Andrea Barrett - Voyage of the Narwhal

E rasmus held a caribou skin in his lap, scanning it in the dim light until he found one of the telltale scars. He set his thumbnails on either side of the perforation. “Like this?” he asked. Across from him, on another cask, Dr. Boerhaave sat surrounded by the heaps of skins they’d obtained from the Netsilik. Their knees were almost touching; beyond the yellow circle cast by the oil lamp, the rest of the storehouse was dark.

Dr. Boerhaave framed a similar wound with his thumbs. “Richardson did this during Franklin’s expedition to the Barren Grounds. Or so my friend William Greenstone claims. Let’s try.”

They dug in their nails, squeezing inward as if to express pus from a wound. Both were rewarded by the sudden appearance of a fat white grub, the shape and size of a little bean.

Dr. Boerhaave peered at his. “That’s it,” he said. “The third instar of the warble fly.”

“Shall we?” Erasmus said.

“Richardson claimed they tasted like gooseberries.”

They popped the grubs in their mouths. “It’s rather good,” Dr. Boerhaave said, after some tentative chewing. “Fresh-tasting, a little sweet.”

Erasmus swallowed. “The Indians of the Coppermine River eat these?”

“Richardson claimed they treasure them. As we should. After all they are a form of fresh meat. And they saved Richardson and some of the other men from starvation. Really the man is an admirable naturalist.”

Erasmus popped another from its hiding place and ate with more relish. One skin at a time, they searched for the wounds the larvae had bored before settling in for their sleepy winter’s growth. As they worked they talked about other, pleasanter times, hunting larger game. Dr. Boerhaave recalled grouse on the Scottish moors and the seals of Spitzbergen. Erasmus said, “Spearing fish is very nice — I used to do it with my brothers, as a boy.”

“Yes?” Dr. Boerhaave said. “How?”

Erasmus counted his little white treasures: eighteen, nineteen, twenty. “We went early in the spring, just after the ice melts and before the water weeds grow,” he said. “When the fish are crowded together in the shallow warmer water. They’re like us, then — still half-asleep from the winter, slow moving. We’d patch up the seams of our boat, and repair our spears and gather pitch-pine roots, then launch the boat at a small lake near our house.”

He tucked his cold hands inside his fur jacket. “My brother Copernicus made an iron fire crate, which hung out over the water from the bow. On a still evening, very late, we’d light a fire in the crate and push off into the lake.”

He was silent for a moment then, remembering the secret beauties of those nights. Where was Copernicus now?

“The fire lit the water,” he continued. “A circle of light all around the boat, which let us see several feet down. Some of the fish hung with their bellies turned up to us. Others swam the way they do in summer. There were eels, turtles — the fish were so easy to spear that I felt like a criminal. When our fuel burned out we’d paddle home by the stars. A great fish roast for breakfast— what I wouldn’t give for a grilled perch right now!”

Dr. Boerhaave, arranging the grubs on a tin plate, made a wry face. “Fish murderer,” he said. “One of the things that made me want to meet Thoreau was an early essay he wrote about the joys of fish spearing; and then the way he grumbled later about the fate of fishes. Somewhere he talks about fish as if they have souls. About their virtues, and their hard destiny, and the possibilities of a secret fish civilization we don’t appreciate. ‘Who hears the fishes when they cry?’ he wrote. He worries about the strangest things.”

“All these interesting people you know,” Erasmus said.

“Thoreau, Agassiz, Emerson, some of them so famous — did you ever want to be famous yourself?”

Dr. Boerhaave ate another grub. “You mean the way Commander Voorhees does?”

“I…” Erasmus said guiltily. “I guess I do mean that.”

Dr. Boerhaave shook his head. “I don’t think about it. Somehow I always knew I wasn’t cut out for that — I’m lucky, in a way. I never wanted anything more than the chance to do some useful work. It matters to me that I contribute my bit to our knowledge of the natural world. But not that people recognize me. I suppose I was cut out to be a kind of foot soldier — it always seemed like those of us in the background have the time and privacy to get the real work done. What about you?” He smiled fondly. “Do you hunger for glory?”

“I hunger for roast beef,” Erasmus said, returning his friend’s smile. “But glory — I don’t know, I suppose I’m like you. I’d like my work to be admired, but I hate my self to be singled out. Shall we bring in our treats?”

They brought the plate belowdecks, where more than half the men were confined. Scan, picking at his gums, had brought out a chunk of what he thought was old food but which turned out to be his own flesh. Ivan and Robert had both lost teeth and could chew only with difficulty; Mr. Tagliabeau had been seized with biliary colic and Captain Tyler was recovering from a urinary obstruction, which had tortured him until he passed a large stone. Almost everyone suffered from hemorrhoids, which made them bad-tempered; and they were hungry as well as riddled with scurvy.

“We have something good for you,” Dr. Boerhaave announced.

Joe, who was still on his feet, looked at the tin plate. “Oh, good,” he said. “From the hides? I’ve heard about these, I should have thought of this myself.” He took two and passed the plate to Scan and Ivan.

“What are they?” Scan asked.

“It’s not important,” Joe said. “Just eat them.”

“Nothing goes in my mouth without I know what it is,” Scan grumbled. When Dr. Boerhaave finally explained, most of the men refused to touch the grubs. Zeke ate heartily, Joe calmly and steadily; Ned, after some persuasion, also ate a few. Erasmus and Dr. Boerhaave ate the rest and then returned to the storehouse.

“It’s a good idea,” Dr. Boerhaave said. “But useless if we can’t get them into the men who most need them. We could ask Ned to smuggle them into some soup, but cooking will destroy their value.”

They gathered a few more skins and returned to work. “If the ice would just open up enough for the seals,” Erasmus said.

“All the animals will be back before long,” Dr. Boerhaave said. “We just have to hang on a few more weeks.”

But on April 13 Zeke announced that he was done with waiting. “If the Esquimaux won’t come to us,” he said, “we’ll go to them. We must have help hunting. We must have dogs.”

On the table he spread Inglefield’s flawed map of lower Smith Sound; then he abutted his own charts of the Ellesmere coast, up to the point where they were frozen in. “The crossing party will be composed of myself, Dr. Boerhaave, Joe, and Ned.” While Erasmus and Dr. Boerhaave stared at each other, Zeke added, “It’s thirty or forty miles across the Sound to Greenland, and the village the Esquimaux described can’t be far. We’ll take the middle-sized sledge, so we can bring back as much meat as possible. With luck we’ll have dogs to pull it on the return trip.”

“The composition of the traveling party,” Erasmus said. “Surely…”

“I must have Joe,” Zeke said. “For his skill with a rifle, as well as his knowledge of the language. I’d prefer not to leave you without the services of a surgeon, but we’ll be in more danger and so Dr. Boerhaave must come. You’re needed here, as Captain Tyler and Mr. Tagliabeau are both sick.”