The Surfacing

by Cormac James

  Immediately he saw it properly, Morgan saw their mistake. He looked glum. The hope had been overwhelming, of what the world unbidden might have sent out to find them. But it was one of their own – a bird they themselves had sent out two days before, to give the world their latest news.

  What were you expecting? DeHaven said. An olive branch?

  Beyond the gunwale the ice looked solid, deeply bruised. They watched Morgan hustle the unhappy thing into a corner of the deck. He gently cupped it in his hands. He flung his arms into the air. He’d already done this a dozen times. He might as well have flung a crumpled news-sheet at the horizon. The thing flapped once and spiralled slowly onto the boards. In the end they gave it to Cabot to cook. Afterwards, below, the men were unusually silent, almost sad. They would be last to leave the dance.

  It was the 10th of October. Twilight in the morning and twilight in the afternoon. They came to rest somewhere along the northeastern curve of Cornwallis Island, just outside a little inlet that Myer said would make a perfect refuge. They tried to bully their way in, and could not quite manage it. They were fifty yards short, no more. They anchored their last cable to the rocks and tried warping. The ice was too thick. They hardly gained a yard. Already Myer was talking of cutting a canal to get themselves in. In the meantime, he ordered the cable left in place, for security. They drew it as tight as they could, and the very first night the thing froze. Thick as a man’s arm, stiff as iron, and slumped in mid-air. Morgan could see they would never coil it again.

  That night, as usual, he lay awake listening. Apart from the dripping water, it was strangely quiet, and he liked it no more than he had liked the noise. Ordinarily, the crush – the collisions – sounded like heavy artillery. Now, from far out in the Channel, they sounded like distant surf. Immediately about the ship there was no more than a murmuring. All the aimless days, the abandoned efforts, now had a single, specific goal. Looking back, it seemed not to matter if they’d done any one thing or its contrary. The final amount was the same. All their struggles, and all their concessions, had brought them to this spot.

  11th October

  Now that they were fixed for the winter, Myer ordered Banes to build a porch around the hatchway, and ordered Morgan to see it was properly done. After a while DeHaven came up to keep him company. He had been down with Kitty again. These past few days she’d not been well.

  How is she? Morgan asked.

  Worse, DeHaven said.

  They stood on the open deck in their furs. From out in the Channel, they could hear the workings of the old mill. On the southern horizon, the frost-smoke was the colour of tobacco. At their feet, the steam was seeping out through the chinks in the boards.

  Another nice day, Morgan said.

  Calm, DeHaven offered.

  Dry.

  It could as well clear up as come down.

  It could.

  Day by day, they were honing the performance.

  You making any progress, Banes? Morgan shouted. For the moment I don’t see much to show for all that noise.

  None at all, sir.

  You just banging those planks to keep yourself warm, is that it?

  That’s about the size of it, sir.

  That afternoon, the two men made a three-hour tramp over the land, and returned without having fired a single shot. A month before, at Beechey, time after time the Brent geese had come lording down over them in great braying flocks from the north, stirring up loons and divers to flatter the air.

  There’s got to be something somewhere, DeHaven said. She needs fresh meat.

  As they turned back for the ship, they saw a single flock of snow bunting trembling in the air, far out over the Channel, pointing south.

  The next day Morgan headed out alone over the ruins of the floe. Inside the ship, he knew, she was waiting patiently, purring almost. Later, she would say nothing of his long absence. She never did. She knew well he had to come back.

  He squatted down in the lee of a hummock. The snow was impeccable. The water in the ice-hole was a pool of ink. An hour later, a nicely-bloated calf struggled up onto the ice. He settled the stock, pulled the trigger, and watched the thing wobble back into the water with a neat splash. His powder had been spoiled by the cabin damp.

  He began the long tramp back to the ship. Coming back, he could hear a dog far out in the wilderness, complaining pitifully. One by one they ran off, in the hope of a better life elsewhere. One by one they came back. It was not a good sign, Petersen said.

  He tramped all the way back to the ship, and dried his powder in the galley, but did not have the courage to go out again. So close to a warm cabin and a warm meal, he felt too cold, too sorry for himself, and for every other living thing. He could still see the one he’d missed. The head rising straight up out of the ice, to stare in wonder at the new world. An expression both eager and innocent, it seemed to him now.

  From their bunks they watched him marching on the spot. He was stamping hard, in a cadet’s drill, trying to revive his feet. It was no use. It had been too cold to stay still so long, and in the end he had to ask DeHaven to cut off his boots. Kitty too was there, and knelt to help. She bent to take his feet in her hands and let out a yelp. The socks were stiff. They crackled and splintered as she peeled them off. Underneath was exactly what he did not want to see. She went to put some water to boil, and brought back a plate of food. Carefully, spoon by spoon, Morgan began to transfer the mess into his mouth. He chewed it as best he could, and forced it down.

  My compliments to the chef, he told Cabot. Or chefs. Wheresoever they may be.

  Of course, we understand, DeHaven insisted. A man of your talents, after all, can hardly be expected to thrive in such conditions. He flapped a hand at the ceiling, the galley. It was another scene from their repertoire.

  It is all part of the adventure, Morgan said. As I keep telling Miss Rink here, if you wanted luxury, you should have stayed at home.

  They were all grateful for the banter, the act. They all knew it could not last. It could not hope to compete with what was on the way. Under the table, she’d put his two corpse’s feet to stand in a basin of warm water. For the moment, they looked and felt like two feet carved from wax. But soon she would take them in her hands and begin to massage them again, to try to bring them back to life.

  13th October

  By now Myer rarely left his cabin. Except for dinner, Morgan suspected that some days he did not even leave his bed. He had no encouragement to do so. No one invited him to join them in their walks. No one sought his opinion on anything anymore. There were times Morgan forgot he was still aboard. Then, to remind them of everything they hated in the man, after dinner on the 13th Myer called together Petersen and Cabot, and all the officers, and told them he had an announcement to make.

  It has occurred to me, Myer said, that we would all of us sleep easier if someone else knew precisely where and in what manner we were set. The easiest manner would be to send a communication to the ships at Beechey.

  A communication, DeHaven said. It was a strange, new word.

  A sledge party of five, victualled for twenty-eight days, Myer said.

  Morgan listened to Myer reveal his pla
n. He had poured himself another glass of wine, and now held it up to the light. It glowed handsomely. Suddenly it seemed too precious, too sweet. He was afraid to put it to his lips.

  I’ll leave it to yourself, of course, to choose your men, Myer was telling Morgan now.

  I’ll give you one piece of advice, DeHaven said. Keep my name off the list.

  You’re afraid of a little hardship? Brooks said. What a revelation.

  If I was afraid of hardship, what would I be doing out here? Me and all these other fools?

  Do you refuse outright to go? If Mr Morgan selects you?

  I don’t refuse to go, but if I go, and get within striking distance of Beechey, I’ll refuse outright to come back.

  Morgan did not even look up. He was tired of being a spectator to their spats. He cupped his hands about his glass, warming it. They had found it frozen in the bottle, given it to Cabot to thaw.

  In any case, DeHaven smiled, how hard can it be? Nice and snug in your furs. Perched on top of the sledge, admiring the view, cracking the whip at the dogs every now and then.

  It is too rough, Petersen said, from Morgan’s bunk. He was nicely installed. He had been listening. He was awake.

  What is? DeHaven said.

  The ice. You smash it up, you freeze. Ten times you do this, then it is too rough.

  Too rough for what? DeHaven said. The man’s stupidity seemed deliberate.

  The dogs. You see it with your two eyes. Dogs they do not pull all together, not like men. Straight and flat, they are very good. But for ice rough like this? No. They will make a big knot and that’s all.

  But that is what they are for, the dogs, DeHaven said. That is the sole solitary reason we brought them along. To haul the bloody sledge. Dick, are you listening to this?

  It is too rough, Petersen said, without even bothering to open his eyes.

  There was total silence in the cabin.

  You don’t like it, good, Petersen said. So take the dogs. Make your big knot. See it for yourself.

  Pemmican aside, Myer said, in boiled and boned pork alone, I have calculated our essential needs at one hundred and eighty pounds. It was as though he had not heard Petersen speak.

  Our, DeHaven said. So you’re going with them? Bravo, Mr Myer. And here was I thinking you only ever ventured other men.

  The manufacture of which will consume in excess of two hundred and seventy-five pounds of raw meat, Myer explained, as though someone had insisted on having the details. It causes me no small pain, I can tell you, to sacrifice such a quantity of provision.

  Listen to him, DeHaven said. You’d think this whole lunatic scheme had come from someone else.

  Of course, Brooks cut in, five men away from the ship, for however many days, makes that much less necessity aboard. He was using his most reasonable voice. We do recognize that, he said, and we have, in our calculations, taken that into account.

  Dick, don’t even listen to them, DeHaven said. They’re trying to cut down your food, plain and simple.

  Myer started over, patiently. It’s a very particular kind of economy, Doctor. They can only haul so much per day per man. The more they bring to eat, the more they have to haul, and the hungrier they are at the end of the day. The equation may not be quite as simple as you think.

  The more they talked, the farther off the voices seemed to Morgan. By now he was thinking only of the suffering, the slavery. There had already been the first flicker of pride, that he would be equal to it, that he had been chosen. At last, he thought, a proper test.

  14th October

  Myer had other ideas too, about the sledge, and the lamps, and the tent. About how a man might survive out there, if separated from the rest. For instance, he said, it would be interesting to see what hospitality there was to be had under the snow.

  Hospitality, DeHaven said. For whom?

  A man. Evidently.

  What man?

  Any man. It doesn’t matter. The whole point is to ascertain what refuge a man caught alone out on the ice –

  You yourself, for instance.

  For instance. Or indeed you, Doctor. If you’re not too . . . frileux.

  But I’m not going out there. I’m never going to need it.

  Nor am I.

  The next morning, three burrows were dug out of the snow.

  How big? the shovels asked.

  Just big enough, but no bigger, Myer explained.

  Morgan wriggled in as best he could, on his back. He shut his eyes, listened to them piling the snow at his feet, packing it down. Opening them again, he expected at least some little hint of twilight, and found total darkness. If he lay there calmly, he told himself, there was no reason he should not imagine himself lying in a vast hall. Then he lifted his arm, it struck the solid wall, and instantly his heart was pumping panic through his veins. He opened his mouth and emptied his lungs, noisily. He sucked them full of air again. He wanted to hear himself breathe, to show himself he could do it as slowly and calmly as he liked. It was not good, he knew, that he had already started to fret. He did not yet feel any particular cold. That was the first thrill of fear, he guessed. The cold would come later, once this opening bluster had died away.

  They were all out there, already grinning probably. It would not surprise him if Brooks decided to let the clock run on. It was no surprise the man had not volunteered himself, for all his brash talk. He thought of the full hour ahead. The devices that might help him weather it. Clench and unclench the hands and feet. Paddle the arms and legs. Roll the head. Let himself shiver wildly, if the shivers came. Always remembering that there was a thermometer somewhere near his feet, that he would have to try not to break.

  Under his furs, against his skin, he was wearing his silk undershirt, that Kitty had made for him. If nothing else, she had fine taste in clothes. He would always remember the first time he’d seen her, the vision, the woman with her fists on her hips, standing by the mantel in her brother’s front room.

  A chunk of snow slapped onto his forehead and his entire body leapt up off the ground, with a yelp. Afterwards, he wondered if they could have heard. Would the outer shell remain, if the insides collapsed? Would he choke to death before they got to him? Probably not. Probably there would be peals of laughter as they dragged him out. He lifted his head an inch, tucked chin to chest, narrowed his eyes to stare furiously at his feet, at where his feet should be, where there was most hope of light. He could see nothing, of course, except what he already saw in his mind. The boots, he told himself. Think. He needed some mind-trick to pass the time. Go through it carefully. Say it out loud. Who. Where and when. Why. The boots, he told himself again. They had all warned him off leather, but he’d brought them along anyway. They were a relic of better times. The night of his marriage he’d ended up in the cellar with DeHaven and Roche and Roche’s brother-in-law – he forgot the name – and there in the lamplight he shot a hole in a cask of French wine stood against the wall, and all night long the four men drank from their boots. His wife had often mocked him for it since, but he was glad he’d done it, it was something his own father had done in his day, and he would never have a better c
hance to pander to its appeal.

  He could no longer feel his legs. That meant nothing, he knew. It happened often enough, lying in bed under the heavy blankets, listening to the riot. It was easy enough to lose track, if you lay still long enough. Why could he not pretend he was merely under the blankets now? He lay there absolutely still, afraid. There was no need to be afraid, he told himself. All that fretting, those memories – they were precious minutes passed. Any second now he would hear the first distant scrape. He must not panic, that was all. What you needed was not courage, merely to trick yourself into staying calm. Gently pick yourself up, then put yourself down again in a place you would like to be. The corner room, upstairs, that faced south. That was where he was now. It sounded like the old charm. There had once been a great ease to him, able to convince himself of his right to whatever he desired. He was a more sceptical audience now, almost always hard to please. Rink’s house, Disko, he insisted, to bring himself back. Upstairs, the corner room, that looked over the bay. A blue glass trim to the bedstead. In a room directly adjoining, a tall enamel tub. A room that conferred rights he had nowhere else. Afterwards, that last time together, he lay there wide awake. The late afternoon sun roaring behind the blinds. Shifting in her sleep, somehow she’d managed to wind most of the sheet about herself. The shadows were deep in the folds. On her forehead, a lone damp hair, like a crack in porcelain. Something was still alive just under the eyelids. It would be over as soon as she woke. His head only inches from hers, he blew gently – breathed almost – into her ear. He saw it all again, as clearly as ever. The nose twitches, annoyed, but she doesn’t wake. The next time, she jerks away, and her tits jerk out of invisible sockets, shiver back into place. He lets her settle in again, and he gives her time. Then he takes the corner of the sheet between his fingers, and very gently begins to pull. Noiselessly, the sheet slides off her thigh. It takes a few seconds for the cold air to register. She rolls onto her other shoulder, and the hips follow, dragging the sheet out of his hand. Turning away, she has turned her face to the window, and has to bury her head in her pillow to shut out the light. He takes hold of the sheet again and pulls until he can see some flesh. He lets her start to fret and bother, trying to cover herself again. They go through the routine a few more times. All he has to do, to be sure not to wake her, is stop at the first sign of resistance, then leave her to her own devices for a while. Even asleep, she is an expert at wiping the slate clean. This time she tightens her fingers about the sheet, and tightens the fingers into a fist, and clasps the fist stiffly under her chin. It’s something she wants to keep safe, for later. That fist is welded to the end of her arm. The elbow and the shoulder, too, are of a single piece, so that tugging at the sheet he is tugging at her body entire. It’s like pulling at something on a string. He is no longer curious to know how she will react, because each time her reaction is the same. What he wants to know is how long it can continue. How many more times can be just like the first? On the bedside table, his watch is ticking shamelessly. Beside it, in the ashtray, there is a charred matchstick, and a shrivelled cigarette butt, which they have shared. For two full days the house had been empty, yet at any moment he expects to hear voices, footsteps, a knock on the door. Now that he’s noticed it, the ticking is getting louder. Soon it sounds like a dripping tap. Eventually he stuffs the watch under his pillow. For a few seconds, it sounds like the smothering has succeeded. But from the very start he suspects it can’t be quite so easy. From the very start his mind has been rooting, and probing, and it’s not long before he finds its hiding place. There it is, a little farther off, but just as stubborn and scrupulous as ever, working away in the background all the while.