The Surfacing

by Cormac James

  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 sac
k?

  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.

  From the start I knew it was a blessing, poor Captain Myer getting sick, he told them. Never God closes one door but He opens another, as MacDonald says. Richard Spread Morgan at the helm. When I heard that, gentlemen, I knew we were saved.

  It was neither brag nor bluff, nor another greedy capitulation. The Cornwallis coastline had sunk ingloriously, day by day – then all at once, in a rush to be done. Ahead of them now, in every direction, were battles they could not win. North and south, east and west, it was endless devastation. Overhead, the rigging was dripped glass. A veil of fog was coming down, blurring the outlines. If he stayed out much longer, it would be transparent shadows, no more. Even so, he was sad to leave it, to go back inside. The night before, in the captain’s journal, he had written: We cannot turn back. It was a convenient truth. Might there still be a means to find a haven for the winter and get themselves in? Perhaps, but he had refused to think it out. Some part of him did not want to stop the slide, or try to return – stay close, at least – to what he knew. He was too fond of the notion by now, the growing distance to the known world.

  Below, they had begun to sing. DeHaven was leading the chorus, grandly beating time with a fork. Morgan sat with his back to the crowd, hoping they would not see him alone and try to come to his rescue, try to get him to join in. The brandy bottle was empty, but by now his cabin – his own private supply – seemed too far away. He took a drink from his friend’s glass, pushed it round his mouth, trying to paint over the taste of Cabot’s peculiar beer.

  When eventually DeHaven came back, he pointed at where he’d been sitting before. Sir, he said, I regret to inform you that place is in matter of fact occupied.

  I know it is, Morgan said. By me.

  They were sitting looking at each other when Cabot came by again, carrying a platter piled high with meat. They could have whatever they wanted, he said. Bien cuit, à point, saignant, or bleu.

  Where’s the blue one? DeHaven said, lifting up the slabs of meat, looking under them, searching. Blue! he said. He was almost shouting now. His fingers were dripping with grease and blood.

  Cabot looked frightened. He looked like he did not know the word.

  B-L-U-E! DeHaven roared at the struggling face. You want us to spell it out for you?

  That night they drew lots, noisily, and the men refused to allow that the draw had been fair. If it wasn’t done over, there’d be mutiny, shouted Banes. Cabot won a pint of brandy. Hepburn won half a dozen cigars. Morgan had made sure to allow them plenty from the stores. It was another trade. In the half-light, the faces were famous with drink. Champagne! shouted DeHaven. Cabot said there was none left. It was a lie, a two-man conspiracy. Morgan had confiscated the last two cases. They were in his cabin, hidden under the bed. He was keeping them for the birth. When – if – it happened, he wanted to show it was something to celebrate.

  31st December

  Alone in his cabin, Morgan reviewed the year. Exactly as DeHaven wanted him to do, he set off the evidence against their ambitions. A more perfect failure, he wrote, would be impossible to achieve. He reviewed the ship’s stores and equipment, their position and prospects, the crew. Qualities, he wrote. Obedience? For some reason, I have always been wary of a man too willing to obey. There are men who need to follow, and those I cannot trust. Curious qualm for a commander, I know. I prefer a refusal to fail, even to the point of pig-headed stubbornness. For weaklings and cowards are never stubborn, even in their vices. Intelligence, he wrote. Good up to a point, but no more. Bravery, I find, often is little more than the ability to recognize necessity in advance. He thought stupidity the greatest threat out here. He who thinks himself smarter than all mischief. That man is mortal danger, and not only to himself. One by one he copied the names out of the muster-roll, and gave each his qualities. In any case, he wrote, it matters not how I rate any individual, for there is no one to supply his place. They will serve. The inevitable will temper them, every one.

  He read again Ross’s advice for choosing an Arctic crew. It said nothing about experience, hardiness, constitution, age. All Ross said was, no married men, if it can be helped. No man who thinks his life worth something to someone else.

  12th January

  On the 12th an invisible current began to draw them more northerly, and still he did nothing to resist. Higher latitudes. He liked the words. He would take it as a reconnaissance, a chance to bring back news of the living to be had there, the fee.

  Waiting, they talked.

  C’est longue, she said.

  Morgan nodded in sympathy, but already their drift felt to him like a kind of reprieve. Not an exit, but an unearned stay.

  During the night of the 16th they crossed another mythical line. The 76th parallel. Morgan did not announce the fact, but with a flutter he felt something wake inside him – the useless pride that they had penetrated farther north than any other ship. He had expected far greater inhibition, far south of this. He was almost disappointed to find the sea here not utterly impenetrable, to find it was still possible to navigate – navigate! – in the legendary north. It cheapened everything he’d read, the blocks of Arctic literature he’d brought along. His disbelief was part flattery, but he knew well they’d done nothing exceptional. They were trapped in a block of ice ten acres in size. That was their little world, the cast of their lamp.
Their progress was no fault or feat of their own. It was an accident of currents and winds that let them penetrate so far, he told the crew. He barely heard his own efforts at modesty. Nothing could shout down the applause he heard incessantly now.

  17th January

  Several times a day, greedily, he went up to try for new bearings, desperate to figure their drift. But for a week now there were no bearings, and no stars. Day after day he scoured the sky with the glass. Then, just for an instant – it was noon, the 17th of January – he thought he saw a more solid spectre – cliffs? – pushing towards them through the veils, directly ahead. The naked eye only brought it closer, all in a surge. Without warning, a ragged wall stood in their way.

  That night he did not sleep. He sewed his last letters and log into his tarpaulin bag and waxed the seam. In two minutes he could be fit to jump. The hull was scraping along the shore. Calmly, he imagined the scene of their destruction. He took one last look at the gilding on the mirror, the crumbs on the desk, the bevelled planks of the cabin wall.

  25th January

  After lunch he watched her waddle more slowly than ever to the bed. He watched her lie back, with an offended sigh. She lay with the blankets folded to her knees, hugging the bump, warding off the danger. The stove was kept going for her now all day long. It was too warm, and Morgan felt oppressed, felt the sweat rolling down the small of his back.