by Cormac James
Oh! she said. The word was full of air. It was a plea for sympathy.
Twenty-four, she said. Contractions, she meant. She’d been counting them, miserly, all through the day.
Kitty, he said, you’re not even at seven months. This too would pass, he meant, as every crisis did.
But the old sheets were already piled in the corner. They’d been sitting there for weeks. Even if it were born now, DeHaven had said last night. It was a provocation, a test. His friend was merely sounding the surface, Morgan told himself. He needed more time.
It was unsettling, the way time had begun to expand, to make room for what was to come. Looking back, there were entire years he could barely remember. They had been squeezed of all their flesh. In his journal, on the calendar, they were mere numbers on a page. But the ten or twelve weeks remaining now seemed phenomenally wide. It was an obstacle he would have to hack his way through, inch by inch. Progress would be tedious. He could be patient. He could take his time.
You wouldn’t prefer to just stay that way indefinitely? he said.
She considered the conundrum, wary of its traps.
I wish it would just be over, she said. That we could skip all the . . .
All the mess, he said.
All the waiting, that’s what I hate. Yet there’s a part of me wishes it would last for ever, that the end would never come.
It’s not something you can rush, he told her, smiling. As DeHaven says, it’s like the blooming of a flower. It’s like the leaves on a tree. It takes its own time. You plant the seed, and then you wait.
27th January
Day after day the wind drove them north. It drove them past shingle beaches, past frozen quarries, past sheer, stupefying walls of stone. He remembered running along under the cliffs of Greenland, the cliffs of Devon. Those men had been proud of their summons, and the courage it called for. Before them now was an enemy shore.
It was her birthday. He watched the candles gasping. He watched her heave again and blow the last of them out. Cabot brought a better knife, and Morgan cut.
Not for me, MacDonald said.
Cabot put a lot of work into this, Morgan said.
It’s too rich, MacDonald said. My stomach won’t take it.
He’s fasting, DeHaven said. To mitigate his own vile sins, and the sins of every man aboard.
As soon as she went to bed, MacDonald began to complain. All night and longer he’d been holding it in. He spoke bitterly of their situation, their prospects. In his mind there was only one possible outcome. They were going to be crushed. The first proper pressure, he said, she’ll crack open like an egg.
Brooks considered the source of the stupidity. Nonsense, he said. The great merit of this lady – he slapped the wall gently, as though slapping the rump of a champion – is she’s not only strong, she’s flexible.
Thank you Mr Brooks, Morgan said.
The reed that bends and the reed that breaks.
Precisely.
That’s not what Banes says, said MacDonald.
What does Banes say? Brooks was smiling, ready to laugh.
He says she’s too heavy and too stiff. All those knees and Samson posts below.
What in hell does he know about it? Morgan said.
He’s seen more ships than you and me both.
Ten years building them in Greenock, DeHaven said.
You seem to know more about my crew than I do.
Go talk to them once in a while, DeHaven said. Go play a hand of cards with them. You might learn something’s not in the Regulations and not in the log.
Go get him. Brooks.
Brooks brought him back. He stood there defiant, wondering what he’d done. They put it to him, what MacDonald had said.
Look at her, Banes told them. The big fat hips and belly on her. She’s all fat and fight and nothing else.
They sent him away, then argued it out.
Believe you me, MacDonald said, every one of those timbers is a sin of vanity, committed by men in the dockyards imagine themselves more savvy than the Lord above. Think on it. Should ever He desire to shuffle about His ice, is it a few lengths of Irish oak will stop him? They’re stalks of corn in a threshing machine, no more. They serve no purpose whatsoever but to weigh her down, and make it that much harder for her to heft herself up, when comes the final crush.
We’ve survived every crush so far, haven’t we? Brooks said.
MacDonald looked at the man with open disdain. Once His mind is made up, he said, the ice will go over her, or under her, or through her, or whatever way takes His fancy, and the best and wisest thing you can do then is to stand well out of His way.
10th February
It’s now, she said.
It’s not now, Morgan told her. It can’t be, not today.
Why not? she said. Have you something else planned?
Yes he had. One more day, was his prayer now. Twenty-four more hours was all he ever asked for, when the contractions came on like this. It seemed so little, for such relief.
Breathe, he said, refusing to be rushed.
Her breathing was audible, shallow, fast.
It’s now, she said.
It can’t be now, he told her. DeHaven says there ought to be at least a month left.
Ought? she said, and almost managed a smile.
It was just the time he needed to prepare. Having to live through the last day over and again, constantly rally and muster – the process was steadily draining him of all anxiety. The timing, now, seemed admirable. These next few weeks would wear him down perfectly, find him merely resigned when the moment came.
Today, as always, the contractions came and went.
Well? Morgan said.
I wish my other patients knew how to suffer half as well, DeHaven said.
How many have you now? she asked. In the hospital, she meant. She was trying to change the subject, to take her mind off herself.
Her stove was going full blast, and she was lying in only her nightdress, the blankets folded to her knees.
Why are they sick? she said.
Who? DeHaven said.
The ones are sick, and not the rest.
You see how they live, he said. You see what they eat.
She knew well what they liked to eat. She’d spent more than one afternoon with Cabot trying to concoct something more palatable, and still they’d barely touched it. They wanted their salt junk and their hard tack, and nothing vegetable.
Why don’t you go down to see them? Morgan said. To the hospital, he meant – that little corner of the men’s quarters that had been curtained off. I’m sure they’d appreciate a little mothering.
The two men sat with her, chatting, trying to distract her as best they could. The contractions did not return. Eventually she dozed off. Once his friend was gone, Morgan stared openly. By now her body ought to have been sacred, but was not. Still it stood in the way of everything else. A wall of feeling surged up as he forced his mind to
wards it, dwindled as he drew back. He could come no nearer than that to the pregnancy, the birth, whatever was on the other side.
That afternoon he shuffled across the ice and stood panting at the edge of the world. He studied the horizon. One day he would spot a lone figure far out on the ice. Staggering. Starving. Blind. One of Franklin’s men, come to reproach him for having given up hope. But not today. Today it was too cold. Directly behind him, on a pole planted fifty yards from the ship, the mercury stood at 27°, in the negative. Under his furs, his lungs were tingling, almost pleasantly. In his mouth was the fine taste of blood. He stood a long time trying to fix what he saw. It was noon. The day seemed to be growing clearer, the silt settling, and he thought he saw something sharper pushing through, far to the south. A gargantuan black mass. A bottomless shaft in a violet sky. It was the mountains of their unknown island, he supposed. He would not see it again. Once again – as if corrected – the course of their drift was west and northwest. Meekly, they submitted themselves to the vast, mindless plan.
14th February
On the 14th of February, returning from his walk, Morgan spotted two ravens rummaging in their rubbish heap. He refused to shoot. He was already too fond of them. It was four months since they’d seen another living thing.
Inside, the stoves were kept going day and night, gave off a furious marmalade glow. Apart from meal times and watch duty, most of the men now kept to their beds.
Cabot! they roared. What’s on the menu?
By now Cabot knew the routine. He knew their need to torture themselves. Tonight, he announced grandly, for our Saint Valentine’s Feast, we start with oyster soup. Followed by roast beef and gravy. Followed by trotters with a white wine sauce. To finish, whipped cream and jelly cake.
Morgan spent hours sketching them. He had them sit. He scrutinized the faces for flaws.
Why don’t you draw me? she asked.
She stood naked before the mirror. She turned full face, three-quarter, profile. The distance from that other woman – the rivalry – was narrowing daily. She no longer minded his stare.
Staring, he found he could admire the transformation, but not the thing itself. The breasts were now a preposterous size, shone like polished wood. Her body was ripening. It had become even more pregnant, somehow. She was the only one aboard not visibly in decline.
He remembered DeHaven boasting, a few days after they’d returned to Disko, of his bargain with one of the native girls. Fresh meat, DeHaven said, at once confiding and taunting. When you haven’t had it for a few weeks, there’s nothing on God’s green earth half as good. Think of it, he said. Red, raw, staring up at you. The feel of it, warm, in your mouth. The juices running down your chin. I’m telling you, Dick, it was pure sin.
He’s kicking! she said, turning to face him. Look!
There was no need, he was already staring, but the bald fact of it was too big for his mind to fit around. A young child, fully formed, somehow living inside her, that was one day going to come out. Many times he’d imagined a slow deflation. The protuberance, instead of pushing ever farther into his world, would slowly recede. The thing was not impossible. His own clothes hung on him looser than ever. That very morning he had punched a new hole in his belt.
Look! she said again. She meant the skin, stretched bright and shining, and the world within. You can feel it, she said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed now, she stepped towards him, and pulled up his shirt. She was crushing herself against him, flesh against flesh, as hard as she could. She wanted him to feel it as she did. As though she herself, like a Russian doll, were somehow inside him, Morgan, and inside her something smaller again.
20th February
From the Crow’s Nest, he was surveying the ruins again. To the west, a ragged horizon, an iron sky. Overhead, he had never seen aurora so bright, meteors so finely etched. But all too brief for comfort. Only the moon was constant, refused to die. Many an hour Morgan had spent studying her through the glass. Under her stare, the world was the colour of ash. That noon, to the south, it had looked to be soaked in piss. That was the sun, he told himself, every day now closer to the horizon. That was what the calendar said, yet it was colder than ever before. On the 18th they had touched minus 40°. And now the wind, he thought, was shuffling about a bit to the east. He stood there swaying, his eyes closed, listening to the voices again. He would not be surprised if tonight the mercury froze.
All night, it sounded like the carpenters gone mad. It sounded like the plates being popped, or bolted home. It was the ice splintering. It was the porcelain cold. Morgan told anyone who would listen that this was a good thing. It was a wonderful way of dispersing the old, tough ice. It would be easier to navigate, he said, when the break-up came. He was smiling, but the hammering had frightened him, knocked something loose. He did not know why he suddenly felt so close to disaster, to shame. He lay awake most of the night. He woke with the taste of fear in his mouth. He felt not weaker but lighter. Something had drained away.
After breakfast he rounded up the other officers, and Petersen. He wanted to be told what to do, when finally they were crushed.
No one spoke.
DeHaven? Morgan said. You’ve never been shy with suggestions.
DeHaven said he wanted to go home. But it would be better if the thing could be managed without them all freezing or starving to death.
Mr MacDonald, Morgan said. You have some rather strong views, which you have been honest enough to share with me, with regard to the suggestion, my suggestion, that the best course of action may simply be patience.
It is true that I personally believe it unwise to place our hopes in the ship.
Go on, Morgan said. Tell us why.
In my opinion, in view of her construction and current disposition, it is unlikely she will last very much longer. The longer we wait to abandon, the more our health and stores decline. Unless we act promptly, my fear is that when finally the crisis comes, we may be unable to face it.
Mr MacDonald, Morgan said, let us imagine that, on quitting the ship, we want to make for land. In what direction, at what distance? We do not know, but set that consideration aside. Let us imagine we make land due south. There is nothing to suggest animal life ever ranges so far north so early in the year –
Present company excepted, DeHaven said.
By animal life, you mean the natives? said MacDonald.
I don’t, but what if I did?
They can feed us, MacDonald said.
Mr MacDonald, let’s try not to forget just who and where we are. Do you honestly believe people so far north, so early in the year, could have food enough for strangers, and if so, that they would be willing to share it, and if so, that they could have enough to feed our entire party for anything but the shortest period, before their surplus stocks, and then their essential stocks are run down? Our very best hope, by that plan, is to prolong a little while our misery, and involve others in it to boot. Then what?
The presence of a woman and a child might well encourage the natives’ sympathies, MacDonald said. Or a woman with child, according to our schedule.
Do you really think so?
They are not Christian, but by all accounts they are a noble race.
&
nbsp; They all glanced at Petersen. He was asleep, as usual, on MacDonald’s bunk.
In any case, Mr Morgan, I think you are taking rather the bleakest view of our prospects, MacDonald said. God is good, as Captain Myer liked to say.
No, Mr MacDonald, I am not taking the bleakest view. I am simply trying to determine our ability to overcome the obstacles we are likely to encounter if we all now set out together over the ice, as you so blithely suggest. And having spent four weeks hauling in better weather, with the lightest sledge, and the fittest men, I believe I can judge the matter at least as well as any man aboard.
As you say, that’s your own personal opinion, MacDonald said.
Just how much do you think we can haul? Morgan said, almost shouting. How long do you think we can last? How many weeks or months of tremendous toil, over uncertain ice, at inhuman temperatures, day after day, until – what? Until the miraculous apparition of an expedition ship, along a stretch of coast where no ship but our own has ever passed? And all this with a woman and newborn baby in tow?
It may be that Franklin’s ships preceded us. Is that not why we are here?
We’re to be saved by Sir John Franklin? That’s your plan? Gentlemen, I rest his case.
You seem to have everything calculated to perfection, MacDonald said. A pity there is no room in your plan for hope.
I hate to agree with my friend, DeHaven told MacDonald, but he’s not wrong, as to the child’s prospects. The thing is simply not possible, in such cold. Not for the first year, at any rate.
That settles it then, MacDonald said. We wait aboard until we freeze or crush, then we stand out on the ice and wait to freeze or starve. That’s our plan. To go on what we’re doing now, indefinitely.