Bartlett and the Ice Voyage
Page 7
‘Well,’ said Captain Wrick, ‘you were right, Bartlett. I’d given up hope.’
‘Perseverance, Captain Wrick,’ said Bartlett, winking at Jacques le Grand.
Captain Wrick shook his head in amazement. ‘There are stories about these icebergs. A current gets hold of them and drives them north. It takes them months to melt and they usually end up sinking a ship that isn’t expecting them. But I’ve never seen one myself.’
Bartlett took the telescope. ‘It doesn’t look too big. But is it too small? Will it last?’
Bartlett, Captain Wrick and Jacques stared at each other. None of them knew.
Bartlett grinned. ‘There’s only one way to find out!’
Captain Wrick allowed himself a second smile. ‘Set the course, Michael.’
Jacques stared at the iceberg as Michael turned the wheel. ‘I hope the Queen’s prepared to wait,’ he muttered.
Bartlett and Captain Wrick looked at him in surprise.
‘I hope she’s prepared to wait,’ Jacques repeated. ‘She sits there in her palace and thinks it’s just a matter of snapping her fingers and telling people what to do—and everything will happen, just like that! Do you remember, Bartlett? Seven months was too long for her! Well, we almost drowned last week, a whole shipload of us, for the sake of a fruit.’ Jacques nodded fiercely to himself. ‘I just hope she’s prepared to wait.’
Bartlett frowned. That was one of the longest speeches Jacques had ever made. What a strange topic for him to choose! After a moment, he almost laughed out loud.
By the end of the afternoon they had reached the iceberg. The Fortune Bey rode at rest not more than a chain’s length away. It was about a third of the size of the iceberg they had first tried to tow. On one side it had a sharp peak, almost as tall as the mast of the Fortune Bey, and on the other side there was a flat bed of ice that rose only a few feet above the water. The iceberg had probably come from a larger block that had fractured in two.
Once again, Bartlett and Jacques le Grand took a boat with harpoons and chains. Jacques drove the harpoons into the ice. After they returned to the Bey, the three chains were bolted to the stern. The sun had just started to set. Captain Wrick ordered the sails unfurled. A brisk breeze was blowing. The sails snapped, billowed and bulged with air.
The Fortune Bey began to move with the winds. As the ship moved, the three chains rose out of the water. They stretched taut. The Bey creaked and stopped.
Bartlett held his breath. This was the last chance. To find an iceberg here was a freak. They wouldn’t find another.
The Bey shuddered. The wind blew. The turbaned figurehead at the prow quivered, almost as if he were grimacing with the effort. Finally, more slowly than before, the Fortune Bey began to move—and the iceberg, like a reluctant captive, began to follow.
Bartlett stood at the rail at the very back of the ship. The sun was a red disc on the horizon, plunging into the sea. The air had grown cool and the blue of the sky was deepening into black. In the wake of the Fortune Bey, the iceberg floated, led by the three chains that pricked its side.
Suddenly a seal put its head out of the sea. It bobbed in the water. Then as Bartlett watched, it crawled onto the ice. It wriggled its flippers. Bartlett smiled. The iceberg had a guest. Soon another seal followed, and then others arrived, clambering out of the water. Bartlett continued to watch even when it was too dark to see anything but a reflection of the light of the first evening stars, and the seals had become black blotches on their dark bed.
Still Bartlett could not tear himself away. The iceberg was so white, so pure, so hard. It could be a home for seals. It could sink a ship. And now, hoping to deliver a melidrop to a Queen, they were going to take it into the warmth, where it would melt and disappear.
Chapter 13
SIR HUGH LOUGH was standing under one of the exotic trees in the palace park. The Queen was having one of her garden parties and the animals, which had been herded away to the bottom of the park for the day, were replaced by people in their finest clothes. They stood around with cups of tea and dainty sandwiches distributed, by servants, from silver trays.
‘Well, James,’ muttered Sir Hugh to the man who was standing beside him, ‘perhaps the time has come to see whether her patience has finally broken.’
‘Whose patience?’ said Sir James.
Sir Hugh sighed. Sir James Finague was not a very clever man. He was also not very dashing. He was slim, delicate and pale, with long teeth and carefully shaped fingernails, and there was something about him that reminded Sir Hugh of a rabbit, always ready to hop away at the first sign of trouble. In fact, Sir Hugh did not even like him. But Sir James liked Sir Hugh, and would do almost anything to be seen with him. And at Court, where there were always others who wanted to spoil one’s plans, people like that could be very useful.
‘The Queen!’ said Sir Hugh impatiently, and he nodded towards her. She stood in the distance, not far from the birdcage, talking to a group of courtiers.
‘I see,’ said Sir James. ‘Well, she did say she would wait.’
Sir Hugh laughed out loud. ‘Wait? Our Queen? Seven months? ’ He glanced at Sir James, shaking his head with amusement.
Sir James grinned sheepishly.
Sir Hugh turned back to look at the Queen. Day by day, week by week, he had watched her frustration increasing. Now and again, at the right moment of course, he had said something to help it along. For instance, Bartlett, after all, had already waited years to explore the Margoulis Caverns. Wouldn’t he be prepared to wait a few more? For example, Bartlett was not necessarily a man you could trust. Who knew him apart from Sutton Pufrock? For instance, Bartlett did not necessarily care about the Queen. Did he seem like the sort of man who would risk life and limb for her? Yes, the right word at the right time could raise all sorts of doubts. And the Queen’s patience, which was never very strong, was stretching thinner and thinner. Perhaps, with one last push, it would snap.
Sir Hugh stepped out from under the tree. Sir James scampered to keep up with him.
‘When I nod,’ murmured Sir Hugh, ‘say something about how long it’s taking to get the Queen’s melidrop.’
‘You mean, something like: “It’s taking a long time to get the Queen’s melidrop”?’
‘Perfect,’ said Sir Hugh. He stopped not far from the Queen. If one spoke loudly, she might almost be able to hear, even over the noise of the birds behind her. At once a crowd of ladies and gentlemen gathered around him, eager to be seen with the most dashing man at Court. A servant came with tea and sandwiches. A moment later, Sir Hugh nodded at Sir James.
‘Do you know,’ said Sir James to the woman standing beside him, with a tremor in his voice because he knew that Sir Hugh was listening, ‘it’s taking rather a while … I mean … a long time to get the Queen’s melidrop.’
‘Yes,’ said the woman politely.
‘Yes!’ roared Sir Hugh, as if he just happened to overhear Sir James’ remark. ‘But it’s only the Queen who’s waiting. After all, it’s only the Queen. Why should that fellow hurry?’
The ladies and gentlemen shook their heads in disapproval, carefully balancing their cups and saucers to avoid spilling their tea.
Sir Hugh shook his head as well, sternly and dramatically, so that the gesture could be seen from a distance. The Queen was already watching him.
‘Perhaps he’s taken a holiday along the way,’ Sir Hugh continued scornfully, bellowing as loudly as he could. ‘Gone to see the sights! Set off to explore! Gone to visit his mother! Who knows? After all, it’s only the Queen who’s waiting. And who is a Queen to interfere with the plans of a traveller as great as Mr Bartlett ? ’
Sir Hugh stole another glance at the Queen. He could barely keep himself from smirking. She had suddenly left her group, and was moving towards him. She came like a breeze blowing across the palace park, and the ladies and gentlemen around her, curtsying and bowing, dipped like bright flowers and tall grasses swaying before the wind.
Sir Hugh looked away, so that he could turn back in surprise as the Queen arrived. Then he bowed deeper than anyone else, and gallantly kissed her long white glove.
‘Please continue, Sir Hugh,’ said the Queen. ‘I am sure that what you have been saying is quite fascinating, as usual.’
Sir Hugh smiled bashfully. ‘No, Madam. We were merely speculating where Mr Bartlett has got to. I considered that he has gone on a holiday. But Sir James suggested that he has gone diving for oysters off an island.’
‘Sir James, really!’ said the Queen.
Sir James stared rigidly at the Queen, too frightened to say a word. What would she think?
The Queen smiled.
Sir James grinned in relief. Sir Hugh laughed. Everyone else tittered politely.
The Queen turned back to Sir Hugh. ‘And what do you suggest that we ought to do, Sir Hugh, if Mr Bartlett has gone on a holiday?’
‘Well, we must wait, Madam. Isn’t that so? We must wait until Mr Bartlett decides that it is time to come back from his holiday. And then, perhaps, Madam may send somebody who will actually go and get a melidrop for her.’
‘And who,’ said the Queen very quietly, ‘will that be?’
‘Yes, who?’ someone shouted, very loudly. ‘Who could it be? We’re all dying to know!’
Sir Hugh sighed in exasperation. It was Sutton Pufrock, who had been put in a chair for the garden party and was being carried around by a pair of footmen.
‘Never you mind, Sutton Pufrock,’ Sir Hugh Lough retorted, flushing with anger. ‘We don’t need old men poking their noses in if they can’t get up and do the job themselves.’
‘I can do the job as well as any young upstart who could do with having his bottom spanked,’ Sutton Pufrock spluttered, waving his walking-stick and struggling unsuccessfully to get out of his chair.
‘Calm down, Pufrock,’ Sir Hugh said coldly, ‘you’ll give yourself a stroke. The Queen knows who can do the job just as well as I do. But let’s wait for Bartlett. By all means. How many weeks is it since he left. Twelve? Thirteen? Is it fourteen? Fourteen? Well, fourteen weeks already. And still no news. But there’s no rush, is there? After all, its only the Queen who’s waiting.’
‘Hughie Lough, if I were ten years younger—’
‘Well, you’re not, are you? So be quiet. Go back to your bed.’ Sir Hugh laughed harshly. Sir James laughed as well.
The Queen was gazing at Sir Hugh. ‘But you still have not told me what I should do, Sir Hugh.’
‘Madam, give me the word. Give me the word, and I will go. Today, I will leave before the sun has set,’ Sir Hugh cried, raising his arm dashingly towards the sky. ‘Forget Bartlett. You told him you might send me. Send me! I beg you.’
‘And how will you travel, Sir Hugh?’
‘For you, Madam, I would travel through the air. Merely the knowledge that you are waiting would give me wings to fly.’
‘And how will you bring the melidrop, Sir Hugh?’
‘In a golden casket, Madam. On a bed of velvet.’ Sir Hugh dropped to his knee. ‘Madam,’ he vowed, ‘I will bring it back in my heart. My love for you will preserve it.’
The ladies around Sir Hugh sighed. The men applauded.
The Queen gazed at Sir Hugh. Tears came to her eyes.
‘Arise, Sir Hugh,’ she whispered.
‘No, Madam,’ said Sir Hugh, bowing his head. ‘Give me the word. I will not rise until you send me.’
‘Better get a cushion for his knee,’ Sutton Pufrock shouted. ‘He’s going to be there for another three months.’
The Queen stared at Sir Hugh’s bowed head.
‘Send me, Madam,’ implored Sir Hugh. ‘Give me the word.’
The Queen’s voice was choked. The words to send Sir Hugh were almost on her lips. She looked up for a moment, trying to clear the tears from her eyes. By chance, her glance fell upon Lord Ronald of Tull, who was standing with the Prime Minister and some other politicians. Lord Ronald had not heard a word, but had observed everything and could guess exactly what was happening.
Sir Hugh was still kneeling on the ground, arm raised, waiting.
The Queen could not tear her eyes away from her old adviser. Silently, Lord Ronald shook his head.
Chapter 14
THE Fortune Bey towed its captive, dragging it through the dark blue water of the ocean. The turbaned figure at the front of the ship pointed the way, and the iceberg followed silently, like a wild beast of the seas that had been hunted and caught. A swathe of foam trailed behind, marking its journey.
Captain Wrick sailed skillfully, as careful and as cautious as a trainer learning to tame a jungle cat. The iceberg followed with docility. When they arrived, Captain Wrick made anchor outside the harbour. He didn’t dare to sail closer to the quay, where a gust of wind might have sent the iceberg smashing into other ships. But already a crowd was gathering by the dock. People had never seen such a thing. Workers dropped their crates to stand and stare, pens slipped out of merchants’ fingers. What was this huge white rock? Why did it float? Soon every boat in the harbour had taken to the water, oars splashing, crammed to the brim with excited onlookers, and it wasn’t long before the fastest of them had reached the iceberg and were circling it with curiosity.
One of the boats edged right up to the ice. As everyone watched, a man in the boat stood up, raised a leg over the side, and rested his foot on it. He put his other foot on the ice. He stood. For a moment he looked down at his own feet, as if he could not believe what he was doing. Then he straightened up, looked around, and gave a mighty yell. Everyone yelled back. He tried to take a step and fell flat on his face. Five minutes later the iceberg was covered with people crawling, falling, slithering and sliding. Then the first hammers and chisels arrived, and people were chipping pieces of ice to take back to their families as souvenirs.
This was too much! In these warm waters, the iceberg would soon be melting fast. All it needed was a crowd of people knocking blocks off to make it disappear altogether. Together with the five biggest members of Captain Wrick’s crew, Jacques le Grand went to clear everyone off the ice. In the meantime, Bartlett went ashore to look for Gozo. On the way he passed the town’s scholar, who was being rowed out to look at the iceberg. He was wearing his floppy hat and carried three big books under his arm. They must have rushed him straight from the library. The scholar did not look comfortable. He looked nervous and bewildered. He was gripping the sides of his boat with whitened knuckles. The scholar looked as if he preferred to learn about the world from the books in his peaceful library than by sitting in a damp, rocking boat with his feet tangled up in nets that smelled of fish.
But where was Gozo? The quay was still filling up as news of the iceberg spread through the town. Mothers were arriving with their children, old people were waving their walking-sticks to get to the front. Crowds of people jostled and pushed, trying to get onto a boat that would take them to see the dazzling white rock that floated in the distance. Yet Gozo was nowhere to be seen.
Bartlett went to the bazaar. With everyone at the port, the streets of the town were strangely empty and silent. Now and again someone ran past him. Their footsteps echoed.
In the bazaar the traders were still standing by their stalls, wondering what had happened to all the people who should have been milling around. Bartlett found the old melidrop-seller who had told him about Gozo months earlier. He was wearing the same cotton cap, sitting on his backless chair and staring glumly at all the melidrops piled up on his stall, for which there was not a single customer.
Bartlett called out to him.
The old man looked up with a start. He jumped to his feet and began shovelling melidrops into a sack. ‘Two bags, three bags for the gentleman?’ he cried.
‘I don’t want any melidrops,’ said Bartlett.
‘Half price, half price for the gentleman.’
‘None for me.’
‘Quarter price. Quarter price.’
‘No. None.’
The old man sat down again. He peered at Bartlett.
‘I remember you,’ he said suddenly, wiggling a finger disapprovingly. ‘You didn’t want any melidrops last time, either. They shouldn’t let people like you into the bazaar. You set a bad example. Look around you. Where is everybody? It’s like a ghost-town. Off they all ran, shouting about some rock floating in the sea. Rocks floating in their heads, if you ask me. And what do we get in return? The man who doesn’t buy anything!’
Bartlett grinned. ‘Where’s Gozo?’
‘How should I know?’ The old man waved a hand in disgust.
‘Was he here today?’
‘Look at my stall. Do you think these melidrops walked here? He’s probably asleep where he always is. Or looking for the floating rock, like everybody else,’ the old man called after him, as Bartlett set off for the well outside the city gate.
Gozo was in the back of his wagon with his hat over his face, exactly as he had been the first time Bartlett found him. Only the wagon drivers, who had already gone to sleep, had not heard about the iceberg. Bartlett quietly lifted the hat off Gozo’s face. Gozo opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. Then he recognised Bartlett and sat bolt upright, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Mr Bartlett, you’ve come back!’
‘Yes.’
‘And have you brought the ice-rock?’
‘Iceberg. Of course, I said I would.’
‘Where is it?’ Gozo looked around excitedly, as if Bartlett was supposed to have brought it to the well.
The drivers in the other wagons were starting to sit up, looking curiously at the man talking to Gozo.
‘We haven’t got time to see it now,’ said Bartlett.