Voyage of Ice (2 page)

Three months later, my father left to hunt whales again, aboard the
Africa.
I waved good-bye, sobbing, thinking I would be eight or maybe even nine years old before I saw him next. Each morning after, no sooner did my eyes pop open than I raced to the cupola and peered through the spyglass, the carved tooth beside me on the windowsill, vowing to watch every day until he returned. Every day I imagined him poised in the bow of his whaleboat, battling the sperm whale, thrusting his lance until the great beast lay still. A mighty hunter. My father.

But not all my life was spent in the cupola. No indeed. Aunt Agatha wouldn't stand for it any more than she'd stand for dirty ears or picking your nose at the table. “You'll turn pale as a worm,” she said. “Boys are meant to be boys. Run along now. Scat.”

So, month after month, come afternoon, Dexter and I would meander to the waterfront and sneak aboard the ships with our school friends. Aloft in the ratlines we scrambled, out on the yards, lazy as you please. Or we'd climb way, way up to the masthead lookout station. Whenever we spied the telltale spout, we'd holler,
“There she blo-o-o-ows!”
The sailors gave us treats. The mates told
us to get down. The captains said, “Come back in a few years, boys. I'll make ye rich as Midas and greasy as a hog.” And they clapped us on our backs and sent us on our way.

Dexter could climb higher than anyone, knew his knots and all the right cuss words. I was real proud of him. “That's my brother,” I said to the sailors one day. “He knows all the right cuss words.” The sailors winked at each other and nodded serious-like. Then they taught me a few cuss words Dexter didn't know yet.

That evening when Aunt Agatha told me to set the table for supper, I tried out one of my new cuss words on her. Judging by the soapsuds foaming out of my mouth for the next day or so, it was a right nasty word. Certain, I'd make a fine sailor someday. Then, after I was a sailor, a whaling captain.

Tall, smiling, and smelling of the wind.

The summer day stretched before us like freedom. We lay atop a rock, Dexter and I, sunning ourselves. We'd spent the afternoon here on Palmer's Island, running and hiding among the old cedars and craggy rocks. First we'd played Indians, then pirates. Now we played lizards.

A fly buzzed round my face and I blinked slow-like. I chewed on a stalk of grass. “Where do you suppose he is now?”

“Who?”

“Father.” I glanced at Dexter. A stalk of grass poked out of the side of his mouth. Summer streaked his sandy hair. A few freckles were sprinkled across his nose like cinnamon.

He shrugged. “I dunno. Somewheres.”

“When do you suppose he's coming home?”

“I dunno.”

“Do you miss him?”

He shrugged again. “I expect.”

I propped myself up on one elbow, wondering if lizards did the same. “I'm going to be a whaling captain when I grow up, just like Father.”

“Me too.”

A warm breeze wafted over me and I lay back down. The sky stretched blue from one end of the horizon to the other. I imagined being aboard a ship, lying on the deck and staring at the sky. And after I finished staring at the sky, I'd stare at the sea. No matter where I stared, there'd be nothing but blue. “We'll be on the same ship.”

“There's only one captain allowed on a ship.”

I frowned. There must be a way we could be on the ship at the same time. “Then we'll take turns being captain.”

An easy smile played across Dexter's face. “Aye. But I'll be first.” He sat up suddenly. “C'mon. This is boring. Let's play captains.”

First Dexter played Captain Nye, who got his leg chewed off by a sperm whale but killed the whale anyways. Then I played Captain Coffin, who gave all the sailors a raise and a treat because they caught a whale, but who afterward bravely went down with his ship.

The sun was sinking. The sky burned orange. I was in the middle of drowning when I saw something lying under a tree. Something alive. I hurried over and gathered it up. “What did you find?” Dexter asked from behind me, panting because he'd been drowning too.

“A baby bird.” It was pink and featherless, and its purplish eyes were still closed. I saw its heart beating beneath the skin.

“Put it down. It's hopeless.”

I stroked it with my little finger. “But it hasn't even lived its life yet.”

Dexter peered into the tree overhead. “Must've fallen from
its nest. C'mon, Nick, put it down. It'll make a fine meal for something.”

A lump like cold, day-old porridge formed in my throat. Dexter was always bossing me around. I tried to keep my chin from quivering. “But we can't let it die.”

“All things die, Nick.”

“I can feed it milk. And a worm, maybe.”

He sighed, shrugged. “Fine. Suit yourself. But don't come crying to me when Aunt Agatha busts your hide for bringing it in the house.”

I rushed to the rowboat. The hatchling was warm in my hands, and all the way back I whispered to it while Dexter rowed the boat and rolled his eyes.

At home, I didn't tell Aunt Agatha but hurried to the cupola. For two days I kept the bird alive, but it finally died as Dexter said it would. I held the cold, stiff body, thinking maybe it wasn't really dead yet, but Dexter snatched it from me and buried it in a hole in the yard. “It's over,” he said, dry-eyed and looking disgusted.

I bawled my eyes out. Couldn't help it. I visited the little grave for weeks, until it was overgrown and I could no longer see where it used to be.

Two years, four months, and twenty-six days after our father left, a man came to our house. Tall and unsmiling he was, and dressed in black. He stood on the doorstep crushing his wide-brimmed hat in his hands until Aunt Agatha invited him in for a cup of tea and a biscuit or two. He sat in the parlor and put his hat on his knee. The clock ticked on the mantel. In the distance, I heard the clop-clop of horses' hooves and the crunch of wheels.

While Aunt Agatha went to fetch tea and biscuits, Dexter sat
beside me on the piano bench. Together we studied the man. “Maybe he's from school,” Dexter whispered, accidentally plunking the piano with his elbow. “Maybe they're holding you back a year because you're stupid and still can't read.”

“Maybe he has news of Father. Maybe he knows when Father will be home and how many barrels of oil the
Africa
has taken. Thousands, maybe.”

“Or maybe he's here to ask for Aunt Agatha's hand in marriage. Maybe they're …
lovers.
”

Aunt Agatha? Married? What a ridiculous thought! As ridiculous as kissing a girl and pretending you liked it. We stifled our smiles and sat up straight when Aunt Agatha entered the room carrying a tray.

Just then, the stranger spoke. His voice fell into the silence like a rock dropped into a still pond. It about stopped my heart. “Perhaps 'twould be better if the boys left the room.”

Aunt Agatha blinked, and I could have sworn she paled. Then the lines on her face turned hard. She set the tray on a table. “Dexter, Nicholas, go to the cupola. I'll fetch ye when 'tis time.”

At first we didn't budge, but when she said, “Go now,” in her special voice that meant
You'd better behave or I'll give ye a taste of switch pie
, we both hurried out of the room, closing the door behind us. Halfway up the stairs, Dexter stopped. “Let's listen anyways.”

We pressed our ears to the door. I could hear the thump of my heart, Dexter breathing beside me, his eyes wide.

The man was speaking. I caught snatches of his conversation. “… the
Africa
… Captain Robbins … God rest his soul … lost at sea … a bull whale gone mad … dashed to pieces …”

I didn't wait to hear more. Without a word, I fled. Out the door, down the hill, my lungs bursting, past the wharves to the
shore. I collapsed on the riverbank. Then the tears came. Flowing into the grass, into the soil.

After a while, I rolled over, my face to the sky. Dexter was beside me. I didn't know how long he'd been there. “Don't cry, Nick,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don't cry.” But he lay down too and we stared at the sky for a long, long time.

ix and a half years later, on a brisk October morning in 1851 when the wind gusted through the trees and the leaves swirled to the ground, Dexter and I became whalemen.

I buttoned my pea jacket tight, snugged my cap down, shoved my hands in my pockets, and walked the sailor walk, jaunty and swaggering. I strolled along next to Dexter, taller than him by half a head. Ship after ship, wharf after wharf, seeming miles, reeking of oil and the sea. The air resounded with the bang of hammers, the boom of coopers' mallets, and the rasp of grindstones. Oxcarts rumbled over the wharves. Mountains of casks covered the docks.

“Looking to be whalemen?” A recruiter sat behind a table, pen in hand, smiling. Gold teeth glinted.

I glanced at the ship behind him. She looked right shabby, her timbers worn. She needed new paint and fresh canvas. “Thanks, but no,” said Dexter. We turned away.

“Young men like you ought to make fine harponeers. 'Tis an easy life. 'Twill make ye a fortune.”

“No, thank you,” we said together, walking on.

“She may look shabby, but she's seaworthy,” the man hollered after us. “Been afloat for eighty year now. Couldn't sink her with a hundred cannon. And the captain's a generous, kindly man. Ask anybody. Pays top dollar for men like you. 'Tis the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Probably crawling with bugs,” I said as we kept walking. Rotch's Wharf, Central Wharf, Taber's Wharf. All the recruiters calling at us to join them. It was fun, and I swelled with importance.

Suddenly, Dexter stopped as if he'd hit a wall. He stared goggle-eyed at a ship, and I swear I saw drool drip from his lip. “She's the one I've been dreaming about all these years, Nick. She's a beauty.”

Aye, she was a beauty, all right. Three-masted, bark-rigged, with fresh black paint and shiny new copper sheathing, the
Sea Hawk
of New Bedford looked right sharp and ready to sail.

“Sign here, young fellows, don't just stand a-gawking,” said the
Sea Hawk'
s recruiter, holding out his pen for us. The recruiter was large, blubbery, as if he'd had a few too many roly-poly puddings. “Sign here for the time of your lives. Whaling will make ye rich. You'll never have to work again.”

“Does it have bugs?” I asked.

“Not a one. Clean as an angel's sheets. Cap'n Thorndike wouldn't have it any other way.”

“Good. I hate bugs.”

With a swagger Dexter grabbed the pen and signed his name.

“My brother Nick here's fifteen today.” He straightened and patted his coat pocket. “Our aunt signed a letter of permission. Said we both had to wait until Nick turned fifteen, and today's the day. Said we had to go together or not at all. Says I've got to take care of him, me being the older brother and all.”

“Ah!” The recruiter turned his gaze to me. “'Tis your good fortune to meet with the
Sea Hawk
on your birthday, lad. 'Twill bring ye good greasy luck.” He held out the pen. “Go ahead, then. Sign on the line there.

“Well, then, ah—Nicholas and Dexter Robbins,” said the recruiter, peering at the contract we'd just signed, “let's have your letter of permission. Makes things easier all round.”

“Our father was a whaling captain,” I said as Dexter handed him the letter. “He started whaling when he was sixteen. He was killed by a whale, though. Dashed his boat to pieces. We're going to be whaling captains just like him.”

“That so? That so? Ain't that interesting now.” Scarcely glancing at the letter, he set it aside, heaved himself to his feet, and held out his hand. “Looks like everything's in fine order. Welcome aboard the
Sea Hawk
, lads. She sails in the morning.”

We shook his hand, neither of us able to stop grinning. By fire, we were going a-whaling!

The
Sea Hawk
was away, courses and headsails filled with the stiff autumn breeze. Down the Acushnet River, past Palmer's Island, and through Buzzards Bay we sailed.

The mates barked orders. Men sprang to obey. Someone cursed at me and told me to steer clear. Another laughed, saying, “Green as seaweed, he is.” I felt myself blush, wishing that I was already an old salt, but knowing I was just like the other greenies—easy to spot in stiff new dungarees. All day the mates kept us greenies hopping, ordering us high atop the yards to reef the
sails, hollering whenever they needed someone to yank a rope. I was good at yanking ropes. Dexer too. We grinned at each other across many a rope.