by Cormac James
20th April
It was the 20th of April, a Friday. They were going to visit the island at last. They were ready. They were better and stronger almost every one. The fresh meat had worked wonders, and DeHaven’s exercise drills, and now they were scrambling over the ruins to the threshold of a new world. Overhead, the sky was a fake blue. Their little ice-hole was a pool of gold. All about them the snow fell in lone feathers, that vanished even as they touched ground. As they came to the edge, the leaders pulled up to wait for Morgan, let him come to the fore. Warily, as though it might not bear his weight, he stretched out his foot to step onto the land.
It was worse than threadbare, he would write that night. Yet they had set out for it every man as for a tropical promise, primed for admiration and delight. Now they stared up at the starved, sterile slopes. They stood and stared at the walls of rusted rock, that rose plumb into a pewter sky.
They walked the shore, scanning the skyline, scanning the stones at their feet. If nothing else, he hoped for some scrap of larch or pine, to prove that their drift was not unique. That was what he was reduced to. They did not find enough for a matchstick. They found nothing at all. No one was looking for them. No one had passed this way earlier, hoping to be found.
Then a hundred yards ahead, MacDonald was roaring and waving grandly, like a shipwreck. A campsite, Morgan thought. A signal-post. A skeleton. He stumbled along the shore. The man stood pointing dumbly. As Morgan came up they all stepped back to let him see. He lowered himself to his knees, bent his face almost to ground. It was a lone dropping, not much bigger than buckshot. It was certainly too small for a hare. He rolled it between finger and thumb, crushed it, held it to his nose.
They spent all afternoon hauling themselves to the top of the cliffs, for a better view.
Magnificent, DeHaven said.
They built a cairn, knee-high, tacked one of her old red petticoats to a pole, planted it. It was the loudest flag they had.
Half a mile offshore, Morgan paused to look back at the lump of rock and ice. Already he understood that they could not winter here again, so close to where they had wintered last year. The men could not stand it, stripped now of all prospect of release or relief.
Beside him, the men had stopped to watch the sinking of the sun. It sat on the southern horizon, growing fat. Some unseen weight seemed to be forcing it down, flattening it out. Morgan watched without shade. The thing was trembling, alive. In the end it went down with quiet dignity, in a sea of flame. They could not have been more solemn had they gathered to watch the scuppering of a ship.
22nd April
It was a lovely thing, that they said had cost Cabot a full week’s work. Sound, balanced, trim. The wood neatly carved, the loose grain buffed bright. A seat in front, a standing-rack behind, with handles just the right height. Morgan stood looking at it, warm with gratitude. He had not expected this or anything like it. He had not suspected the source.
They brought the boy out to show him the prize. They set him down and fitted his hands to the push-bar. Leaning into it, he began to plod across the snow. Morgan watched with terror, sure it would shoot away, the boy would topple, strike his head. It did not happen. It was exactly what he needed to help him walk. He was an invalid taking first, miraculous steps.
The men had been at their exercises, but all now stopped to watch. They shouted down from the deck, urging him on. The voices were melodious, home-brewed. It was a joy to listen. The sun drenching everything, warming his face, warming his hair. The quiet, delicious pride. Morgan felt benevolent towards them all.
By now the boy had mastered his technique, was leaning far forward, putting all his weight into it, quick with his feet. A yard behind, Morgan kept his stride. The tracks wandered loosely left and right.
She runs beautifully, he shouted to Cabot. Everyone could hear. Cabot did not answer, was busy with his pipe. After much ritual tapping he put the thing between his lips. A stream of blue smoke poured into the air. Nearby, the gulls were brawling over the garbage.
Morgan stood the boy up on the platform, put himself in front, began to pull on the rope. Almost immediately came the first sounds of complaint. He wanted his father to stop, and did not know how to wait. Already he was trailing a foot behind him, like a man descending from a moving train. As soon as Morgan stopped, the boy let go the bar and fell backward. The head hit the snow with a thump. He lay there offended, splayed. There was a burst of laughter from the men, quickly snuffed. Morgan was rushing to help but Tommy was already rolling onto his front, getting his knees under him, straightening up. He stood and staggered forward, five or six steps, fell over again. Unaided, he still could not manage more than that. Eventually he made it to the front of the sledge.
He stood there swaying, rope in hand. That was the role he wanted now. He looked around for Dadda, wanted Dadda exactly where he himself had been a minute before. So Morgan crouched down and took hold of the bar and duck-shuffled as best he could behind the sledge, as though the boy were pulling him along.
He kept falling over and kept getting up, finding the rope, resuming. An example to us all, Morgan shouted. There was no need, the men were cheering every time he struggled again to his feet. Finally Morgan could stand the lesson no longer. He went and picked him up and sat him on the front.
Stubborn little tike, Brooks said.
That’d come from the father’s side, DeHaven said.
Tenacious is the word you’re looking for, Morgan said.
Or stubborn, DeHaven said. Or pig-headed. They all sound good to me.
His mother, too, can take a little credit, I think, Morgan said.
Tommy sat up proudly, paraded his smile. Again and again Morgan wheeled about to bring him past the gathered men, to renew the applause. He kicked his legs in delight, revelling.
Morgan felt – He did not know what he felt. His wife had once stuck a knife through every one of his shirts, at the heart. It was the kind of nonsense of which she had always been capable. He had worn them anyway, as punishment. Under his jackets, the slit could not be seen, but he’d felt more vulnerable, physically, in that particular spot. He felt the same thing now. In the armour, an invisible rift. That was the danger. That was where he would be hurt.
He felt himself tapped to the source, the endless supply. He felt glutted and generous. He called Cabot over, held out the rope. Here, he said, I give you my son.
The runners slurring along the ice. The boy stretching his neck, to check his father saw and understood. His smile was perfect, painful to see. Morgan did not think he could stand to watch it much longer. He could not stand to think that some day soon he would be leaving it behind. They passed from sight, behind the ship. Close by, the boy’s excited cries had been barbed and sharp. In the distance, they seemed painfully weak.
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 wa
nt 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. H
e 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.