Our boat scraped the side of the Sea Hawk. Whale-oil lanterns burned, casting thin white light on the waters.
I heard Captain Thorndike calmly order the bo'sun's chair lowered for the ladies. As for Dexter and me, we waited and then scrambled up the ship's side and onto the deck.
Captain Thorndike was waiting for us, a bullwhip in his hands, a pistol bulging from a holster round his waist. Cole stood beside him.
My mouth went dry. Blood and thunder. A flogging?
“Four men from the starboard watch didn't return as ordered,” he said.
Dexter and I glanced at each other. Four men?
“Deserting be a crime. Punishable by whatever means I deem necessary—”
Elizabeth ran to her father, placing her hands on his shirt-front. “Father, please don't—”
“Elizabeth!” cried her mother. “Go to the cabin at once. You will stay out of the ship's affairs!”
“Mrs. Thorndike!” barked the captain, his scar turning pur-ple. “Control your daughter!”
“Father, please listen. I—”
Thorndike thrust Elizabeth aside. “Strip them for a flog-ging!” he hollered at Cole.
“Aye, sir!”
“No, Father, please listen to me! I asked them to do an errand—”
While Elizabeth pleaded, Cole grabbed me and stripped off my pea jacket and shirt. My ditty box and whale's tooth fell to the deck with a clatter.
There was a sudden silence.
Captain Thorndike walked over and picked up my ditty box. “Tell me, Elizabeth, what sailor goes on an errand for ye while carrying his ditty box? What was he a-going to do for ye, give ye a shave? Go below this instant. I'll have words with ye later.”
I heard Elizabeth scream, “No! No!” as they strung me by my wrists from the rigging.
The captain swung back and lashed the whip. No! Pain seared me, white-hot, burning. Again, again. A strange sound was coming from somewhere, and I realized it came from my own throat.
week after my flogging, as the Sea Hawk sliced through the water toward the Arctic, tossing a fine mist over her decks, Duff, the steward, pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand.
It was a letter from Elizabeth. Her writing swirled across the page without a splotch of ink anywhere.
Dear Nicholas,
Finally they have stopped watching me so closely and I am able to get a letter to you. Duff says you and Dexter are some better. I'm glad. My parents are still furious with me, of course. Mother lectures me night and day and has given me extra lessons in the consequences of lying. Father says I'm a willful, disobedient child, and in need of firm discipline. I don't mean to be willful and disobedient, but sometimes I get so angry. Prince Albert is my only true companion. He loves it when I play the piano. Have you heard me play “Do You Ever Think of Me?” Whenever you hear it, I am thinking of you. Please write me back.
Affectionately,
Elizabeth
I had, in fact, heard this song tinkling from the stern many a time. During the dogwatch, as the men lazed about the windlass, smoking and yarning and sharpening harpoons, I'd hear the piano. The men would grow quiet, listening. Sometimes I'd hear a young voice singing as well, wafting like a breeze through the evening air, sweet and tremulous, and I knew it was Elizabeth.
“Then tell me—do you ever, When my bark is on the sea, Give a thought to her who never Can cease to think of thee?”
After sniffing the letter (it smelled of lilacs), I stowed it in my sea chest, planning to burn it in the next trypot fire. I didn't dare write her in return. Jerusalem crickets, she was Thorndike's daughter! What if the old man found letters to Elizabeth with my name signed below? He'd boil my oil in the trypots.
Duff passed Elizabeth's letters to me every day after that, each one imploring me to write back. I felt horribly guilty for not doing so and wished she'd stop writing me. I almost dreaded seeing Duff approach. Once I even ran and hid, but he found me. There are only so many places a sailor can hide on a ship while on duty.
Then the letters stopped. One day they were coming as reg-ular as ships' bells; the next day, nothing. I was surprised at my disappointment when Duff only poured me coffee. What, no let-ter? By the time a cold rainy day in early June rolled round, it had been a week since I'd received a letter, heard her play the piano, or sing. A week! Why had she stopped writing? Didn't she like me anymore? Was she writing to someone else instead? I realized I'd been counting on her letters. They were funny and chatty, and gave me something to do. That afternoon, I reread all her letters and decided maybe I wouldn't burn them after all. Besides, they smelled of lilacs.
We lay to off the coast of Siberia, beset by fogs and snow squalls while the previous winter's ice circled and bumped against the Sea Hawk's copper sheathing. Sometimes we heard spouts but couldn't see them, and didn't dare to lower on account of the fog. Other times, when the fog lifted, we saw the sails of some sixty whalers or more. Then, if a whale came along, it was a mad dash to be the first upon it. We had yet to fetch our-selves a whale, though we'd been here three blasted weeks already. And without whale oil bursting our hold, we couldn't go home.
I avoided Thorndike. Not only did I hate him, but one look at me and, certain, he'd know his daughter was writing me let-ters. Maybe the old man caught her, I thought as I rowed across the sea, chasing a polar whale. Maybe he took away her ink and paper and that's why she hasn't written. Maybe he's just biding his time before he tosses me overboard or 'poons me with an iron.
“Mind yourself,” grumbled Briggs from his position as mid-ship oarsman.
I realized my rhythm was off. “Sorry.” Rain streamed off my sou'wester and puddled on my lap. Three polar whales mean-dered slowly to the northeast, and we followed their telltale V-shaped spouts.
Polar whales were fat things, wrapped in a blanket of blubber so they could stay warm in seas colder than ice. They didn't have teeth, at least not normal teeth. They swam with their mouths open wide enough to admit a horse and carriage, scooping up giant mouthfuls of water. Then they strained the water out through long, hairy, bonelike slats. They swallowed what was left—tiny creatures, each no bigger than a bug. But there were thousands of creatures. Millions. Making for one monstrous gulp.
“Ice off the port bow,” whispered Sweet. “Pull two, boys, pull two. All of ye now, pull with a will. Can't let these other measly excuses for men beat us now, can we? We've got a reputation to uphold, and a nasty one at that. Think of one of them fat oily beasts a-lying in our hold. Think of home, boys. We'll be that much closer.”
I gritted my teeth and pulled hard. My stomach growled. My back ached. Despite my sou'wester and oilskins, I felt damp through. And what I wouldn't give for a slice of Aunt Agatha's quince pie smothered with hot cream! I wonder what Aunt Agatha's having for supper tonight. Baked beans and codfish chowder? Maybe hot coddled apples. What's Elizabeth eating, I wonder? Iced lemon cake? Pie? Hot biscuits smothered with butter and jam? Roasted chicken falling off the bone? Certain she doesn't eat salt beef and hard bread day after day, with coffee hot enough to scald the devil.
So busy was I with my daydreaming, I didn't notice that the rain had stopped or that the fog had rolled in until it was thick as chowder. I could barely see Dexter sitting one seat in front of me, or Sweet facing us in the stern, scowling through the mist, mut-tering, “Blasted pea soup.” Mist crawled over my face and under my collar, cold as a wet fish. I shivered. Sometimes the fog could stay for days and days.
We stopped rowing and listened for the sound of our ship, calling us back. Three blasts with the foghorn, followed by two rings of the bell and one shot from the pistol. But the fog was filled with blasts, shots, and rings from dozens of ships, making it impossible to tell which signals were the Sea Hawk's.
“Looks like we're stuck here,” said Briggs.
“Not to worry, though, boys,” said Sweet. “We've got all we need to survive for weeks. Captain made sure of that.”
“Weeks!” I croaked.
“Just an expression, just an expression, Bones, don't be get-ting yourself in a flurry of feathers. Soon as the fog lifts, why, we'll spy the Sea Hawk right away, mark my words.” With that, Sweet opened the lantern-keg and broke out the hard bread—a square sailor's biscuit baked so hard it could put out an eye.
Though it wasn't a hot buttered biscuit with jam, I wolfed it down, wishing for more.
Dexter moved to sit next to me. After all, we weren't rowing or doing much of anything, so it was all right to move round some. He rubbed his hands together, blew in them, and then pulled on his gloves. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I figure it'll take thirty polar whales and then we can go home.”
Garret answered from his position in the bow. Ever since he'd begun bunking in steerage and doing the duties of a harponeer, the only time we really had together was when we chased whales. “Some ships fetch twenty in a year's time,” he was saying; “oth-ers take a whale a year. Luck of the draw, I reckon. Two ships can hunt side by side. One comes away with her hold busting at the seams; the other ship's empty as a whiskey barrel at an Irish jig.”
“Making excuses, Carrot Sticks?” said Briggs.
“Don't sound to me like excuses,” Irish said, “sounds like rot-ten luck. The Sea Hawk's mighty unlucky, if it's me you're asking. Been gone near three-quarters of a year, we have, and we've only three whales to account for. If what ye say is true, lads, it'll be almost five years before we can even start for home.”
I drooped over my oar. “I'd be almost twenty-one years old.”
“If ye live that long,” said Briggs under his breath.
I ignored him. Briggs was always trying to provoke me. I wanted to tell him to mind his own ugly business, but we didn't need a fistfight in the whaleboat. We'd end up in the water and get frozen solid.
“Captain Thorndike don't care how long we're out here,” Briggs continued, his voice a mite whiny, muffled in the fog. “He's got his family along. He's got good food. Not this hard bread and salt beef that would choke a dog. Then, like he's the king of his kingdom, he throws us some rice and bugs once a week like that's good enough for the likes of us.”
“Now, Briggs,” said Sweet, “don't be a-riling folks. Just sim-mer down, or I'll have to dunk ye overboard to cool off.”
“Besides, Briggs,” said Dexter. “Seems like the food was just fine to you until you got demoted.”
“Why, you little—”
“Enough!” hollered Sweet.
The boat settled into silence. Pistol shots and bells and horns still sounded all round us. Irish crossed his arms and settled down as if for a nap. Through the fog I vaguely saw Garret sprawled against the bow, chewing on a toothpick. “I'm just saying,” said Briggs after a while, “I'm hungry all the time. The captain don't feed us near enough.”
“Why don't you go talk to him about it?” asked Dexter.
“What, and get my face smashed again?” Briggs' voice was laced with anger. “I'm tired of it all. The old man has everything he wants, while we do all his dirty work.”
“Captain's got his own troubles,” said Sweet as he lit his pipe. The tobacco glowed orange through the fog.
“Pardon me if I don't feel sorry for him,” said Briggs.
“Fact is,” continued Sweet, “his wife's taken ill. His daughter, too.”
I sat up, my breath catching. “What do you mean?”
“Just heard they had some fever. Cole says they're at death's door.” Sweet coughed out a lungful of smoke. “I always figured women was too weak for the whaling life. Injures their delicate constitutions.”
I lay back, the blood draining from my face.
“Oh, by the way, Bones,” said Sweet, reaching into his coat and pulling out a folded paper. “Duff said to give this to ye. He's been a little under the weather himself. Sorry, but I've had it a few days.”
It was a letter, sealed with red wax, stamped with a curli-cued E.
I took it from Sweet, turned away from Dexter, and opened it. The handwriting was scrawling, shaky, ink splotches here and there.
Dear Nicholas,
Please come see me.
Affectionately, Elizabeth
Hands trembling, I looked up, aware that everyone was staring at me, expecting me to say something.
I stowed the letter in my coat pocket and looked away. Blood pounded in my ears.
Dexter whispered, “Don't even think it.”
I ignored him, staring out into the fog, thinking, Soon as I get aboard the Sea Hawk, I'll go see Elizabeth. Thorndike can go to hell.
The next day, when the fog lifted, we returned to the Sea Hawk.
A whale was alongside, caught by one of the other three whaleboats. As I stepped aboard, commands fell fast and furi-ous. Men ran here, then there. Heavy chains clanked and rattled across a deck coated with oil and blood.
Thorndike stood by the gangway talking with Cole.
It was a perfect opportunity to slip below.
With a quick glance round, down the companionway I crept. At the bottom was a small door. Hands sweaty, I unlatched the door and peered into the captain's cabin, half expecting Mrs. Thorndike to be standing there ready to scream. But the cabin was empty. I stepped inside and shut the door.
The cabin was a far cry from the fo'c'sle: whitewashed, low-ceilinged, with a red velvet settee, a captain's desk, a stove, and a piano. Doors led off from the cabin. I figured Elizabeth would be in one of the two port cabins.
But which one?
Taking a deep breath, I opened the forward door an inch and put my eye to the crack. The cabin was small, no bigger than my closet in New Bedford. Whitewashed like the main cabin, it con-tained a dresser, a closet, a washstand, and a single bed. Elizabeth lay sleeping, her cat curled at the foot of the bed. Strewn across her pillow and plastered in wet strands against her face, her hair looked caught in a tempest. I heard the pant of her breath.
As quiet as I could, I opened the door wider to step inside. Suddenly, my heart dropped to my brogans, for I heard the tromp of heavy footsteps on the companionway. Blood and thun-der! Someone's coming!
aster than I've ever moved before, I dashed into Elizabeth's room, opened her closet, and squeezed inside, banging my knee and bumping my head. I pulled the closet door shut just as I heard someone enter the captain's cabin. There was the sound of papers rustling. A grunt. Heavy footsteps again. Then I heard the creak of a door being opened.
“Catharine?” At the sound of the voice, my blood froze. It was Captain Thorndike! “Catharine, dear? I've come to check on ye. Be ye sleeping?” His voice surprised me, for it was as tender as if his wife were a babe. I heard the sound of a bed squeaking and knew he must have sat next to his wife.
“Catharine? My love, answer me. Answer me, love.” A pause. A rustle of bedclothes.
Again the bed squeaked. For a long time, silence. The pounding of my heart. Then an anguished cry. Like a rock scraped across a pane of glass.
Another cry. And there began an awful wailing. “No! No! God, no! Please don't take her! Not Catharine!” cried Thorndike, his voice cracked and dreadful to hear. “My love, my life. I need you! I need you!” He burst into deep, wretched sobs I'd never heard a man cry before.
Tears sprang to my eyes. Mrs. Thorndike was dead, no doubt. Elizabeth's mother. I could imagine the sorrow, for I hadn't forgotten the day I learned my father had died. It was a deep, jagged pain that lay buried a hundred layers down but was there nonetheless. Much as I hated Captain Thorndike, hated him for all his cruelty, for the scars on my back, I was sorry for him too. It was confusing, so I just stood and cried and cried, wiping my nose on my sleeve, not caring that Dexter would roll his eyes and call me a sissy girl and a blasted idiot besides.
Then Elizabeth spoke. “Father? … Father?”
There came a creak of someone rising from the bed. Heavy footsteps.
“Is she dead?” Elizabeth asked in a whisper.
There was no sound. I imagined Captain Thorndike sta
nding in the doorway, his face contorted with weeping, staring at his daughter with eyes turned red. I started to cry again, silently, trying not to sniff. “Aye,” he finally answered, “she's dead. And you've yourself to thank for it, upsetting her the way ye did. You've sent her to an early grave.”
I heard a gasp, a cry, and then sounds of Elizabeth's weeping. Of Captain Thorndike in the main cabin. A door opening. Closing. The thud of footsteps and the creak of stairs. And Elizabeth weeping. And weeping.
I fumbled in the dark for the closet latch.
“Who's there?” came Elizabeth's frightened voice.
I fumbled a bit more. If I can just get out of the blasted closet …
“Who's there?”
I pushed hard against the door and found the latch at the same time. Out I tumbled in a cascade of clothing and books and shoes. I whapped my chin on the washstand on the way down and skinned my elbows as I landed.
“Nicholas!”
It wasn't exactly the entrance I'd imagined as I'd lain awake all night in the whaleboat. I removed a petticoat from atop my face. “Sorry,” I mumbled, sitting up.
But she didn't laugh at me. Instead, tears slipped down her cheeks and her lips trembled. “Did you hear? Mother's dead. She's dead. And Father hates me.” With that, she laid her face in her hands and sobbed.
I got up and closed the cabin door. Hesitating, I sat beside her. She leaned against me. I felt the burn of her fever. The moisture. The thin gauze of her nightgown. I hesitated again but then wrapped my arms round her. She cried and cried while I stroked her hair, saying, “Don't cry, Elizabeth. Don't cry.” And as her head settled against my chest, I knew. The realization struck me like a harpoon driven deep into my heart: I was in love with the captain's daughter.
We lay at anchor among the ice floes, silent, our flag at half-mast while they buried Mrs. Thorndike on the Siberian coast. For a whole hour, we just watched from the rail. Then, after Thorndike and the mates returned to the Sea Hawk, ships' cap-tains stopped by to pay their respects, bringing wives and chil-dren. It was a solemn affair. Black suits, black dresses, black gloves and veils. People sitting prim and proper, ferried in boats that passed between ships.
Voyage of Ice Page 6