The Surfacing (26 page)

They went up under the housing for her daily promenade, that DeHaven insisted on.
There was some kind of commotion outside, a howling dog. They lifted the flap to
look. Banes and Daly carried him in. He'd dug his way into the ice-house and got
at a bag of salt cod. They stood watching him suffer. There was nothing to be done.

You need to keep moving, Morgan said. You'll catch cold.

That's another one, she said. How many does that leave?

At this point I'd almost rather it were one of the men, he said.

A man and a shipload of dogs, that's what you want?

Three or four men, yes. As long as there's no sailing to be done.

She mimicked his whimpers, poked at him with her boot.

You get attached to them, Morgan said.

More than to the men?

Well, they have admirable character, some of them. They know how to haul. They know
how to starve. They know how to die. And in the meantime they neither drink nor smoke,
they need no tents, no stoves . . .

And no sympathy, she said.

Precisely. And when they're done, you can even put them in the pot.

Can you not do that too with a man?

In certain circles it's somewhat frowned upon, I'm told.

The thing went on whimpering, and still no one stepped forward. They were too fond
of him. He was one of their bravest dogs.

Wait and see, Morgan told her. I'll have to do it myself.

Dogs are stupid, she said. I could never quite understand the attachment some men
form towards them. Likewise with horses. A wonderful memory, but as stupid a beast
as you'll ever meet.

Still no one moved. Morgan stepped over and took hold of a spade. In his huge mittens
the thing looked both clumsy and frail. He rotated the handle a quarter-turn, the
better to deploy the blade.

Go get Cabot, he told her. Tell him tonight I want a good old-fashioned Irish stew.

And easy on the salt, she said.

Indeed.

10th December

The bed was empty. Myer was gone. Morgan quickly closed the door behind him and tried
to think. He went and looked in the washroom, in the men's mess. In the officers'
cabin, he leaned to look under the bottom bunks.

Lost something? DeHaven said.

Where'd you put him? Morgan said.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Kitty's cabin. The galley. Then all around the deck.

He found him lying by the helm, face down, in full dress uniform, minus his hat.
He was not moving, and not yet dead. But there he lay, Captain Gordon Myer, like
a bundle of frozen rags. Morgan was afraid to turn him over, for fear his face had
stuck to the planks.

DeHaven came with his bag and bent over him. He was barely able to breathe for pain.
He seemed to have broken a few ribs, DeHaven said. However he'd managed that. Had
he been climbing? They looked up at the mainmast.

Banes hooked his hands under the armpits. They watched Daly take hold of the legs.
They carried him down the ladder and along the corridor. Overhead, the red light
of the train-lamps poured in the open hatch.

Close that bloody door quick! Morgan roared. Before we lose every bit of heat we
have.

That first night, Morgan came to sit once again by his bed.

Is she gone? Myer asked, fearfully. His forehead was sprinkled with sweat, like steam
on a window pane.

She's just gone out for a few minutes, Morgan said, with no notion whatsoever who
was meant. A fussing mother perhaps, or a fussing wife.

He had only to stand up and he was already at the door. Once he got out, he thought,
he would not come back. Here in this cabin, at the old man's bedside, there was nothing
but the cunning smell of old bodies and old clothes. The mirror's silver turning
to mould. Here the spiral had turned inwards, was now winding tightly about itself.
Morgan sipped at his tea, cast his hands about the cup. Myer's stove had gone out,
but he did not call anyone to come and set it again.

All day the old man lay motionless, staring at the knots in the planks overhead.
The face desperately concentrated, like a man struggling to learn his lines by heart.
The short, shallow breaths had something mechanical about them at first. By evening,
they had a faintly metallic ring, and when
Morgan woke the next morning they told
him Captain Myer had died some time during the night.

At ten o'clock the crew gathered under the housing, around the remains, which had
been neatly sewed up in coffee sacks. MacDonald read the Burial Service by their
best train-lamp. I am the resurrection and the life, he said. At some point he handed
Morgan his Bible, pointed at the passage Morgan should read. Morgan imagined Myer
himself reading it, solemn and trusting, and tried to imitate that voice. Even as
he spoke, they could hear the clattering in the distance, that sounded like a cotton-mill.
It was the floes out in the Channel, on the move again, always dragging them west
and northwest. Morgan kept reading, but could not help speaking a little louder,
as though to drown that other noise out. When he was done he slapped the book shut
and gave a nod.

They hauled the bundle out to the fire-hole. Once the men had gathered round, Morgan
nodded again and they tilted the sledge. The canvas was frozen to the wood, and the
thing would not slide off. They stood around stamping their feet and thrashing their
arms while Cabot ran back to the ship for an axe.

The weather was clear and calm and cold. Wind steady from the south. Morgan looked
hard about the whole compass for even the merest hint of a blush. The northern sky,
as always, was a deep, inky blue. Overhead the stars were sharp and clean every one.
The men watched while he hacked hatefully at the stiff cloth. He did not care. He
just wanted to be rid of it. A glaze had already formed again in the fire-hole. The
mittens loosened their grip. The bundle wriggled through. Morgan pushed it under
with an oar. He turned to the ship and raised his arm. The watch bell rang. They
shuffled back the way they'd come, past the line of posts that led to the gangway,
each armed with a lantern, that would be lit if ever anyone lost his way in a storm.

Morgan went out again after lunch to see had the hole
frozen over, to see if by some
mischance the bundle had popped back up. He thought he saw a tint now to the southern
horizon, like the green glow of a gas flame. Otherwise, all around, the moon cast
a metal sheen on the snow. This was his home and his inheritance. Without the ship,
there were no more bears, foxes, or birds. The only life for a thousand miles was
now within.

21st December

On the officers' table was a bundle wrapped in crêpe.

I'm sure DeHaven will be deeply touched, Morgan said.

You can't say he hasn't earned it, she said. All the care he's been taking of me.

I don't think a gift is something you can earn, Morgan said. Otherwise it's merely
a reward.

She unfolded the paper, held it up, held it against him. You don't think it's too
small?

There's really not that much of a difference in size.

What do you think? she asked the other men. Do you think he'll like it?

If he likes you, he'll like it, Morgan said. That's the way it usually works.

Christmas was in four days. He had not seen it creep up. He'd been distracted by
the worsening weather, the examinations, Myer's decline. He checked the calendar,
again. His fingers counted it out. There seemed something inevitable now about so
many things.

As soon as she was gone, Cabot got out his knife and set to work again. He was carving
another toy, a horse. The blade
stuttered across the wood. The man's face was fierce,
the mouth half open, the tongue visibly wiggling a tooth.

Isn't the head a little big? Morgan said.

The wood was polished to a high sheen, every slick crease. In four days' time, Cabot
would smuggle it into her cabin and set it on the locker, where it would be visible
as soon as she opened the door. As though the child itself might come running in
any minute, and he was preparing a surprise. For the first time in decades, Morgan
felt excited at the prospect, and frustrated deliciously. It was the mere sight of
the presents, the general festive hum and trim. He felt a tightness in his stomach
not unlike fear, hesitation – yet simultaneously felt himself tilted forward, ready
to rush towards the prize. It was an old habit come rushing back, an echo and an
aftertaste. He was learning how to be patient, he supposed, all over again.

At dinner that night he lit a candle, and ordered a universal toast. It was the 21st
of December. The best of days, he said.

If you don't mind, I'll wait until Christmas, MacDonald said.

This is my Christmas, Morgan said.

You were too long in Persia, DeHaven said.

Mother's Night, Yalda, what matter, Morgan said. Every day now is a day closer to
the sun.

25th December

On Christmas morning, after service, they all crowded into the main mess, and stood
before the table in silence. There was fox stew and hare pie. Preserved peas, and
roast parsnips, and fried potatoes. There were plum puddings stacked high,
ready
to fall. There were almond fingers, sugared buns, and an entire crew of gingerbread
men ranged about a gingerbread ship.

Morgan did the rounds, moving dutifully from group to group. He made a point of shaking
every man's hand. Nearby, he heard DeHaven's group laughing and turned his head.
He looked them over proudly, patted Banes's paunch, said he liked to see men who
appreciated the good things in life.

Just don't get too fond of it, DeHaven said.

What I think the good doctor is trying to say is, you've got to take it while you
can get it, Morgan said. Carpe diem, he told them, plucking the sponge straight out
of DeHaven's hands. He tore off a piece and lobbed it into his mouth. Everybody laughed.
Seeing his opening, DeHaven reached over and took Morgan's gold-trimmed tricorne,
that none of them had ever seen before, and sat it on his own head. Morgan had found
it in one of Myer's trunks.

Morgan laid a hand on DeHaven's shoulder and rested it there. Mr Brooks, he said,
make a note of that man's name. He's one to watch.

The knot of menace and praise had a private, perverse appeal for almost every man,
and they were all laughing again as Morgan moved away.

That afternoon they had a regular shooting-match, a single stake, an ounce of tobacco
a man, winner takes all. At a hundred feet, a row of empty pork tins, topped and
tailed and laid on their side. Each one housing a candle-stub, alight. The scoring
was simple. It was hit or miss, and sudden death. Taking aim, the darkness seemed
greater than ever, more definite. One by one the men pulled the triggers. One by
one the points of light went out. Eventually Morgan and Brooks went to set them up
all again.

Now's our chance, someone shouted. It sounded like Banes.

They had reason enough, Morgan supposed. And they'd been drinking since morning.
Afterwards, he stood behind
them. The darkness was thickening. They could see nothing
now but the lights adrift in the night.

In the galley, Cabot had poked holes in the sausages, and the fat was starting to
worm its way out, wriggling free. Below, the smell of cooking soon infiltrated the
crowd, and seemed bent on stirring up unrest.

DeHaven was sitting alone at the end of the table, a bottle of brandy in his hand.
Morgan watched the man lift it to his mouth and gulp it down, with absolute impunity.
Nice of the captain to join us, DeHaven shouted across the room.

Morgan came and sat opposite.

Another year over, almost, DeHaven said. And so much to celebrate.

You're still alive, aren't you? Morgan said. Six weeks ago, you would have settled
for that.

A man on the wheel will say anything to save his skin.

Even so, Morgan said, what we cherish in times of trial may be a mark of proper priority.
Inside him, one by one, the drink was clearing all obstacles out of its way. It progressed
patiently, methodically, with a kind of polite pedantry. It was sure of its course.

Look at the facts, DeHaven said. Where we are, against where we hoped to be. If you
ask me, a more perfect failure would be hard to achieve.

Morgan watched the ship's surgeon trying to cut a sausage. Do you want me to get
your bag? he said.

God knows where this came from, DeHaven said. Did you check Myer was still all of
a piece, when Cabot sewed up the sack?

The door had been propped open with a stool, and out in the corridor he could see
the ream of light under her door. Eventually DeHaven went to empty his bladder. As
soon as he was gone, Morgan stepped out and stood at her cabin door. Expertly, he
turned the handle to peer inside. She was lying under the covers with her eyes closed.
The desk was covered with presents. There had been more for the baby
than anyone
else. The men talked now as if it might arrive in the next few days. Sometimes they
talked as though it had already been born. There were toys, wraps, even tiny socks.
A bell-shaped rattle. In the corner, the little cradle Cabot had made. A visitor
would be looking around for the baby itself.

Are you all right? he asked. He could hear the drink in his own voice.

I'm fine, thanks, she said.

Can I get you anything?

She shook her head.

I'll leave you in peace then, he said, rather sadly.

She nodded her agreement and he pulled the door to. It had not gone quite as he expected.

He went up to empty his bladder, and stepped out onto the floe. The dogs were scrambling
about in the darkness, dragging off the bones from dinner, to bury for harder times.
He unbuttoned his flies and let it come. He turned slowly on the spot, cutting a
deep hole in the ice, three hundred and sixty degrees. As though that might be enough
to make it give out from under him. It did not. Under his feet, under a bloodshot
moon, the ice glowed white-hot. Behind him, the brig was no more than a pasteboard
cut-out laid on a pale ground. He stood listening to the rumours. Some sly hand was
still carrying them west and northwest. At what rate he could not properly say. But
day and night now the gates were closing quietly behind them. One hundred miles deep
into virgin soil, DeHaven had announced again, just minutes before. Where never yet
the hand of man has set foot. The other officers had smiled, as usual. It was his
ability to imitate himself in better times that they needed and admired. Morgan had
made no protest, which DeHaven took as a cue for more.