Liberty (6 page)

When Santiago worked late downstairs in the map shop—which was more often than she liked—and she had nothing to do, Penelope rolled out map after map onto their bed and studied the fantastic, grotesque, hideously beautiful creatures. They were all drawn differently, except the coils; they all had coils, long snake-like coils. All these extra maps took extra money. Especially if she wanted to keep her collection a secret from Santiago, who thought it foolish.

One day in early January, a sleety rain started in the early morning, coating everything with a half inch of ice; by evening, the storm whipped into a blinding snow. When it stopped at midnight, the ice was hidden beneath a six inch layer of snow, a deceptive blanket which smoothed out bumps and holes. Those few who ventured out the next day blundered across treacherous roads. No one worked that day, but after two more nights of hard freezes, Evelyn, the poodle, sent word that the icemen should report the next morning. Penelope decided to give it a try; if she could do the heavy work of a stevedore, then she could be an iceman.

P
enelope rose
while it was still dark and dressed for the cold. She put on dungarees, then oilcloth dungarees over that. The stevedores warned her that cutting ice was wet, as well as cold, work. She added three shirts, then buttoned on her wool pea coat and jammed a black tarpaulin hat over her ears. She trotted carefully through the dark, silent streets. It was an hour before dawn when she met up with the other stevedores at the Charles River Bridge and climbed onto sleds pulled by roan Belgian draft horses.

“How far?” Penelope asked the lead horse.

His hooves were almost hidden beneath shaggy dark hair, or feathering, on his lower legs. Belgians usually didn't have such feathering, so he must have a Clydesdale or Shire mother. He was a huge young stallion who wore blinders to keep him looking straight, so he wouldn't get distracted from the job. He had to turn his head almost all the way around to look at Penelope. “Two miles to Fresh Pond. They say the ice is fourteen inches thick.”  His voice was deep and strong, and the words made white puffs in the frigid air. “It'll be a hard day's work, but the Ice King pays well.”

“As long as you don't get cross winds of him,” said the horse behind him. From their looks, Penelope guessed the second stallion was the young one's father. He was probably harnessed second to steady the young one's high spirits and keep him working hard.

By the time they were out of town, the sun glittered on ice-encrusted tree limbs. It was a hard, brittle world, where things snapped easily. Everywhere, broken limbs littered the ground. Here and there, entire trees were toppled and uprooted from the weight of ice.

Halfway to Fresh Pond, a sleigh passed them. Six black horses pulled it, so it went at a fast clip, bells jangling in the clear air.  It passed so quickly, Penelope couldn't see the passengers. When they arrived at the Pond, the sleigh was already there. Dawn was streaking the eastern sky with soft shades of lilac.

A large wooden table sat on a sliver of land that jutted out toward the frozen pond. Covered with a linen tablecloth trimmed in lace, the table was full of covered silver dishes. A polar bear seated himself in the only chair.

At Penelope's questioning gaze, the young stallion whickered softly, “The Ice King, Captain Kingsley. And Frenchie, his first mate.”

Captain Kingsley was a massive polar bear, yellow-white fur gleaming against the carved chair. He wore a vest, but little else; his own natural fur was warmer than any clothing he might try to wear. One eye was covered with a black patch, but the other eye was a dull black that absorbed all light.

He was attended by an Emperor Penguin who sported a French beret. He was large as far as penguins go, but next to Captain Kingsley, he was dwarfed. His belly was white; his back, black. The only color was the orangish-yellow on the sides of his head and an orange streak down his pointed beak. Even when his head drooped like a flower too heavy for its stalk, the penguin still looked like he was standing at attention.

He removed the cover of a silver bowl and offered the boiled potatoes, turnips and carrots for Captain Kingsley's inspection. The polar bear nodded, and Frenchie piled vegetables onto Captain Kingsley's plate. This was followed by three fat grilled trout. Using the finest of silverware, Captain Kingsley ate.

Now Penelope noticed a porcupine poking at pots and pans over a roaring fire. The scent of cinnamon apples made her stomach growl. She had grabbed only a crust of bread before coming out—obviously, a mistake.

Captain Kingsley ate for fifteen minutes, devouring everything placed in front of him. He remained oblivious to his surroundings, despite a bustle of noise as the workers sorted themselves into experienced and inexperienced icemen. Finally, Captain Kingsley pushed back his china. He stretched, his arms reaching toward the glittery trees; his paws alone were as large as Penelope's head. He yawned. His mouth was spacious enough to swallow a piglet whole.

Penelope shivered in the pale winter morning. She had feared—or admired—the choice of words didn't matter, they were almost the same emotion—Farmer MacDonald because he controlled everything on the farm. She had feared the hound's long, yellow teeth. She had feared where the red wagon might take her. She had feared the shepherd dogs that almost prevented their crossing to Liberty. But the polar bears' easy, supple movements made her acutely aware of his strength; she learned admiration—and fear—anew.

The polar bear finally stood and became the Ice King, hard and brittle. Penelope realized he did everything with complete concentration. While he had picnicked, the ice operation hadn't existed; he was a polar bear enjoying a good breakfast on a frigid day. Now, he was the Ice King, the head of a vast operation that provided ice year-round to far-flung places. Many had thought his scheme of selling ice to the tropics was mad; he had fought against all naysayers and created a thriving trade in frozen water. And there was ice to harvest.

“No mistakes this morning,” the Ice King bellowed. “We need 300 tons of ice for each brig we send out, and I'm increasing the fleet this year.”

He motioned to a short woman to step forward. “This is Captain Brice. She'll take charge of the
Hallowe'en
, the newest ship of our fleet. She's here to observe the ice cutting operation.”

A stevedore next to Penelope said, “She's never lost a crewman to storms or dangers or carelessness. Never.”

Penelope nodded. “I've heard.” Maybe it didn't matter so much that Captain Brice was stingy with her pay; a perfect safety record was indeed rare.

Captain Brice wore her curly hair short, tucked up under her captain's hat. She said nothing but nodded easily to the icemen. A few nodded back, but mostly they didn't care who took care of the ice once it was packed into the icehouses.

Captain Kingsley called, “Let's get busy. We have five icehouses to fill before the weather changes.”

Frenchie said, “Sydney, Calcutta, Bombay, Rio de Janeiro—zey all want ice from zee Fresh Pond. No other ice will do.”

Captain Brice disappeared in the crowd again, but Penelope realized Captain Kingsley's introduction essentially gave Captain Brice permission to wander all over the pond to observe operations.

Under Captain Kingsley's one-eyed stare, the workers scattered to start the tedious process: scraping snow from the ice, marking out eighteen inch blocks and then sawing with one or two-man ice saws.

Penelope tucked a huge snow shovel under her arms and scraped snow, exposing clear, solid ice. It was easy work for an hour, tedious for the second hour and exhausting for the third. She didn't get to rest until after the fourth impossible hour, when they had a short break for lunch of hot thick stew and bitter coffee. The icemen crowded around the bonfire and ate greedily.  One bowl barely filled her empty stomach, so, fortunately, there was plenty for seconds and thirds. While she ate, Penelope thought enviously of Santiago huddled over a table and drawing maps with a hot water bottle to keep his hooves warm. She was ready to be at sea, not doing a landlubber's job.

Penelope finally quieted her stomach's grumblings, then dropped her bowl in the cauldron of hot water to be washed. She wandered toward the Pond, looking at the two sleds piled with ice columns, 50 foot long by 18 inches wide. After lunch, the horses would start the long pull back toward town; the remaining sleds would be loaded before nightfall. At the icehouses, the columns would be split into 18-inch cubes before they were packed in pine straw.

The pond had dark slashes of open water. Carefully, Penelope stepped onto the ice and walked out a dozen feet. She leaned over and peered at the stark reflections of bare trees.

Crack! Penelope jerked upright. She was standing on the outer strip of ice, and now she saw it had been partially cut away from the main ice mass. Carefully, she stepped backward. Crack! The sharp report made everyone on shore turn toward her.

“No!” The Ice King bellowed. “Get off there!”

Before Penelope could take another step, the ice split away raggedly, breaking where it hadn't yet been sawed. It floated free. Penelope waved her forelegs, trying to maintain her balance, but with water splashing over it, the ice was suddenly slippery. She slipped easily, silently, into the dark water.

Cold. The wool pea coat was heavy, waterlogged, pulling Penelope deeper. She struggled to unbutton it, but her hooves couldn't work it. She kicked upward, but the coat dragged her down.

Did sailors know how to swim? Why had she never learned?

Cold. Her thinking was already slower from the cold, somehow she knew that. But it was the hat that concerned her the most. Sailors wore black tarpaulin hats, canvas hats that were soaked with tar to make them waterproof. But her hat was lost in the dark swirling water.

Cold. She needed to breathe. Sailors breathed air, not water. Kick. Kick. Above was a brighter area, where the ice had been taken out. The oilcloth shirts under the pea coat felt crinkly as she struggled toward the light.

A dark shape covered the light.

Cold. Massive paws shoved under her forelegs and hauled her upward. Tossed her onto the main ice mass. Penelope looked up into Captain Kingsley's eyes.

His eye patch had been torn away in his dive to save her, and she saw it had covered a sightless black eye that was twisted to always look upward. His other black eye studied her with fury. “Foolish pig! What were you doing so close to the edge?”

Then, the porcupine cook was there to strip off her clothes, and three stevedores carried her to a pallet beside the roaring fire. Penelope saw Captain Kingsley shake like a dog and realized he was almost dry already.  But she was still cold, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

A few minutes later, she heard jangling. She was picked up again and laid across the front seat of a sleigh.

The porcupine threw warm blankets over her, and then placed hot water bottles around her. He tut-tutted and spoke to himself: “The boss hates it when this happens. Blames himself. He'll be mad for a week.”

Wearily, she thought that he must have done this before—he was prepared. Captain Kingsley climbed into the back seat and watched her, as the horses raced toward town. Apparently, like Captain Brice, Kingsley was proud of his record of never losing a sailor—or iceman.

She woke in her own bed over Cricket's house. Later, Santiago told her Captain Kingsley had brought her home and carried her upstairs himself and tucked her into bed.

“You worried me,” Santiago murmured. He held another spoonful of vegetable broth to Penelope's mouth. She let the warmth spread through her, then slept.

Santiago was there each time Penelope opened her eyes. Toward evening, Penelope woke from yet another nap, and this time, she was hungry. She ate three boiled potatoes.

Quietly, Santiago said, “You scared me.”

She studied his face. The white forehead blaze was wrinkled with worry, and the rest of his face looked even blacker than usual. “We've been too busy lately.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And we'll likely get busy again, so that we don't have time to talk. Once we start to sail, we'll have very little private time, you know. But underneath everything I do, you are there.”

About his emotions, Santiago was a pig of few words, so these words touched Penelope. “I understand. We need training and experience, and during this time, our jobs may take us different directions. But when we buy our own boat, our partnership will be stronger because of the different things we're learning now.”

“I'm glad you understand.” He touched her hoof and sighed. “Don't scare me again.”

“I'll be more careful,” Penelope promised.

And they talked and talked, all night, as they hadn't done since those early days back in the pig's sty.

After two days of rest, Penelope regained her strength. She keenly felt the debt she owed to Captain Kingsley; she had to find a way to repay his kindness. What would please him? The whole experience left her with a cold commitment to Captain Kingsley. On the third day after the accident, she reported back to work for the Ice King.

This time she was more cautious and soon learned every job in the ice operations.  She worked her way up to a sawyer of ice within a month. It was good money, but she also enjoyed watching the Ice King work. In many ways, Captain Kingsley was like Cricket, even though their bodies were opposite: both were superb at managing their businesses.

The other stevedores disliked Captain Kingsley because he drove them hard. Penelope, though, worked willingly, driving herself even harder, in an effort to please the Captain. And he noticed.

When the weather warmed, Penelope crossed the Charles River Bridge to help load the ice brigs at Gray's Wharf. Captain Kingsley remembered her from the ice cutting crew and set her as a foreman of a loading crew. They loaded 300 tons of ice a day, working three or four days straight, packing the ice blocks in pine straw. A third of it would melt on the 70-day journey to Calcutta, India, but profits would still be huge. After all, nature provided the ice free. All they had to do was ship it.

The second week of loading, Penelope was excited to be in charge of loading ice onto the
Hallowe'en
, the newest ship in the fleet. She was a tall, triple master with the sleeker hull design of clipper ships—a beauty! And she was promised to Captain Brice.

Penelope worked her crew hard, and they finished packing the hull tight with ice and pine straw by the end of the third day. She was tired and covered in pine straw, which made her itch and sneeze.

It was already an hour past dusk when they loaded the last ice block.

“Go on. Take off,” she told her crew.

As foreman, it was her job to do a final check of the last layer of pine straw and take care of any problems. Besides, Santiago would be working on his masterpiece map—the one of the whole world showing the currents from Lt. Maury's charts. He wouldn't miss her for another hour or so.