by Cormac James
Do you feel that? DeHaven asked.
What? Morgan said.
The wind. The air.
What about it?
It’s definitely warmer. That’s air has passed over open water.
Morgan insisted he felt nothing, no difference, but it did not matter what he felt. His instruments did not lie, and his instruments that day put them back at 78°03'. The plot had been perfectly devised. They could not win.
By the boat, Cabot was shaving the last of the meat from their last bear hock. Beside him, the men had piked oars askew in the fleshy ice, to rig clothes-lines for damp smalls and socks. One by one, Cabot draped his long wafer-thin strips amongst them, in full face of the sun. The men sat underneath, propped against the bales in their shirtsleeves, to themselves soak up a little heat.
The minutes passed, but not the day. The vault was a timeless, porcelain blue. The ice a glowing, porcelain white. The phantoms had formed ranks on the horizon. Morgan took a giant stride forward, a giant stride back, watched them reappear, melt away again. It was a flexible landscape, at his command. At his slightest whim, it seemed, he could set or stop the dance.
Leask was reading aloud again. The Pilgrim’s Progress. It took a deliberate effort to listen. All around, water was trickling endlessly.
In my humble opinion, DeHaven announced loudly, your money might have been better spent. A bit of The Bard. A bit of Byron. Anything but that tripe.
They gathered and ate. They listened to the gulls squabbling over the rests of their bear. By morning it would all be gone, even the bones.
The food seemed to have giddied Cabot a little. As the other men lit their pipes, he began to sing. It was his one and only contribution to the repertoire. They all knew the tune, and hummed along, but only DeHaven and Morgan knew the words.
Il était un petit navire, they sang. Fifteen two-line verses and the refrain cheering uselessly all along the way. They sang it right to the end, Cabot and DeHaven and Morgan, because they knew what the words meant. Afterwards, the sailors interrogated them, for the sake of something to talk about. So Morgan sang it again in the silence of his mind, and translated aloud what he heard.
There was a little ship, he explained. Which had never sailed the sea. And then the song goes, Ohé! Ohé! Matelot – sailor – Matelot sail upon the sea. It’s funny, because the word they use for sea is flots, F-L-O-T-S, meaning more properly stream I suppose. And the English floe, well – He waved his hand at the world about the boat. Anyway. Matelot, Matelot sail upon the sea. The ship set off on a long voyage, on the Mediterranean sea. After five or six weeks, food was in short supply. They drew straws to see who would be eaten. Morgan paused to check the effect. And again, Ohé! Ohé! Matelot, Matelot sail upon the sea. It fell to the youngest, he who had never sailed the sea. So they argued as to what sauce, with what sauce I suppose, the poor child would be served. One wanted to fry him, another to make a stew. While they talked it over, he climbed to the top of the mast. He – Morgan turned to Cabot: En haut du grand hunier, et la suite?
Il fait au ciel une prière.
From atop the mast, he prayed to heaven, Morgan said, and pleaded with the, literally it would be ‘the great immensity,’ but in English? I don’t know. Anyway, it goes on, the boy looked over the sea and he saw waves on all sides. O Virgin Mother, cried the poor misfortunate, if I have sinned, forgiveness, and stop them from eating me. Ohé! Ohé! et cetera. And at that very instant, a great miracle for the child. Little fish into the ship leapt in their thousands. They took them up, put them in the pan, and the lad was saved. Ohé! Ohé! Matelot, Matelot sail upon the sea.
Nice bit of luck, DeHaven said.
And it’s that they sing the French garsoons? Banes said. Very cheery. No wonder they haven’t a navy worth the name.
But you don’t understand, Cabot said. In French it is I think much, much nicer to hear. It has in it a great amount of charm. It is not at all violent or even cruel like you think. The children, they adore.
The sides of the tent were black with grime, from the conjuror, the lamps, the pipes. You could scrape it away with your fingernail. You could write on it, black on black. Morgan lay there with his eyes open, staring up. It was a song she’d often sung to the boy, rocking him back and forth, holding him tight to her flesh – her own greedy body and the little body it had produced.
10th July
All day a storm kept them huddled in the boat, under the covers, listening to the rowdy clatter of the rain. The next morning, through the canvas, they listened to DeHaven in raptures. He was roaring like a madman for them to come out and see – quick! – the rain had melted all the ice! All gone! Vanished! he shouted. Nothing but open water as far as you can see! They smiled bitterly, afraid to lift the flap.
Later, Cabot doled out the food.
Cabot, DeHaven moaned, with his spoon in his mouth. The face was rapt. The eyes were closed. He sighed with a profound and fearful joy. He could not believe so perfect a pleasure had been be so close at hand.
Cabot went on fussing with the wicks. Everything was soft and damp. The men smelled foul, old. They ate in silence. The ration now was fourteen ounces per diem, with five ounces of meat, bulked out by whatever they managed to shoot.
And when the birds are all gone, DeHaven said. Then what are you going to do?
Then, Morgan thought, you cede. You turn your back on the ridiculous dream, that has fired you for so long. You turn and with a brave heart you take that first step north.
Could I wave my magic wand and make it appear on a plate, DeHaven said. It was an old, wicked game.
A cup of warm milk, Banes said. It seemed both pain and pleasure to say.
The máthair’s boiled bacon and cabbage, Daly said.
Boiled potatoes, swimming in butter and parched with salt, said Leask.
Fried onions, with pepper, said Galvin.
Fish-head soup, Blacker said.
White bread, said Anderson. Fresh white bread and strawberry jam.
Cabot doled it out and they passed the plates along, each man secretly weighing it as he did so, to compare with his own.
Or her battered tripe, Daly said.
Charlotte à la Russe, said Leask.
Roast mutton with caper sauce, said Banes.
Turkey and Boiled Oysters.
Goose Galantine.
Tapioca Pudding with Brandy sauce.
Madeira Jelly, drownded with fancy cream.
And Mr Morgan? Daly said.
None of it, Morgan said.
That’s difficult to credit, Banes said. With all due respect, sir.
Why so? Many’s the time I’ve had it piled on my plate, all that.
You didn’t like it?
Of course I liked it. I’d be a liar if I held the contrary. But I can’t say it ever made much of a difference.
Maybe you should’ve had seconds.
I could get as much and as often as I liked. And still it didn’t fill the hole.
What hole?
The hole I wanted to fill. Wanted or needed,
whichever you prefer.
What was it you wanted, so?
I don’t know.
Women? Was that your vice?
No. Not to say I didn’t – don’t – appreciate those pleasures as much as the next man, but the end result is the same as all the fine living.
If I may be so bold, sir, Banes said, I think I may be obliged to present to you some of the ladies of my intimate acquaintance, when we get back to Cork.
I appreciate the offer, Mr Banes. But without wishing to cast even a shadow of a doubt on the talents of the mademoiselles in question, I fear that even they may not have the remedy.
Outside, with a charming music, the thaw-water made its way to the sea.
DeHaven nodded at the flap. Another few days of this, he said, and we’ll have to start building the Ark. It was an old joke, come true. Their world was thoroughly rotten by now. All around them, edges were continually collapsing. They had not yet collapsed under a man, but Morgan had no doubt that moment would come.
13th July
He found himself clinging to a rope in mid-air, gently swinging back and forth. Above him, most of the crew were draped over the taffrail, cheering heartily. He trapped the rope between his legs, and reached left hand over right to hoist himself up. Inch by inch, it seemed to him, he was pulling himself towards the top of the rope, yet when he looked at the side of the ship, a few feet away, it was obvious he was making no progress at all. Those up on deck, he realized, were slyly letting the rope slip, to keep him where he was. They were even gauging the rate, to always leave him no lower or higher than before, but always midway between water and deck. In the end he loosened his grip a little and allowed himself to slide, to confound them, and as quickly they started to haul him in. His only proper choice, he understood, was to let go the rope entirely. Everything else left him at the mercy of those above.
The nights are long, it is hard to sleep, he wrote in the captain’s log. Life is short but the nights are long, my grandmother used to say. This is what he wrote in his private book. I often think of her now as I lie here awake in the early hours. I often think back twelve months exactly, of how my life was then.
So much and so little has changed, when in his mind he sends himself back to the ship. It is late evening, very mild. The shadows are soft, milky almost, as if seen through old man’s eyes. The sunset ice is the colour of flesh. Their new ice-hole, mercury. Everything is so perfect, they forget. There is no wind. Still, the water is a nervous witness, with its own fearful version of the world. He prefers it to the heroic versions he reads in his books, alone in his cabin, night after night. They have been motionless for weeks. They are bored, but are learning to play. This evening Cabot comes running, excited, like a boy. Quick! he orders. Come and see! It sounds like an emergency. And bring Tommy! he shouts back.
The ice-hole is a hundred yards square, off the starboard bow. A line now leads to it across the snow, like a single locomotive rail. It is the track of the keel of the whaleboat. Morgan watches the men ease it into the water. They are strangely gentle. They have made hardly a ripple. He watches them run to the far side of the hole with a long rope, the end of which is attached to the boat. Hand over hand they draw the boat across, with the same great care, not to worry the glass too much. The boat is not halfway across when the whale comes up.
He comes up first to quarrel, then to sing. It is a Biblical sound, a vast assembly of battered brass. It is a lookout on a hilltop, a call to war, the lonely sounding of a retreat. There in the desert, there is no other sound and no possible reply. But it is too big and too loud, and in Morgan’s arms Tommy begins to scream. The men are delighted and slightly ashamed. They hadn’t meant to frighten him. They are not quite sure what to do. They do not know how to make the whale go away.
Morgan has turned him away from the world, is holding him tighter, chest to chest. The boy’s wails are sawing right through his flesh, but he is still smiling bravely, in the presence of the men. He will not need to endure it much longer. His son’s mother hears everything. He knows she is on her way.
Afterwards, the ragged ball of flame teeters on the horizon. The boy’s father and mother are staring straight into it, wide-eyed. It is midnight. They stand shoulder to shoulder in silence, for a minute or two. It is no later, but the red ball is somehow better nested now, more solid, at ease. The matter seems decided, once and for all: it need never lift again. He puts his arm around her, but still they do not speak. There is no sound now but the measured saw of Cabot’s snoring, up on deck. After an hour’s wailing the boy has finally gone to sleep, and it feels like a great victory, after a long campaign.
16th July
For the past three days, we have had a constant sprinkling of snow. The ice-holes are turning to sponge. If it were only a little later in the year, a little colder, I tell the men. If only it were September or October, the sponge would stiffen and in time toughen sufficiently to bear our weight. But it is not September, it is July, and we have not the means of surviving in situ until then.
He wrote out a list of questions to ask himself. He wrote out the answers yes and no. Is it possible that. Is it probable that. Given the means at our disposal. Given the weather. Given the time. He did the sums, pound per day per man. Pound per pound. Beyond all the questions, the answer he wanted was still waiting for him. They would never reach the open sea.
Even so, in moments of silence, he often thought he heard a distant rumour. The sound seemed to come from every direction at once. He could sometimes be seen standing alone on the floe, eyes closed, trying to locate it, turning slowly on the spot but otherwise perfectly still, like a dancer on a music box.
I thank God that the earth is not, in fact, flat, Morgan said.
This is wondrous news, DeHaven declared. But a heresy, surely?
Imagine the discouragement, Morgan said, if a single glance gave us the full extent of all that intervenes –
He lifted the glass to his eye again.
That’s not south, DeHaven said, but Morgan paid him no mind.
You wonder, Morgan said. Once a thing is proved beyond doubt and accepted generally – you wonder how it could ever have been otherwise.
For instance.
For instance, the shape and form of the earth. Were the earth flat, and the sea with it, how is it a man could never see more than five or eight or ten miles on the level, but so much farther from a height? The answer seems so obvious now. You wonder how they managed to deny it so long.
People don’t like to change, DeHaven said. They don’t like to admit they were wrong.
They always seem so stupid, Morgan said. Those who inhabit the past. Be it a month or a year or a thousand years ago. And I put myself, my older – younger – self top of the list. So many delusions, all so alike and all so obvious, now we can see what came afterwards.
They had Morgan’s birthday. Cabot made him an oatcake sprinkled with crushed hazelnuts. They planted a thick candle in the middle of the thing. A hand brought a taper. The lone flame trembled. Leaning in, the faces glowed.
Make a wish, came the prompt.
He remembered birthdays as a boy. The parcel waiting on the mantel. The tightness in his chest. That morning he’d shot a seal and watched it sink. Far to t
he south, through the glass, he’d watched the divers drop out of the air, like they were dropping dead to the ground. Now, he imagined gifting Tommy – the same but somehow bigger, older – his first gun. Imagined standing behind him, arms reaching around his shoulders, teaching him to aim.
Come on, someone said.
Globs of wax were crawling down the side of the candle, mettle-thick and mettle-white, and still he refused to blow it out.
July 20th. Today again I had the men transfer all our worldly belongings to the far edge of the neighbouring floe, a distance of perhaps a furlong at best. In the men’s minds and muscles, effort equalled progress. On the page of his journal, too, his words made it sound like an advance. On a map of the world, lined and numbered, it was not. Afterwards, naturally, Dr DeHaven made a show of admiring the view, he wrote. A change of scenery, he called it, and said he approved. He said it would do us good.
Every morning now there is a new skin on the pools of thaw-water that blot the floe. It is partly this new wind, I believe, and partly proof that the sun’s power is now in decline. Today again the pieces of the puzzle seem closer than before. In perhaps another month the general cohesion will begin, and proceed until the Arctic Ocean is again one single solid block. Somehow, I find this a comforting thought.
One by one they stood out their empty tins to collect the rain, and one by one he threw his sealed tins into the water, with his latest report of their progress. In thus acquainting the reader with our endeavours, he wrote. He had not acquainted anyone with anything yet. Thus far, not a single other soul had seen a word he’d written. He was merely setting his words adrift in the world, hoping some friendly force would carry them to a proper destination. He performed the ritual but no longer believed. Screwing down the lid of the tin, he felt he was condemning it. This note would never be read, no more than those which preceded it. As though to be rid of the thing, he flung it as far out into the water as he could, with all his remaining strength. He heard it drop, watched the birds lift into the air. He watched them settle again. In the awkward canals, the water was alive, gem-like. The world was ablaze. The air as bland as a June evening in the old world, the garden, the regiment.