Trapped in Ice (13 page)

I eased myself along the wall. As I turned the corner I stopped. The door to Captain Bartlett's room was open. The glow from the lamps in his cabin spilled out into the hall, making it even brighter. I couldn't get to my cabin without passing right by his open door.

I had to think. I could just go back out to the ice and no one would be any wiser. It was foolish to even be here. It would be best if I simply left. But then I wouldn't have my diary, and all my thoughts and memories would be gone forever. I'd lost too much already. There was another way. I could go back up on deck, along the length of the ship, in through the forward hatch and double back to my cabin from the opposite direction. That way I wouldn't
have to pass by the Captain's room. As soon as I thought this through, I knew I couldn't do it. I would have to pass right by the open gash in the main hold.

The only other option was to sneak by without being seen. Maybe he wasn't even in his cabin. And even if I was seen, what was the worst thing that could happen to me? I'd get my diary and then he'd escort me off the ship. Having an escort didn't sound bad at all. Of course, the thought that Mother would find out about it didn't bring me any comfort. It was no good. I had to leave, and leave now. I turned and started back out. I pressed myself flat against the wall and inched down the corridor.

“What in God's name!”

I froze in mid-step, with my eyes closed. If I kept my eyes shut tightly enough maybe he wouldn't see me.

“Helen, what are ya doin' on board?” he demanded. Closing my eyes hadn't worked. I turned to face him.

He was standing in the corridor by his cabin door.

“Nothing, sir
...
I mean I was just going to my cabin ... to get my diary ... I forgot it when I packed my things.”

He looked at me long and hard. “Is ya by yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ya sure Michael isn't climbin' up in the riggin'?” “He's having breakfast. With Mother and Mr. Hadley. Mr. Hadley told us everybody had worked all night, taking important things off the ship. When are you taking off your gramophone?”

“I'm not,” he said quietly.

“But you have to!”

“Can't work in the cold of the ice hut and can't take her on any sled. She'll go down with the ship.”

“Is that why you're still here, to listen to your music?” I asked.

“That an' ta read a little more. Never can get too much of the good book,” he said, tapping the open Bible which he held in his hands. “Always strikes me as strange how much more sense it all makes up here. Down south there are always so many people, an' machines, an' inventions, an' buildings, an' things. Gets ta the point where ya can't look any way without seeing somethin' belongin' ta man. An' when all ya see is people an' their products ya start ta think we're just so important, just at the centre of everything. But ya come up here an' soon realize just how small an' insignificant we truly are. On that ice we're just one of God's creatures ... an' our lives can be snatched away with the …” He paused. “Just brings ya closer ta the truth.” He stopped. “It may sound funny but this place has become my home. Do ya miss your home, Helen?”

I nodded.

“What was it like?”

“Michael and I were born in Killington. It's a mining town in the interior, in the mountains.”

“Is it a big place?” Captain Bartlett asked.

“Not very big, at least compared to Vancouver, but it's nice, really nice. The mountains are all around and there are trees and trails and we lived in a house that sits on a beautiful lake and …” I was struck by such a terrible sense of loss I couldn't go on.

“An' your father, was he a miner?”

I nodded.

“Ya must miss it something awful.”

Again the words stuck in my throat and I could only nod.

“Well, when this is all over ya can return ta your home an' this'll be nothin' more than a memory.”

“No, we can never go back,” I blurted out. “The house ... the house isn't ours. It belongs to the mining company. After Father's death they let us stay on but then the mine expanded and they had to put another family there ... it isn't ours to go back to ... we can never return.”

At that instant the music ended. Captain Bartlett disappeared into his cabin and I followed him. He removed the record from the gramophone and set it down gently. He put another record on the turntable and carefully placed the needle on it. Once again the room was filled with music.

“This one we just heard is one of my favourites,” said Captain Bartlett.

I knew it well. It was one of my favourites as well. He held it delicately by the sides so as not to scratch the surface.

“Come on over here, Helen. I'll show ya something ya've probably never seen before.”

He was now standing beside his black, pot-bellied stove, which was radiating warmth. He motioned for me to come closer.

“Goodbye, old friend,” he said quietly, and tossed the record into the open mouth of the stove. In shock I watched as the disc collapsed into a black puddle and then burst into bright flames. The Captain turned to face me and could read the look of disbelief on my face.

“No room ta take 'em. No room for nothin' but food an' fuel.”

“But …” I stammered.

“Thought it best ta put 'em out of their misery. Better ta burn than ta sink ta the bottom of the ocean. Do ya know how deep the water is right below us?”

I shook my head.

“Neither does anybody else. Deepest part of the ocean. The Arctic's abyssal deep. They know for sure it's more than a mile an' a half down. So deep there's no warmth an' no light. So deep that once the ship starts sinkin', it'll keep droppin', farther and farther, for the better part of ten minutes before it reaches the bottom.”

That thought became frozen in my mind ... imagine being aboard the ship as it sank lower and lower and lower ... helpless ... helpless.

Captain Bartlett walked back across the room and took a seat in his favourite chair. Almost immediately Figaro jumped onto his lap.

“Sit,” he said, motioning me to the other chair.

I hesitated before sitting. “Is it safe? Shouldn't we be getting off?”

“Ya should already be off, but don't worry, I'll know when she's goin' down. I've spent my whole life listenin' for the sounds of the ice. I'll know.”

We sat without talking for a while. I tried to concentrate on the music but instead found myself trying to listen for any sounds coming from the ice.

“Is your family religious, Helen?”

“I guess so. We go to church.”

“Church. I was just thinkin' about church. Back in Brigus, that's where I'm from, Brigus, Newfoundland, the church is the centre of everythin'. Weddin's, funerals, baptisms, an' celebrations. I remember, as just a wee lad,
the minister tellin' us all about Heaven an' Hell. Heaven sure seemed like a fine place, but Hell ... all full of fire an' brimstone, an' steam an' flame.” He stopped and looked directly at me. “He was wrong about Hell, you know, dead wrong.”

“You don't believe in it?” I asked hesitantly, shocked by such blasphemy.

“Oh no, I sure as certain do,” he answered. “It's just he was wrong about what's in Hell. It doesn't have any flames. It's freezin' cold. So cold yer body just aches. An' it's filled with drivin' snow so ya can't see your hand before your eyes, an' so lonely, there isn't another soul for ya ta see. It's
...
” He stopped abruptly. “I shouldn't be talkin' like this. Ya don't need ta be scared more than ya is already.”

“I'm not scared ... not that scared,” I answered.

“You're not? I figured ya been scared almost every day since he left.”

“Not really ... at least not every day. I guess I missed him more in the beginning. It gets easier.”

“Most things do. My old gramma used to say ‘time heals all wounds,' and I think she was right.”

“At first I was angry at him. Leaving us all behind. But I realized that it wasn't his fault. He didn't want to go away and leave us.”

“It's good ya aren't blaming him.”

“Well, I did at first. I think it was more than a year before I didn't feel mad at him,” I answered.

Captain Bartlett looked confused. “Helen, is ya talkin' about your father?”

“Of course ... who else would we be talking about …?”
I let the sentence trail off as I realized he meant Mr. Stefansson. I felt so stupid.

“I'm sorry, Helen. That was my fault. I should have said things more clearly, 'stead of beatin' round the bushes. I know how hard it is ta miss your father. My old man died a few years back. I miss talkin' to him and tellin' him what's happenin' in my life. I can only imagine how hard it would be ta still be a child when your father passes over.”

“That's all right ... I'm fine,” I answered.

“I know ya're all right, Helen, but it's all right ta miss him still.”

I nodded in agreement. I felt numb and embarrassed. “I don't even want to talk about Mr. Stefansson!” I stated defiantly.

“Sounds like you're still angry.”

“Why shouldn't I be angry? Everybody on the ship is angry the way he just deserted us. I don't understand why you aren't mad, Captain Bartlett.”

“Me mad?” he questioned. “Being mad at Vilhjalmur for leavin' would make about as much sense as bein' mad at a dog for barkin'.”

“I don't understand.”

“A dog has ta bark. That's just its nature. An' men like Vilhjalmur have ta explore. He didn't travel halfway round the world ta sit on a hunk of ice. He had ta go.”

“But how could he just abandon us and leave us in such danger!” I protested.

“I figure he thought we were safer than the danger he put himself inta. Ya have ta remember men like Stefansson, or Scott or Peary, aren't like most people.

They're born for exploring. Take terrible chances with their lives ta reach new places an' see new things. An' they figure the rest of us are the same. He was just doin' what he figured needed ta be done.”

“But—”

“But, nothing,” he interrupted me. “Bein' angry doesn't help anybody. I was readin' some of the works of Confucius. You ever hear of him?”

I shook my head.

“He lived a long time ago ... over a thousand years ago.

He was a pretty smart old bird. He said bein' angry at somebody was like pickin' up a hot stone from a fire to throw at 'em. Whether ya hit 'em or not, ya still get yourself burned.”

The music stopped again as the needle clicked repeatedly against the centre of the disc. Captain Bartlett picked up Figaro gently and placed him on my lap. He then rose from his chair to change the record. Without warning the ship shifted violently to the side. Figaro and I were thrown from my chair and the Captain fell against the gramophone. I felt my heart leap up into my chest and my eyes opened wide. Before I could say a word the ship pitched back the other way and I started to roll across the cabin. The air was filled with the sounds of crashing and tearing timber.

I felt a hand grab me by the arm and pull me to my feet. “It's time. Straight up and off the ship. Don't stop runnin' till your feet hit the ice.”

 

 

Chapter Seventeen

I
BOUNDED ACROSS THE FLOOR
, crossing the entire width of the cabin in two steps. I stopped at the door and looked back. Captain Bartlett had his back to me. He was bent over, in front of the remains of his record collection. What was he doing?

“Captain!” I called out.

He turned around and his eyes flamed. “Get movin', Helen! Off the ship! NOW!”

“You can't stay here! You've got to get off the ship too!” “Course I do, lass! Ya think I'm fool enough ta go ta the bottom with this old girl? Get movin'. I got things ta do an' you're stoppin' me. Abandon ship. That's an order from your Cap'n!”

I turned and started running up the corridor. It was much darker. One of the lamps had been knocked off the wall and lay smashed on the floor. I could hear rushing water and pictured it flowing in through the gash in the side of the ship and filling the hold. There was a crash. The ship tilted violently to one side and I tumbled against the wall, and then fell to the floor, cushioning the fall with my hands and arms. I scrambled forward on all fours until I bumped my head against the base of the stairs. I pulled myself to my feet.

Wildly I started climbing up the stairs, desperate to escape before it was too late. Then, along with the noise of the crashing timbers and rushing water, came another sound: music. When I reached the top of the stairs, I stopped. I peered back down the open hatch. The music got louder until it overwhelmed all the other sounds. Where was he? Why wasn't he coming?

Again the ship jerked violently and I would have fallen had I not been gripping the railing. I couldn't wait any longer. I raced out onto the deck. I could see people coming out on the ice, alerted by the sounds of the ship. I couldn't make out anybody, buried under parkas and hoods, but knew Mother and Michael would be amongst them. I didn't even want to think what Mother would say to me. I moved quickly along the deck, the music chasing me as I fled.

I reached the stairs and started down. A few people raced around the side of the ship and were waiting below, screaming out encouragement. I stumbled over my feet, almost regained my balance, and then fell face first, rolling down the last half-dozen steps.

“Helen, are ya all right?”

I looked up to see Jonnie standing over me.

“I'm fine,” I mumbled. He helped me to my feet.

“EVERYBODY! GET BACK FROM THE SHIP! GET BACK! THE ICE IS GIVING!” somebody yelled. “Come on, Helen, come on!”

“But Captain Bartlett's still on board!”