The North Water

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

For four days and nights, Brownlee lies insensible on his cot, open-eyed but barely breathing. The left side of his face is blackened and misshapen. His eye is swelled shut. Unknown liquids ooze out of his ear; high on his forehead where the skin is split apart the bone is palely visible. Sumner thinks it unlikely that he will live, and, if he does live, impossible that his mind will ever fully recover. He knows from experience that the human brain cannot tolerate such contusions. Once the skull is breached, the situation is almost hopeless, the vulnerability is too immense. He has seen such injuries on the battlefield, from saber and shrapnel, rifle butts and the hooves of horses — unconsciousness is followed by catatonia; occasionally they shout out like lunatics, or weep like children — something inside them (their soul? their character?) has been scrambled, reversed. They have lost their bearings. It is generally better, he thinks, if they die rather than go on inhabiting the twilit half-world of the mad.

Cavendish has a badly broken nose and has lost several of his front teeth, but is otherwise unaltered. After a brief period on his back sipping bouillon soup from a serving spoon and taking opium against the pain, he rises and resumes his duties. On a gloomy morning with clouds clagging the horizon and the scent of rain hovering in the air, he gathers the men on the foredeck and explains that he is taking command of the Volunteer until Brownlee recovers. Henry Drax, he assures them, will certainly hang back in England for his murderous and mutinous acts but for now he is firmly chained in the hold, rendered incapable of mischief, and he will play no further part in the voyage.

“You may ask yourself how such a fiend came to move amongst us, but I have no good answer to that,” he says. “He bamboozled me as much as he did any man. I’ve known some deviant and malignant fuckers in my time, but none, I confess, a patch on Henry Drax. If the good Mr. Black here had chosen to put that other shotgun barrel in his chest when he had the opportunity, I for one would not be mourning over much, but, as it is, he is caged below like the beast he is and will not see the daylight till we land again in Hull.”

Amongst the crew, the sense of amazement as to what had occurred in Brownlee’s cabin is soon replaced by a general certainty that the voyage itself is cursed. They remember the gruesome stories of the Percival, of men dying, going mad, drinking their own blood for sustenance, and ask themselves why they were ever foolish or ill-advised enough to sign on for a ship commanded by a man so notable for his fearsome ill luck. Even though the ship is less than a quarter full of blubber, they would like nothing better now than to turn round and sail directly home. They fear that worse is yet to come, and they would rather reach home with empty pockets but still breathing than end up sunk forever below the Baffin ice.

According to Black and Otto, who do not try to keep their opinions to themselves, it is too late in the season to be in these waters — the majority of whales have swum farther south by now, and the farther north they stray as the summer recedes, the greater the risk of ice. It was Brownlee’s own particular idiosyncrasy, they say, to set them on this northerly course in the first place, but now that he is no longer in command, the most sensible action is to return to Pond’s Bay with the rest of the fleet. Cavendish, however, takes no account of either the superstitions of the crew or the suggestions of the other officers. They continue moving northwards in the company of the Hastings. Twice they see whales in the distance and lower for them but without success. When they reach the entrance to Lancaster Sound, Cavendish lowers a boat and has himself rowed across to the Hastings to confer with Campbell. On his return, he announces over dinner in the mess that they will enter the sound as soon as a suitable passage opens up in the ice.

Black stops his eating and stares at him.

“No man has ever caught a whale this far north in August,” he says. “Read the records if you doubt me. We’re wasting our time here at best, and if we enter the sound we’re putting ourselves at risk also.”

“A man don’t profit unless he takes a little risk from time to time,” Cavendish says lightly. “You should show more boldness, Mr. Black.”

“It is foolishness, not boldness, to enter Lancaster Sound this late in the season,” Black says. “Why Brownlee took us north again I can’t say, but I know if he were here, even he would not consider taking us into the sound.”

“What Brownlee would or wouldn’t do is moot, I’d say, since he can’t speak or even raise his hand to wipe his arse. And since I’m the one in command now, not you or him”—he nods at Otto—“I guess what I say goes.”

“This voyage is marked with enough calamity already. Do you really want to add yet more to the total?”

“Let me tell you something about myself,” Cavendish says, leaning in a little and lowering his voice. “Unlike some, perhaps, I don’t come whaling for fresh air or for the fine sea views. I don’t even come for the pleasing company of men like you and Otto here. I come whaling to get my money, and I will get my money any way I can. If your opinions came in gold with the Queen’s head stamped upon ’em I might pay them a little mind, but since they don’t, you won’t be too offended, I hope, if I take no fucking notice of them at all.”

When Brownlee dies two days later, they dress him in his velvet morning coat, stitch him into a stiff canvas shroud, and carry the body on a pine plank to the stern rail. Drizzle is falling, the sea is the color of boot polish, and the sky is wadded with cloud. The crew sing “Rock of Ages” and “Nearer My God to Thee,” and Cavendish leads them all in an off-kilter version of the Lord’s Prayer. The voices of the mourners as they sing and pray are low and reluctant. Although they mistrusted Brownlee by the end, believing him unlucky, the nature of his death is a blow to the general confidence. That Drax, who they thought was reliable, even admirable, is actually a murderer and a sodomite, and McKendrick, who they thought was a murderer and a sodomite, is actually an innocent victim of Drax’s godless machinations, has created amongst the men of the forecastle feelings of perplexity and self-doubt. Such unlikely reversals make them uneasy and fitful. Their world is hard and raw enough, they think, without the added burden of moral convolution.

As the men disperse, Otto appears by Sumner’s side. He touches the surgeon’s elbow and leads him forwards until they are standing by the bowsprit looking out at the dark sea, the low gray cloud, and, in the middle distance, separated from the Volunteer by several loose floes of ice, the Hastings. Otto’s expression is somber and gravid. Sumner senses he has news to impart.

“Cavendish will kill us all,” the harpooner whispers. “I’ve seen it pass.”

“You’re allowing Brownlee’s death to depress your spirits,” Sumner says. “Give Cavendish a little time, and if we see no whales in the sound, we’ll be in Pond’s Bay again before you know it.”

“You will survive, but you will be the only one. The rest of us will drown or starve or perish of the cold.”

“Nonsense. Why would you say such things? How can you possibly know?”

“A dream,” he says. “Last night.”

Sumner shakes his head.

“Dreams are just a way to clear the mind; they’re a form of purging. What you dream is whatever’s left over and can’t be used. A dream is nothing but a mental shite pile, a rag and bone shop of ideas. There is no truth in them, no prophecy.”

“You will be killed by a bear — when the rest of us are already dead,” Otto says. “Eaten, swallowed up somehow.”

”After what’s happened here, your fears are understandable,” Sumner says. “But don’t confuse them with our destiny. All that’s behind us now. We’re safe.”

“Drax is still alive and breathing.”

“He is down in the hold chained to the mainmast, bound hand and foot. He cannot escape. Set your mind at rest.”

“The corporal body is just one way of moving through the world. It’s the spirit which truly lives.”

“You think a man like Henry Drax has any spirit worthy of the name?”

Otto nods. He looks, as he usually does, serious, eager, and faintly surprised by the nature of the world around him.

“I’ve encountered his spirit,” he says. “Met with it in other realms. Sometimes it takes the form of a dark angel, sometimes a Barbary ape.”

“You are a good fellow, Otto, but what you are saying is folly,” Sumner tells him. “We’re not in danger anymore. Set your mind at ease and forget the fucking dream.”

* * *

During the night they enter Lancaster Sound. There is open water stretching to the south of them, but to the north a granular and monotone landscape of ice boulders and melt pools, sculpted smooth by wind in places but elsewhere cragged, roughened, and heaved upright into sharp-edged moguls by the alternations of the seasons and the dynamisms of temperature and tide. Sumner rises early and, as has become his habit, gathers a bucket of rinds, crusts, and scourings from the galley. He takes a large metal spoon and, crouching by the bear cub’s cask, prods a portion of the cold and grease-bound mass between the grille-work. The bear sniffs, gobbles, then bites down fiercely on the empty spoon. Sumner, after twisting the spoon free, feeds him another portion. When the bear has emptied the bucket, Sumner refills it with fresh water and allows him to drink. He then heaves the cask upright, detaches the metal grille and, with a careful quickness born of practice and several previous near calamities, slips a loop of rope around the bear’s neck and pulls it taut. He lowers the cask and allows the bear to dash forwards and across the deck, its black claws scarifying the wooden planking. Sumner secures the end of the leash to a nearby cleat and swills out the cask with seawater, chasing the accumulated bear shit out through the forechannels with a broom.

The bear, high-rumped and grimy-yellow at its haunches, growls, then settles itself against the lip of a hatchway. It is watched at a distance by the ship’s dog, Katie, a bow-hipped Airedale. Every day for weeks now, dog and bear have rehearsed a similar pantomime of wariness and curiosity, closeness and retreat. The men enjoy this daily spectacle. They egg them on, shout encouragements, jab them forwards with boots and boat hooks. The Airedale is smaller but much lighter on her feet. She dashes forwards, stiffens a moment, then wheels away again, yelping with excitement. Probing and grandly tentative, the bear swaggers after her, its wedge-shaped head, tipped with blackness like a burned match, gauging the air. The dog is all eagerness and fear, all trembling alertness; the bear, stolid, earth-bound, heavy-limbed, feet like frying pans, moves as though the air itself is a barrier that must be slowly pushed through. They close to within a foot of each other, nose to nose, black eyes locked in ancient and wordless convocation. “I’ll have thruppence on the bear,” someone hollers. The cook, leaning on the lintel of the galley door, amused, tosses a chunk of bacon between them. Bear and dog together lunge for it, collide. The Airedale, bunched up and squealing, spins across the deck like a top. The bear gobbles the bacon and looks about for more. Men laugh. Sumner, who has been leaning on the mainmast, straightens, unwraps the leash from its cleat, and prods the bear back towards the freshened cask with the bristle end of the broom. The bear, realizing what is happening, refuses for a moment, bares its teeth, and then accedes. Sumner pulls the cask upright, refastens the grille, and lays it back down on the deck.

All day the wind blows steadily from the south. The sky above is pale blue, but on the far horizon, dark clouds are racked in slender lines above the mountaintops. In the late afternoon, they spy a whale a mile off the port bow and lower two boats. The boats pull quickly away, and the Volunteer follows after them. Cavendish watches proceedings from the quarterdeck. He is wearing Brownlee’s snuff-colored greatcoat and carrying his long brass spyglass. Now and then, he calls out a command. Sumner can see that he is taking a childish pleasure in his new authority. When the boats reach the whale they realize that it is dead already and has begun to bloat. They signal for the ship to come closer and then tow it across. Black is commanding the first boat, and he and Cavendish have a shouted conversation about the state of the carcass. Despite the signs of rot and depredation, they decide that there is still sufficient blubber left to make it worth their while to flense it.

They attach the decomposing body of the whale to the ship’s gunwales, where it dangles like a vast and wholly rotten vegetable. Its tar-black skin is flaccid and intermittently abscessed; pale and cankerous growths mottle its fins and tail. The men who are cutting in wear dampened neckerchiefs across their faces and puff strong tobacco against the stench. The blocks of blubber they slice and peel away are miscolored and gelatinous — much more brown than pink. Swung up onto the deck, they drip not blood, as usual, but some foul straw-colored coagulation like the unspeakable rectal oozings of a human corpse. Cavendish strides about shouting instructions and generalized encouragement. Above him seabirds gather, wheeling and cacophonous, in the noisome air, while below in the grease-stained water, drawn in by the mixed aromas of blood and decay, Greenland sharks gnaw and tug at the whale’s loose kiltings.

“Give them sharks a knock or two on the bonce,” Cavendish shouts down to Jones-the-whale. “Don’t want them swallowing our profits now, do we?”

Jones nods, takes a fresh blubber spade from the malemauk boat, waits for one of the sharks to come close enough, and then stabs at it, opening up a foot-long gash in its side. A loose-knit garland of entrails, pink, red, and purple, slurps immediately from the wound. The injured shark thrashes for a moment, then bends backwards and starts urgently gobbling its own insides.

“Christ, those sharks are fucking beasts,” Cavendish says.

Jones finally kills it with a second spade-blow to the brain, then kills another one the same quick way. The two gray-green bodies, blunt and archaic, pumping out cloudy trails of blood, are further savaged before they sink by the attentions of a third and smaller animal, who leaves them gnawed and ragged as apple cores, then slips away before Black can dispatch him also.

When the flensing is half completed, they sever the whale’s enormous lower lip and raise it onto the deck, exposing one side of the head bone. Otto, like a woodsman attacking a fallen oak, sets to the bone with an ax and a handspike. It is almost two feet thick and elegantly beaded at the extremities like a skirting board. When both sides of the bone are severed, they attach the bone-geer, crack off the upper jaw in one complete piece, and maneuver it carefully with block and tackle so it hangs tentlike above the deck with the black strips of baleen drooping from it like bristles of a gigantic mustache. The baleen is then detached from the jaw with spades and separated into smaller sections for stowing. What remains of the upper jawbone is stowed in the hold.

“By Christmas, the bones of this dead and gruesome stinker will be nestling in the delicately perfumed corsets of some as yet unfucked lovely dancing the Gay Gordons in a ballroom on the Strand. That’s a thought to fairly make your head spin, is it not, Mr. Black?” Cavendish says.

“Behind every piece of sweet-smelling female loveliness lies a world of stench and doggery,” Black agrees. “He’s a lucky man who can forget that’s true or pretend it isn’t.”

After another hour, the job is all but done, and the bloated and filthy-smelling krang is cut free. They watch it drift away amongst a shrieking cloud of gulls and petrels. Balanced on the rim of the western horizon, the narrow arctic sun glows and fades like a breathed-on ember.

Sumner sleeps easily that night and in the morning rises again to feed the bear. When the slops bucket is empty, he lassoes a rope about the bear’s neck and secures the rope end while he rinses out the cask. Although the wind is freshening and the deck has been washed clean, there is a lingering smell of decay from yesterday’s flensing. Instead of settling down as usual, the bear paces back and forth and sniffs the air. When the dog approaches him, he wheels away, and when she nudges him gently he growls. The dog wanders off awhile, lingers at the galley door, and then returns. She wags her tail and steps closer. They stand for a moment watching each other, then the bear pulls back, stiffens, raises its right front paw, and in one fluid downward movement rakes its fossil claws along the dog’s shoulder blade, ripping open the sinew and muscle to the bone and dislocating the shoulder joint. A watching crewman whoops and cheers. The dog screams abominably and skitters sideways, spraying out blood onto the deck. The bear lunges forwards, but Sumner grabs the rope leash and pulls it back. The Airedale is squealing, and blood is pumping out from its open wound. The blacksmith, watching on from his forge, selects a heavy hammer from the rack, walks over to where the dog is lying, trembling and pissing itself in a pool of blood, and strikes it once, hard, between the ears. The squealing stops.

“You want I should kill the bear too?” the blacksmith asks. “I’ll do it happily enough.”

Sumner shakes his head.

“It’s not my bear to kill,” he says.

The blacksmith shrugs.

“You’re the one as feeds it every day, so I’d say it’s yours as much as anyone’s.”

Sumner looks down at the bear still straining at its rope end, still gasping and growling and scratching at the deck in a primitive and implacable fury.

“We’ll let the vicious fucker be,” he says.