Andrea Barrett - Voyage of the Narwhal

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 fallen over Erasmus’s Repository, lighting it as best we can; afar 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 gener- ated almost nine hundred pages of text, much fallen 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 cheeky the plates at each stage, he points out mistakes and calls for cor rections. 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 sneaky the plates and their corre sponding 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 worf(to be recognized. Partly I’m glad no one will ever tyiow 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 thinly 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 ofLavinia’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.