The Surfacing (3 page)

13th June

Eighty-five feet high, Morgan stared over the frozen sea. Myer had sent him up to
scout for a better lead. The order was perfect proof, if ever he needed it, that
Myer was a fool. There were no better leads. To every point it now looked the same
– proof, in turn, that the fool had led them into a trap.

They had warped all day every day for a week now without interruption, and today
they were at it again. This morning, for no particular reason, the floes had relaxed
a little, and it was a more polite affair than usual. From above, Morgan watched
them strolling round and round. It looked like the
visites
of a French quadrille.
The smart chatter of the pawls was music enough, he thought, after the strain of
the previous days.

About eleven o'clock he saw that half a mile ahead the ice opened up into a kind
of canal. From boredom, he called it out. Myer immediately hustled the men off the
capstan and down onto the floe. The traces were passed down and every
man rigged.
They shuffled across the ice until the lines grew tight, and then they leaned forward,
as into a stout headwind.

Unseen, Morgan looked straight down the length of the mast at Myer winding his chronometers
again, and imagined putting a bullet straight through the top of the man's head.
It would be an easy, undeserved end. He imagined the mess. He wondered what they
would do. He himself was next in line for the command. He could always say he had
been climbing down with the gun. He had been sure it was not cocked. It would be
interesting to see who was willing to believe.

16th June

The last of the slack was brought in, and the men leaned into the bars. For the moment,
Brooks let them make their own pace. After a few minutes stretching, tightening,
threatening, the ship suddenly jumped forward, or backward, about an inch. It felt
like the first jolt of a departing train.

Well now, DeHaven declared, maybe there's something in that house besides smoke.

Morgan, in his spoiled mind, wondered if the ice anchor was not coming home. The
heaving began again, and soon it seemed to him, by closing one eye, and taking a
bead on the bowsprit, that the ship was shuffling ever so slightly to starboard.

By now Brooks, the mate, was fearlessly goading the men as they filed past: Come
on now boys and make a name for yourselves! Can't ye feel it, honeys? The meat is
gone out from it entirely! Are ye Christians or what kind of men are ye? Will ye
not heave then, for the love of Christ? Heave now and be saved!

The feet were starting to scramble. Myer pretended he did not see. Brooks took a
step forward and addressed directly those at the bars:

My dear boys, what had ye for breakfast at all? White bread and fresh butter is it?
Damn it all to hell, Mr Daly, is it idlers only they're breeding in the county of
Cork these past thirty years?

He had the teams piped down every fifteen minutes, for a five-minute pause. He did
not want them looking any farther into the future than that.

After watching them for an hour, Morgan removed his jacket and shoved in beside the
men. Soon his legs were faltering. Faltering, he goaded himself with half-forgotten
insults, and imaginary slurs, searching for strength in anger and shame. But by the
time Brooks finally piped them down for their midday meal, he was stupid from fatigue.

Halfway down the deck was a long flat crate he could lie on, if he could get to it.
He shuffled across the deck like a man chin-high in water. Every breath now was effort
or relief. He sat down stiffly, with old age in his legs, and stared into the darkness
of the hatch. The sunlight blared up off the wood worn to a sheen and he could see
nothing. As he lay back, and his head touched the boards, a strangled sound came
out of his throat.

A gentle breeze was flowing over the ship, teasing the dangling lines. From nowhere,
the cat sprang up onto the roof of the galley, spotted him, and shrank. All around,
the sullen faces were watching.

Eventually Morgan stood up again, shuffled to the gunwale, unbuttoned his flies,
and began to piss over the side. It sounded exactly like a tearing sheet. He watched
the hole widen and darken. The thing seemed so easy. The ice seemed impossibly soft.

At lunch, Myer told the officers that they must meet the difficulty head-on. They
must not shirk for so much as a moment, nor seem even to think of it. They must try
every device and example to buoy up the morale of the men.

All the same, it's little enough gain for so much sweat, Morgan said. The day before
they'd named their progress in yards. Today they named it in feet. It might be as
well, Morgan said, to wait for the ice to slacken a little, which it surely must,
and spare their strength.

Mr Morgan, Myer said, in such an enterprise as ours, the one sure warrant of discipline
is the faith of those below in those above. But if you prefer dismay, distrust and
disorder, it is easily bred. You have merely to hesitate at the first difficulty,
and the job is done. If ever you have the privilege to command, try to remember that.

After lunch, Myer decided to change the angle of traction, again.

An excellent idea, DeHaven said.

They watched the men tugging at the anchor, which had burrowed deep into the ice.

The finest naval mind of his generation, Morgan said.

You do realize, DeHaven said, that there are men now sitting in armchairs in London
would give their right arm to be in your shoes. To be able to say they were right
there in the thick of it, by Captain Myer's side. In Paris too, he said, pointing.
Cabot had propped open the galley door, stood there watching with a pained look on
his face.

Believe me, Morgan said, I feel it a privilege and an honour. I'm sure I've done
absolutely nothing to deserve it.

The men began to heave again. Ten minutes later, there was a wretched rush of noise.
The men leapt back. Something had snapped. The new hawser was actually smoking, as
it surged from the snatch.

And that there now, DeHaven nodded sternly, is why Mr Gordon Myer is commander of
one of Her Majesty's finest sailing ships, and you, my dear fellow, are merely .
. . He fluttered his fingers nimbly.

A witness to history, Morgan said.

Brooks was ordered to dismantle the capstan, to find out what exactly had gone wrong.
Myer waited to watch him knock out the first of the blocks, then turned towards Morgan
and DeHaven. It was not possible he had heard. There had been too much noise.

Perhaps, Doctor, you think you would do better in my place, Myer said. He stood facing
them both.

DeHaven held his stare. To be perfectly honest, Captain, I don't think I'd have got
quite so far, he said. I don't think I'd have tried quite so hard. Certainly not
along quite the same lines as yourself.

Luckily for all of us, my friend cannot aspire to command, Morgan explained. However
much he might like to do so. There was a kind of regret in his voice, theatrical,
but what he said was true. In certain arrangements, the expedition was not altogether
regular. DeHaven was a civilian, under contract.

If life aboard a naval ship is too trying for Dr DeHaven, he can renege on his contract
whenever he likes, Myer said. Though he'll find it's rather a long walk home, I think.

They watched Myer collect his coat, go down. Cabot had been listening at the galley
door.

I suppose somebody has to be in charge, he said. It was a peace offering, to nobody
in particular.

DeHaven turned his head, seemed to find something distasteful in what he saw. Somebody,
not anybody, he said. In English there's quite a difference. Perhaps one of your
friends might be good enough to explain it to you.

Cabot considered the man. He cleared his throat scrupulously and spat far out onto
the deck, stepped back into the darkness. Then Brooks was beside them. The captain
wanted them to go below, fore and aft, to check for damage.

They crawled as far forward as possible, with a single lamp. Between the bows it
was a mass of timber, shores radiating from every Samson post, in every direction,
and extra beams and knees added wherever they could be got in. The two men lay port
and starboard, facing each other, each lounging against the bow's inner sheath.

Bravo, Morgan said. Another great diplomatic success. He nodded at everything overhead,
the scene with Cabot, the scene
with Myer. His friend could be resolutely, deliberately
irritable at times. He seemed to enjoy it, as the assertion of a right.

In the silence, he could hear the ice fidgeting at the side of the ship, fussy but
patient, only inches away.

You think I should keep my mouth shut, DeHaven said. Like you. And for why? For a
broken-down horse soldier, that somebody somewhere one day decided to give a ship.

We were horse soldiers ourselves once. Both of us.

In a distant land, a long, long time ago.

Look, it matters not a whit what he or any one of us once was. Just now, he's the
captain, Morgan said.

Is that who he is?

Morgan listened like a schoolboy, sullen. His friend seemed to think it courageous,
such talk. At least, that courage was what others lacked. It was easy for him, of
course. He risked nothing. At worst he could change ships at Beechey, as Myer said.
Quite likely there would be a supply steamer there ready to return home. How much
harder it was, though, to listen and watch and obey without a murmur.

He bowed his head, exhaled audibly. Geoff, he said. He was starting all over again.
Look at it this way. From a purely pragmatic perspective. You are now on, we won't
say friendly terms with him, but on both sides you're still able to keep up the pretence
of civility. But go ahead, have it out with him, a real proper flare-up, and see
where it gets you. Because afterwards, after you've worked up a nice head of steam,
and blown it all off, who's still captain? Myer. Who's still judge and jury to every
man aboard? Myer. Which is why not a man aboard will lift a finger to defend you,
myself included, and we're damned right. Resign your service if you like. Who's still
your lord and master? Myer. At least until he can set you down someplace. But take
a look around. Wildly, he flung out an arm. At best it'll be Beechey, if the other
ships are still there. But if they're not, what will you do? Because from there,
if he decides to push all the way to the Pole just to spite you, that's exactly where
we'll go. We could be two and three years out here yet without meeting another ship.
So
choose your mask carefully, Morgan told his friend. He was pointing at his face.
Because if you ask me, you might well have to wear it awhile yet.

They fell into silence, as they crawled slowly back from the bow, searching for signs
of an injury. From the other side of the boards, relentlessly, came a neat patter
as of pegs on a plank floor.

Christ, DeHaven said, lifting the lamp. Look. You could put your finger into that.

A long crack ran right down the length of the sternpost. DeHaven thrust the light
closer. He glanced over at Morgan, desperate to know what the thing was, and what
it meant.

With the lamp they followed the thing down, all the way to the floor.

Jesus Almighty, DeHaven said. Down the bottom you could put your dick into it almost.

If you were so inclined, Morgan said.

If you were so inclined, DeHaven conceded.

These things deserve to be specified.

Indeed they do, DeHaven agreed. Indeed they do.

17th June

Morgan brought Myer down to see for himself. Myer called down Brooks, Brooks called
down Cabot and Banes, the carpenters, and that evening they turned east again.

Halfway through dinner, DeHaven told Cabot to bring another bottle of wine.

I don't think we need it, Cabot, Myer said.

Cabot, you can get one from my own private supply,
DeHaven said. If the captain does
not wish to make the sacrifice.

That is not the issue, Myer said.

I am going to have a drink, DeHaven told them. You are not obliged to join me, of
course.

Are you mourning or celebrating? Brooks asked.

I am not yet sure, DeHaven said. Not yet having been informed what course of action
our captain intends.

Myer laid his cutlery down. Mr Brooks, he said. Assemble the crew.

When they were all gathered on deck, Myer stood up on a crate. In a voice that was
clearly satisfied, he delivered this speech:

It has been hinted to me lately that some little query may be alive in certain minds
as to our course. You cannot doubt, I hope, that despite our latest reverse, our
ultimate destination and purpose remain unchanged. Of course the greenest cabin-boy
knows that without a functioning rudder we cannot take to the open sea, and it is
for that end I intend presently to return to Disko and refit there as quickly as
we can, and thence return to the North Water as soon as is at all practicable, before
this year's freeze sets in. I tell you this in the confidence that not a man amongst
you can conceive an honourable alternative. After all, I myself feel, and suppose
every man before me feels, that we are exactly what we were at the beginning of summer.
Will anyone contradict me?

2nd July

The sea was slopping its thick stew against the hull. Since coming out of The Pack,
the men all seemed to feel it a comfort – the darling cradle, the gentle swell. Only
Morgan did not like it. He felt brittle, almost sick. He felt the world unsteady
again, shifting beneath him whether he moved or stayed still. He stood at the bow,
looking into the bay, at the wooden house on the high ground, well back from the
shore. All along the beach the whale carcasses were flecked with ravens. The starving
dogs were landed and unleashed. From the bow, Morgan watched the rampage. He watched
the whaleboat wheeling to come back. He was next.