Across Frozen Seas (5 page)

It is like we are going through a gate to another world. On the horizon, on both sides of our ships, lie snow-capped peaks sitting atop black, wave-washed cliffs. The air is crystal, the sea calm and dotted with gleaming ice floes. The crew are crowding the masts to catch a glimpse of this new world we have come to explore. Even Neptune seems happy.

We have not had the easy crossing of Baffin Bay that Mister Fitzjames hoped for. The winds and the ice have held us back and for weeks we have had to tack back and forth through the towering icebergs. At the end of July we met with two whaling vessels, the
Prince of Wales
and the
Enterprise.
We anchored to a large iceberg and used the time for celestial observation. Sir John and the other officers exchanged visits and many of the crew shouted messages across as some of the whalers knew each other from earlier voyages to these waters. After several days of pleasant company the
wind changed and we completed our crossing to Lancaster Sound, the beginning of the fabled Northwest Passage. We expect to see no one else until we sail around Alaska. We are now alone: one hundred twenty-nine men, two ships and enough food for at least four years. We are happy now, but how will we feel by the time we reach the other end?

“Well, we're doing it Davy boy!” George is as jubilant as the rest of the crew. “This is a better life than old Marbacks workhouse, eh?”

I nod. It's true; the fresh air, the companionship, the regular food, even double pay for Arctic service….! would not have believed any of this possible only a few months ago. Most importantly, for the first time in six years, I feel like I belong.

The summer I turned six, my parents died. I remember little of them; my mother doing chores, my father sitting in his armchair reading the newspaper. It's evening and my father has just returned from work. He's tired, but he beckons me over to sit on his knee.

“Do you know what today is?” he asks.

“No sir,” I reply, aware only that it must be something special.

“Today,” he continues, “you are six. Quite a young man, so I have brought you a present.”

With that he produces a small package from behind his back. The only presents I remember receiving were small wooden toys and, last Christmas, a carved boat. This is obviously something different.

“Go on, open it,” my mother encourages.

Almost reverently, I unwrap the small box and remove the lid. There, lying on a bed of crushed paper is Jack Tar. He gleams, bright in his freshly-painted uniform. He is turned slightly to the side and holds one hand up to shield the sun from his eyes as he looks off to a distant horizon. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Barely able to say thank you, I slide to the floor and begin the first of many games with him.

Two months later, cholera sweeps through London and both my parents are dead. I am about to begin a different life in institutions and “homes.” Some orphanages are good and some are bad, but none make me feel like I belong the way I did on that long ago birthday. Now, with George and my shipmates beside me, I feel that way again. I put my hand in my pocket and protectively clutch Jack Tar.

“Yes, George,” I reply as he puts his arm over my shoulder, “we have been very lucky.”

“Lucky! Lucky nothing. We
made
it all happen. We ran away. We lived on the streets. We found Sir John. We did it all.”

This is typical of George. His parents abandoned him as a baby and he lived his entire life (except for a period with some charitable ladies who taught him to read and write) either on the streets or in the workhouse. Since we first met, over two years ago, he has been the leader and always planned our escapes.

The numbing drudgery of the workhouse was often no worse than the empty-bellied freedom of living on the streets. Marback's was the worst place of
all. It was there that George came up with the idea of joining the Navy. So here we are. I belong again and I am the one who is shielding his eyes to look at the wonders of a strange world.

The only source of discontent in my life at the moment is moving towards us. Abraham Seeley is a brute. He is a large, rough man with a straggly beard and a receding hairline. His teeth are brown and decayed and he always has a long clay pipe full of the foulest smelling tobacco clenched between them. A north country whaler like so many of the crew, Seeley seems to take pleasure in bullying anyone weaker than himself. I just catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye before his thick, hairy hand slaps the back of my head and sets my ears ringing.

“What are you two lazy louts doing here staring into space? There's work to be done below. Get to it.”

“We're just watching the mountains,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.

“Talk back to me, will you? I'll teach you manners, you street urchin.”

One of Seeley's huge hands grabs the back of my collar, the other holds George. Almost lifting us off our feet, he turns towards the hatch-cover. I know a beating is coming. Bitterly, I regret giving Seeley the excuse he was looking for.

A figure moves forward and blocks our way. The man is taller than Seeley, almost six feet, and he wears the uniform of the Royal Marine soldiers who are present on every Navy ship. Both his height and his
manner give the impression that he can handle himself in trouble. He has a curly beard and black hair which has receded to show an ugly-looking scar running across his forehead.

“Leave them boys alone, Seeley,” his voice is quiet but firm. Seeley hesitates.

“There's work to be done and they talked back. I was just going to teach them a lesson.”

“There's no work needs doing right now.” The soldier doesn't move an inch. “Let them be.”

Seeley hesitates as if contemplating a response. Then, with a mumbled curse, he lets us go, pushes us harshly to the deck, and slouches off. The tall man helps us up.

“You boys keep clear of that one,” he says. “Seeley's trouble.” He stops talking and coughs harshly into a grubby handkerchief. Recovering quickly, he continues, “If he bothers you again, come and tell me. My name's Bill Braine.”

With that he turns and pushes his way across the crowded deck. George and I return to the rail. My ears are still ringing, but at least we escaped a beating and are still in the fresh air, not below in the damp darkness and clutter of supplies, surrounded by the smell of cramped bodies and the scuttering rats.

“One dark night,” says George quietly as we look out over the scattered, glittering ice floes, “that devil will find himself over the side in the freezing water.” This is some consolation, but it is just bravado. This is Seeley's world and not the London streets; it is going to
be a long voyage with him as our enemy.

Just then we hear a hoarse, panicked shout. “Look out below!”

Instinctively, we turn and look up. One of the sailors at the top of the mainmast has slipped. He is suspended by one hand from a sail rope as his companions scatter out of the way below. With horrible fascination we watch as he hangs thirty feet above the hard deck, shouting for help. Another sailor is inching his way along the spar. He is almost there, reaching out a hand, but he is too late. With a last cry of terror, the sailor loses his grip and falls.

For a moment no one moves, then everyone rushes forward. The ships surgeon, Stanley, is close by and pushes through to crouch over the still form. After a brief examination he rises and shakes his head.

“Carry him below,” he orders a group of men. “There is nothing we can do for him now but sew a shroud.”

As the limp bundle disappears, the mood of the ship changes. Men clamber down from the masts in silence and go about their chores. Our first casualty has sobered us all.

I turn to go back below and feel Neptune brushing against my leg. He too has sensed the change. He seems to have taken to me and accompanies me at my duties whenever possible.

“Hello, old boy,” I say softly, scratching his ear. “Let us hope that is the worst of our misfortune.”

I am lying in a hammock, swinging gently to the rhythm of the ship. It is hot and stuffy and dark. The smell of unwashed bodies and burnt oil from the lamps is almost overpowering. My hammock is in a row of others, hung so closely together that we almost touch when we swing with the roll of the ship. Any space on the floor is stacked with crates of supplies and equipment, making it almost impossible to navigate in the darkness. And it is always dark between the decks. The only fresh air comes from the small hatch at the top of the ladder leading up to the deck, and it is usually kept closed. The only light comes from the foul-smelling hanging lamps. They smoke and sputter, but give little more than a dull glow.

The heat is unbearable. It is supplied through a system of pipes which run from our steam boiler. It is nice not to freeze, but the alternative is to suffocate and to suffer the continual drip of condensation from the walls and deck above. The warmth also encourages the rats which swarm over everything, eating anything they can get their teeth into: shoes, socks, furs. Periodically we must evacuate to allow a foul mixture of sulphur and arsenic to be burned to drive them off and kill them. It does make a difference for a while, but soon they are back as plentiful as before.

In spite of the other inconveniences, my hammock is comfortable. I have learned how to relax into its shape. I have even mastered the art of holding the stub of a candle in one hand and a book in the other. In this way I have been devouring the ship's library. My reading
skills have improved to the point that I no longer need George's help or the lessons which the officers are giving those of the crew who wish to improve themselves.

I have finished reading now. Apart from the snores and grunts of a lot of men sleeping close together and the creaking of the ship's timbers as she pushes on, it is quiet. I am just thinking how strange all this is when I hear a voice close to my ear.

“Don't you ever talk back to me again,” it threatens.

I don't even have a chance to turn before I am falling. I crash onto the pile of supplies on the deck below. My left arm painfully catches the corner of a crate and I cry out. All of a sudden there is a confusion of noise: shouts, curses, and yells.

From above George's voice calls, “Davy, what just happened?”

The end of my hammock is hanging free in the dim light before me. It has been neatly sliced through with a sharp knife.

“Someone cut through my hammock,” I call back. I know who, but I will not say with all these men listening.

“Then sleep on the deck and shut up,” a voice calls out of the darkness.

Carefully cradling my sore arm, I crawl into the most comfortable spot I can find among the crates and try to ignore the rustling of the rats close to my ear.

As things settle down again, I feel a warm shape nestling in beside me.

“Neptune,” I whisper, “I guess I'll be sharing
your
bed tonight.” Together we drift off into an uneasy sleep.

The dreams were coming thick and fast now and I was losing the distinction between that world and my own. A tremendous gap was developing between my days and nights. During my waking hours I went through the motions of my “real” life. I didn't really care what happened. I was continually getting into trouble at school for not paying attention, not to mention my falling grades and incomplete assignments. In hockey I was spending a lot of time sitting on the bench because I was missing passes and shooting the puck as if the entire end zone were the goal. The only place where no one seemed to notice my preoccupation was at home. Mom and Dad were so wrapped up in their own problems that they didn't seem to notice me. But they did hear me.

One night while we were having dinner, I was thinking about the hammock dream I had had the night before.

“What?” asked my Dad, breaking the silence. He sounded puzzled. I must have looked confused because he continued, “You just said, ‘I'll be sharing your bed tonight.' What did you mean? Whose bed?”

Slowly it dawned on me that what I had said to Neptune in the dream I had said out loud while I was remembering it.

“Nothing,” I said hurriedly. “It was just a dream I had last night. I was remembering it and must have spoken out loud.”

My Dad looked unconvinced and I was afraid he was going to ask me more about the dream. It wasn't that I was consciously keeping the dreams a secret, but to tell the truth I would have to tell the whole story and I didn't want to do that, at least not then. Fortunately, Mom spoke first.

“What's the matter with your arm dear?” she said in a worried tone. It was only then that I realized that I was rubbing my arm where I had struck the crate when my hammock was cut.

“It's nothing,” I repeated. “I just banged it at school today.”

That seemed to satisfy them and we lapsed back into silence. But the incident worried me. The dreams were becoming too real. My arm was not sore where I had hit it in the dream but, like talking out loud without noticing, my massaging it seemed to suggest that my dreams were beginning to impose themselves on my daily waking life. Maybe they were not just a story my mind was making up while I slept. Maybe
there was something suspicious about them.