The Cold Beneath

by Tonia Brown

  When I drew to a finish, almost a straight hour of telling my woeful tale, the room fell into an eerie silence. I had not only succeeded in killing the mood, again, but also in stopping the conversation. I expected the men to take their leave of me, to abandon me just as everyone else in my life had. Yet to my surprise, and joy, they did not.

  They stayed with me.

  They stayed by my side, but more importantly, they commiserated.

  “Hell, Philip,” Lightbridge said. “I suppose I owe you the world’s largest apology.”

  “What?” I asked. This was not the reaction I expected. Not after being compared to a little girl in my weakness.

  “Me too, laddie,” Albert said.

  “I am such an ass,” Lightbridge moaned. “How blind I have been to your need. What kind of friend am I?”

  There was a word I had not expected to hear at all. Friend. He didn’t call himself my captain or my employer. He called himself my friend. The word had never sounded sweeter in my weary ears.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.”

  “Of course I could have,” Lightbridge argued. “I knew something was up. But I thought … well … let’s just say I assumed the opposite was true. I mean, you seem so shy about her. I guess we know why now.”

  “I could have said.”

  “I wish you had. If I had only known, I might have …” he let the thought trail off, unable to complete the idea.

  I sighed. “You would have what? Not signed me on? Asked her to leave?”

  Lightbridge eyed me warily, but didn’t answer.

  And all at once, I felt terrible for putting him in that position. “Don’t feel you must answer. I understand how hard it must be. She is quite the siren, trust me, I know. But you are right about one thing, I am weak of spirit—”

  “Nonsense!” Lightbridge roared over me. The man seized me by the shoulders again, scooping me to his side and locking me in a bear-tight hug. “I jest that you are weak of spirit, true. But I have found through the years that it is these little insults that bond good friends. To know that even as you say them, nothing is further from the truth. To know you share the jest under the words. To laugh about it together.”

  I wanted to thank him, but in my heart I wasn’t laughing when he called me weak. Not even inwardly. I knew then as I know now, I am a weak man; whether by design or nature, I am not sure. But I have never denied my frailty. I do not find fault when others point out mine.

  Lightbridge then said something that I shall take with me to the grave. “I have to say, in all of my days, Philip, I have never seen a stronger man.”

  I sat in stunned silence, unsure how to take this compliment, unsure where it was heading.

  “You have faced such adversity in your time,” he said. “You lost everything, over and over, yet you still find the will to keep going. Some folks aren’t quite that strong.”

  He paused here and gave a soft sigh, and I felt, somewhere in his narrative, that he was speaking of himself. Of his inability to face his own loss. He followed this sigh with a moment of candor that stayed with me for the rest of our journey. Whether it was the warmth of the liquor that loosened his tongue, or if it was the simple need for confession after my own act, I am unsure. I only know that his wisdom exceeded mine by lifetimes, and it was moments such as this that proved the truth of it.

  “Tell me, Philip,” Lightbridge said. “Why do you think I organized this expedition?”

  I didn’t know how to answer, so sure was I that there had to be some hidden meaning to his question. “You said so yourself. For the good of your countrymen.”

  He snorted a half-laugh at my naivety. “You have been around all of us long enough to realize that there is far more at stake here than mere patriotism.”

  “I don’t think I’m getting you.” I couldn’t help my confusion, for on the surface Lightbridge seemed typical of a patriot; loyal to his country as well as her causes to a fault. Eager to explore the globe in her name. Ready to lay his life on the line in a blind quest for her benefit.

  “Forty men have left everything behind and willingly put their necks into a veritable frozen noose, and you still believe it is for a simple slice of glory?” He shook his head. “I’ll wager every man Jack of them are after something far greater than petty bragging rights.”

  I still did not quite understand him, so I remained silent.

  Lightbridge gathered my confusion to his breast, and nursed it until I grasped the simple concept he spoke of. “I served my country to almost fifty years. And though she paid me well enough, at the end of my duty I was left with a deep well of absence inside. A certain lack of satisfaction. To put it bluntly, I wasn’t content. Despite my decorated uniform, and my modest wealth, I wasn’t satisfied. ‘Twas no one’s fault but my own. I was too focused on my career, too sure that I’d remain a soldier until my dying breath. But time gets away from us all. One minute, I was an eager young lad with stars in my eyes, the world at my feet and a beautiful woman by my side. It seems almost overnight I became a lonely old man.”

  It was the first I had heard him all but admit his wife was gone. I wanted to silence him, to tell him that all was well and he was dealing with it the only way he knew how. I wanted to assure him that I wished I had experienced half the love his precious Bessy surely left him with, but I thought better of it and kept my mouth shut.

  He shifted in his seat, most likely made uncomfortable by his own admission. “I joined those ridiculous explorers’ clubs not out of a need for excitement, but in hopes of finding what I lost along the way.”

  I understood then. It wasn’t patriotism that spurred Lightbridge. His yen wasn’t for outer exploration, but for inner satisfaction. On the surface he searched for True North, but at heart he sought his honor. His need to complete this journey was grounded in the overwhelming ache for admiration, but it not from the history books as he once suggested. Over his lifetime he had given his country every reason to admire him. Now, he needed a reason to admire himself.

  And everyone aboard was of the same mind.

  Including me.

  “Following the orders of one’s superiors can only take a man so far,” he said. “After that, you must seek contentment on your own. Or you will never be happy.”

  Again, his wisdom was like rain upon my barren soul. It was a feeling I strongly identified with, this need to be content with not just your works but also yourself. Doubt of others is a natural force, but to remain always unsure of yourself can leave a man more than just dissatisfied. It can make him unbearable. I know, because I have spent so many years under the same miasma of insecurity. As he lapsed into a well-earned silence, I was forced to wonder if such a thing could really be done.

  If I could redeem myself to the harshest critic of my life; myself.

  “There is something else you should know,” Lightbridge added. Returning to his previous humor with a wide, maniacal grin he nodded to his first mate. “It took me six weeks to convince Albert here to sign on with me.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the tinker. “Six weeks?”

  Albert tipped his head to one side, shame blooming on his already cherry cheeks, warming them to a red glow. “Aye, lad. I had no intention of riding on this ridiculous bird of his, no matter the amount of so-called glory waiting at the end. I didn’t mind building the fool thing for him. But a trip to the north? It was madness. And still is.”

  I shot a glance back to Lightbridge, curious if this was the only incident of such a long coaxing. I learned it was not.

  “Each man on this ship took at the very least a few days to convince,” Lightbridge said. “Each one refused me right out, like you did, and it took me weeks to work on some of them. I plied them all by messages of course, and eventually they caved to their curiosity. But you?” He laughed aloud and squeezed the near life out of me. “Son, you signed on with the spirit of a true adventurer. In the face of the terrors fate had already deal
t you, you signed on to this experimental journey with but a single night’s hesitation. In my book, that makes you the bravest man I know.”

  I was floored. This massive bundle of lightning and thunderous personality called me the bravest man he ever knew? I must have been dreaming. Or drunk. Or both. “I … I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “Say nothing. It’s but the opinion of one good friend to another. You know, son, you might be a bit on the dull side, but your life certainly isn’t.”

  “Aye,” Albert agreed. “You should consider telling your tale more often. I bet the boys in the bay would love to hear it.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “I’m not much of a storyteller.” I felt the heat of embarrassment on my own face then, and tried very hard not to imagine how the men of the ship would laugh at my abject failure. But Lightbridge hadn’t laughed. He listened and commiserated, and for that I will always owe him. Sure, Albert lent me his ear as well, but Lightbridge … Lightbridge had called me his friend. His good friend.

  And the bravest man he ever knew.

  The rest of our journey was slow, as well as uneventful for the most part. The crew seemed to tolerate me, if not grow outright fond of me, and who could blame them? Albert proved to be a good companion, but above all others Lightbridge turned into just as true a friend as he claimed. We spent many an hour jesting about Goode’s thievery, or playing chess in his quarters, or simply mulling over our respective lives. I found myself in such admiration of him, that I would have done anything for that man.

  My greatest tragedy of this entire affair was in never telling him so.

  Lightbridge estimated that True North could be reached within two months of air travel from his estate in Kentucky. We were due to spend a few weeks in the Arctic performing climate research and enjoying the bitter frost, after which we would return over another two months. Five months total with a buffer of another month for unforeseen circumstances.

  We headed straight out to sea, then followed the length of the east coast in a few bare weeks. We skirted up the coast of French Canadian territory over the next few weeks. The temperature change crept into the ship slowly over the course of those weeks, chilling the Fancy but not hindering our efforts in the slightest. I found the cold to be almost agreeable, and didn’t need half of the heavy clothing I had packed. Speaking with Albert revealed that he too left his heater off most of the time, and we both suspected the good doctor’s magic mix had something to do with our sudden acclimatization.

  It was also what killed the cook.

  ****

  back to toc

  ****

  Thirteen

  The First Death

  The chief of the kitchen staff’s name was Morrow. He was the oldest member aboard the ship, and in my professional opinion should never have been allowed to travel with us to begin with. Lightbridge hired the man from a local restaurant, and often bragged of the man’s culinary prowess. Morrow died aboard the Fancy because he could poach the best egg in all of Kentucky.

  Granted, he had a certain talent in the kitchen, poached eggs and all. But what he didn’t have was a strong heart. Despite his advanced years, he was subject to the Regimen just as the rest of us, and that’s what did him in. Overexertion, combined with extreme doses of ephedrine and God knows what else she hid in those injections, proved too much for the old soul. Seven weeks into the trip, he suffered a full cardiac arrest.

  It was ill timed, though I suppose a heart attack always is. But in this case it was doubly so. We had just passed into the Arctic Circle proper, and had spent the entire previous day celebrating the milestone with food and drink and song. The next morning, the man slumped over a sink full of dishes and didn’t get back up. Geraldine and her medical students did what they could. He hung on for a few days, but in the end, he lost the fight and passed from this life into the next. It was sad and shocking news to be sure, but nothing would top the announcement Lightbridge made following his explanation of Morrow’s death.

  He gathered the crew into the mess hall, a tight fit for all of us, but we managed. As he looked out across the sea of sad faces, everyone upset by the death of such a good man, Lightbridge delivered a speech I shall never forget.

  “This morning our beloved cook and close friend passed from this Earth, and with his death we are poorer people. Not only have we lost a friend, a fellow crew member and a capable chef, I feel we have also lost part of our family, and that is the cut that runs deepest of all.”

  Heads bobbed as the crew groaned in agreement. Geraldine wept openly, as did some of the men. I did my best to retain decorum, but I admit it was most difficult. I did not owe my emotional state to the loss of the cook, whom I admit I barely knew. What troubled me was the impending end to our journey. I had just begun to enjoy the idea of what we were engaged in, and now it was over. We were so close, a few days or so from our goal, only to have the whole affair shut down by one man’s weak heart. It would be a sorry return trip to be sure, bearing not only the corpse of such a fine man, but the corpse of our failure as well.

  Lightbridge continued, “In light of his death, we are left with a choice. As captain of this crew, the choice is by tradition mine alone. Yet I do not feel it is up to me, for the implication of such a decision affects us all. Therefore I turn to you, my steady crew, for a vote.”

  I was confused. What choice did he speak of?

  “I put it to you,” he said. “Do we stay our course, or do we return?”

  There was a mumbling amongst the crewmembers as they weighed his words. I was overwhelmed with a sudden sickness at the situation. Lightbridge meant for us to maintain our journey in light of a man’s death. How could we? What sacrilege was this? Before I could rise to voice my opinion on the matter, a young man stood and spoke. His badge named him as Herron.

  “Sir,” he said. “I think I speak for all of us, Morrow included, when I say that we should keep going.”

  I was sure the young man was mad, yet the entire crew gave a loud ‘here here!’

  “Are you sure?” Lightbridge asked.

  “We are sure,” Herron said. He wore the whites of the kitchen staff and was probably closer to Morrow than anyone aboard. How could he be so callous over the death of a friend?

  “You must be joking,” I said as I took to my feet, unable to withstand the insanity any longer. “A man is dead. We have to take him back for a proper burial.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, sir,” the young man said. “But he would have wanted us to keep going.”

  “But it’s disrespectful.”

  “That’s as may be, sir, Morrow was a sailor years before many of us were even born. A real sailor. He understood the importance of the course. He told me once that back in his day they would just chuck a man overboard rather than waste time or space on his cold corpse. Sir.”

  I went green at the idea. “This is lunacy. We should go back. We need to report his death properly. We need to turn his body over to his family.”

  “If you knew anything about him, sir, then you would know he has no family. We were his family. And we say move on.”

  He had me there. I didn’t know the cook any more than I knew anyone else aboard. I maintained my position and placed the only vote against staying our course. I think I lost what few friends I’d made on the first leg of the journey that very day. Shoulders, as well as temperaments, were much colder toward me from then on.

  “Then it is settled,” Lightbridge said after the vote was tallied. “We will continue our journey, but when we arrive at True North I shall shorten our stay. We shall remain just long enough to plant our flag. After which we will get back into the air and return home with our goal accomplished. Agreed?”

  Everyone, save for me, did.

  Lightbridge instructed Geraldine to store the body of Morrow in the larder, in the mechanical icebox. The kitchen staff agreed it was for the best, and the ghouls seemed all too glad to have their old friend resting in the chiller. I was disgus
ted by the whole affair, and retired to my room without another word.

  Two nights later, I awoke to a soul-rending scream. At first I thought an animal of some sort was trapped aboard, screeching and caterwauling in an effort to free itself. I leapt from the bed, throwing on my dressing gown before I stumbled into the darkened hallway—we kept the metal shutters of all the windows closed during the ‘night’ hours to help our nocturnal senses stay sane—where the few night crew members had gathered at the door to the kitchen. Bands of soft light streaked the hallway as others peered from half-open berth doors.

  “What is that terrible noise?” I asked.

  One of the men turned to me, saying, “It’s coming from the kitchen, sir.”

  “I can hear that!” I shouted back at him.

  The men lingered at the doorway as if made afraid by the terrible sounds pouring from the room beyond. I must admit I was frightened out of my wits, but I was neither a roughneck nor a rowdy laborer as these men were purported to be. But I would learn soon enough that cowardice lies in the hearts of all men, no matter their station in life.

  “What do you suppose is the cause?” I asked.

  “Something must be trapped,” Albert said as he pushed his way to the front of the group. The man was dressed in nothing but his long underwear, heedless of decorum or modesty. He stomped past me and straight into the den of darkness that made up the kitchen. With the flip of a switch, he ignited the electrical lights, and a golden glow consumed the darkness, eliciting a wince from all present. After the moment of sudden brightness passed, a strange truth became apparent.

  The kitchen was empty, but the din continued.

  “Where is it coming from?” I asked loudly as I stepped into the kitchen.

  The howling and screeching were amplified by the echo of the large room, leaving the source of the sound uncertain. It seemed as though it came from all around us, swirling in an eddy of shrieks and shouts. As we listened, trying to pinpoint the origin, I fancied that perhaps I heard something else alongside of those screams. I thought, and I wish to the heavens above that I were making this up, I thought I heard words. The longer I stood there listening, the more snatches of phrases came through the din of shrieks.