The Surfacing (42 page)

The minutes passed, but not the day. The vault was a timeless, porcelain blue. The
ice a glowing, porcelain white. The phantoms had formed ranks on the horizon. Morgan
took a giant stride forward, a giant stride back, watched them reappear, melt away
again. It was a flexible landscape, at his command. At his slightest whim, it seemed,
he could set or stop the dance.

Leask was reading aloud again.
The Pilgrim's Progress
. It took a deliberate effort
to listen. All around, water was trickling endlessly.

In my humble opinion, DeHaven announced loudly, your money might have been better
spent. A bit of The Bard. A bit of Byron. Anything but that tripe.

They gathered and ate. They listened to the gulls squabbling over the rests of their
bear. By morning it would all be gone, even the bones.

The food seemed to have giddied Cabot a little. As the other men lit their pipes,
he began to sing. It was his one and only contribution to the repertoire. They all
knew the tune, and hummed along, but only DeHaven and Morgan knew the words.

Il était un petit navire, they sang. Fifteen two-line verses and the refrain cheering
uselessly all along the way. They sang it right to the end, Cabot and DeHaven and
Morgan, because they knew what the words meant. Afterwards, the sailors interrogated
them, for the sake of something to talk about. So Morgan sang it again in the silence
of his mind, and translated aloud what he heard.

There was a little ship, he explained. Which had never sailed the sea. And then the
song goes, Ohé! Ohé! Matelot
– sailor – Matelot sail upon the sea. It's funny, because
the word they use for sea is
flots
, F-L-O-T-S, meaning more properly
stream
I suppose.
And the English
floe
, well – He waved his hand at the world about the boat. Anyway.
Matelot, Matelot sail upon the sea. The ship set off on a long voyage, on the Mediterranean
sea. After five or six weeks, food was in short supply. They drew straws to see who
would be eaten. Morgan paused to check the effect. And again, Ohé! Ohé! Matelot,
Matelot sail upon the sea. It fell to the youngest, he who had never sailed the sea.
So they argued as to what sauce, with what sauce I suppose, the poor child would
be served. One wanted to fry him, another to make a stew. While they talked it over,
he climbed to the top of the mast. He – Morgan turned to Cabot: En haut du grand
hunier, et la suite?

Il fait au ciel une prière.

From atop the mast, he prayed to heaven, Morgan said, and pleaded with the, literally
it would be ‘the great immensity,' but in English? I don't know. Anyway, it goes
on, the boy looked over the sea and he saw waves on all sides. O Virgin Mother, cried
the poor misfortunate, if I have sinned, forgiveness, and stop them from eating
me. Ohé! Ohé! et cetera. And at that very instant, a great miracle for the child.
Little fish into the ship leapt in their thousands. They took them up, put them in
the pan, and the lad was saved. Ohé! Ohé! Matelot, Matelot sail upon the sea.

Nice bit of luck, DeHaven said.

And it's
that
they sing the French garsoons? Banes said. Very cheery. No wonder they
haven't a navy worth the name.

But you don't understand, Cabot said. In French it is I think much, much nicer to
hear. It has in it a great amount of charm. It is not at all violent or even cruel
like you think. The children, they adore.

The sides of the tent were black with grime, from the conjuror, the lamps, the pipes.
You could scrape it away with your fingernail. You could write on it, black on black.
Morgan lay there with his eyes open, staring up. It was a song she'd often sung to
the boy, rocking him back and forth, holding him tight to her flesh – her own greedy
body and the little body it had produced.

10th July

All day a storm kept them huddled in the boat, under the covers, listening to the
rowdy clatter of the rain. The next morning, through the canvas, they listened to
DeHaven in raptures. He was roaring like a madman for them to come out and see –
quick! – the rain had melted all the ice! All gone! Vanished! he shouted. Nothing
but open water as far as you can see! They smiled bitterly, afraid to lift the flap.

Later, Cabot doled out the food.

Cabot, DeHaven moaned, with his spoon in his mouth. The face was rapt. The eyes were
closed. He sighed with a profound and fearful joy. He could not believe so perfect
a pleasure had been be so close at hand.

Cabot went on fussing with the wicks. Everything was soft and damp. The men smelled
foul, old. They ate in silence. The ration now was fourteen ounces per diem, with
five ounces of meat, bulked out by whatever they managed to shoot.

And when the birds are all gone, DeHaven said. Then what are you going to do?

Then, Morgan thought, you cede. You turn your back on the ridiculous dream, that
has fired you for so long. You turn and with a brave heart you take that first step
north.

Could I wave my magic wand and make it appear on a plate, DeHaven said. It was an
old, wicked game.

A cup of warm milk, Banes said. It seemed both pain and pleasure to say.

The máthair's boiled bacon and cabbage, Daly said.

Boiled potatoes, swimming in butter and parched with salt, said Leask.

Fried onions, with pepper, said Galvin.

Fish-head soup, Blacker said.

White bread, said Anderson. Fresh white bread and strawberry jam.

Cabot doled it out and they passed the plates along, each man secretly weighing it
as he did so, to compare with his own.

Or her battered tripe, Daly said.

Charlotte à la Russe, said Leask.

Roast mutton with caper sauce, said Banes.

Turkey and Boiled Oysters.

Goose Galantine.

Tapioca Pudding with Brandy sauce.

Madeira Jelly, drownded with fancy cream.

And Mr Morgan? Daly said.

None of it, Morgan said.

That's difficult to credit, Banes said. With all due respect, sir.

Why so? Many's the time I've had it piled on my plate, all that.

You didn't like it?

Of course I liked it. I'd be a liar if I held the contrary. But I can't say it ever
made much of a difference.

Maybe you should've had seconds.

I could get as much and as often as I liked. And still it didn't fill the hole.

What hole?

The hole I wanted to fill. Wanted or needed, whichever you prefer.

What was it you wanted, so?

I don't know.

Women? Was that your vice?

No. Not to say I didn't – don't – appreciate those pleasures as much as the next
man, but the end result is the same as all the fine living.

If I may be so bold, sir, Banes said, I think I may be obliged to present to you
some of the ladies of my intimate acquaintance, when we get back to Cork.

I appreciate the offer, Mr Banes. But without wishing to cast even a shadow of a
doubt on the talents of the mademoiselles in question, I fear that even they may
not have the remedy.

Outside, with a charming music, the thaw-water made its way to the sea.

DeHaven nodded at the flap. Another few days of this, he said, and we'll have to
start building the Ark. It was an old joke, come true. Their world was thoroughly
rotten by now. All around them, edges were continually collapsing. They had not yet
collapsed under a man, but Morgan had no doubt that moment would come.

13th July

He found himself clinging to a rope in mid-air, gently swinging back and forth.
Above him, most of the crew were draped over the taffrail, cheering heartily. He
trapped the rope between his legs, and reached left hand over right to hoist himself
up. Inch by inch, it seemed to him, he was pulling himself towards the top of the
rope, yet when he looked at the side of the ship, a few feet away, it was obvious
he was making no progress at all. Those up on deck, he realized, were slyly letting
the rope slip, to keep him where he was. They were
even gauging the rate, to always
leave him no lower or higher than before, but always midway between water and deck.
In the end he loosened his grip a little and allowed himself to slide, to confound
them, and as quickly they started to haul him in. His only proper choice, he understood,
was to let go the rope entirely. Everything else left him at the mercy of those above.

The nights are long, it is hard to sleep, he wrote in the captain's log. Life is
short but the nights are long, my grandmother used to say. This is what he wrote
in his private book. I often think of her now as I lie here awake in the early hours.
I often think back twelve months exactly, of how my life was then.

So much and so little has changed, when in his mind he sends himself back to the
ship. It is late evening, very mild. The shadows are soft, milky almost, as if seen
through old man's eyes. The sunset ice is the colour of flesh. Their new ice-hole,
mercury. Everything is so perfect, they forget. There is no wind. Still, the water
is a nervous witness, with its own fearful version of the world. He prefers it to
the heroic versions he reads in his books, alone in his cabin, night after night.
They have been motionless for weeks. They are bored, but are learning to play. This
evening Cabot comes running, excited, like a boy. Quick! he orders. Come and see!
It sounds like an emergency. And bring Tommy! he shouts back.

The ice-hole is a hundred yards square, off the starboard bow. A line now leads to
it across the snow, like a single locomotive rail. It is the track of the keel of
the whaleboat. Morgan watches the men ease it into the water. They are strangely
gentle. They have made hardly a ripple. He watches them run to the far side of the
hole with a long rope, the end of which is attached to the boat. Hand over hand they
draw the boat across, with the same great care, not to worry the glass too much.
The boat is not halfway across when the whale comes up.

He comes up first to quarrel, then to sing. It is a Biblical sound, a vast assembly
of battered brass. It is a lookout on
a hilltop, a call to war, the lonely sounding
of a retreat. There in the desert, there is no other sound and no possible reply.
But it is too big and too loud, and in Morgan's arms Tommy begins to scream. The
men are delighted and slightly ashamed. They hadn't meant to frighten him. They are
not quite sure what to do. They do not know how to make the whale go away.

Morgan has turned him away from the world, is holding him tighter, chest to chest.
The boy's wails are sawing right through his flesh, but he is still smiling bravely,
in the presence of the men. He will not need to endure it much longer. His son's
mother hears everything. He knows she is on her way.

Afterwards, the ragged ball of flame teeters on the horizon. The boy's father and
mother are staring straight into it, wide-eyed. It is midnight. They stand shoulder
to shoulder in silence, for a minute or two. It is no later, but the red ball is
somehow better nested now, more solid, at ease. The matter seems decided, once and
for all: it need never lift again. He puts his arm around her, but still they do
not speak. There is no sound now but the measured saw of Cabot's snoring, up on deck.
After an hour's wailing the boy has finally gone to sleep, and it feels like a great
victory, after a long campaign.

16th July

For the past three days, we have had a constant sprinkling of snow. The ice-holes
are turning to sponge. If it were only a little later in the year, a little colder,
I tell the men. If only it were September or October, the sponge would stiffen and
in time toughen sufficiently to bear our weight. But it is not September, it is July,
and we have not the means of surviving in situ until then.

He wrote out a list of questions to ask himself. He wrote out the answers yes and
no. Is it possible that. Is it probable that. Given the means at our disposal. Given
the weather. Given the time. He did the sums, pound per day per man. Pound per pound.
Beyond all the questions, the answer he wanted was still waiting for him. They would
never reach the open sea.

Even so, in moments of silence, he often thought he heard a distant rumour. The sound
seemed to come from every direction at once. He could sometimes be seen standing
alone on the floe, eyes closed, trying to locate it, turning slowly on the spot but
otherwise perfectly still, like a dancer on a music box.

I thank God that the earth is not, in fact, flat, Morgan said.

This is wondrous news, DeHaven declared. But a heresy, surely?

Imagine the discouragement, Morgan said, if a single glance gave us the full extent
of all that intervenes –

He lifted the glass to his eye again.

That's not south, DeHaven said, but Morgan paid him no mind.

You wonder, Morgan said. Once a thing is proved beyond doubt and accepted generally
– you wonder how it could ever have been otherwise.

For instance.

For instance, the shape and form of the earth. Were the earth flat, and the sea with
it, how is it a man could never see more than five or eight or ten miles on the level,
but so much
farther from a height? The answer seems so obvious now. You wonder how
they managed to deny it so long.

People don't like to change, DeHaven said. They don't like to admit they were wrong.

They always seem so stupid, Morgan said. Those who inhabit the past. Be it a month
or a year or a thousand years ago. And I put myself, my older – younger – self top
of the list. So many delusions, all so alike and all so obvious, now we can see what
came afterwards.

They had Morgan's birthday. Cabot made him an oatcake sprinkled with crushed hazelnuts.
They planted a thick candle in the middle of the thing. A hand brought a taper. The
lone flame trembled. Leaning in, the faces glowed.