The Surfacing

by Cormac James

  They deserve it, Morgan said. And no man more than Cabot. He’s done Trojan work this past week.

  I thought he was the cook, not the carpenter, Kitty said.

  Cook and carpenter. Almost every one of us is doubling up.

  Down at the shore, the girl’s court began to clap. The performance was over, she told them, with a pompous bow.

  What I’d like to know is where she got the drink, MacDonald said. I’d understood it was strictly forbidden the natives.

  What makes you think she’s drunk? Rink said, ready to be offended.

  She’s doing it out of the goodness of her heart, I suppose? Brooks said.

  Of course, said DeHaven. Pep up the boys. You know how it is. The hard summer behind us, the long hard winter ahead.

  Rink shuffled off stiffly towards the shore, to see what could be salvaged.

  I can take him, if you like, Kitty said, stepping closer to Morgan.

  But the baby was still asleep, and Morgan was afraid to shift it. The look on its face was one of total concentration. A mind in deep conspiracy with itself. Waiting to be disturbed, to be outraged. So that even the act of sleeping was just prolonging that possibility, that power.

  I expressly forbid it, DeHaven said. The man must learn to assume his responsibilities.

  Rink had set out a buffet for the officers, and in his presence they’d savaged it as politely as they could. Now he was gone, they were helping themselves again. But Morgan had his arms full and was missing out. She’d seen where he was looking, allowed herself to presume, and within seconds she was guiding a spoon towards his mouth. Perched on the edge was a lump of jam. That jam was the deep, quiet colour of blood. Her hand was trembling slightly, and he stretched his neck forward to meet it.

  That night he sat alone on his bunk. The rest were all up on deck, and he did not bother to light the lamp. Sooner or later, he supposed, someone would open the door and jeer at him for sitting in the dark. The next day, he walked inland with her over the hills. In three hours of walking they did not see so much as a hare. The day after, Myer and Brooks announced they were taking a boat round the far side of the island, into the Waigat Strait. The cliffs there showed open seams of coal, and Myer wanted to know more of their quality, and the prospects for mining. DeHaven said he would accompany them, it would give him a chance to tend the sick. Rink, of course, insisted on going along to guide and translate, and MacDonald went to baptize. It all worked out perfectly.

  10th July

  He was standing at the upstairs window, watching the men below on the beach, at the tubs. The curtains were drawn, but he held them open a sliver, just enough to see. He could feel it stirring inside him, the wish to be down there with them, splashing and shoving and fooling about. He could have gone down, certainly. No one would turn him away. But he liked them wild and unruly, and in his presence they were tame.

  It was all horseplay, naturally. The first man who rinsed himself off got a pat on the back from everyone, praising his frame, his strength. It was Cabot, Morgan saw. They let him go off to the towels, and waited for him to discover the crime. What they wanted, of course, was a blaze of curses, a mad wail.

  Morgan watched him traipse mournfully back to the tubs. He’d thought he was done, but now had to get back in the water, to rinse off the soap. They welcomed him back like a long-lost son – hugged him and ruffled his hair, shook his hand heartily, begged him to leave them never more. Once he’d rinsed himself off, he stood up again to leave, but the others had already formed a guard of honour, that he had to pass through.

  Cake! someone cried, and instantly every man was rubbing a hand up his own backside. Cabot tried to thrash his way free. He was too slow, too weak. There was a long howl of outrage as the hands were smeared all over him.

  In the bedroom, behind his back, she’d seen him shaking with laughter and wanted to know why. She’d been stalking, for something to share. Down at the tubs, Cabot was roaring and flailing now, like a panicked child. Morgan watched him plunge back under the water, frantically scrubbing himself with soap. He looked like a man scalded or burned. Without even turning around, Morgan waved her away, shaking his head. Afterwards, Cabot tried to leave again, wearing a furious face for protection, and this time they actually held him down. The screams must have been heard all over the island; certainly she heard them there in the room, and came to stand beside him, to see what the matter was.

  What are they doing? she asked. In her voice a hint of fear, like a faint foreign accent. Are they trying to drown him? Why don’t you shout at them? You must make them stop.

  Morgan merely flapped his hand again, to flap her away. His only real concern, for the moment, was not to laugh out loud. It was one of the voices he wanted her never to hear.

  The third time, as a defence, Cabot rubbed his own backside and brandished the hand as he made his way out of the tub; then stood whingeing and lost at the bottom of the steps – holding the spare hand strangely aloft, wondering what to do with it.

  Morgan pulled the curtains together and turned to face the twilighted room. They’re just playing, he told her. It’s been a hard enough haul for them, these past few weeks. They’re just letting off a little steam.

  He lets the towel fall to the floor, balances himself on one leg, and lifts the other over the side of the bath. As it touches the water, he lets out a long, solemn breath. It is too close to scalding. Delicately, he dips the foot in and out, and each time tries to leave it in a little longer. Once the foot has learned to trust the heat, he should be able to lower it all the way; and once one part of him is ready, it should be easier for the rest. Finally, he forces his foot right to the bottom. Between his teeth, he curses the mother of God. In the mirror, he can see himself struggling to keep his balance, as he lifts the other leg. Now he is lowering himself onto his haunches, lifting and lowering again, and always able to bully himself into going back for more. The foam rises to meet him, almost level with the top of the tub. Unseen, the water rises too, begins to suck and slurp. Finally he touches bottom. He relaxes, carefully, lets himself spread out. He can still hear the men roaring and cursing outside. In here, he has surrendered to private pleasures and their disappointments. By now he is completely submerged, everything but his head.

  Are you quite at home there? she says. She is standing in the doorway.

  Quite at home, thank you.

  You don’t look like you’ll ever want to come out.

  Never, he says. Just bring me my meals and my letters. And a little hot water from time to time.

  He watches her walk into the bedroom. Hears the springs take her weight. Through the doorway, he can see the legs stretch out.

  For a time, the voice says, I thought you were actually going to go with the others. For this, she’s waited until she’s out of sight, safer.

  Leaning back, he can see most of her body, but the head is cut off by the jamb. He watches her undo the belt of her dressing-gown.

  Really, he says, you’re underestimating your charms. Hot meal, warm bath, clean sheets . . .

  And here was I imagining you were looking for something else.

  Speaking, she is fingering the long hairs at the top of her thighs. She’s like a chi
ld in a game, who hasn’t yet learned how to lose. She thinks he cannot see her, because she cannot see him.

  A bit of good old-fashioned mothering, that’s what I want, he says.

  This time she doesn’t answer. This time she lets silence do the work, so he tries to recast and redeem it. Louder, he says: Double windows and stoves in every room. Clean and bright. Plenty of privacy, and a wonderful view. If we could just manage to get rid of your brother, I might move in permanently.

  As though to demonstrate, now he lifts himself up, gets his feet under him, steadies and stands. Maybe he’ll meet a nice native girl up there and never come back, he says. A fairy-tale ending for everybody. Maybe even as we speak . . .

  Mr Morgan, she said sternly, that’s positively scandalous. Why, the man is engaged to be married. What kind of people do you take us for?

  Now he’s standing over the bed, looking down, at the way she’s laid herself out. Now he’s lying beside her, and before he’s even had time to settle she has her hand on his chest. Systematically, she moves the hand back and forth, as though searching for a particular texture, a particular quality, that only she can appreciate. She lets the motion of the hand become a circle, and lets the circle grow, to bring more and more of him in.

  The children gathered round him, almost as soon as they left the house. The sailors had given them a pack of cards and they touted it proudly. They wanted Morgan to show them how it was done. He fanned the cards out, faces hidden, asked the smallest boy to choose. She translated and explained as best she could. Morgan got her to blindfold him with her purple silk scarf. The chosen card was being passed from hand to hand. They were looking for a hidden sign. They did not want to give it back. They watched Morgan shuffle, still blindfolded. He gripped the pack and began to squeeze. The cards were spluttering into the air, then lying in disorder on the ground, half the faces turned up. He seemed to be searching through them the same as everyone else. The King. The Queen. The Ace. A few had fallen on the window ledge. And then they saw it. On the other side of the panes, between the inner and outer windows, somehow. The thing was impossible, but there it lay, with the dead flies. It was the Knave.

  They stared at it in silence, suddenly afraid. They all wanted to ask the same question, in Danish or English or Esquimaux. She could ask it in any language she wanted. It was a secret he would never tell. It was the one thing he would leave behind that would not perish. It would grow untended, for years to come.

  22nd July

  At breakfast Myer told them to close their letters, any man that could write. The rudder was repaired. They were leaving tomorrow morning, to try again to force a way through The Pack.

  About Giorgio, Myer said. Someone really ought to write to the family.

  No one said anything.

  Mr Morgan, Myer said. You knew the lad, didn’t you?

  As we all did, Morgan said.

  What I mean is, you knew the father. Know.

  He’s my wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law, Morgan said. If the truth be known, I’ve never even met the man.

  All the same, it was you brought the boy aboard, am I right?

  I wrote the recommendation, that’s all. I’m sure, sir, you’ve written plenty of those yourself over the years.

  Are you refusing to write the letter? Myer said.

  I’m not refusing, no sir, Morgan said. Merely, I would have thought the thing more the captain’s privilege. And to be perfectly blunt, I would prefer not to be involved.

  As a little courtesy by the ship’s second to his captain, Mr Morgan. Is it really so much to ask?

  Shouldn’t it be the chaplain? Morgan said. Is that not how these things are usually done? I mean even for form’s sake.

  MacDonald knows the man no better than I, said Myer.

  For godsake one of ye give me the address and I’ll write the damn thing, DeHaven said. How hard can it be? Dear so-and-so deeply sorry to have to inform you, be assured it was but the matter of a moment and entirely painless. He had from the first impressed the officers and crew by his courage, diligence and good nature, was held in the warmest regard, et cetera et cetera, will never be forgotten by those of us who had the honour to serve at his side. How does that sound, Captain?

  That sounds like just the thing, Myer said.

  If you like, DeHaven said, I’ll do you out a copy for future reference, should the occasion again present itself.

  That afternoon Morgan rowed over to see her. Her brother stood brooding in the parlour. She said they would go for a walk. It was one of the first fine days of the year, and everyone was sitting outside, soaking up the sun. Before they could get beyond the last hut, they were surrounded. The faces looked hunted, shrunken, grey. The voices were imploring, and Morgan did not understand a word. He searched his pockets for something that might pawn them off. He brought out a little signalling mirror and the leader took it straight from his hands, put it down into his parka with barely a look. The voices were still pleading. They wanted something else, or they wanted more.

  They strolled together along the coast. On the other side of the headland there was a little cove. Back at the settlement, a tuft of smoke was snagged on the chimney of her brother’s house. The wind had all but died away, but still he caught a whiff of rotten meat. He scuttled down the rocks, nimble as a goat, then wandered along the beach, waiting for her to pick her way down. When he looked back she was sitting on a tree trunk up at the high water mark. He called out, called her to come and see. The cliff face had fallen away, revealing a dozen different strata of rock, like the layers of a cake. Here there was sand, here slate, here tiny fragments of shellfish, crushed almost to dust by an unimaginable weight, by an unimaginable lapse of time. But she made no move, and eventually he began to walk back towards her, trawling his feet through the coarse, heavy sand.

  She told him again what she’d told him before. Regardless of what he decided, she said, she could not continue here. She told him Rink did not need her, did not want her, was ready to go home.

  Where would you like to go? Morgan said.

  Is that an invitation?

  No.

  She didn’t care about the details, she said. The place was not important, the life. He would be surprised at how little she needed. These past few years, she had surprised herself.

  He started to climb back up the rocks to the path. Sooner or later she’d follow. From that height, he kept an eye on her progress, step by martyred step. Below them the sea turned in its sleep, the waves boiled over like milk and sizzled on the shore.

  He walked her home. In her brother’s presence she didn’t look at him once, but at the front door she asked if he would be able to call again, later.

  We’ll see each other at the ball, won’t we? Morgan said brightly. I presume you’ll keep at least one dance for me?

  He walked down the front steps. He made sure not to turn around. Fear had put his heart in a gallop and it was coursing over every obstacle. Steadily, his boots chewed their way across the beach, the careless shingle, towards the whaleboat. Still he hadn’t heard the door close.

  For their last night, MacDonald held a special service in Rink’s church. Morgan sat alone on the forem
ost bench. An invisible draught was toying with the limp flame. In the corner, a doe-eyed saint was pining. Behind him, the voices were singing in Danish or in Esquimaux, he tried not to listen, he didn’t care.

  Afterwards, as the men shuffled out of the church, MacDonald took hold of Rink’s elbow and led him aside. He respectfully wished to disadvise his friend from unlocking the door of the dancehall. They turned their heads to look. It was too late. The crew were already prying it open with an oar.

  About midnight, Morgan went outside to empty his bladder, and recognized a face in the shadows. It was DeHaven, sitting on a crate with one of the native girls. She was drinking straight from the bottle, her head thrown back. Morgan watched them groping each other awhile.

  The hall was candlelit. Through the open door he watched the revellers lunging and tottering blindly. An old Irish jig had every one of them by the lapels.

  The next time he went out, he met DeHaven again down at the ditch. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood in silence and listened to it sizzling on the ground. What in the moonlight looked like the same girl strolled past them, barefoot. Slung around her neck was a pair of their sailcloth boots, puppet-ting along to a silent march. DeHaven asked had Morgan anything left to drink. Morgan had brought over a dozen bottles of his own wine for the common table, and a bottle of brandy, which he’d kept for himself. DeHaven pulled the bottle from his friend’s pocket, held it up to the moon, to see how much was left.

  Rowing to shore earlier in the evening, there’d been the usual brave banter, and statements of grand ambition. Bastard thinks he’s Napoleon, Morgan had said, and DeHaven had countered deftly, with a jibe about him and Rink’s sister.