by Peter Tonkin
‘Still no contact with Atropos,’ said Bill, even as Richard thought of him. ‘Anything you want me to pass on to Clotho?’
‘No. Let’s get on.’
‘Okay. That’s it, Johnny. Over and out.’
They had to slither down the slope, and when they reached the bottom, they paused again, looking up and calculating how easy, or otherwise, it would be to climb it on the way back. ‘I don’t fancy carving a stairway all the way up there,’ said Richard feelingly.
‘You shouldn’t have to. It looks just about do-able,’ said Bill confidently. ‘Still, no sense worrying. Let’s go.’
As Richard had suspected, their way up the next slope was more complicated. They were forced to follow an almost drunken path weaving in and out of the surprisingly massive obstructions in their way. From Clotho these had appeared too insignificant to be worth considering. On the ground, the smallest of them was more than six feet high and ten wide. It would clearly be a waste of effort and time to try and climb them, even had it been possible to do so. Round and about they went, therefore, like children lost in a petrified forest, often with nothing to guide them but the upward slope at their feet.
At the second crest they paused again, looking back. In the clear, icy air, Clotho nestled at the edge of the ice, beam on, etched against the dark blue sky, massive and seemingly only yards away. This time Richard spoke into his walkie-talkie while Bill considered the next stage of their journey. Again, Johnny had nothing to report and Richard was now becoming really worried. He could think of no routine reason for Atropos to be out of contact for this length of time. After a few moments, they turned their back on Clotho and went on.
This time the escarpment was less steep and they were able, with care, to walk down it. The shadow at the bottom of the valley seemed to be deeper, however, the crystal-blue sections more numerous, and the atmosphere of the place more sinister. Richard found that his legs were aching, not just because of the peculiar method of walking, but because he did not trust the valley bottom to hold him up. Each of his legs, from hip to ankle, was rock solid with the expectation that when he put his weight on his foot, it would simply break through the glacial surface and plunge down into a crevasse or into the ocean itself. It was like walking on a great sheet of glass, never knowing when it was going to crack.
Wryly, he considered his current situation and compared it to his experiences over the recent past. It had all been like this, he thought. Since the bomb in Belfast he had been walking on glass, knowing it was going to break beneath him, that it was only a question of time. Knowing of no way to avoid disaster other than to keep doing what he was doing. Ready for the first warning crack, certain it was coming soon, to rob him of reputation, standing, friends; ship, company, fortune; wife. Only the twins seemed safe, with their grandfather to rely on immediately, and the insurance after that. The rest of them were trapped and Richard felt himself to be most at risk, unable to see any way out at all. He had never been a man to look on the dark side. He had always been lucky and taken his luck for granted. No longer, it seemed. Here he was walking on thin ice and knowing how thin the ice had always been beneath his feet. It almost frightened him, in retrospect, to think of the risks he had taken, of the chances he had permitted those close to him to take. It certainly frightened him to think of the future; of the next second, the next hour, the next day, and the unlimited disaster it would surely bring.
So engrossed was he in his combination of pain, fatigue and depression that he didn’t see the polar bear until it was almost upon him. When he did see the creature, it was so unexpected and so close that he shouted aloud with surprise. Bill slewed round at the sound. The bear, which had been running silently towards them along the valley floor, stopped in a flurry of ice crystals and sat back on its haunches. The three of them looked at each other, then the men, being quicker thinking and most at risk, began to look around for a safe haven. The nearest feature of any kind was a tall jumble of small ice blocks. With their eyes on the bear, they began to fall back towards this. It was the best thing to do under the circumstances, for at the very least they would be able to face the bear from above there and rob it of its obvious advantages of height and the reach of its long black claws. But their slow retreat served to tempt the animal into renewed movement.
The massive creature rolled forward off its rump and flopped onto all fours. Then it began to follow them step for step. This was not an attack; even its initial approach had been more of an enquiry than a threat. But it was an inquisitive creature, and the master of its realm on the ice. The man smell no doubt made it wary, but something more compelling drove it on. ‘This could get bloody dangerous,’ warned Bill hoarsely. ‘If he gets interested, we’ll have to scare him off good and proper. Or kill him.’
‘Always assuming he doesn’t kill us first,’ said Richard. ‘Look at the length of those claws!’
‘Big teeth, too. Young male, I’d say.’
‘At least he doesn’t look as though he’s starving.’
‘Won’t make much difference. He’ll kill us anyway if he takes it into his head. We’re probably on his territory or something.’
‘That doesn’t seem too likely, unless he’s drifted here from Greenland with the rest of this lot. And if he has, he’d look hungrier than this. We’ve seen no wildlife except those birds.’
As they talked, they began to work their way up the pile of ice blocks. They did this unhandily, their backs to the ice, watching the beast as it wandered forward, still on all fours, disconcertingly like some huge child playing a game of pretending not to be interested in them. It prowled around them, one eye fixed on them, never nearer than ten yards, never further than twenty.
‘What’ve we got to fight him with?’ mused Richard, more to himself than to Bill.
‘The axe. The cleaver.’
As Bill said the words, Richard could see all too clearly how impossible it would be. Trying to stay firm on the treacherous ice pile, thumping away at the bear’s head with the paltry weapons while it tore at their unprotected legs with teeth and claws. No. They had to get rid of this unwelcome, inquisitive creature long before it came to blows at close quarters. But then the time for thought was suddenly past. Bill’s foot slipped and the square Cumbrian slithered past Richard’s left shoulder, down towards the bear which suddenly looked very interested after all. Richard just had time to grab his companion’s harness with his left hand. The downward slide stopped with a jerk that nearly dislocated Richard’s shoulder. Luckily he was on firm footing and stayed put. He was incapable of further action for an instant, however, until his friend had regained his footing. As the two men struggled, facing outwards with their backs against the sloping jumble of slippery blocks, perhaps six feet above the surface of the ice itself, the bear began its charge.
‘Your flares,’ yelled Richard, his own hand still tangled in Bill’s harness. The radio operator needed no second bidding. As the bear rushed towards them, ten yards down and ten to go, gathering itself to climb up the ice after them, he scrabbled in his pocket for the long cylinder.
Richard tore his hand free, leaving his glove caught in the straps, just as Bill tugged the short lanyard on his first flare. With a vicious hiss the tube exploded into life and a green light sped towards the bear. It grazed past the creature’s left shoulder close enough to singe the fur, but it did not have the desired effect. The charge slowed, but only so that the bear could draw itself up to full height. On its hind legs, with its arms spread wide, tipped with lethal black claws, each as long as a dagger, it began to walk towards them, roaring. Richard’s feet were two metres above the ice but the bear’s head was level with his groin. Its mouth gaped and it sucked in icy air to bellow again its intention to attack.
Richard just had time to take careful aim. ‘Aim for its mouth but don’t fire until I say,’ he grated to Bill in whose trembling hands he could see a second flare. Then he fired his own. The spitting ball of bright green light whooshed like a mis
directed skyrocket down onto the ice immediately in front of the bear’s ankles and exploded there with vicious force. The great white pelt was suddenly pocked with burning black spots from ankle to waist, all across the great sag of its lower belly.
Bill’s hand jerked convulsively.
‘Wait!’ rapped Richard, for the bear had stopped. Grotesquely, like a human, it looked down at its sullied belly and as it did so it dropped to all fours. It gave a grunting cry and turned. Its head, near the ice now, came close to the flare which was still hissing and spitting in a fizzing pool of water. And that was enough. With a noise disconcertingly like a bleat, it turned and ran away on down the valley.
‘You were right,’ said Richard. ‘It must have been a male. Didn’t like putting the family jewels in danger. You all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Bill. ‘And that’s one I owe you.’
‘Forget it,’ said Richard bracingly. ‘You wouldn’t have been here but for me. Let’s go.’
‘In a minute,’ temporised Bill. ‘I think I need a good big lump of chocolate after that. Put something other than adrenaline back into my blood.’
*
There were only two more ridges before the central hill. They and it were gentle enough. Bill and Richard pulled themselves across them quite quickly, although both of them began to suffer reaction to the stress of their adventure, and weariness added to the weight of everything else bearing down on them. But at last it was done and they dragged themselves up to the crest of that central ridge.
Richard had imagined that the two halves of the ice barrier would be roughly the same, but this was not the case. True, the folds fell away from this point, but the ridges were much higher, their sides more precipitous. The terrain they had just crossed was as nothing compared to the rough wildness before them. Just as the ridges were more considerable, so the blocks and jumbled rubbish piles were more colossal. The plain itself was wider too. They had crossed five ridges to reach this spot. The same number lay beyond. But even reaching the first of these was out of the question, for the hillside which sloped gently back behind them fell away in a cliff face a yard further on.
Richard stood immobile on the crest. Bill joined him and looked down. The precipitous slope stretched away as far as their tired eyes could see on either hand. If they went down, they would never be able to get back up. ‘We can’t go on,’ Bill said at last. ‘You said I could call it, and I am. We have to go back, Captain.’
Richard said nothing for a moment. He pulled the binoculars off his shoulder and raised them slowly to his eyes. They made a slight sound, like ice striking ice, as they hit his sunglasses. From side to side he scanned the distance. Beyond the wilderness of crushed and tumbled ice it was possible to see the black line of the sea. But that was all.
There was a moment more of silence, then Richard said, ‘Yes. We have to go back. She’s gone.’ He lowered his binoculars and repeated, his voice as desolate as the scene at his feet, ‘She’s gone.’
29 - Day Eleven
Saturday, 29 May 15:00
From Robin’s point of view, the best part of a bad situation was that Timmins had managed to get the shore lines in and the manoeuvring system working well enough to meet her halfway. The obvious damage to crew morale, the accommodation areas and the radio officer was not so acceptable. She fumed and spat like an irritated tiger, berating everyone involved, making no allowance at all for the fact that the first and second officers felt that they had dealt with a crisis quickly and effectively. As far as she was concerned, she had simply found herself forced into stopping and dealing with a petty lapse of discipline. This was an utter and dangerous waste of precious time when she needed every second of daylight to assure the safe disposition of her command and to prepare for what must be a busy night of detailed planning and an agonisingly hard day’s work tomorrow.
O’Brien, Symes of the flattened nose, the rest of the search and destroy party, Timmins and Hogg all stood in various attitudes of sullen resentment in the captain’s day room on C deck while she introduced them to the rough side of her tongue. Like Richard, like almost any captain, Robin had a quarterdeck voice which would have carried to the truck of the Cutty Sark. It carried now out into the corridor and across to the stairwell where various assorted members of both crews pretended to be about important duties while they actually stood and listened.
‘... Finally, I will not only dock your pay, I will withhold it until the damage has been repaired and paid for out of it. If you are back at sea then, I will have what little is left sent directly to your wives or bank managers. It will be a pleasant surprise to them, I’m sure, and a nasty shock to various brothelkeepers and publicans. One more incident like this, one more, and I shall have you all on permanent deck work, watch on watch, until we get home and I’ll sort it out with the union later. Is that clear?’
The sullen silence persisted until she thundered, ‘IS THAT CLEAR?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Right. I’ll be making an announcement about duties later. Your names will feature prominently. Now, get out, the lot of you! Not you two!’ With an effort of will she moderated her tone. ‘Mr Hogg, Mr Timmins, remain behind, please.’
As soon as the crewmen were gone, Robin began to explain to the two officers what she had found and how she proposed to make full use of it. ‘I’m relying on you two to get us there while I draw up the first set of plans and detail the first working parties,’ she concluded. ‘You’ve done well to get this far. Finding the iceberg and the slipway should be easy enough for you. You’ll need a decent helmsman soon, though. I’ll send Sam Larkman up. You’ll need to man the radio too, Mr Hogg. And, talking of that, I’d better start by looking in on the sick and wounded. I want Harry Stone up and about as soon as possible, and I can’t get much further with any of my plans unless I can get the chief up out of bed now so that he and his officers can help.’
Hogg was a little dazed at being berated one minute and confided in the next, but he was quicker on his feet than he used to be: ‘You want me to contact Clotho and the two offices?’
‘Yes. London and Sept Isles both need to know what we’re up to, but I’m most concerned about Clotho. Her captain will have been worried that we’ve been out of touch. I hope he hasn’t started to do anything risky.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like coming across the ice on foot, Mr Hogg. Mr Timmins, you’re certain Stone hadn’t told Captain Mariner we were going to move Atropos before he broke contact?’
‘Fairly certain, Captain.’
She paused for an instant, sucking her teeth in thought. ‘Well, there’s no help for it,’ she concluded. ‘Let’s get to work.’
*
Henri LeFever had been acting as chief medical officer and she found him in Lethbridge’s day room, just outside the cabin door, sitting morosely reading a medical textbook from the ship’s library. ‘I’ll want you to change hats again soon,’ she said. ‘I want to hoist Atropos out of the water up that slipway we found on the iceberg. It’s difficult to be accurate, but I suppose it must be angled at seven or eight degrees. You’ll need to advise me how the cargo will react to that if I leave it where it is or if I move some of it down towards the bow and pile it high in number one hold to lighten the stern.’ Her voice was a little hoarse. She was still trying to control the anger which a brief visit to the cabin of her battered radio operator had caused.
LeFever looked at her, narrow-eyed, as though concerned that her obvious anger might be directed at him. When he spoke, his tone was almost defensive. ‘Cargo’s been fine through pitching of far steeper angles than that, Captain. It’ll sit still for a sixty-degree roll to the side, and I guess it’d take an eight-degree angle to the front. I’ll have to do some math if you’re going to start moving it about, though. How much time do I have?’
‘Lots. We’ll be moving into position before dark tonight, but I won’t be starting heavy work until the morning. If I start at all. How is he?’
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br /> ‘Should have been in hospital, I guess. It was worse than it looked. On the mend now.’
‘I have to talk to him. It’s too much for Don Taylor and Lloyd Swan.’
‘Go ahead ...’
She had gone.
The room was in darkness, but Lethbridge’s voice greeted her as soon as she walked in. ‘In position for what? Which slipway? What’s too much for Don?’
She snapped on the light, sat herself in his bedside chair and began to explain her plans. As she did so, her restless grey eyes wandered over the chief engineer. She had hardly had any real contact with him. Certainly, if the deck officers were anything to go by, his absence from the engine room could have been caused by anything, including a certain amount of malingering, especially as she had brought young Lloyd Swan with her to take over the routine work. But LeFever had said he was genuinely hurt, and she trusted LeFever even if she couldn’t quite fathom him. And Don Taylor had a lot of time for him, and she had a lot of time for Don. The bandages were nearly all gone now, revealing a strange mask made still and shiny by a combination of dead skin and ointment. His eyes were slitted and, although pale, looked like the result of a couple of hefty punches. The cheeks were unnaturally plump and the mouth pushed out into a kiss. The nose down the middle was straight and thin as a razor. Below the bloated jowls, the neck was lean and scraggy. It was an odd, unsettling face and she soon came to the conclusion that the chief was a thin man whose aspect was usually angular. The apparent rolls of plumpness were actually swellings from the scalding he had received three and a half days earlier. The whole effect was made a good deal worse, of course, by the fact that he hadn’t shaved since Monday morning. It looked as though LeFever’s diagnosis had been accurate enough.
As she described what she wanted to do and explained how she proposed to go about it, Lethbridge pulled himself up in the bed and began to join in the conversation. His questions were germane. Positive. Creative. The slitted eyes began to gleam with enthusiasm and it was with a burgeoning sense of relief that she began to recognise someone, like herself, who not only rose to challenges but enjoyed doing so. The only thing which gave her pause was the fact that when he began to gesture with increasing fervour, it became obvious that the boxing-glove bandages round his hands were still very necessary.