Andrea Barrett - Voyage of the Narwhal

And there they were, in a cold, dark ship that for a minute was only a ship. Then it was something else, though still not glorious. They’d all heard about this ship; it belonged to Edward Belcher’s expedition, which had been frozen in during the winter of ‘53 and ‘54. Belcher, Erasmus knew, had abandoned his fleet that May, a thousand miles west of them. As he and Zeke were planning their own voyage, they’d heard the gossip about Belcher’s return to England on a rescue ship. He’d been court-martialed for his poor judgment, and barely acquitted; there’d been little reason to think his vessels wouldn’t be free come summer, and no one understood why he’d left them.

Zeke’s face sagged as they recollected the squalid story. They stood in one of Belcher’s ships, which had broken free and made the long journey eastward by itself. A discovery, but hardly an earthshaking one.

“Should we try to tow her out?” Erasmus asked.

“Let someone else salvage her,” Zeke said. “It’s not our job to repair that man’s mistakes.” He took the logbook but left the Resolute to continue drifting southward with the pack.

Back across Lancaster Sound again, then along the coast of North Devon; Zeke sullen with the knowledge that their detour had come to nothing. From Jones Sound the water stretched east and north nearly free of ice, a sight that made everyone smile: all of them dreaming of home. Erasmus dreamed of his narrow bed in the Repository, his orderly specimen cases and shelves; of the cook bringing into his dining room a dish of roasted veal and glazed carrots. Dr. Boerhaave was looking forward to a trip to Boston; the men spoke of sweethearts and things they might buy with their wages; Captain Tyler said he missed his wife. Perhaps Zeke dreamed of Lavinia. Or perhaps he dreamed of other things.

IN PHILADELPHIA, WOMEN dreamed that the Narwhal was sailing toward them. Alexandra wrote:

Just another six or eight weeks, if all goes well. I thought I’d look forward to the end of this time, but in fact I’ll miss being here: a retreat from the noise and crowding of my family’s house. I’ve come to love my hours in the Repository and have grown very attached to Lavinia. We’ve completed the plates for the entomology book, but Linnaeus and Humboldt have no more hand-coloring work. They offered me a small stipend simply to continue as Lavinia’s companion, but I’ve persuaded them to let me — and Lavinia too, I said; she needs to stay occupied— take engraving lessons from one of their employees in lieu of a salary. I have a substantial nest egg in my sewing box now. What I need is a styll I may take with me when I leave. If this is the life I am to lead — here in this city, unattached, dependent on my brother — I must do what I can to make the best of it.

The brothers objected on the usual grounds but I cited the example of Thomas Say’s wife, Lucy. As their father helped arrange her election as the first woman member of the Academy of Sciences, this made them thinly Lavinia made them look at Mrs. Hales book, which she brought back from town: “Women’s Record, or Sketches of All Distinguished Women from ‘The Beginning’ till A.D. 1850. Arranged in Four Eras. With Selections from Female Writers of Every Age.” I mean to be an advanced woman, she told her brothers. Life those women. Isn’t that what you want for me?

We started last week. Mr. Archibault, one of the Wells’s master engravers, comes to us in the Repository, bearing burins and needles and steel plates spoiled by the apprentices, which would otherwise be scrapped. More broad-minded than the brothers, he remarks that both Helen Dawson and the Maverick sisters did excellent engravings; and so anything, he supposes, may be possible. Straight lines, curved lines, incomplete lines, and dots — I have much to learn, and little time. I gashed myself several times with the burin.

LATER, ERASMUS WOULD wonder if Zeke’s disappointment over the Resolute was responsible for what happened next. Or if Joe’s earlier comments about Oonali had finally sunk in, until Zeke doubted the worth of their relics. At the point where they all expected to turn east, Zeke called the crew together on deck.

“We have four days yet of August,” Zeke said. “And can look forward to several weeks of good sailing in September. The weather’s excellent and the season is far from over. Your hard work has already brought this expedition much success. And I know you’ll be willing to delay our return just a few more weeks, so we might bring back not only our news of Franklin’s expedition, but some significant geographical findings as well.”

Erasmus, sketching the strata of a distant cliff, turned to stare at Zeke as Scan Hamilton blurted, “What?” Two seals popped their heads from the water and stared at the ship.

“We’ll head into Smith Sound,” Zeke continued, “testing the boundaries of the open water. A little detour. The bulk of the drifting ice is south of us; you can see for yourselves that there’s no loose pack north of us. A swift, concerted probe through the Sound might bring us far before we have to turn back. We’ll make as much northing as we can in ten days, chart as much new territory as we can, and then make a quick run for Godhavn. I promise we’ll be there in less than four weeks.”

“No!” Captain Tyler said. He grasped a shroud, squeezing until his swollen knuckles stood out like walnuts. “This is out of the question, you can’t consider it.”

Mr. Francis and Mr. Tagliabeau backed him up and others also raised their voices: my mother is waiting; the season’s too late; this isn’t what you told us when we signed on— Isaac Bond, Nils Jensen, Ivan Hruska. Zeke brought out his maps, talking about his theory of polynya formation and why there should be open water north of the constriction of Smith Sound.

“Please,” Erasmus said in his ear. “What about Lavinia?”

But Zeke shook him off and did what Erasmus had dreaded from his first words. “You’ve pledged to support me,” he said, waving the contract. “This brief exploration is part of our goals, as I have determined them, and you must support me in this. You must.”

Sabine, perched on his shoulder like a white epaulet, regarded the crowd and barked.

THE ICEBERG’S FACE was sheer and as high as their mastheads, but Nils Jensen and Robert Carey managed to scale it. They were trying to anchor the Narwhal to the berg’s lee side, where they might find some protection from the crushing ice. Nils drove the anchor in; Robert adjusted the lines. Just as they began their scramble back to the ship, the berg split in two with a noise like a cannon shot. Robert leapt for the water, and although he was nearly frozen to death Dr. Boerhaave was able to save him. But while his companions watched, unable to help him, Nils toppled into the chasm between the berg’s two halves. Later this sight recurred in Erasmus’s dreams and he’d wake with his throat closed, imagining what Nils must have felt when the larger half sighed and rolled in the water, grinding a submerged tongue into the smaller half and obliterating the chasm. They did not find even a scrap of Nils’s clothing.

For Erasmus this scene came to stand for the twenty-three days during which they battled the ice beyond the twin capes guarding Smith Sound. As they sailed into the great basin, he’d talked himself into sharing some of Zeke’s enthusiasm. But by September 3 thin ice was already forming around the Narwhal at night, bridging the floes that kept them pressed against Ellesmere and prevented them from crossing to the Greenland side of the sound. Joe gazed at the floes with a long face; any part of Greenland, even this far north where he’d never been, counted as home to him. The distant shores teased him terribly.