Afterlands (6 page)

I wondered if perhaps the
Polaris
had foundered in the night, as I could see nothing of her.

On my return, I told the crew—who were up but had not yet seen to the boats—that we must reach the shore. They thought so too, but seemed very inert, and in no hurry; they were “tired” and “hungry” and “wet” (though I think they could not have been more tired than I, who had been walking the floe all night while they slept); they had had, it is true, nothing to eat since three o’clock the day before, and so they concluded they must get a meal first. Nothing could induce them to hurry; while I, all impatience to try and get the boats off, had to wait their leisure. I might have got off myself, but I knew in that case, if the
Polaris
did not come and pick them up, they would all perish in a few days. So I waited. Not satisfied to eat what was at hand, they must even set about cooking. They built a fire of some broken gaff-poles which they had found in the whale-boat. They had nothing to cook in but a few flat tin pans, in which they tried to fry some of the tinned meat, and also tried to make coffee and chocolate. Then some insisted on changing their clothes. At last I got started about 9
A
.
M
.; but, as I feared, the leads were now closing, and further I feared a change of wind which would make it impossible to reach shore.

The piece of ice we were on was now caught fast between heavy ice-bergs which had grounded, and we were therefore stationary. The wind had hauled to the north-east. I had no means of taking the true bearings, but it was down quartering across the land, and it was bringing the loose ice down fast. But though it seemed to be too late, still I determined to try. At last we got the boats off, carrying every thing we could, and intending to come back for what was left; yet when we got half-way to the shore, the loose ice, which I had seen coming, crowded on our bows so that we could not get through, and we had to turn back and haul up on our floe.

Within minutes we saw the
Polaris
, and I was rejoiced indeed, for I thought assistance was at hand. She came around a point above us, eight or ten miles distant. Yet she did not make for us. Thinking, perhaps, that she did not know in which direction to look—though the set of the ice must have told which way it would drift (and the small ice, though it had stopped us, would not stop a ship)—I set up my flag, and laid a square of India-rubber cloth on the side of a hummock. Then, with the spy-glass, I watched her. She was under both steam and sail, so I went to work securing every thing, thinking she would soon come. I could not see any body on deck; they, if there, were not in sight. She kept along down by the land, and then, instead of steering toward us, dropped away behind what I suppose was Littleton Island. Our signal was dark, and would surely be seen at that distance on a white ice-floe. I do not know what to make of this.

I sent some of the men to the other side to keep a look-out there, and in going across they saw the
Polaris
behind the island, and so came back and reported; they said she was “tied up.” I did not know what to think of it; but I took my spy-glass, and running to a point where they said I could see her, sure enough there she was,
tied up—
at least, all her sails were furled, and there was no smoke from her stack, and she was lying head to the wind.

And now our piece of ice, which had become stationary, commenced drifting; and I did not feel right about the vessel not coming for us. I began to think she did not mean to. I could not think she was disabled, because we had so recently seen her steaming; so I told the men we
must
get the boats to the other side of the floe, and try and reach the land—perhaps lower down than the vessel was—so that we might eventually reach her. I told them to prepare the boats. We would leave all of our supplies behind, taking only a little provision—enough to last perhaps two or three days.

I told the men that, while they were preparing, I would run across the ice and see if there was an opportunity to take the water, or where was the best place, so that they would not have to haul the boats uselessly. I ran across as quick as I could. I was very tired, for I had eaten nothing but some biscuit and a drink of blood-soup; but I saw there was an opportunity to get through, and that seemed to renew my strength. The small ice did not now appear to be coming in fast enough to prevent our getting across. But it is astonishing how rapidly the ice can close together, and I knew we were liable to be frozen up at any moment; so I hurried back to the boats and told them “we must start immediately.”

There was a great deal of murmuring—the men did not seem to realize the crisis at all. They seemed to think more of saving their clothes than their lives. They said they feared we would be crushed by the small ice. But I seemed to see the whole winter before me. Either, I thought, the
Polaris
is disabled and can not come for us, or else, God knows why, Captain Budington don’t mean to help us; and then there flashed through my mind the remembrance of various scenes and experiences aboard in which his indifference had nearly cost me my life, and those of the crew. But I believed he thought too much of little Punnie, Hannah, and Joe to leave us to our fate. Then the thought came to me, what shall I do with all these people, if God means we are to shift for ourselves, without vessel, shelter, or sufficient food, through the dark winter? I knew that sometime the ice would break into small pieces—too small to live upon. From the disposition which some of the men had already shown, I knew it would be very difficult to make them do what was needful for their own safety. Then there were all those children, and the two women.

It seemed to me then that if we did not manage to get back to the ship, it was scarcely possible but that many, if not all of us, would perish before winter was over; and yet, while all these visions were going through my brain, these men, whose lives I was trying to save, stood muttering and grumbling because I did not want the boats overloaded to get through the pack-ice. They insisted on carrying every thing. They were under no discipline—they had been under none since Captain Hall’s death. Anthing and Kruger were especially stubborn on this point. The men loaded one boat full with all sorts of things, much of it really trash, but which they would carry. We were going to drag the boat across the floe to where we could take the water. I went on, and told the Esquimaux to follow me across. I had not gone more than two hundred yards before a fresh gale burst upon me. I nevertheless persevered and got across the ice, and when I got to the lead of water saw that the natives had not followed! Whether they thought too much of their property, or whether they were afraid of the storm, I do not know; but the coloured cook, Jackson,
had
followed me, and when he saw that they had not come he ran back for them.

The men, finally arriving with the boat they had dragged over so overloaded, now quibbled about getting in. I would have shoved off as long as I had the strength to do it; but when I looked for the oars, there were but three, and there was
no rudder!
I had told them to prepare the boat while I was gone; I had told them to see that all was right, including sails; but in truth they did not wish to leave the floe, and that probably accounts for it. I am afraid we shall all have to suffer much from their obstinacy. Perhaps we would not have reached either land or ship, but it was certainly worth trying. Why they prefer to stay on this floe I can not imagine; but to start with only three oars and no rudder, the wind blowing furiously, and no good, earnest help, was useless. I tried it, but the men were unwilling; and in the crippled condition of the boat it was no wonder that we were blown back like a feather. I was compelled to haul the boat back on to the ice. The men by this time were, I think, truly exhausted, and I could not blame them so much for not working with more energy.

Night was coming on; our day was lost, and our opportunity with it. We must prepare for another night on the ice.

We had to leave the boat where she was; we were all too tired to attempt to drag her back. We also left in her the clothing and other things the men had been so anxious to save in the morning. I went back toward the middle of the floe, and put up a little canvas tent, and then, eating a little frozen meat and ship-biscuit, I was glad enough to creep in, pull a musk-ox skin over me and get a little rest, drifting in the darkness I knew not where; for I had had no rest since the night before we parted with the ship. Now the ice-floe proved a refreshing bed, where I slept soundly until morning, when I was suddenly awakened by hearing a loud cry from the natives, and the barking of the dogs.

It had snowed during the night; but that was nothing.
The ice had broken!
—separating us from the boat which we had left, being unable to haul it the night before. Our cache of six large bags of biscuit remained with it on the old floe, and we were left on a very small piece of ice—the thick part where we had made our extemporized lodgings. As soon as I saw the position of affairs, I called the men out, desiring them to go for the boat and bread. It could have been done with safety, for there was no rough sea running between the broken pieces, and they had not separated much at the time; but I could not move them—they were afraid. (I noted that Hannah also by this point seemed quite unhappy with the men; I believe she has been so for some time.)

And so we drift, having but one boat on our piece of ice, while the other boat, and a good part of what provisions we have, remains on the main part of the broken floe. We drift apparently to the southwest, for I have neither compass nor chronometer with me; my compass is in that other boat, and even my watch is on board of the
Polaris
. Our piece of ice is perhaps one hundred and fifty yards across each way. Quite a heavy sea is running; piece after piece is broken from our “raft.” God grant we may have enough left to stand upon!

Tukulito is melting snow in one of the big Schuyler Pemmican tins over the fat lamp, constantly checking the wick, adding more snow, stirring and now scooping in hunks of half-frozen pemmican from the tin Jackson has just opened. The walls of the snow cookhut are yellow with lamplight, damp and soft with the heat. Toward mealtimes everyone crowds into the cookhut. It’s the warmest spot, of course, but also everyone wants to keep an eye on the food.

The bread now, please, Mr Jackson.

I suppose you mean this here wormy tack.

In pieces the size of playing cards, please.

He pushes his forage cap back on his head, where it rides lightly on a froth of curls.

This one here went along on Sherman’s march, I wager. And I bet they wouldn’t of et it then either.

Grimacing with the strain Jackson starts hand-breaking slabs of ship’s biscuit to stir into the stew. On the
Polaris
he was in charge of the galley, and Tukulito was an unofficial assistant, but since their stranding on the ice, with no discussion and no fuss, they have exchanged roles. Sea ice is a constantly shifting extension of the Esquimau homeland; this is Tukulito’s ancestral kitchen, as Jackson himself seems to realize.

God damn it half to blind, he cries, flinging down a chunk of biscuit. It’s like cracking a god damn ox bone by hand, and for spoiled marrow.

He reaches for his cleaver.

Mr Jackson, Tukulito says with her soft English accent, I ask you again please not to swear so. The children often hear.

Well, but it ain’t even their language!

It is mine, sir, by adoption. Hers as well.

Punnie is on the snow-bench poking eiderdown into Elisapee, her scowling doll, and sewing up the tear in its belly, her face bent close to the tip of the needle. She doesn’t look up. For a moment Jackson stares at Tukulito. In his ginger-coloured face his green eyes are fixed hard; his mouth, fringed with a wisp of beard, is sullenly slack. At last he starts chuckling. Well, I am sorry, Mrs Ebierbing. I know I keep telling you this same sorry, then I keep saying them words again.

You are better than most on the ship.

What
ship?
says Anthing in his thin, breathy tenor. He’s playing euchre, teamed with Jamka against Herron and Kruger, all the men stripped to grimy drawers and heavy, high-necked sweaters. Tukulito’s impression of Anthing is always of a large pair of bloodshot eyes bulging under pressure, as if meaning to pop out at you. They give him a constantly indignant look. He has a snub nose in a broad pink face, curly blond whiskers, a head of wiry curls. A lower front tooth is missing, adding to the impression of a cranky, bearded boy.

She thinks we are still on a Gott damned ship, Anthing goes on, as if Tukulito’s slip of the tongue, with its reminder of where they are not, makes her somehow blamable for where they are.
She thinks
comes out as
She sinks
.

Spiel weiter
, says Kruger. Just let her alone.

Never disturb a working cook, Herron adds lightly, yet with hunger edging his voice. What’s trump again?

Pik!
says Anthing. The spades. You know this.

Jackson pauses, cleaver upraised over the stubborn biscuit. On this here chunk of ice, he says, with all this other ice around, I reckon we’re safer than on any ship. Like can’t hurt like, not so easily.

The bread, please, Mr Jackson.

Not to say
we’re
all like here, are we, lads? says Herron.

Jackson brings the cleaver slamming down. The biscuit shatters with a fearsome crack. Everyone looks over, startle-eyed, except for Punnie, who goes on stitching with grave concentration, and Anthing, who could well be deaf, all sense-energies funnelled through those great, globular eyes that go on searching his cards. A boy’s impatience, but also a boy’s intense competitive focus.

After a moment Kruger lays the jack of spades on the snow.

Hah, lads! cries Herron, snapping down two more cards with a grin. You’re considerably euchred!

Herron, raised in Liverpool, a recent emigrant, is the only crew member who is liked by everyone, even by those who dislike each other, and so like an axletree he has helped to hold together the spokes of this varied wheel, so far. Though still in his twenties he’s as florid and portly as a middle-aged squire. Though never drunk or profane—he’s a Quaker and teetotaller—he always seems to be in a state of mild, comradely intoxication. He’s one of those who give kind words and compliments not out of strategy, but simply for the pleasure of spreading contentment. One of life’s natural harmonizers. His good cheer compels belief, seeming to defy fate to do its worst; as if fate, thinks Kruger, ever needs an invitation.