no more heaving, no more coiling of rope. The communion was general. The scene had been arranged long before. To a man they stood without moving, without a sound, staring towards the west. Morgan too had finally heard the call. He stood
half hidden behind the galley, staring towards the North Star. She did not appear, but he remained where he was, as fixed as any of them. As the handle turned, he forgot his spite, felt the hymn unravelling inside him, note by note. The machine was not pumping music into him, but drawing it forth. Stubbornly, strictly, he had always refused to believe in the words, but now he could feel his lips forming them silently. He had learned them all as a boy, and no amount of work could ever scrub them from his heart.

  When he went down to dinner that evening, he found MacDonald sitting alone at the table.

  This morning, Morgan said. No hitches? No trouble? No trouble at all.

  Thank you, Mr MacDonald, Morgan said. I’m sincerely grateful to you for that.

  During dinner, Myer insisted on discussing the winter ahead. In any case, he said, we are well set to meet whatever trials the climate can bring. In our outfits, our outlook, and our health. Dr DeHaven, do you not agree?

  DeHaven said nothing. Water was dripping from the beams down onto floor. A drop landed on his plate, left a little crater in the cold sauce. It was like the first drop of summer rain on a month’s dust. DeHaven hung his head for a moment, like a man in private prayer. He kept a tight grip on his cutlery. Then he opened his eyes, exhaled audibly, and raised his head to look directly at his commander.

  I do agree with you, Mr Myer, he said, that it is quite remarkable how well the thing has been planned, the guarantee of idleness and boredom, and futility and danger, for the next six months of our lives.

  My plans, sir, are to persist, and to endure, and to be ready to serve whenever the chance presents itself, however soon or however late. Is that too ambitious for you?

  Ambitious isn’t the word that comes to mind, DeHaven said.

  I won’t be interrogated, sir.

  Now now, Mr Myer. No one is interrogating you. I simply presumed you would appreciate a frank, honest exchange of opinion between gentlemen. I underestimated your vanity, it seems.

  Shut your mouth sir. God damn you. I won’t be interrogated by a mere . . . supernumerary. Myer’s face was almost purple. He looked like a man with a disease.

  Supernumerary, yes. Subordinate, no, DeHaven said calmly, the way one would explain to a child. He gave every sign of enjoying the exchange. Take a good look at my contract, he said. You have no more authority over me than –

  I don’t give a damn what your contract says. You’ll obey or you’ll be made to obey. Ship’s surgeon or not.

  I’m not one of your cabin-boys, Myer. Remember that. These men here – he pointed around the table – are all witnesses can be made to take the stand, if you so much as lift a finger against me.

  We’re a long way from London now, Doctor, Brooks cut in.

  There was perfect silence. Myer had not taken his eyes from his rival.

  Be careful what you say now, DeHaven told him. And don’t go making any promises you can’t keep. It won’t raise your stock any. Au contraire, as our French friend would say.

  Myer’s silence continued. He had a decision to make. To remind him of the fact, there came a tepid knock on the door. It was Hepburn’s stupid, guilty face.

  I think you should come up to take a look at this, sir, he said.

  Hepburn went out and Myer turned to face the table again. They were still waiting. Nothing had changed. Finally he announced:

  You will pack your bags, sir. Tonight. You will leave behind all medical supplies, including your own instruments, for which I will be happy to give you a receipt, and for which I have no doubt you will be more than generously reimbursed. You will also surrender to me your private diaries and journals, which are ship’s property, I think you will find. If you have any doubt on that point, you can consider your contract. You are so fond of referring to that document I presume you have a copy of it within easy reach.

  You’re welcome to them, DeHaven said, smiling sourly. I’m not going to need them, when people ask me about my time under Captain Gordon Myer’s command. Because what I’ve seen on this ship, I’ll never forget. What I’ve seen these past few months bears not the remotest comparison, I can tell you, to anything I’ve seen in all my born life.

  Myer was gone. A stack of journals slammed onto the table, startling the plates.

  Something for you boys to read, in the long winter ahead, DeHaven said.

  Brooks was staring at him in silence, exactly as Myer had done.

  What are you looking for, Brooks? DeHaven said. Someone to blame, I suppose. For all the uncounted malheurs to come. Well, voila. Take a good, long, last look.

  Brooks continued to stare zealously.

  The Sound and the Channel are completely clogged up, DeHaven said. He was answering questions that had not been asked. Can we at least admit to that? Can we at least recognize the facts? For the life of me I can’t see why we’re not already hauling into shore to make ourselves safe for the winter. What is it he’s waiting for? I tell you, it’ll be a blessing – no, a miracle – if the North Star manages to get out.

  Brooks looked at him incredulously. He nodded at the wall. The season’s not closed yet. Not completely, he said. There might still be plenty of sailing to be done.

  Mr Brooks, DeHaven said, obviously our opinions as to Mr Myer’s abilities diverge. So be it. But even I do not think the bastard sufficiently stupid that he would propose leaving a safe winter harbour to go north through soup ten feet thick, into uncharted waters, at the end of September, and the mercury heading for zero Fahrenheit, twenty-five degrees shy of the Pole.

  Perhaps we should scupper the ship here and now, Brooks said. It sounds like that would suit you best.

  Go easy with the acid, Mr Brooks, Morgan said.

  Plenty of sailing, DeHaven said. Just let him try it, I say, and see how far he gets.

  What are you planning, Doctor? A mutiny? Mr Morgan, I trust you are taking note of this.

  The word had been pronounced. Everyone was listening now.

  Nothing so grand, I’m afraid, DeHaven said.

  Are you afraid to call a spade a spade?

  Mr Brooks, if a commander shows himself unfit for command, mentally, morally or physically, it is the duty of the medical officer to record and announce the fact. However disagreeable the task might be. Take a commander proposing a course of action that serves no useful purpose whatsoever, yet endangers the lives of every man aboard, and the ship itself. Questions should be asked about the sanity of such an individual, I think you’ll agree. It wouldn’t be a question of usurping his command, merely relieving him of it. There’s quite a difference, from a legal point of view.

  Morgan was smiling at all of this, enjoying the audacity, the outright refusal to submit. DeHaven had that talent, and had that luxury. In a matter of hours he would have packed his bags, be ready to row over to the North Star tomorrow, to go home with her. These past six months would have been nothing more than an interruption for him.

  And that’s a letter it wouldn’t take me too long to compose, DeHaven was telling them. It’s quite a while now I’ve had that little testimonial by heart.

  You’re all wind, Brooks said. You’ve done absolutely nothing this whole trip but
whine and whinge, and now it’s roughing up a little, you’re deserting.

  I’m not deserting, Mr Brooks. I’ve been discharged.

  Perhaps. But I’ve never seen a man so glad to go. So write your letter. Write it and nail it to the mast, to give us something to remember you by when you’re gone.

  DeHaven patted the stack of ledgers on the table. Don’t worry, he said, I don’t think you’ll be forgetting me for a while yet.

  23rd September. Midnight

  Morgan touched the edge of the blade to the hawser, began to saw it back and forth. It was their best bower anchor, and his best skinning knife. An hour before, he could not have imagined the act. Now it felt like something he’d been planning for years. The first strands curled into the air. Long smooth strokes, he told himself. The full length of the blade. The thing was firm but yielded something under every thrust. It felt more like cutting meat than cutting rope. A minute or two more was all he needed now, without anyone coming up. Like a piston, the knife shuttled smoothly back and forth. His arm was starting to tire. On each side of the blade, the rope-ends were flowering beautifully.

  Then he was standing alone at the bell, sounding midnight. He could hear them singing below. So she had to climb the mast, they sang. It was DeHaven’s farewell. They had been at it for four hours solid now. He sat and watched the light flickering in the seam of the hatch door. He had left a few strands intact on both hawsers, and wondered when exactly they would cede. Lately he had often thought of Cabot, opening the letter that brought the news his boy was dead. Morgan could not help imagining it. That first, irreversible moment of understanding. The definite downward pull. Under the man’s own impossible weight, the surface of the world suddenly paper-thin. Under Morgan’s own bootsoles now, that was how the deck felt. They were about to launch. The entire ship was ready to tilt.

  Below, he stepped through the doorway with a definite stride. DeHaven was wearing a tricorne hat. A naked sword lay on the table before them, amongst the bottles and the cups. The cat too was up there, licking at a plate.