Zeke arranged the traces so that Dr. Boerhaave was harnessed next to the sledge, with Ned and Zeke himself a few feet before him, at the points of an equilateral triangle. Another set of ropes ran from Dr. Boerhaave’s waist to Ned’s and Zeke’s, forming the triangle’s sides, so that Dr. Boerhaave could then walk forward guided by the gentle pressure. And it had worked, Ned admitted. It was horrible the way Dr. Boerhaave stumbled over the ridges and mounds, the way his sightless face grimaced and colored—yet perhaps only the constant movement had kept him alive.
Or perhaps if Zeke had emptied the sled, packed Dr. Boerhaave on it wrapped in all their furs, he might be alive even now. Or if they hadn’t untied the ropes connecting them to Dr. Boerhaave before unloading the sledge for their brief rest, or if they’d chosen any other place, any other time to stop . . .
“The waist ropes weren’t long enough,” Ned said, staring out at the white plain. Erasmus was sweating beneath his jacket, moisture trickling down his sides as if his arms were weeping. That Dr. Boerhaave had had to endure this . . . “We couldn’t unload the sledge while we were still tied in,” Ned continued. “Just a few minutes we weren’t tied to him—how could the ice have opened just then?”
Erasmus remembered his first impression of his friend: Dr. Boerhaave’s quick and shining mind, flashing like a silver salmon. Did a soul survive? His body moved among the fish but perhaps his soul had floated free. One fine idea in the mind of God, which might express itself in another form.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Erasmus said. And it wasn’t; nor was it, exactly, Zeke’s. Yet if Joe had been there it wouldn’t have happened, Joe would have understood what to do: and who was to blame for Joe’s desertion, if not Zeke? The sweat congealed on his chest. It could have been Zeke, sinking through that ice. It should have been Zeke. Behind that flare of rage was a bleaker thought. If he hadn’t shared that one night with the men—if Zeke hadn’t caught him drinking—he might have been there himself to save Dr. Boerhaave.
BY JUNE 15 Zeke was well enough to rise and resume command of the ship. He gathered all the men on deck, even Captain Tyler and Mr. Tagliabeau, and thanked them for their good work during his absence and subsequent illness. Erasmus stood next to him, his hands jammed in his pockets, trying to listen without shouting. Dr. Boerhaave was dead and here was Zeke. His sister’s love, the leader of all these men, everyone needed him—if I struck him, Erasmus thought, with the calm of real hysteria; if he fell and hit his head . . . but Zeke’s death wouldn’t help anyone except, very briefly, him. He dug his fingers through the cloth and into his thighs as Sean said, “But what really happened to Joe and Dr. Boerhaave?”
Zeke told a story that resembled what Ned had told Erasmus, but was somehow quite different. In his version, Joe was unhelpful on the crossing to Greenland, and once there poisoned Zeke’s relationship with the Esquimaux. Because of Joe the Esquimaux, initially willing to supply Zeke with dogs, and perhaps even accompany him on some travels north, had turned against him. There was a woman involved, Zeke hinted; he suspected that Joe had formed a relationship with one of the Anoatok women, deserting so he might meet her later.
The tragic journey back, Zeke said, had also been Joe’s fault. In his absence the sledge was too heavy for three men; they’d struggled heroically, wanting to bring fresh meat to the Narwhal’s crew, but they’d grown overtired and it was this that had beaten them. Had Joe been there, Dr. Boerhaave might still have fallen—that was fate, no one could help it—but a third pair of hands might have been enough to haul out him and the sledge.
“This is what happens,” Zeke said frostily. “When a team breaks down, when commands are ignored. A weak link in the chain imperils us all.”
In the silence Erasmus chewed his lips and watched Zeke gaze toward the plain surrounding the ship, dotted with ice buildings and heaps of supplies. A pyramid of barrels holding their beef and pork, quadrangles of flour and dried apples and beans, a little tower of bottled horseradish, twelve bottles to the case. “Who gave the orders to break up the storehouse?” Zeke asked.
“I did,” Erasmus said, amazed that he could still speak. Two long-tailed ducks passed by, heading for their breeding grounds farther north. How Dr. Boerhaave would have enjoyed a glimpse of them. “I thought you’d want to be ready the moment the ice opened.”
“Your diligence is admirable,” Zeke said. “But I hope you haven’t stowed the pemmican, or any of the other traveling supplies.” Everyone stared at him. “The Esquimaux have promised to visit us in a few weeks,” Zeke continued. “A few men, and a team of dogs for our sledge. They’ll help us make a quick trip north, while we wait for the ice to break up.”
“I never heard that,” Ned blurted. “When did they promise that?”
“You don’t understand their language,” Zeke said. “You only heard what Joe told you. They’ll be here shortly. Then a party of us will head north.”
The men said nothing; they stood still and then disappeared below—as if, Erasmus thought, Zeke’s announcement was so absurd they’d all agreed not to hear it. For a while he couldn’t speak himself. Later that night, still wondering if he’d heard correctly, he was turning the pages of Dr. Boerhaave’s journal when Zeke crept up on him. He tried to shield the pages with his hand before he spoke. “Why are you still talking about this trip?” he said. Why hadn’t he asked this right away? “It’s ridiculous, it’s such a bad idea.”
“So you’ve said,” Zeke replied. “So you’ve been saying since January, you could hardly be less enthusiastic. Yet the success of our whole voyage turns on this.”
“What success?” Erasmus closed the precious volume. “Nils and Fletcher and Mr. Francis already dead and now Dr. Boerhaave, Dr. Boerhaave, Dr. . . .” He dashed away what was spurting from his eyes.
“I’ll take that,” Zeke said, bending over the spotted book.
“No!” Erasmus said. “Please—it should be mine.”
Zeke pushed his hands aside. “It’s a part of the expedition’s records now,” he said. “Hence mine.”
DURING THOSE LAST weeks of June, Alexandra wrote:
That my life would change like this; it’s so extraordinary, my fate turning because of Mr. Archibault’s crippled hands, me profiting by his problems—what am I to make of this?
He arrives each evening with his secret parcels and we work long into the night. We’ve taken over Erasmus’s Repository, lighting it as best we can; a far cry from the sunlit space of the Wellses’ engraving room. They work in teams there, several men to each plate; one engraves the landscape, another the animals, another the human figures. Here it’s just the two of us, doing the best we can.
All this has come about because Dr. Kane drives himself so mercilessly—or is driven by his publisher, we can’t be sure which. The facts I piece together are these. In the months since Dr. Kane’s return he’s generated almost nine hundred pages of text, much taken directly from his journals but some newly written; only the Preface and Appendix remain undone. Meanwhile Mr. Hamilton, who renders from Dr. Kane’s pen-and-ink sketches the beautiful paintings on which the engravings are based, has been living in Dr. Kane’s own rooms that they might work day and night.
Mr. Childs, his publisher, began printing the early chapters even while Dr. Kane continued writing, and he’s given specimen pages to the newspapers as a way of drumming up publicity. Mr. Childs chose the title—Arctic Explorations: The Second Grinnell Expedition in Search of Sir John Franklin, 1853, ’54, ’55—and plans to publish in September, but the engravings are far behind schedule. It’s this frenzy that has been my great blessing. Mr. Archibault’s team is the farthest behind; no one knows but me that something has happened to his wrists. When he bears down with his graver, pains shoot up from his wrists and his fingers lose their strength and grow numb; he’s lost almost all control of them.
He spends his days directing the other members of his team, who engrave views of the cliffs, the sky, the ship, and the human figures. He checks
the plates at each stage, he points out mistakes and calls for corrections. He’s supposed to be doing the animals—his particular gift—but claims he can’t concentrate while supervising everyone else and must do his own work at night. Then he sneaks the plates and their corresponding paintings out of the building and here, to me. He has a wife, six children, a widowed mother living with him, and no other income beyond his salary.
Neither of us can quite believe this is happening. That he should be so dependent on a woman still in training; that I should be given the chance, so early, to work on the plates for an important book—it’s difficult for both of us. We both know I’m not ready for this. And how exasperating it is that he can’t correct my mistakes directly. He paces back and forth, cold compresses on his wrists, and can do no more than say, “Lightly, lightly.” Or, “Carve deeper there, a little more pressure,” or “Can’t you see the way Hamilton’s angled the jawbone?” I’ve never worked so hard. Some of what I do is good, I can see it. Sometimes I can match my line both to Hamilton’s intent and to the work of the others who’ve already marked the plate. But sometimes my clumsiness shows. Partly I long for my work to be recognized. Partly I’m glad no one will ever know how I’ve served out my apprenticeship in public.
Caught in our strange union, Mr. Archibault and I try to be kind to one another. But twice he’s arrived here pale with distress, and has let me know that Linnaeus, looking over a plate, has expressed dissatisfaction. Mr. Archibault’s job rests on what I do, as does the firm’s reputation. Yet it’s no use to think of this, I can only do my best.
I still haven’t met Dr. Kane, on whose behalf an army works day and night. This man who’s changed my life and made a hell of Lavinia’s. Why is he here? she asks. And not Zeke and Erasmus? She rages; then chides herself for being irrational. I find her asleep in odd corners, in the middle of the day, and when I wake her she weeps and twists her skirt in her hands. She knows my secret and doesn’t hold my work against me, even tries to encourage me now and then but can do no work herself. Nothing I do seems to help her.
Still—still, still, still—we have no word of Zeke and Erasmus. Though whalers now make their way into upper Baffin’s Bay, no one reports sighting the Narwhal.
“OUR ACQUAINTANCES HAVE deceived us,” Zeke said when he returned. He’d been gone for three days, exploring the far side of the point in search of the Esquimaux. His face was sunburnt and above it his hair, sweaty and rumpled, looked almost white.
Ned, who was standing next to Erasmus and sorting handfuls of scurvy grass, said, “You saw the Esquimaux?”
“I saw no one,” Zeke said curtly. “The pack in the Sound is beginning to move, there are big leads everywhere and there’s no possibility of travel across it. As the Esquimaux must have known when they sent us home. They never had any intention of helping us, they just meant to get rid of us. And so they have. We have no way of communicating with them now for the rest of the season.”
“Why would they come here?” Ned said. “All they ever want to do is get away from us.”
“Your opinion,” Zeke retorted. “Which you may keep to yourself.”
Ned turned and busied himself with the stove. Captain Tyler and Mr. Tagliabeau, still idle but well enough to sit in the sun wrapped in blankets, looked up at Zeke. “But this is good news,” Captain Tyler said. “Isn’t it? If the ice is breaking up in the Sound, surely we’ll be freed soon . . .”
“I don’t think so,” Zeke replied. “I went south along the ice belt, looking for open water. The straits aren’t open anywhere, they’re only heaving and breaking. The ice on our side is completely solid between us and the North Water.”
Mr. Tagliabeau groaned and put his head on his knees.
“We have at least six weeks before there’s even the possibility of breaking out,” Zeke said. “And there’s no point wasting this precious time. So we don’t have dogs. So the movement in the Sound blocks us from travel to the east. There’s no reason we can’t head north, exploring the coast. We’ll break into two parties, one to guard the brig and ready it for our departure, and another to travel. Volunteers?”
No one said a word.
Zeke looked from face to face. Erasmus shifted his eyes when Zeke’s gaze reached him.
“Some enthusiasm would be welcome,” Zeke said. “I’ll post a sheet of paper in the deckhouse tomorrow morning, and I expect six of you to sign up for the exploring party. Work it out among yourselves.”
TUESDAY AND WEDNESDAY, the sheet remained blank. Ned took Erasmus aside, while Zeke rummaged through the supplies on the ice. “No one’s going to sign up,” he said. “Of course no one is. After what happened—I’ll never go anywhere with him again. And neither will anyone else. I’ve talked to the men.”
He looked Erasmus squarely in the eye, and Erasmus understood that, beyond the rebuilt bulkhead, Ned had been telling the crew his version of the trip to Anoatok, which must have won out over Zeke’s.
On Thursday, Zeke sat down to dinner with an armful of charts. “Well?” he asked. “Who is joining me?”
“We must stay with the ship,” Captain Tyler said. “Mr. Tagliabeau and I—it’s our duty to guard the ship, and ready it for our departure.”
The seven crewmen rose from the table as one. Ned stepped forward and spoke for them. “It’s too risky,” he said. Brave boy, Erasmus thought. “There’s nothing to be gained. The ice may break up before you think, and we must be here when it does.”
Zeke’s face turned white, but he clenched his hand around his charts and said to Erasmus, “It’s just you and me then, my old friend. But we’ll move more swiftly without these malingerers. Shall we leave on Saturday?”
For a minute Erasmus struggled with himself. His duty toward Zeke and Lavinia, his duty toward Ned and the rest of these men—no matter what he decided, he’d fail someone. “It’s a bad idea,” he said. “I can’t support you in this. I vote to stay.”
Zeke rose, scattering papers. “This isn’t a vote. Who said anything about voting?”
“I’m staying here,” Erasmus said, hoping he sounded as firm as Ned had.
“You can’t do this,” Zeke said to him. He turned, faced the others, and repeated himself; then added, “You’ll all regret this.”
“We’ve followed you wherever you wanted,” Captain Tyler said. “Look where it’s brought us.”
Mr. Tagliabeau said,“We might now consider this ship a wreck, since it has no power to move. Under maritime law, the commander of a ship has no further powers once a ship is wrecked.”
Ned took a breath and steadied himself. “The Narwhal isn’t a ship anymore,” he said. “Maybe it’s not a wreck like Mr. Tagliabeau says, but it’s not a ship. It’s our home, even if it feels like a prison.”
Was this mutiny? Erasmus wondered. If Zeke started hurling orders at them, if he threatened them and still they refused . . .
“I’ll give you all another chance to act like men,” Zeke said, beginning to pace. “We’ll meet here tomorrow at noon, and I’ll ask each of you to state for the record your decision to support me in a journey north. Perhaps a party of six is excessive, given our reduced numbers. I need only three of you. Any three.”
He left the cabin, clambered down onto the ice, and did not return. No one slept in the cabin that night. Erasmus tossed in the deckhouse, aware that below him, Captain Tyler and Mr. Tagliabeau had abandoned their bunks to join the men in the forecastle. He heard voices deep into the night, although only a few phrases floated clearly: when a whaling ship’s frozen in like this, the captain is bound to release the men; the boats should be at our disposal; if he won’t do that we might confine him—Barton DeSouza, Robert Carey, Isaac Bond. Erasmus longed for Dr. Boerhaave, who might have guided him.
At noon, they waited for fifteen minutes before they heard Zeke climb up on deck and then descend among them. From the shelf behind his bunk he took the small metal box in which he kept his charts and his journal and also, since their deaths, Mr. Fra
ncis’s official log and Dr. Boerhaave’s journal. He opened Mr. Francis’s log. One by one, in a steady voice, he called out the crew members’ names. One by one they said, “Stay.” He entered each vote, turning last to Erasmus.
“I’m sorry,” Erasmus said. “But I must also stay.”
“Well, then,” Zeke said. “So you reveal yourselves.” He wrote a few more lines in the log and then locked it inside the box. “I’ll be gone four weeks,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “The ice won’t open before August fifteenth, almost surely later. I’ll be back before August fifth.”
“You’re going alone?” Ned said. “You’re still going?”
“Of course I’m going,” Zeke said. “Why would I return home without taking advantage of our excellent situation here? Dr. Kane may have preceded us to the Greenland side of Smith Sound, and may have befriended our fickle Esquimaux before us, but who’s to say how far north he traveled? The open polar sea may be less than a hundred miles away, and I won’t give up this chance to find it because of you.”
He turned to Erasmus. “I’m very disappointed in you,” he said. For a second, Erasmus was reminded of his own father. “But under the terms of the contract you signed, I leave you and Captain Tyler in shared command until I return.”
He left the brig again, headed for the three guardian icebergs. Erasmus followed a few minutes later, cursing as he crossed the spongy white plain and looped around the turquoise puddles of meltwater spread so deceptively everywhere. Like windows into the open sea but shallow, just a few inches deep, all lies. He waded through them, soaking his boots, panting as Zeke’s figure disappeared. His own feet disappeared in the water; how could the ice be so wet on the surface, so solid below, so obstinate in refusing to release them? At the first berg he stopped and rested against the slumping contours. Around the back of the third, largest berg, he found Zeke.
“Please,” he said, still panting. “Don’t go off alone.”
Voyage of the Narwhal Page 19