Andrea Barrett - Voyage of the Narwhal

Zeke continued pacing, leaving a fog trail behind him.

“What is it you want?”

Zeke stopped and turned to face him. “What do you think?” As he spoke his face disappeared inside the cloud his breath created. “I want my name on something,” he called. “Something big— is that so hard to understand? I want my name on the map. Your father would have understood.”

“My father is dead!” Erasmus called back. “Why would you want to endanger yourself and the rest of us more than you already have?”

Zeke shook his head and his face disappeared again. “Don’t turn against me,” he said. “Everyone else is — don’t you know how much you and your family mean to me?” When the cloud blew away his eyebrows jutted out, entirely white. “Your house was where I grew up,” Zeke said more quietly. Now Erasmus stood by his side. “Where I learned everything important. You and your father…”

“If something happened to you,” Erasmus said, “Lavinia would die. Don’t you worry about her?”

“Of course,” Zeke said. “About her, and you and your brothers, and what you think of me — I’ve always wanted to be part of your family, for all of you to be proud of me. If I led a successful sledge trip north, everyone would see what I can do.”

“Lavinia loves you no matter what,” Erasmus said. What was all this talk about his family? A man in love, a man engaged, might be a little more romantic. “Surely you understand that?”

Zeke’s frosted eyebrows drew together. “The men need to get used to the idea,” he said. “We’re going north.”

ERASMUS THOUGHT HE had several months to talk Zeke out of his useless plan; meanwhile he must do what he could to lift the men’s spirits. When the sun approached during the second week of February, he and Joe and Dr. Boerhaave took a party out to meet it. They clambered up the hill behind the brig, up and over the two beyond. An arc of light split the horizon, violet and lavender merging into rich brown clouds. Then the shining disk broke free, perched on an icy range. They opened their jackets, the briefest moment, the pale rays touching their throats. Barton cried at the sight, and Isaac pointed at the giant shadows they cast on the snow.

It cheered them, Erasmus thought. He was cheered himself and afterward saw mirages for hours, blue and green and pink balls of light. That night they all ate in some semblance of harmony.

When he woke at three A.M. and heard a faint noise, Erasmus thought at first that he was dreaming. The cabin was dark but for the gleam of one tiny blubber lamp. The fire was banked in the stove; Mr. Francis, who had the watch, had fallen asleep at the table. The curtain to his bunk was open but the others were closed and appeared undisturbed. Erasmus couldn’t see beyond the stove, but he heard no sound from the men’s quarters. The noise was above him, distinctly above him. He put on his boots and his furs and made his way up the ladder.

The noise ceased before he came out on deck. It was completely dark under the housing, much colder than in the cabin but not nearly so cold as it must be outside, where the wind was singing in the shrouds. He hadn’t brought a lantern with him, and he would have slipped back down had he not heard another noise just then: a sort of snort or gasp.

“Who’s that?” he said sharply.

Someone laughed.

“Speak up,” Erasmus said. “Who’s out here?”

More laughter, from more than one voice. Then, “Me. Isaac.” And “Robert.” And “Ivan.”

A scuffle, some whispers, a giggle. “All right. Me, too— Thomas.”

“You’re sitting in the dark?” Erasmus said. “What are you doing?” He had a horrid memory of Isaac prancing around, half-clothed. “Who else is here?”

“Me” came a voice from the bow. “Barton.”

And Robert — it was Robert who couldn’t stop giggling — said, “Scan and Ned are here too.”

“Ned?” Erasmus said. Sensible Ned. “Are you trying to kill yourselves?”

“Ssh,” Ned said, from behind him. “Whisper.”

He lit a candle stub, revealing the men in the feeble light. Bundled up in their fur suits and further wrapped in buffalo robes, they were huddled against the rough plank walls, far too sick and worn for any prancing. They’d been telling stories instead, Erasmus guessed, reliving memories from what seemed like another life. Some had had adventures on Boothia, which Erasmus had envied even through his disapproval: I spent a night in a tent with a young widow; the breasts of mine were tattooed; mine was warm, warm, warm— Thomas Forbes, Scan Hamilton, Ivan Hruska. Erasmus moved among them, coming to rest against the stovepipe housing.

“We’re warming ourselves,” Barton said. “And celebrating the return of the sun.”

He held out a teacup with a broken handle, into which Erasmus peered. Water. He sipped, choked, sipped again: raw alcohol. Not Captain Tyler’s port, nor Zeke’s whiskey, nor Dr. Boerhaave’s medicinal Madeira or cognac, which were in any case kept carefully locked away. He looked at the faces, scabby and marked by scurvy spots, bleary-eyed, relaxed. “Where did you getMw?”

Robert laughed so hard he fell against Ivan. “It’s what you put the fishes in!” he said. “The fishes and the little things you bring up from the seafloor.”

“I took it,” Scan admitted. “From the cabinet, last night.” He held up an old oil bottle, half full of Erasmus’s preserving alcohol.

“You drained it from my specimens?” Erasmus said. “Once you break the seals and drain off the alcohol the specimens are ruined, just ruined.. .”

“We wouldn’t do that,” Ned said. “Scan took one of the unused bottles of spirits.”

“Lucky me,” Erasmus said. He sipped again; the strong spirits burned the sores on his tongue.

“Lucky us, I’d say,” Barton added. “Who wants to drink essence of dead fish?”

The men writhed with stifled laughter. “This is so bad for you,” Erasmus said. “Never mind what Commander Voorhees would say if he caught you — alcohol only makes you feel warm, you’ll all get frostbite.” He took the candle from Ned and moved toward Ivan. “Let me see your hands and your face.”

Ivan pushed his hood back and held out his hands. His left little finger and the flesh below it were waxy white, and another dead-white patch shone beside his nose. Erasmus groaned. “Look at this.” He passed the candle to Scan. “Each of you look at your neighbor and see if anyone else has frozen spots.”

Only Isaac did, a patch at the base of one thumb. Erasmus told Ned to hold his hand over Isaac’s, while he placed his own on Ivan’s frozen flesh. Still they were all speaking quietly; and still everyone but him was sipping from the teacup and the bottle. “We must all go down now,” Erasmus said. “I’ll decide whether to tell Commander Voorhees about this in the morning.”

“It’s only a little celebration,” Ned said in his ear. “We have small enough chance for it…”

And this was true, Erasmus knew. The men were smiling; their quarrels forgotten, their bad humor gone. Was it so bad, what they’d done? He’d been unable to sleep himself, bored and cabin-sick below, and up here where the air was fresher and no one was fighting it was amazingly pleasant. He lifted his hands; Ivan’s frozen spots seemed to have thawed without damage.

“Couldn’t we stay a bit longer?” Barton wheedled. “You’re welcome to stay with us.”

He knew he shouldn’t; he knew he ought to order them below, or discipline them, or at least not condone what they were doing by his presence. But he felt as if he’d stepped outside time for a minute, as if all the pressures of the last few months had dropped away. He sat; he took the offered teacup. He listened without comment as the men mocked Zeke and his plans for sledge trips, and he told himself that by doing so he was letting them blow off steam. He felt warmer after the teacup passed his way. Ned sat beside him and spread a buffalo robe over both of them, so that his legs warmed and his face radiated against the cool air. Barton passed around some pemmican — where had he gotten this? It was hidden in the storehouse, deep in a cask, only for use on sledge trips — and Erasmus chewed dreamily.