The Surfacing (34 page)

Morgan listened to the men's voices. They had lost their charm. The faces were leprous
and leathery now. They were lounging on the cases. Everything was lazy, as though
trapped in a great, thick heat. He stood waiting. Until Cabot and Tommy returned,
he had nothing to say. The seconds passed stupidly. Already it was too long. He could
feel it flowering, fantastic – the thought that he might never see his son again.
Cabot was dragging it out – doing it to tease him, no doubt, but it was a game he
did not want to learn how to play. All he heard was an ominous silence. His mind
did not know what to do. It was a brilliant afternoon. Inside his head, the voices
were whispering desperately in the dark. The noise was impressive, menacing, infantile.
They were plotting all the tragedies to come.

Finally they came round the bow and passed under the
bowsprit. The men clapped and
roared. Here was the king they had been waiting for, to lead them to victory. Impossibly,
the boy seemed happier. The radiant face – the icon – was brimming with joy, life.
The tiny teeth, gleaming, painfully white. Hair the colour of honey, now starting
to curl. The long eyelashes, pretty as a girl. It was him they had come to see, for
him they had made the pilgrimage – he the healer, the maker of miracles. Morgan wanted
to rush and seize hold of him, feel his power, his warmth, his weight. But he could
not interrupt this moment of glory, the prophet's arrival at the city gates. It was
the boy's own life now, his exaltation. Morgan was merely a witness, a slave.

24th April

Out beyond the coal-house, Banes and Cabot were firing at empty meat-cans. Every
shot was a bullet less, but Morgan made no objection, he had loosened his grip. All
morning he let them at it and did not complain. But about midday she came up to give
him a black look, and he went and whistled at them, pointed at the ship, showed them
a man cradling a baby, trying to get him to sleep.

He did not go below again, but took his wicker chair and carried it down the gangway.
He would go to the amphitheatre. On any calm, clear day, healthy and sick alike
now repaired to it from the ship's stench.

By the bottom of the gangway, something was sticking up out of the snow. It was the
handle of their ice saw, the eighteen-footer. Morgan walked past without even a glance.

The amphitheatre was a high wall, in a half moon, around a
tilted floor. Inside was
shelter from the slightest breeze. It faced south. They were the spectators, basking
in the show. Today, half a dozen men were already stretched out on the furs. He looked
at them lying there, eyes closed, stern as snakes set to bake on a stone. These were
his heroes, his band of brothers. These were the men would haul with him across the
desert.

The handle stood six inches above the surface. They had all tried it, one by one,
and two by two. Some had tried it three and four and five times. Some tried it every
time they passed, as a kind of joke, concrete proof of their dilemma. Now Morgan
himself stood astride the thing, lowered himself into a deep squat, like a man going
about his necessary business. Both hands gripped the handle. He was straining visibly,
and motionless. Cabot and Banes stood watching.

The boy! DeHaven always shouted, whenever he passed it now. Only he shall draw the
blade! It was another of his pointless jibes, that Morgan always remembered, to
goad himself on.

Not a budge, Banes said.

Cabot shook his head solemnly, to confirm the fact.

A foot from the dead edge of the blade – two yards from the hull – a clutter of wedges
had been driven into the cut. The men stood staring, determined to figure it out.

Maybe gunpowder might do the trick, Banes said.

Gunpowder, Morgan said. Certainly. We'll pack gunpowder against the side of the
ship. Five hundred miles from any possible aid. And we'll light the fuse and hope
the ice gives out before the hull.

Morgan squatted lower, took a better grip. They watched his face turn purple. Like
a man in a fit, his whole body began to shake. Eventually he staggered to the nearest
crate, sat with his elbows on his knees, panting for air. Every now and then a gull
swooped down from the masthead for a quick, smart laugh. When the time came, the
birds would all fly away again, in long orderly lines.

How else are we meant to get out? Banes said.

With a studied movement, Morgan drew off his mittens
and dropped them to the ground.
A scrap of rubble scampered across his lap. He was being ambushed. They stood one
on each side. They had waited until he was exhausted and alone, and could no longer
dodge. What he himself believed was of no consequence. He had to calculate. He had
to tell them what he had decided to do.

Well? Banes said. The man wanted a good answer. The better part of his patience was
gone.

Eventually Morgan stood up again, took the sledgehammer from where it lay on the
ice. He lifted it high into the air, and with all his weight and all his strength
brought it down on the nearest wedge. Lifted it again, brought it down again, and
again, until the head was flush with the top of the ice.

Up on deck, sacks of flour lay one on the other like gross folds of flesh. Today
all the doors and hatches were open to let in fresh air, begin to leech the ship
of its winter stench. On the mainmast, a lone sheet was taking deep, desperate breaths.
The door of the galley was propped open with Cabot's toolbox. They were carpenter's
tools. Long planes, wheel braces, spokeshaves, with handles worn beautifully smooth
from use. Overhead, the sheet suddenly whipped out and snagged on a pole. Somewhere
deep inside the ship, a door slammed. It sounded familiar. It sounded like his own.

27th April

They were growing stronger, getting fatter, from all the meat. In the mornings DeHaven
had them at their exercises again. In the daytime they shot birds. Cabot boiled and
stripped the flesh and bottled them in their own grease. A reserve for the
winter,
Morgan said. At night they heard the foxes' childish cries. In the morning they found
bear tracks at the foot of the gangway. About the ship, as the snow thawed, the garbage
flowered miraculously.

Every day now there were new signs of weakness. The world was rotting, had ceased
to resist. Every yard was ragged with icicles. Every rope, every edge. Every now
and then another lump of snow shuffled off a spar. Beyond the ship, he felt the concession
under every step, saw himself suddenly plunging through the surface, into the depths.
But even as the ice melted, he knew, there was no longer any chance of their being
released. On the surface, true, the glass was turning to jelly, but deep down everything
was still solid rock, beyond any hope of a thaw.

The hopes and explanations grew complicated. They would have to be patient, he'd
told her. They would have to be patient, he told everyone now. There was no reason
the coming summer should be like the previous one. Perhaps the spring storms would
destroy everything. It was some extraordinary stroke of luck he hinted at, but he
knew full well they could have no luck, nor court any, if they stuck to the ship.

He watched them playing with the boy. They were taking possession. They knew what
he wanted, what he liked. They had the cinder-buckets all in a row. With the blades
of their shovels they were chopping up the snow. Morgan had rarely seen them so applied,
so concerned. The boy too was watching suspiciously. They shovelled in the slush
and packed it. With both hands Cabot lifted a bucket into the air. In a single gesture
he flipped and brought it down. Now the boy was curious. He wanted to imitate his
hero. He shuffled over, put his mittens to the side of the thing.

Look, Cabot told him. Now we do tap-tap-tap.

With the edge of his spade, he tapped the side and the upended butt.

And now Tommy! he ordered.

They had cleaned one of the small stove-shovels for him. Cabot put it in his hand,
struck it against the bucket a few
times. Then, with the care of a cook removing
a mould, he eased the bucket off. Underneath, the shape held perfectly. The boy spent
a moment admiring. Then lifted the shovel high over his head, and brought it down.
He worked methodically, took his time. It was a judgement from above. When he had
destroyed it completely, he looked up at Cabot again. He looked like he was going
to cry. He wanted another one.

They were alone on the frozen sea. Overhead, the sky was stretched unbearably tight.
In the full stare of the sun, the piles of ice were whispering. He tried to sell
it to himself. Of course it would be held against him, abandoning. In a way, he was
relieved the retreat would be so difficult. The long overland – overland! – trek
would be to their credit perhaps.

Spring meant snowstorms, but those would soon be done. Late summer meant sludge.
Ross himself – the accepted authority – had preferred the autumn road. But Morgan
had not the courage to wait that long. He feared the shrinking days. He feared the
men. What he meant was, he doubted them. Their ability to trust and to obey. Their
capacity to punish themselves, to soak up the cold, to starve. Besides, he had to
be able to promise he would be back for her before winter. May was probably the best
time to start.

29th April

There was a little boat. Cabot had hollowed it from a single block. It sat proud
on the surface. Cabot had fixed it a keel. Now they were watching it fill. It was
like watching a branch in quicksand. Unhurried, but irreversible. There would be
no
miracle. Underwater, it continued to sink at the same rate, until a giant hand
slid under and raised and emptied and set it on the surface again. Tommy refilled
his jar. He was holding it with both hands, ready to pour.

He was naked in the bath. He lay on his belly, the better to thrash. He was flailing
wildly, as in a tantrum or protest of some sort. Smiling, Morgan wiped the water
from his face. The legs flexed and pushed like the legs of a frog. He slid forward
beautifully. Morgan wanted to see him in a river, a pond, hear the clean grey gravel
rattle and crack.

The boy lay on his back, satisfied. The water came to his chin. It was as though
he'd been laughing long and hard. His smile was sheer relief. He lay in the shadow
of some great task. Something had been proved or achieved. It was worth nothing now
it was done.

Morgan watched closely. There was something he had to learn. They were joined. They
were breathing the same air. He could feel the sweat trickling down the small of
his back, into his waistband. The stove was going full blast now. In places the iron
was a dirty pink. He had watched the water being poured. He'd watched Cabot shovel
the coal.

The skin was glistening, polished, like fruit. Underneath was his sacred flesh. Morgan
dared not touch it, did not want to leave the slightest trace. Very gently, he drew
the hair back out of his son's eyes. It was darker now. It hung like little lengths
of frayed twine. In a room nearby was a slop-pot, soiled napkins, dirt. There were
stray hairs, parings, snot. All these things were evidence of some kind, and all
false.

There were little nails somehow planted into the end of his toes. The flesh was swelling
around them, perfect and strange. All his life, all the useless hours – nothing had
prepared him. He had merely trained himself to want, disdain, and indifference. He
had nothing to meet this. Somehow he had opened the wrong book, the wrong page. It
was a picture he was forced to stare at, to recognize. The boy was blinking, oblivious.
He was like an animal wandered onto the stage, at just the right time, in just the
right way.

1st May

Brooks was back from the island. He threw his canvas bag up on the table, let it
sound. Already Cabot was reaching for it.

Don't open it, Brooks said. Just guess.

A bottle, MacDonald said.

No.

Gold, DeHaven said.

No.

Fossils.

No.

A skull. A man's skull. Bones.

No.

Brooks undid the straps and upended the bag, let it rumble out onto the table. They
stared at it stupidly. Morgan took a lump in his hands. They watched him tighten
his grip, the knuckles pale. The fist slackened. The table was scattered with chunks
and crumbs.

Bear shit? Musk ox?

Sadly, Morgan shook his head. It was turf.

Is there much of it?

A whole mountain, Brooks said.

It was more treachery, the worst yet. Now there was no reason not to go. There was
nothing to hold him back. The ship was now entirely out of the ice, impossible to
crush. With an endless supply of turf, those left behind could live in something
like total comfort, warm and dry, for years to come.

2nd May

They were up on deck, in the afternoon. Tommy was asleep in the hand-cradle, in the
sun. In the wicker chair beside him, Morgan was patching the knees of a pair of trousers,
as best he could.

DeHaven sighed grandly. A woman's work is never done, he said.

Morgan looked at him bitterly. In his other life, he'd done his sewing in secret,
by Myer's sickbed, in Myer's cabin, afraid of what the men might say. Like so much
else, that fear too had withered away.

Tropic or Arctic? DeHaven proposed. By now it was an age-old debate, an excuse to
argue. They were facing south.

In the Arctic a man suffers more, Morgan said.

But lasts longer.

Apparently.

So if you were offered two years in the tropics against two years here, DeHaven said.
He was trying to force his captain to contradict himself.

The thing is, Morgan said, in the tropics the first two years are far and away the
worst. Past that marker, freaks and accidents apart, you start to feel safe.

You can live long, if you don't die.