by Cormac James
Providence – , he announced, in a loud, clear voice.
Below him, the men looked pious but unconvinced.
Afterwards, Morgan took MacDonald’s place on the crate and told them their story, for the months to come. He made sure to give the perils in great detail. He told them there was no guarantee they would reach their destination. There was no guarantee they could return to the ship. We must hope the trials of the past two winters have better inured us to hardship, he said.
The men stood bareheaded and shivering. The iron flakes drifted down. It was Pompeii.
The preparations began. Fitting and mending, counting and stacking, as for a siege more than a retreat. They hauled twenty barrels of bread all the way to the island. These they stacked neatly in the new stone house they’d built there, as a refuge for those they were leaving behind, should ever the Impetus crush, collapse, or burn. They would leave tons of fuel and flour, tons of tinned meat, tons of coal. In the same house, in a lead case Banes would water- and weather-tight, he would leave copies of every single survey made since Beechey. Which I hope, he wrote, (if ever we do not succeed in bringing the originals to Cape Dundas) will enable others not only to trace the voyage we ourselves have undergone, but indeed to enlarge the map of the world. They were also leaving a copy of the log and the ship’s journals, Myer’s and his own. And the postbag they’d been given for Franklin’s crews, so long ago, at Aberdeen.
The manner would be simple, but not easy. They would put one of the whaleboats on runners, load it with gear and supplies, and nine men would haul it behind them, much as he and the others had hauled the sledge. Due south, over the floe, until they met open water, then launch and sail to Melville Island. Overland, then, to Cape Dundas, where there was a depot and a winter house, and perhaps relief. That is our object, he wrote. Nothing else matters from the moment we step off the ship. Every man of us is now going to amnesty or annihilation, and needs to fix that thought in his mind. Well and good if, on the coast of Melville, or on one of the many islands said to adjoin it, we meet the other searchers, or the lost men, or depots laid down for them, but we should not expect it. Well and good if, with our hunting pieces, we have the occasional happy accident, he wrote. He scratched all that out and started afresh. To stiffen my calculations, he told his journal, I must imagine that we are going together into an empty room, where we must remain for an undefined period of time. We must not hope for sustenance beyond what we ourselves bring in. We must not plan to bring anything out. We must simply survive.
One way or another, he judged, their fate would be resolved by the end of July. They would have to arrive at the open water at just the right moment. Too early would be too far to haul the boat. Too late, whatever open water was out there would have begun to freeze over again, soon be too thick to sail through, and too thin to bear their weight.
6th May
Listen to this, he told her. And take note. He was reading another of the letters from Parker’s postbag. It spoke of Lady Franklin, with keen reverence, for pages on end. Her unstinting courage, it said. She has given everything to her husband’s cause. She has counted nothing, neither health nor wealth. It is impossible to imagine a more selfless or substantial devotion.
An example to us all, Kitty said.
Indeed.
They compared sacrifices. It was a pleasant little parlour game, guaranteed to produce a nice inner glow. He said he wanted her out here with them, the heroic Lady Jane Franklin, watching the tip of her index finger being sawed away. He wanted her out in the traces. He could only imagine her in a vast dress of tulle and crinoline, dainty little dance slippers shuffling across the ice, lace flapping uselessly at her wrist.
That night they put him down a little earlier than usual. She wanted to get him used to being in his cot alone, awake. Half an hour later, in the middle of their meal, Morgan looked up from his plate, frowning. He lifted a finger. They listened, frozen, readying their fear.
What is it? DeHaven said.
Morgan dropped his napkin on his chair, went out. In the half-darkness of the corridor, he put his ear to her cabin door. The night was calm, did not interfere. Alone in his room, trapped in his cot, the boy was chatting to himself. It sounded like compliment and it sounded like shy complaint.
Bopopop, the boy said. boPOP.
It sounded musical. In the dark, for a friendly mind, it was something pleasant to listen to.
DaDEE, he said.
Morgan closed his eyes. The hour was sacred, the place. It was the ante-room. He was about to enter, to begin. Outside, listening, what he felt was a fierce physical craving, as for fresh meat.
DaDEE, the voice said again, a little brighter, a little anxious, as though waiting for a reply.
Morgan tilted forward, until his forehead touched the door. There were songs the men sang, lines he’d known since childhood, open wounds. Sometimes he heard them from afar, coming in. What he was hearing now was older and stronger than any of that.
Under his feet, he could feel the entire ship moving, a quarter of an inch. Suddenly he was afraid of it all, every plank, like a creaking stairs in the night. He was jealous – the ship seemed at such ease with itself. Like the ship, the boy would drift into a lively sleep. He was unknowing, full, without flaws. His mind had not yet turned on itself. It was floating gently to the surface, towards the blazing light.
Outside, his father’s head was still pressed against the door, penitent. He wanted to go down, to drift and swim. To loosen his grip, let slip, and let the current bear him away, his entire stupid weight.
So often before, going to answer the screams, he’d found the boy in a rage, abandoned, hurt. Tonight he heard someone else. Now there was joy where there had been grief. It was not progress but metamorphosis, unaccountable.
The minutes passed. Still no one came to get him, to check why he was taking so long. Perhaps she knew what was going on. Perhaps she was giving him time to soak it up, let it bleed through the outer layers, reach the core.
Popi basha! the boy was shouting now. Perfectly aware of his power, his unbearable charm. He had begun to repeat himself. BA-SHA! BA-SHA! It was an incantation, that Morgan wanted never to end. BA-SHA! BA-SHA! he was chanting, and Morgan’s mind nodded along like an idiot, desperate to agree. Both hands pressed flat against the door, as though to hold it in place. He felt slightly drunk. Something inside him was working itself loose, working itself free. Something was flowing through him like memory, like blood, warm and slick. It was filling his stomach, his lungs, his throat. He could taste it now. He was quietly drowning. He could not leave.
7th May
Morgan was hanging from the beam, by both arms. Beside him, Daly and Blacker and Cabot and Banes. The arms were starting to tremble. DeHaven stood watching, chronometer in hand, shouting them through the drills. Knees up. Nails in. Nails out. He had another beam almost waist-high, and set them hopping over and back, over and back, until they crumpled. They squatted low and leapt, frog-like, into the empty air. They moved like poorly-mastered puppets, arms and legs grotesque, lifting stiffly up and down. To keep them quick, DeHaven played out his orders with a pack of cards. Clubs were frog-leaps, as many as there were spots on the card. Hearts were handstands, diamonds pull-ups, spades hopping the low bar.
Any Jack put them hanging again.
One by one, the bodies dropped. They made no effort to rise. Only Morgan was still clinging to the bar. The fingers were starting to slide. Below him, the others all lay panting.
DeHaven gave them time for water. He called them back again. He was on his hands and knees, ready to start. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, the 7th of May. All over the deck, men were lying on the boards, chests heaving. One by one they got to their feet. They stood over him, looking down. The arms began to bend, ridiculously slow, until he was holding himself only inches from the planks. The veins in his neck were bulging horribly. There were sickened groans, grimaces, pantomime incredulity at what was being asked of them. There were splutters of laughter. The man was asking the impossible, and showing how it was done.
Morgan stood on the deck moving his arms back and forth, mechanically, in an empty embrace. He was trying to interrogate the pain, to discover its roots and its reach. What it wanted. How clever it was.
You don’t want to go, is that it? DeHaven said.
The hospital is full of men can barely walk, Morgan said. I don’t have the right to suffer a little too? I’m obliged to be immune, am I? Because I’m the captain?
Dick, almost every time we go through the drills now, there’s something wrong with you. If you don’t want to go, you have only to say so. There’s not a man aboard won’t understand.
I have a pain in my back, Morgan said. I’ve had it before, I’ll likely have it again. The thing goes no deeper than that. He began to wheel his arms again.
Stop, DeHaven said.
He put the flat of his hand between the shoulder blades. It was like a hand stilling a restless dog. There, he said. He touched his other hand to the base of Morgan’s sternum.
But the pain is in my back, Morgan said.
That’s where it surfaces. But this is where it’s coming from. Trust me.
Firmly, he pushed Morgan towards the open hatch door, put him standing between the jambs, hands shoulder-high on the wall on either side.
Now lean forward, DeHaven said. Into the darkness of the stairwell, he meant. As far as you can without falling.
At first it was only a kind of tightness. Morgan tilted forward a few inches more, found the pain and leaned into it, let it hold him there, upright, testing, as though it might flag or cede. After the brightness of the deck, for a few seconds he could see nothing, not so much as an outline. He leaned forward a little more. And a little more. From somewhere behind his ribcage, suddenly, there was unexpected news.
9th May
He lay on his bed with his journal in his hands. A number of men are willing to stay aboard, he read, to guard over the ship, and guide her as best they can to safety, should she be freed next year and I not to return in the meantime to resume my command. I have thanked them sincerely, and more than an order consider it an offer I am obliged to accept. In material terms, I have no fear for them. There are several good years’ living in what we leave behind. He read it over again. He was reassuring himself, learning his lines by heart. From the locker came his watch’s endless trim.
Patience, he read. An unlimited reserve. A good fund of shame. Utter devotion to the ordained object, even if one cannot say quite what that object is. He was rereading his journal of the previous year. The date, shortly before the birth. A free run of just three little weeks, if we get it, would bring us almost to Behring’s Strait, he had written then. It made Morgan smile, to read over his old self. That man was luck and bluff. He had resolve and indignation, but no particular plan.
There was a gentle knock on the door, and instantly he was on his feet. It was Petersen, as he knew it would be. DeHaven had sent him a warning.
You seem better, Morgan told him. I’m glad to see it. For a while there, we were a little concerned.
Petersen did not answer. He had his meagre few lines held tight in his mind, and he did not want to loosen his grip.
What’s on your mind, Carl? Morgan asked. He opened his arms.
I want the promise you leave no man behind, when you go away.
I don’t think I quite understand, Morgan said. What man exactly are you thinking of?
I think the man is not in very good health, just now, maybe. Maybe the man is not the very best for hard work, just now.
Do you think we should take them along, such men? Men that can’t haul? Men that aren’t in the best of health?
I will not stay to live and die in this ship. This I know.
Listen to me now, Morgan said. Certain individuals are going out on a sledge journey, and certain individuals are remaining aboard, to oversee the ship. You know well there’s no question of an abandon.
You cannot say you are coming back, Petersen said. Even if you want. Even if you say you do it. The ice it changes, every day. You know this.
Do you honestly believe I intend to leave Kitty behind, and my own son? That I’m planning to head south and never return? Do you really think I’m capable of that?
Petersen didn’t answer.
I’ve obviously been a harder man than I thought, Morgan said.
I am strong, Petersen said. I am strong like any of you.
Didn’t we come back from Beechey? Morgan said.
Yes.
And that was in the height of winter.
Yes.
Miss Rink and the baby, do you expect them to haul in the traces?
No.
Nor do I. That would be plain stupid. Anyone incapable of hauling all their own share of the load is going to stay and oversee the ship until our return, that’s all. It’s only common sense. Any other course of action would be reckless and irresponsible.
The man’s smock-front, Morgan noticed, was dribbled with soup. It was another fact come to join the line, to argue against him.
Carl, he said. No one under my command will ever be abandoned. Full stop. He sounded annoyed, offended by something unseemly in what had been said.
When Petersen left, Morgan shut the door as quietly as he could. He was waiting for the man to die. For the illness, these last weeks had been a triumph. The spots were softening and darkening, like windfallen fruit. They could not leave him behind, and they could not bring him along. Death, Morgan had decided, would be the politest solution of all.
10th May
The high life, for everyone, for a little while, he told the men. They should enjoy it as best they could.
Like prodigals, he said. Like the prodigal son.
The prodigal son mended his ways and came back home, DeHaven said.
The way he lived when he was away, Morgan said. Before. Gentlemen, he would say, looking at what they were leaving on their plates. Our chef will be offended. You know what a sensitive soul he is.
The bottles were left open on the table, here and in the main mess. The wicks were left high, night and day. It was as though the order had gone out, to pirate their own ship. It was part of the price. It was telling those left behind they would not have long to wait. There would be food and fuel enough in the meantime. There was no longer any need to scrimp and spare, to think of the
future, the uncounted years to come.
After dinner they sifted one more time through Franklin’s postbag, and whoever found a passage of interest set it aside, to be read aloud. They were bored of their books and their Bibles. They were killing time.
You would be surprised to see how young Eliza is improved, Morgan read. This last year and her growing have mended her health entirely. She now plays and sings very well and greatly enjoys company. You may be assured as to her behaviour, which is neither shy nor pert but perfectly modulated.
Is there any picture of her? DeHaven said. Does it say how much she’ll have a year?
You’re finally looking to settle down? Kitty said.
Everyone else seems to be at it, said DeHaven.
Brooks handed him another and pointed at the passage to read. He read the name and date and read out the greetings. Then: Your sister got a good situation in a draper’s shop but lost it for what reason she would not tell.
Well now, DeHaven said. I wonder what that might be.
Now she is thinking of emigrating to Australia, Morgan read, from where she has news there is great demand for teaching school. The priest thinks the place is wild and fast for a lady but we are confident of her character so we are encouraging her. Otherwise we fear nothing but disappointment awaits her here. There is no department of labour in which she is not able and willing, as you must know. She has good testimonials and letters of introduction, but of course her passage must be paid and we are asking all her family to help, for if only we can get her out we are sure she will succeed.
The poor girl, Kitty said. They’re trying to get rid of her.
Dear Con, said Morgan’s voice. Things are very bad in the country still. We could better bear it and every other trial if you were home. How your long silence has weighed on our hearts. Your poor mother has only one hope now which is some information of her son’s safety. But she bears her trial with resignation and she has been a great lesson to us all. Our father has been less better able to bear the absence of all his sons. The priest has often been here to remonstrate with him and each time he has sworn a solemn oath he will reform but ere long he has fallen again into dissolution. You would be frightened to see the change. God forgive me but sometimes I think it would be a great mercy if he were taken. I am helping as best I can but I have my own family now and can not do as much as I would like or always be on hand when need is most. My two boys are getting to be fine big lads now both of them, you would not recognize them. Some of the people in the town are very good towards us, though we would not take it if we could help it as there is no more bitter bread than the bread of charity. But what can not be cured must be endured I suppose, and as Fr Lyons says there is better in store for us all surely. I pray to the Father of Orphans that He be Father to you far from your parents and kin and see to it you stay safe and in health and do not wander. He will not forsake you if you entrust yourself to His care. If we do not meet again in this world we will surely meet in the next beyond all separation trouble and misfortune around the foot of His throne forever.