The Voyage of the Dolphin (14 page)

The
Dolphin
limped westwards. There remained just enough coal to keep the galley stove lit for the four or five days McGregor reckoned it would take to reach a suitable port (given a favourable wind), but another setback, it was clear, would test them. The day after the storm, Crozier overheard the skipper and the first mate talking in the wheelhouse. Both were of the opinion they'd survived ‘a shave even closer than Molasses Reef' (whatever that had been). Harris and Doyle had earlier received a severe dressing down for neglect of duty, namely failing to notice the plunging barometer due to their antics with Bridie.

The crew set about patching up what they could, stitching sailcloth, replacing splintered yards, caulking leaky deck seams, but the major repairs would have to wait. Down below, in all the rooms and cabins, every object was out of place, as though they were just parts inside a toy that had been shaken by a rough child.

Fitzmaurice, his iguana, and the ship's dog were confined to quarters on regimens ranging from sweet tea and blankets to full human body contact (though Crozier curtailed the latter after a particularly invasive bout of ear-licking). Fitzmaurice, despite calling petulantly for his pipe (and his bowl and his fiddlers three) on the second day, a sure sign of returning health, was slow to leave his bed, preferring to smoke and write his journal, and have meals and hot drinks brought to him on a tray.

‘Crozier, old man, how many “r”s in “heroic” – one or two?'

‘One.'

‘And “valiant”?'

‘No “r”s in “valiant”.'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘One “l”.'

‘What about “spunky” – “y” or “ie”?'

Crozier was standing at the porthole, which he had opened, ignoring bleats of protest, to alleviate the tobacco fumes (a fresh tin of Balkan Rumpus). An oxygenated breeze wafted off a rifle-green sea. The ship was creaking along at a tentative four knots. He could hear the sound of sawing and the tap of a mallet coming from the wheelhouse; from elsewhere, voices on the breeze. Rafferty? No. He was probably below deck somewhere with Phoebe. Spending more and more time together, it seemed. Hatching plans to save the world.

‘That would be a “y”.'

‘Thanks. Tricky business, this writing lark.'

Crozier glanced over. Fitzmaurice was sitting up in bed, the portion of him not hidden under many blankets encased in a Savage Newell ‘Alaskan Dandy' with the fur-lined hood pulled up. He hadn't shaved for several days and his frizzy beard happened to be the same colour as the fleece in the coat, giving him the look of some peculiar species of bear. He was puffing on his Meerschaum, his pen poised in the other hand, his journal propped up against his knees. Restless light congregated on the wood panelling behind him.

‘So I believe.'

‘Yes, very hard work. Think I'll stop now. Excellent tea, by the way.'

‘You're welcome. Feeling any better?'

‘Slightly. Haven't had a shivering attack for a while but still a bit queer. My toes haven't thawed out completely yet and as for my head…'

‘That's good. I'm sure you'll be up and about in no time.'

‘I dare say. Mustn't rush these things though. I was in a tight spot back there, you know.'

‘You certainly were.' Crozier turned back to his breathing hole. ‘Mind you, we all were.'

‘Yes, but…' Fitzmaurice broke off for a coughing fit that sounded at times not unlike the yelping of a small dog. ‘Yes, but
I
nearly died.'

‘You'll be dead soon enough if you don't stop sucking on that infernal pipe.'

‘What? Nonsense. It's good for the tubes, keeps the airways clear. Not as healthy as cigarettes, mind you, but damned nearly. Ask Rafferty, he's a medical man.'

Crozier snorted. The bird that was dipping on the wind in the middle distance appeared to be a glaucous gull
(Larus hyperboreus)
. Or possibly a glaucous-
winged
gull
(Larus glaucescens)
. He considered fetching his field glasses.

‘Crozier, old man…'

‘Yes?'

‘You know when people die?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is that the end of it, do you think?'

‘Are you asking whether I believe in an afterlife?'

‘Yes.'

‘No, I'm afraid I don't.'

‘Really? Nothing at all?'

‘I can't see it.'

‘Cripes, that's a bit bleak. So, have you given up on God now altogether?'

‘More or less. I think, as Comte says, that humanity should be our only god.'

Fitzmaurice attempted to blow a smoke ring and choked. Out at sea the constant agitation of light on the undulating waves was mesmerising. Crozier felt for a moment outside time.

‘Remind me,' Fitzmaurice said. ‘Your background. Methodist?'

‘Presbyterian.'

‘Ah yes. The chutney-makers, right?'

‘No, that's the Methodists. Presbyterians make little cakes.'

‘And Catholics?'

‘Scones. What about you, did you tell me your people were Quakers?'

‘There's Quakerism somewhere in the family, but my side would be mostly Anglican or Church of Ireland. Don't ask me what we believe in – I never paid much attention -- something to do with the Thirty-Nine Articles I think. Or is it the Forty-Two? Twenty-seven? Not sure. I'm fairly certain we get an afterlife though, if we sing the occasional hymn and don't abuse the poor. Anyway,' he set down his pipe, ‘time for a nap, I think.'

Crozier remained at the window. The gull, he decided, was either an Iceland
(Larus glaucoides)
or a hybrid of some kind, a mongrel. He watched it glide towards the ship, then bank and gain height until it was out of eyeshot. What were they up to, birds? This was something he often asked himself. Most people, he was sure, dismissed them as random, spindrift creatures of little brain (‘bird-brained', in fact) but the more closely he observed them, the more purposeful they seemed: always on the way to some secret rendezvous – a specific tree, a nook beneath the eaves of a barn, the thatched roof of an African hut – not blown willy-nilly by the wind, but in control, harnessing it as a ship does, negotiating currents and channels to important destinations. The homing instinct – now,
there
was a mystery. Magnetism? The stars? More than anything else in the animal kingdom (even the ants), birds were
up to
something
.

He thought of the larks above the bog meadow near his father's house, treading the blue air (if you searched the sky long enough, it felt as though you were falling into it) and putting their joyous, high-voltage song inside your head until you could hear nothing else. He wondered what was happening back at home. He imagined the shockwaves news of their drowning would have sent through a dozen little worlds. He wondered if they would ever see home again.

He secured the porthole and turned to leave. Fitzmaurice was snoring, head tilted back on the pillow, mouth slack. His journal had slipped close to the edge of the bed. Crozier lifted it and took it to the desk where he set it down and, with a quick glance over his shoulder, flipped it open at the latest entry.

Wendesday, 26th of April, 1916

Third
day in sickbay after my heroic actions during the storm
(actually more like some terrible kind of tyfoon or hurrocane
). It was an eventfull night. First I was awakened by
noises on deck and went to find Harris & Doyle up
to no good with my igwana. Poor thing was terrorfied
! I retreeved her and warmed her up with a hot
waterbottle. (She is still sneezing but much better and has
eaten a bisciut.)

While I was tending to her an
extradinairy fight broke out between C & R who have been
quarelsome for some time now – I suspect it has something
to do with Phoebie. Anyway, using my arthority I managed
to sort it out.

Then it was all hands on
deck and an almightey battle with the elements. Due to
my notting skills the captin chose me to repare a
sail while the others kept warm in the engine room
. It was a valiunt effort but soon my braverey was
required elsewhere as the ships' dog appeared and I could
see the captain feared for it's life. Just as
I was about to rescue the poor creeture a huge
wave crashed over. I was soaked, concussed and close to
death but I am nothing if not a spunkey—

 

He closed the book.

That Sunday, running before a strong wind, they sighted land – according to McGregor's calculations, the tip of Cape Farewell — and by sunset the
Dolphin
was anchored in a small bay off a trading post marked on the chart as ‘The Place of Polar Bears' (Lat. 60° 08
ʹ
19
ʺ
N, 45° 14
ʹ
26
ʺ
W). At first light, the ship's launch having been lost to the storm, the bosun signalled to the harbour, and after a time two men rowed out in a longboat and began ferrying them ashore.

‘Do you think there
are
polar bears around here?' Fitzmaurice said.

They were standing on a rocky outcrop on the western side of the port, looking across at the town, a grim configuration of stone houses and rudimentary streets in the shadow of a vast mountain range. Danish flags flew from several of the larger buildings. To the rear, on open ground before the onset of dense pine forest, was a settlement of flat-roofed sod huts where figures clad in silvery seal skin – ‘blubber-munching squawmucks' in McGregor's estimation – were up early and hard at work.

‘More than likely,' Crozier replied. ‘Though I'd say it depends on the time of year, where the ice floes are, and so on.'

‘And what time of year would that be?'

‘Probably around now.'

‘Oh that's just… splendid.'

‘I read somewhere,' Rafferty said, ‘that their first instinct in attack is to claw the top of your head. Often this results in your scalp being ripped off.'

‘Who?'

‘Polar bears. Sometimes, apparently, your whole face comes off.'

They digested this information.

‘That would definitely put you at a disadvantage.'

Behind them, a wooden church was under construction, nearly completed except for parts of the roof and the top of the bell tower. Piles of bricks, tiles, planks and loose timbers lay around. To one side was a small corrugated tin hut, and at that moment the door squeaked open and a bleary face squinted into the morning sun. They waved but the man just yawned, rubbed his eyes and withdrew.

Rafferty turned to Crozier. ‘Nightwatchman?'

‘I suppose so. Though I can't imagine there's much crime. The Danes are known for running a tight ship.'

‘Bloody imperialists.'

‘Speaking of tight ships, is that McGregor?'

At some distance below them a stocky figure was scrambling up the steps from the harbour.

‘Crikey,' Fitzmaurice exclaimed. ‘I've never seen him on dry land before. He looks much shorter than he does at sea.'

‘And twice as ugly.'

‘Don't be cruel,' Phoebe said.

The skipper arrived, moustache flapping, on the mount and lit a Navy Cut. It was a minute or two before he was able to speak.

‘I'll tell yis what,' he wheezed. ‘That's goin' tae be one fit f—ing congregation.'

The others agreed. He surveyed the building site.

‘I'm tae see a wee man about timber for the mast – is he in there?'

He started towards the hut, then swung round and pointed at Rafferty.

‘By the way, the first mate needs an operation on his finger. The doctor's upcountry so you'll have tae do it.'

‘
What?
'

‘Aye, that dirty f—ing lizard has it swole up like a Stornoway black puddin'. I could be wrong but I reckon it'll have tae come off.'

‘Now, wait a minute,' Rafferty began, his eyes bulging against his spectacles. ‘I'm not… that's…'

But the skipper was already away and hammering on the tin door.

‘Don't worry, Frank, we're all behind you,' Phoebe said.

‘Piece of cake.'

‘I'll see if I can get the Magiflex working,' Fitzmaurice called, setting off down the hill.

 

News of Harris's finger spread rapidly. The Place of Polar Bears was a sleepy outpost populated mainly by whaling company workers and their families, and a handful of clerks and smalltime merchants. Apart from the occasional mauling, drama was in short supply. It was decided that the amputation, and there was no way around it given the digit's galloping deterioration, would be performed in the town's social club where the patient would have access to anaesthetic in the form of schnapps (the ship's stock of ether having perished in the tempest), and the surgeon to a stable work surface (the sea that day being choppy). By seven o'clock that evening the venue, a draughty, jerry-built hall within gagging distance of the blubber plant, was at capacity, a dozen deep on all sides, and thrumming with the kind of suppressed excitement that precedes a high-stakes sporting event.

Once he had overcome the compulsion to hide until someone else did the job, Rafferty knuckled down to a couple of hours' study of Henry Gray's
Anatomy: Descriptive
and Surgical
, sharpened the tools from the ship's medical bag, rustled up saline solution and an ice pack, and steadied his nerves with a ration or two of grog. This was to be his profession, after all. More importantly, what would Phoebe think of him if he refused? The way she'd looked at him: she had seen his fear. But she had also seen beyond it. She had faith in him. This gave him strength.

As he and his team entered the hall, pushing their way past the overspill of fifty or more women and children outside, the crowd fell silent. Harris, flanked by McGregor and Doyle, was installed at a long bench at the top of the room, the table littered with evidence of his pre-op preparation. His face in the lamplight had a septicaemic pallor and he eyed both the Magiflex – salvaged from the hot spring incident by the Reykjavik police force – and Rafferty's instrument bag with bleary suspicion.

‘You're early,' McGregor said as they approached. ‘Patient requires another half bottle. At least.'

‘That's fine,' Rafferty replied. ‘I'm really in no hurry.'

‘Will yis join us?'

‘Don't mind if we do,' Crozier and Phoebe said in unison.

They took their places at the table and drinks were poured. The hubbub resumed. Curious onlookers began to accumulate around the Magiflex, which Fitzmaurice was affixing, with the usual grunts of exertion, to its tripod.

‘Well, cheers.' Crozier raised his glass. ‘Here's to a successful operation. Although we should perhaps bear in mind that Rafferty is a
student
of medicine rather than a qualified doctor.'

They drank the harsh spirit. Harris, who was not his usual convivial self, motioned sullenly for a refill.

‘How's the hand now?' Phoebe enquired, and received a baleful stare in reply. The body part in question, resting on a cloth, was twice its normal size and the colour of a pomegranate, the doomed, sausage-like pinkie sticking out at a blunt angle.

‘Serves him f—ing right,' McGregor snorted. ‘Shouldn'ae been messin' with a wild animal in the first place.'

Harris lifted his head as though about to speak, but didn't. Reflexively, Doyle's fingertips sought the bald strip where his eyebrow had once been.

‘Right, big smiles everyone.' Fitzmaurice held the flash tray aloft. ‘Harris, if you could just raise your hand a little...'

The magnesium powder ignited with a crackle, there was a modest explosion (Fitzmaurice had learned his lesson) and every detail of every object and face in the hall was briefly illuminated as though by lightning, eliciting a slaves' chorus of swearing, and universal eye rubbing.

‘Perfect,' Fitzmaurice said, when he himself was able to see again. ‘And we'll take another one afterwards.'

They drank on, McGregor having grossly underestimated Harris's dosage. Later in the evening, whether out of generosity or a desire to accelerate the proceedings, a group of whale flensers at the back of the room sent over a bottle of the super-strength liquor they were allocated on account of the unpleasant nature of their job. This did the trick. Gradually, Harris's head drooped until his chin met his chest, jerking up once, twice, and then remaining there.

With the help of a couple of enthusiastic locals, the table-top was cleared and the comatose Harris laid full stretch. Extra lamps were brought, and Rafferty set out his tools. With a jigger of the flensers' firewater, he sterilised Harris's hand – the patient twitched and gave a faint moan – then wiped down the scalpel and the saw and donned his surgical gloves. Phoebe, wearing a bandage as a face mask, was to assist.

‘Digitus minimus manus
,'
Rafferty muttered to himself, as though incanting a spell.

The crowd craned in.

‘Please,' he said, ‘I must have room to work.'

‘Yis heard what the doctor said,' McGregor shouted. ‘Now f—k off!'

The crowd shrank back. Due to numbers and alcoholic thermogenesis the hall had become oppressively hot. Rafferty probed the tense surface of Harris's mitt with the tip of his knife.

‘It is my opinion that I should sever the finger just below the metacarpophalangeal joint,' he announced.

A knowledgeable murmur travelled around the room (despite the fact that few spoke any English) and the crowd craned in again.

‘I then intend to disarticulate the distal phalanx…'

Head-nodding along the front row.

‘… remove the flail segment of the
proximal
phalanx…'

Chin-cupping and frowning.

‘… thus preserving breadth of palm…'

Renewed head-nodding.

‘…smooth the residual bone using a rongeur and file and, finally, seal the wound with a volar skin flap.'

Some clapping broke out but was quickly glared down by McGregor. Rafferty checked the edge of his blade and leaned in. The crowd shuffled forward a couple of inches. The surgeon took a deep breath and made his first incision, releasing a high-pressure jet of fluid that blinded several onlookers. The crowd sprang back.

‘Should have anticipated that. Nurse, I mean Phoebe, if you wouldn't mind wiping my forehead. And my hair.'

The discharge drained, Rafferty completed the cut around the circumference of Harris's finger and took up the metacarpal saw. The crowd edged closer again.

‘Flexor digitorum profundus,'
he said to himself, then to Phoebe: ‘Could you open the book at page three hundred and sixty-seven please, I need to consult.'

Phoebe took Gray's
Anatomy
from the medical bag, located the page and held it up.

‘Yes, that's what I thought. Now I need you to elevate Harris's hand and keep it very still. That's crucial.'

In the bated silence the motion of the saw made a rasping sound that had every last whale-hacker and seal-clubber in the hall sucking their teeth and dancing on the tips of their toes. It was harder work than Rafferty expected, requiring two perspiration breaks, but finally the saw encountered no further resistance and the finger came free, suddenly and strangely light in his grasp. Elated, he waggled the appendage above his head. A cheer went up. He passed the dripping object to Phoebe who dropped it into a glass. Then he took up the pliers and began to trim the untidy edges of the remaining bone before filing it to a smooth nub.

‘Now,' he mused, threading a length of catgut, ‘what kind of stitch?'

A speculative buzz started up.

‘Blanket?' Phoebe suggested. ‘Or a hemming stitch?'

‘Chain?' McGregor ventured.

‘Actually,' Rafferty said, ‘I missed the stitching class. Phoebe, would you mind doing the honours?'

They switched positions. Phoebe pulled the residual skin flaps together like the mouth of a purse and secured them, her tongue protruding, with a crossed buttonhole stitch that drew many clicks and nods of appreciation.

‘There,' she said. ‘All done.'

Rafferty inspected the stump, gave it a final douse of schnapps, and declared the operation a success. Thunderous applause broke out.

‘Right, everyone in the picture,' Fitzmaurice cried. ‘And
please
… try to keep your eyes open this time.'