Voyage of Ice

by Michele Torrey

  Climb? In there? Naked as the day I was born? In front of everyone? An awful flush started at the base of my neck and burst upward to the roots of my hair. Aunt Agatha always said I was the fastest flusher this side of the Mississippi. I glanced around furiously, wondering how I could get out of this. But when I saw clouds gathering on Cole's face, I knew I had about two seconds to follow orders or else.

  “Ah, Jeez.”

  I tore off my clothes, every last stitch, and climbed onto the head, praying Elizabeth wasn't watching from somewheres. I felt myself blaze with embarrassment and heard laughter and guffaws. Taking a quick breath, I lowered myself inside. Blood and thunder. It's squishy and disgusting. Hot. Soupy. Liquid-filled cells were everywhere, like a giant honeycomb.

  “You see, Bones,” said Garret as he dipped a bucket into the head, talking casual, as if we were on a picnic, as if everyone weren't standing there laughing at me, “a sperm whale's head is like a camel's hump. Ain't no other way to explain it, really. Oil is stored in the head like water's stored in a hump.” He clapped me on the back. “Aw, c'mon. Don't look so blamed pop-eyed. It's what puts money in your pocket.”

  “Right now I don't have any pockets.”

  Cole handed me a bucket. “Stopper your tonsils and get to work, Bones. We don't run a nursery here.”

  For the next hour or so, surrounded by slurping and sucking sounds, Garret and I hacked and scooped with knives and buckets, emptying out the head. The white liquid congealed as it came in contact with the air, like hot wax suddenly cooled. We were covered with pulp, ooze, slime. Finally finished, Garret and I slipped out of the head, rinsed, and dressed. My skin was soft, as though I'd bathed in lotion.

  Meanwhile, others poured the oily liquid into the trypots to boil. Once it was boiled and put into casks, slabs of blubber were hauled up from the blubber room, minced, and piled into the try-pots to melt into oil. As the blubber melted, the shriveled skins and solids were skimmed out of the trypots and thrown into the fire as fuel. The fire hissed and flared with a roaring gasp, belching out of the double chimney and into the night. The sails flickered orange. Embers spat upward. We looked like hell afloat.

  For most of the night, I was screamed at—curses mixed with “stupid blasted greenie,” followed by a kick or two on the backside. Cole swung a marlinspike at my head, but I ducked and hurried away. He said it was the fastest he'd ever seen me move. Fact was, I didn't know what to do unless someone was screaming at me, telling me where to go and what to do. I'd never boiled a whale before.

  The scuppers were stoppered so that none of the oil could leak overboard. Dungarees rolled up to my knees, sockless, I waded through blood, oil, and seawater, my brogans squashing with every step as slime squished between my toes. Boiling whale smelled about as nice as a dead pig buried in rotted cheese.

  Toward morning, I slipped in the slop and landed flat on my back. I lay there a moment out of everyone's way just to catch my breath. It was my first rest since the morning before. Did Father ever work this hard? Did Father ever swing a marlinspike at anyone's head? Smash anyone's nose? Am I really a blubbering girl?

  “Here.” Dexter held out a hand to help me up. His face was black and shiny from greasy soot, his eyes reddened from smoke.

  I staggered to my feet. “You look like the devil.”

  “Aye.” He grinned, his teeth startling white against the black.

  “So do you.”

  I glanced at his hands. “You all right?”

  “Nothing a little whale oil won't cure.”

  “Sorry I got you into a scrape.”

  He shrugged, but I could tell he wasn't happy with me. I'd let him down, likely, just as I'd let down everybody else. “They're cooking doughnuts in the trypots. Go get you some before it's too late.”

  “No.” I shook my head, my throat tightening. “Don't feel so good right now.”

  Dexter nodded. Most times, it wasn't necessary to explain things to him. He always seemed to know anyways. “You hated it, didn't you?” I knew he was talking about the hunt.

  “Aye.” My voice thickened. “Thorndike says I'm a sorry excuse for a whaleman. That I'm a blubbering girl. And now everybody thinks I'm—I'm a coward.”

  I was hoping he would argue with me, tell me I was a right excellent whaleman and brave as Caesar, but he didn't. “You always were too soft-hearted.”

  “So what should I do?”

  At that moment, my heart tumbled, for Thorndike approached, glowering, looking like the devil of devils. I left Dexter and hurried back to work, weak with relief when Thorndike faded back into the shadows.

  On New Year's Day, just over two months out of New Bedford, I got myself brained.

  I was climbing the ratlines to furl the main topgallant and royal when Briggs muscled past, at the same time planting a sharp elbow on my temple. “Out of my way, idiot!” I lost my footing, slipped sideways off the shrouds and dangled above the deck, feet kicking, before my fingers gave way and I fell. It wasn't a long fall, but it was hard. My teeth slammed together and I bit off a piece of my tongue. I lay there wondering where I was and why I was flat on my back and why Briggs looked so ugly whenever he grinned.

  “Get up.” First Mate Cole stood over me, glowering. The wind was gathering force, for we were headed west round Cape Horn, into some of the most treacherous waters known to mariners. It was raining, a freezing, stinging rain, and icebergs floated round. All hands had been ordered aloft to shorten sail. “I said, get up!”

  He kicked me when I didn't move. It was a sharp kick, aimed at my ribs. I gasped with pain. When I still didn't move, couldn't, he put on his brass knuckles and went to work on me. Garret told me later that Cole beat me for two minutes straight. That Dexter and Garret and Irish had to pull him off me, that Dexter had to call for help but not before Cole had broken four of my ribs and my nose and beaten the rest of my face to a bloody pulp. When questioned by the captain, Cole swore I'd disobeyed a direct order. That old ladies with broken legs moved faster than I did. Thorndike nodded, said I was a sorry excuse for a whaleman, the most inept sailor he'd ever known, and that maybe this would knock some nautical sense into me. I was put on the sick list.

  I don't remember much about being brained, only that I lay in my bunk day after day, hating Thorndike, hating the Sea Hawk, hating Briggs' pimply, arrogant face, adding Cole to my hate list, my face throbbing, every breath afire, my tongue sore, my nose swollen and blood-filled, while storms raged round me and I thought we would all sink and drown.

  At first, Dexter visited me after his watches ended, sometimes bringing me broth and coffee and hard bread. But after a while he just crawled into the bunk above me without changing his clothes. He shivered before falling asleep as the ship reeled and shrieked and a heavy head sea pounded the bow again and again like a giant fist.

  One night, Briggs woke me from a deep sleep. “Hey, Bones,” he whispered in my ear. “There be a fat rat a-chewing on your toenails.”

  Slowly, I rolled over, away from his arrogant whisper. Go away. I hate you. My corn-husk mattress crunched beneath me. Pain was flashing through my ribs when, by fire, I did feel something furry down by my feet. My eyes popped open. I peered at my feet. A huge rat sat on his haunches, helping himself to my toenails.

  I shrieked, high and girl-like, at the same time flailing like an idiot. I slammed my head on the upper bunk.

  Briggs roared with laughter.

  And while I struggled to get out of my bunk, Briggs tossed a handful of cockroaches at me. They landed in my face. My hair. Again I shrieked, pawing at myself.

  The fo'c'sle was in an uproar. Men who'd been asleep awakened, sitting upright with alarm. Those who'd been watching roared alongside Briggs. And through it all I shrieked, finally flinging myself from my bunk. I stood in the middle of the fo'c'sle now, shaking, half crying, blood pounding in my ears and dribbling out my nose. Pain throbbed through my ribs so bad I clutched my sides, groaned, and sank to my knees.

  Cockroac
hes swarmed over my bedding. The rat was nowhere to be seen.

  Dexter had been sleeping, but now he looked at me, his hair frazzled. I reckon it didn't take a whale-oil expert to figure what had happened, what with Briggs roaring with laughter. Dexter climbed out of his bunk and, without saying a word, began tossing the cockroaches out one by one and hammering them with his brogan. He shook out my blankets, checked all sides of my mattress and every corner of my bunk.

  “Awww, ain't that so sweet,” said Briggs as Dexter helped me back into bed.

  Dexter covered me, wiped my nose with a hanky, and whispered, “I've been thinking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dexter glanced round to see if anyone was listening, but the fo'c'sle was still in chaos, men yakking or laughing or hollering for everyone to shut the hell up. “I've been thinking of leaving.”

  I blinked. “Leaving? You mean deserting?”

  “Shh. Aye.”

  “Why?”

  He sighed. “Look at yourself, Nick. You're a blasted mess.”

  I groaned. “Have you seen yourself lately?” Dark shadows were stamped below Dexter's eyes. His hair stuck out every which way.

  “Aye. I've a boil on my neck that's near killing me. I lost a fingernail today somewheres up on the mainmast. Most times I'm so cold I can't feel my hands or feet when I'm aloft.”

  “But what about your dreams?”

  He shrugged. “Aunt Agatha made me swear on our mother's grave that I'd bring you home in one piece. Face it, Nick, whaling isn't for you. Some men love it. Some men hate it. When we stop to reprovision at the Sandwich Islands, we'll desert. I'll go whaling again once we're home.”

  “You're a true brother, Dex.”

  Dexter ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “So what about it?”

  I nodded, blinking back tears. “I want to go home.”

  The next day, Briggs was snoring away in his bunk.

  Dexter crept up and, slick as you please, dumped a pint of dried peas into Briggs' open mouth. As Briggs exploded upward, midsnore, choking, Dexter sprinted across the fo'c'sle and sprang into his bunk quick as an antelope. We all pretended not to notice, of course. We pretended to be sleeping, or picking our nails, or writing a letter, as Briggs gagged and spluttered and cursed and told everyone he was going to kill whoever had done it.

  “Ah, now, Briggs,” said Irish finally, “you got to admit it was no more than you deserved.”

  “Shut your face, Irish.”

  “Bad day, is it you're having?”

  “I almost choked to death!”

  “What a pity,” drawled Dexter. “Why don't you go tell the captain? He'll wipe your tears with his fist.”

  Just then, the wind shrieked and the ship heeled sharply. Briggs crashed against his bunk. Boots and clothing slid across the fo'c'sle floor. Feet hammered the deck overhead as someone hollered down the companionway, “All hands! All hands to shorten sail!”

  Men tumbled out of their bunks and pelted for the ladder, scrambling to don their boots and oilskins as they cursed and ran.

  Moving quickly, Briggs scraped up the peas and plunked them into his tin pint pot. After stowing them, he put on his oil-skins, snugged on his sou'wester, and said to me, “What're you staring at? Finders keepers. They're mine now.” And out he went.

  esides seeing dried peas poured down Briggs' throat, there were two good things about being on the sick list, stuck in the fo'c'sle for three weeks straight.

  First, I began to carve whale teeth like my father used to. Scrimshaw, it was called, and I believe I was right good at it. Fact was, Irish peeped into my bunk to see how I was feeling, and when he saw the tooth I was carving, he whistled and told everyone to come have a look. Everyone straggled out of their bunks, excepting Briggs, of course, and admired my carving. It was of an eagle snagging a fish from the water, struggling to lift its prey. Right then and there the boys bid for my tooth. It sold to Irish for two doughboys, one plum duff, and a new pair of wool socks straight from the slop chest. I was proud. “Never knew you had it in you,” said Dexter.

  The second good thing about being on the sick list was that Elizabeth came to see me. Well, her mother came too. And not just to see me, but to see all the fellows who were sick or hurt. And there were plenty.

  On that day the door banged open. Wind gusted through the fo'c'sle. The lanterns flared and I smelled a faint scent of perfume. Lilacs, maybe. Armed with bandages, iodine, scissors, and such-like, Mrs. Thorndike and Elizabeth climbed down the companion-way. Duff, the steward, followed and began pouring coffee for everyone, slopping more onto the floor than into the cups. It was eight bells and the change of watches, so the women first tended one watch, then another, while the door opened and closed, men going in and out dressed in their oilskins and sou'westers.

  At first, Elizabeth looked scared, as if she'd never been in the fo'c'sle before. Certain it must have looked wretched, what with clothes piled knee deep, coats moldering on pegs, cockroaches and rats, men groaning in their bunks, and a stink that would shrivel a dog. Nose and fingers pink with cold, slender like her mother, with high cheekbones, Elizabeth dabbed the moisture off her face with a lace-trimmed hanky. I swear I could see the entire ocean in her eyes.

  Tucking her hanky down the wrist of her sleeve, Elizabeth saw me and smiled. I felt color creeping past my collar, remembering the last time she'd seen me—getting chewed out by her father for being a poor excuse of a whaleman. When she looked away, I licked my hands and smoothed my hair back and scrubbed my face as best I could. It wouldn't do to look as if I'd been wallowing in a pigpen during a hurricane.

  “Elizabeth, pay attention,” said her mother, yanking her arm. “A good captain's daughter will someday make a good captain's wife. These are duties to which ye must attend.” So saying, Mrs. Thorndike leaned over Irish's wrist and made a quick incision on a boil. Irish paled as blood and pus drained into a bowl. Mrs. Thorndike cleaned the boil with iodine and wrapped it in bandages, all the while explaining to Elizabeth what she was doing. “'Tis the chafing of the wet oilskins that causes the boils…. And of course, this be frostbite. Cape Horn fever, we call it.”

  They made their way round all the bunks, finally stopping at Dexter's bunk above me. Mrs. Thorndike was talking to Dexter, asking him how he was feeling, when Elizabeth leaned down to me and whispered, “You're staring.”

  I flushed, suddenly finding the underside of the upper bunk most interesting.

  “What's your name?” she whispered.

  But before I could answer, Mrs. Thorndike yanked Elizabeth upright. “Pay attention, young lady. This poor sailor's telling us all about his boils and all ye can do is lollygag. Time's a-wasting.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Now I want you to lance his boils, clean them, and bandage them just like I shown you.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Soon it was my turn.

  “Why, young man, it doesn't look as if you've set foot out of your quarters for days.”

  “Uh—yes'm.”

  “What's ailing you, then?”

  “I—uh—fell out of the rigging.”

  “Funny, I didn't hear of it. Usually Mr. Thorndike informs me of such occasions.”

  “He must've forgotten.”

  She asked me what I'd hurt in my fall, and I told her, aware that Elizabeth was watching and listening. After my explanation, Mrs. Thorndike began examining me. She was a stern-looking woman, narrow-faced, her faded yellow hair pulled back tightly. Tiny wrinkles played at the corners of her eyes. She looked to be in her mid-forties.

  I winced when she examined my ribs.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Yes'm.”

  “Take another week of rest, and then report for light duty.”

  “Yes'm.”

  “Well, Elizabeth, we've done our duty for today. Gather our things together, and mind ye hold on to the lifeline.”

  Elizabeth flashed a smile at me before following her mo
ther out of the fo'c'sle.

  There was a brief silence after they left before Irish said, “Well now, Bones, I think the lass has taken a fancy to the cut of your jib, though why is a mystery!”

  “Must be the dashing air about him,” said another sailor; “you know, his elegance and ease.”

  “Must be all them muscles.”

  “Couldn't be his brains.”

  “Maybe she's just a wee bit seasick.”

  “She'd have to be.”

  “Poor lass.”

  “Ah, don't worry none. Ol' lover-boy Nick will cheer her right up. Ain't that right, Bones?”

  I didn't answer, grinning so hard my cheeks ached. By fire, I think I'm cured.

  “Good girl, that's my good girl.” I patted Ninny's side as she nibbled my sleeve. Then, after rubbing my hands together, I began to milk the goat. “I know, girl, you miss your baby and my hands are cold, but hold still now. Eat your grain and let me do my job.”

  Goat duty.

  That's what everyone called it. The cook, the steward, everyone thought it was a tedious chore, but I loved it. Besides being a fine producer, giving upwards of a gallon a day, Ninny was a good goat. Friendly and sweet. From the time I first scratched behind her ears, behind her little horns, she bleated for me whenever I passed, straining against the rope round her neck. It was the beginning of February, and ever since being taken off the sick list the week before (not long after Ninny had given birth to a kid that ended up adorning the captain's table), I'd been given permanent goat duty. And though we were headed north now, toward the equator and the Sandwich Islands, it was still nippy.

  “Almost done, girl. Steady there.”

  Someone giggled beside me. “Do you always talk to animals?”

  Startled, I felt heat blaze up my neck. “I didn't know anyone was listening.”

  Elizabeth laughed again and moved closer, the orange tabby nestled in her arms. Her waist-length hair was tied back in a blue ribbon that matched her eyes and her bonnet. A faint scent of lilac caught the breeze. “What do they call you besides Bones?”