The Surfacing (12 page)

At eight bells, Austin stepped through the stateroom door. One by one he greeted
those present, and came finally to Morgan.

Careful Captain, said a lieutenant, grabbing Austin's extended arm, they're still
in quarantine. The man was nodding west, towards the mouth of the bay. Everyone
laughed. It was a joke they'd been waiting for.

They're keeping it to themselves, another man said. Their own private hareem.

And would you blame us, DeHaven said, what we'd catch, if we started sharing it around?

A whole shipment, I heard. Donated by a kind-hearted London Madame.

The last of the laughter trickled away.

Austin put his hand on Morgan's shoulder, gave it a little pat. Good to see you,
Dick, he said. He was an old friend of the family, of Morgan's father. Still a junior,
Morgan had
served under him several years, and always liked him well enough. It was
thanks to him he'd managed the swap from land to sea.

Let's get our business over with, Austin said, then we'll have a drink and proper
chat.

There was a handshake for Myer too, and polite inquiries about his ship, his supplies,
his crew. But already Austin was unrolling a chart of the Wellington Channel. Morgan
watched him drag a finger along the coastline, towards the blank spaces farther north.

He asked what difficulties Myer envisaged in an exploration of that particular sector.
Myer said he couldn't see any insurmountable obstacles. Self-belief, of course, sounded
better than prudence. Morgan watched Austin make a mean little scribble in his book,
close it over, stand up. He came round his desk and again shook Myer's and Morgan's
hands both.

Now, he told the room, let's have that drink.

Outside, the storm was worsening. Beyond the glass the rain flapped and gathered
its vast grey sails, and the wind was keening in the yards, like wind in a bottle.
Alongside, on the
Assistance
, he could see men dashing for haven across the deck,
damp cloth shrivelled around their thighs. To the west, out past the mouth of the
bay, their own ship was solid black, flat and deep against the glow of the sky.

He was listening to Myer explaining something to Brooks, just a few feet away. Myer's
voice said it was the luck of the draw. Their assignment, he meant. Brooks nodded
politely, but the lie and the truth were too blatant, and soon Myer was calling it
other things. A necessary evil. The most daunting of all the sectors. A rare opportunity.
A true test. They had been assigned the Wellington Channel, to the north of Beechey,
and whatever they found in the blank spaces to which it led.

By now Morgan's eyes were sleepy with drink, and he raised his hand to wipe away
a false tear. But as he moved another
arm moved, outside the window, beyond the blur
of the glass and the fuss of the rain. He bent forward the better to see, and a figure
bent towards him, equally cautious, equally curious. He paused, and it paused, in
a strangely familiar posture. Out there, at an uncertain distance, it seemed in its
silence more scrupulous than he would ever be.

Slightly unsettled, Morgan turned away, to face the room, where the bodies were all
swaying back and forth as in a jolly singalong. Most of the other ships had already
managed two months' searching before returning to winter here, and the whole evening
he'd been listening to Austin dish out the praise.

He turned his back to all that, and there was that man again in the darkened window
pane, still looking out, still looking in. There was a frailty in his stance, a cowering,
that was troubling to look at and would be troubling to recall. It seemed to say
he knew exactly what to expect, and was already disappointed. He seemed perfectly
formed and positioned for reproach. And the reproach he was making, whatever it was,
it felt like he'd been making it all his life. He had looked away, and now refused
to look up again, to face his accuser. He felt he had to resist, and at the same
time felt it was already too late, that he'd already been tricked, into an intimacy
he had not sought and didn't deserve. Still he didn't move. He knew that whenever
he chose to look, that face would still be waiting to stare.

Morgan didn't know how long he stood there like that, staring at the floor, refusing
to face his reflection yet leaning towards it, as towards the answer to the question
its presence seemed to pose. Between them, the wind was flinging buckets of sleet
against the window panes. Overhead, the gutters spluttered and coughed. Still he
could hear Austin's voice, somewhere behind him, ploughing through it all. That voice,
those words of sumptuous praise, whose depth could never be sounded – for a moment,
Morgan had convinced himself they were part of a distant, deluded past. It was a
lie. Even now, he was soaking up every word.

Have you decided yet how you mean to spend your prize-money? Austin said, when finally
they found themselves face to face.

I've given it a great deal of thought, naturally, Morgan said.

A new brougham? Austin suggested. A new bitch pack? A house in town?

All of that, Morgan conceded. But first off, I'm going to take a long holiday.

Anywhere in particular?

Somewhere hot. And dry. Somewhere the sun sets after dinner-time, and rises before
breakfast.

I thought you wanted shot of all that. You really must make up your mind.

It was typical banter from Austin. It was what he was renowned for – his familiar
humour, his easy charm.

How do you like your remit? he asked.

I'm sure Captain Myer is best placed to give you an opinion on that.

I've asked Myer, Austin said. Now I'm asking you.

They had a long talk. Morgan tried not to listen too closely. Outside, the tide was
yearning under a layer of paste.

Of course, Austin was saying now, there's nothing like the scent of glory for making
a captain brave.

By brave you mean foolish.

Austin shrugged. Brave men think they're the equal of everything, he said, and that
everything will go in their favour. That the winter will hold off. That spring will
come early. Some of the things I've heard, Dick, even here tonight, it beggars belief.
Men who've been north before, who should know better, and they talk as though the
summer will never end.

Even now, standing before him, Morgan reproached himself the attention he paid the
man, the craving to please. His supreme commander. He felt like a junior all over
again. He could feel all the old fantasies coming alive, like seeds planted long
before and forgotten until now. He could almost physically feel something pushing
up under his skin. And once he felt that, all he wanted was to get away.

I've seen it time and again, Austin said. Always the youngest and oldest officers
are the worst. Those on their first or their very last chance. They want to go as
far and as deep and as long as they possibly can. The young ones always say they
want to test themselves. Prove themselves, is what they mean. Personally, I've always
judged how far a ship might comfortably go, in reasonable conditions, and made that
my rule. Without living on fresh air and fine speeches, if you see what I mean. Because
up here, of course, you never get the reasonable conditions. Or never for very long.
A good commander won't be afraid of reminding his officers that sometimes, well,
ambition can be a very dangerous thing. Of course, and this is between you and me,
sometimes it's the officers may have to do the reminding. Doesn't sound very glorious,
does it, any of that? Not the kind of a speech will sell newspapers, I suppose.

After a time, DeHaven wandered by, with full hands. He showed them his plunder. My
compliments to your chef, he said. Dick, you're not eating? He was sucking sugar
from his thumb. He's afraid he'll owe you something, he told Austin. He's afraid
of how it is you'll make him pay.

Morgan watched a line of jam dribbling out through the fingers and onto the floor.
He watched DeHaven swallow, extravagantly.

I heard about your passenger, Austin said when DeHaven was gone.

I think everybody has by now.

Unfortunate.

For me or for her? Morgan said.

For you both, I presume. Inconvenient too.

That's one way of putting it.

What are you going to do with her?

Morgan shrugged, almost helplessly. It was a half-hearted protest against the question
itself.

She can't come with us, obviously, he said.

Obviously, Austin said.

Even if she wasn't in her present condition. Even if she was in the very full of
her health.

Obviously, Austin said.

Out there, Morgan said. In the winter. He lifted his face towards the ceiling, exposing
his throat. You know what it's like. And I can't go back with her, obviously.

So, Austin said. Taking all that into consideration. What are you going to do with
her?

With your permission, I'd like to send her back on the steamer, Morgan said.

Tell me this, Austin said. I'm not saying you have the answer, but you're likely
better placed than most to make a good guess. Why did she come after you?

Morgan shrugged. I suppose she was trying to get me to face up to it. She didn't
want to be just left behind.

Holding the baby.

Holding the baby. I don't blame her. In fact, I rather admire her, if the truth be
known. Between ourselves. The sheer balls of it.

Rather put you in a spot though.

Rather.

Morgan gave a quick glance through the window. There was a band of mussel-blue on
the southern horizon. That was all there was left of the day.

Do you really think the
North Star
will be able to push down the coast? he said,
as nonchalantly as he could. It's not too late?

Yes I do, Mr Morgan. I think you can rest easy on that point. Speaking of which,
Austin said, she has a postbag for you from England. She had only arrived a week
before.

Wonderful, Morgan thought. In that bag, there would be nothing good for any of them.
Censure, death, silence. That seemed to be what letters were for. As second officer,
he would have to hand them out, wait for the echoes, go to see the men concerned.

22nd September

This time it was Cabot, the news that his little boy had died. It was just the kind
of thing Morgan was afraid of, touching port. Another reason he always preferred
to get and stay away.

Morgan was onshore when he heard of it, from Brooks. Cabot was out on the ship. He
let Brooks go back alone. He needed time to prepare something to say. It would have
to be something meaningless but unimpeachable. It did not much matter, he supposed,
once it sounded familiar. The man could be offered a few concessions, of course.
Ask if he preferred to be relieved of his duties for a few days. But otherwise, what
to say?

Morgan knew well it didn't matter what he said. Very likely the man would barely
hear it, would have already heard the formula twenty times. Only the fools tried
to say something memorable, thought the words could get through, might find or force
a way if well chosen and well deployed.

The man would be the centre of attention for a while, Morgan thought. For a while
he could do more or less as he liked, and no one would dare complain. In grief he
would be a freer man, that no one wanted to meddle with. Because no one could be
quite sure how deep the current ran.

At dinner that evening, Morgan didn't think Cabot would come. In Kitty's cabin, he
himself deliberately took his time, asking her how she was, telling her how she looked,
helping her button up.

Did you hear about Cabot? he asked. He was afraid to look her in the face.

I did, she said. Poor man.

In the officers' cabin, Cabot and the others were seated almost in the dark. No one
had dared turn up the lamp, but that merely created an air of intimacy – for Morgan,
the feeling that he was invading a private space. There were only three men sitting
with him. DeHaven, Brooks, and MacDonald. Myer had sent word that he was not feeling
well.

Morgan squeezed past to the chair at the far end of the table. Kitty was still standing
over them. She put her hand on Cabot's shoulder. Morgan found he did not like it.
It was the first time he had ever seen her touch another man.

I'm sorry for your little boy, Kitty said. She didn't offer anything more. She looked
him straight in the eye and held it, determined to be recognized. Cabot gave a single
nod, that was all. There was no word of thanks. He'd heard what Miss Rink had said
and was acknowledging the fact, and the other fact, no more. No one else had spoken.
The subject had not yet been evoked, apparently. They'd been waiting for the right
cue, for permission of some kind.

Cabot gave out a tired, pneumatic sigh, and something seemed to slide from his shoulders.

Oui, he said, and it was a concession. C'est la vie. Et c'est de la merde.

The other men nodded in agreement. They knew exactly what he meant. You soak it up.
You have no choice.

Kitty asked him how his wife was. The question was a great risk, Morgan thought.
Who knew what it might open onto, that door. Cabot shrugged. There seemed so little
room for manoeuvre. He turned up two empty hands. What did they expect?

God is good, MacDonald said. She is in good hands. He will not forsake her in her
time of need.

Cabot nodded vaguely. She believes, he said. And that will get her through it, I
imagine. I hope. To be honest, I am glad I am out here, and not at home.

Kitty stepped round the table and sat down. Cabot nodded again. For the moment, that
was all that could be said about the thing, without betraying it in some way. Then
the shoulders lifted and stiffened – the shrug in reverse. Cabot was holding himself
straight again.