Voyage of Ice (9 page)

It was a letter from Elizabeth. Her writing swirled across the page without a splotch of ink anywhere.

I had, in fact, heard this song tinkling from the stern many a time. During the dogwatch, as the men lazed about the windlass, smoking and yarning and sharpening harpoons, I'd hear the piano. The men would grow quiet, listening. Sometimes I'd hear a young voice singing as well, wafting like a breeze through the evening air, sweet and tremulous, and I knew it was Elizabeth.

After sniffing the letter (it smelled of lilacs), I stowed it in my sea chest, planning to burn it in the next trypot fire. I didn't dare write her in return. Jerusalem crickets, she was Thorndike's
daughter
! What if the old man found letters to Elizabeth with my name signed below? He'd boil my oil in the trypots.

Duff passed Elizabeth's letters to me every day after that, each one imploring me to write back. I felt horribly guilty for not doing so and wished she'd stop writing me. I almost dreaded seeing Duff approach. Once I even ran and hid, but he found me. There are only so many places a sailor can hide on a ship while on duty.

Then the letters stopped. One day they were coming as reg-ular as ships' bells; the next day, nothing. I was surprised at my
disappointment when Duff only poured me coffee. What, no let-ter? By the time a cold rainy day in early June rolled round, it had been a week since I'd received a letter, heard her play the piano, or sing. A week! Why had she stopped writing? Didn't she like me anymore? Was she writing to someone else instead? I realized I'd been counting on her letters. They were funny and chatty, and gave me something to do. That afternoon, I reread all her letters and decided maybe I wouldn't burn them after all. Besides, they smelled of lilacs.

We lay to off the coast of Siberia, beset by fogs and snow squalls while the previous winter's ice circled and bumped against the
Sea Hawk
's copper sheathing. Sometimes we heard spouts but couldn't see them, and didn't dare to lower on account of the fog. Other times, when the fog lifted, we saw the sails of some sixty whalers or more. Then, if a whale came along, it was a mad dash to be the first upon it. We had yet to fetch our-selves a whale, though we'd been here three blasted weeks already. And without whale oil bursting our hold, we couldn't go home.

I avoided Thorndike. Not only did I hate him, but one look at me and, certain, he'd know his daughter was writing me let-ters.
Maybe the old man caught her
, I thought as I rowed across the sea, chasing a polar whale.
Maybe he took away her ink and paper and that's why she hasn't written. Maybe he's just biding his time before he tosses me overboard or 'poons me with an iron.

“Mind yourself,” grumbled Briggs from his position as mid-ship oarsman.

I realized my rhythm was off. “Sorry.” Rain streamed off my sou'wester and puddled on my lap. Three polar whales mean-dered slowly to the northeast, and we followed their telltale V-shaped spouts.

Polar whales were fat things, wrapped in a blanket of blubber
so they could stay warm in seas colder than ice. They didn't have teeth, at least not normal teeth. They swam with their mouths open wide enough to admit a horse and carriage, scooping up giant mouthfuls of water. Then they strained the water out through long, hairy, bonelike slats. They swallowed what was left—tiny creatures, each no bigger than a bug. But there were thousands of creatures. Millions. Making for one monstrous gulp.

“Ice off the port bow,” whispered Sweet. “Pull two, boys, pull two. All of ye now, pull with a will. Can't let these other measly excuses for men beat us now, can we? We've got a reputation to uphold, and a nasty one at that. Think of one of them fat oily beasts a-lying in our hold. Think of home, boys. We'll be that much closer.”

I gritted my teeth and pulled hard. My stomach growled. My back ached. Despite my sou'wester and oilskins, I felt damp through.
And what I wouldn't give for a slice of Aunt Agatha's quince pie smothered with hot cream! I wonder what Aunt Agatha's having for supper tonight. Baked beans and codfish chowder? Maybe hot coddled apples. What's Elizabeth eating, I wonder? Iced lemon cake? Pie? Hot biscuits smothered with butter and jam? Roasted chicken falling off the bone? Certain she doesn't eat salt beef and hard bread day after day, with coffee hot enough to scald the devil.

So busy was I with my daydreaming, I didn't notice that the rain had stopped or that the fog had rolled in until it was thick as chowder. I could barely see Dexter sitting one seat in front of me, or Sweet facing us in the stern, scowling through the mist, mut-tering, “Blasted pea soup.” Mist crawled over my face and under my collar, cold as a wet fish. I shivered. Sometimes the fog could stay for days and days.

We stopped rowing and listened for the sound of our ship, calling us back. Three blasts with the foghorn, followed by two rings of the bell and one shot from the pistol. But the fog was
filled with blasts, shots, and rings from dozens of ships, making it impossible to tell which signals were the
Sea Hawk
's.

“Looks like we're stuck here,” said Briggs.

“Not to worry, though, boys,” said Sweet. “We've got all we need to survive for weeks. Captain made sure of that.”

“Weeks!” I croaked.

“Just an expression, just an expression, Bones, don't be get-ting yourself in a flurry of feathers. Soon as the fog lifts, why, we'll spy the
Sea Hawk
right away, mark my words.” With that, Sweet opened the lantern-keg and broke out the hard bread—a square sailor's biscuit baked so hard it could put out an eye.

Though it wasn't a hot buttered biscuit with jam, I wolfed it down, wishing for more.

Dexter moved to sit next to me. After all, we weren't rowing or doing much of anything, so it was all right to move round some. He rubbed his hands together, blew in them, and then pulled on his gloves. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I figure it'll take thirty polar whales and then we can go home.”

Garret answered from his position in the bow. Ever since he'd begun bunking in steerage and doing the duties of a harponeer, the only time we really had together was when we chased whales. “Some ships fetch twenty in a year's time,” he was saying; “oth-ers take a whale a year. Luck of the draw, I reckon. Two ships can hunt side by side. One comes away with her hold busting at the seams; the other ship's empty as a whiskey barrel at an Irish jig.”

“Making excuses, Carrot Sticks?” said Briggs.

“Don't sound to me like excuses,” Irish said, “sounds like rot-ten luck. The
Sea Hawk
's mighty unlucky, if it's me you're asking. Been gone near three-quarters of a year, we have, and we've only three whales to account for. If what ye say is true, lads, it'll be almost five years before we can even start for home.”

I drooped over my oar. “I'd be almost twenty-one years old.”

“If ye live that long,” said Briggs under his breath.

I ignored him. Briggs was always trying to provoke me. I wanted to tell him to mind his own ugly business, but we didn't need a fistfight in the whaleboat. We'd end up in the water and get frozen solid.

“Captain Thorndike don't care how long we're out here,” Briggs continued, his voice a mite whiny, muffled in the fog. “He's got his family along. He's got good food. Not this hard bread and salt beef that would choke a dog. Then, like he's the king of his kingdom, he throws us some rice and bugs once a week like that's good enough for the likes of us.”

“Now, Briggs,” said Sweet, “don't be a-riling folks. Just sim-mer down, or I'll have to dunk ye overboard to cool off.”

“Besides, Briggs,” said Dexter. “Seems like the food was just fine to you until you got demoted.”

“Why, you little—”

“Enough!” hollered Sweet.

The boat settled into silence. Pistol shots and bells and horns still sounded all round us. Irish crossed his arms and settled down as if for a nap. Through the fog I vaguely saw Garret sprawled against the bow, chewing on a toothpick. “I'm just saying,” said Briggs after a while, “I'm hungry all the time. The captain don't feed us near enough.”

“Why don't you go talk to him about it?” asked Dexter.

“What, and get my face smashed again?” Briggs' voice was laced with anger. “I'm tired of it all. The old man has everything he wants, while we do all his dirty work.”

“Captain's got his own troubles,” said Sweet as he lit his pipe. The tobacco glowed orange through the fog.

“Pardon me if I don't feel sorry for him,” said Briggs.

“Fact is,” continued Sweet, “his wife's taken ill. His daughter, too.”

I sat up, my breath catching. “What do you mean?”

“Just heard they had some fever. Cole says they're at death's door.” Sweet coughed out a lungful of smoke. “I always figured women was too weak for the whaling life. Injures their delicate constitutions.”

I lay back, the blood draining from my face.

“Oh, by the way, Bones,” said Sweet, reaching into his coat and pulling out a folded paper. “Duff said to give this to ye. He's been a little under the weather himself. Sorry, but I've had it a few days.”

It was a letter, sealed with red wax, stamped with a curli-cued
E.

I took it from Sweet, turned away from Dexter, and opened it. The handwriting was scrawling, shaky, ink splotches here and there.

Hands trembling, I looked up, aware that everyone was staring at me, expecting me to say something.

I stowed the letter in my coat pocket and looked away. Blood pounded in my ears.

Dexter whispered, “Don't even think it.”

I ignored him, staring out into the fog, thinking,
Soon as I get aboard the
Sea Hawk,
I'll go see Elizabeth. Thorndike can go to hell.

The next day, when the fog lifted, we returned to the
Sea Hawk.

A whale was alongside, caught by one of the other three whaleboats. As I stepped aboard, commands fell fast and furi-ous. Men ran here, then there. Heavy chains clanked and rattled across a deck coated with oil and blood.

Thorndike stood by the gangway talking with Cole.

It was a perfect opportunity to slip below.

With a quick glance round, down the companionway I crept. At the bottom was a small door. Hands sweaty, I unlatched the door and peered into the captain's cabin, half expecting Mrs. Thorndike to be standing there ready to scream. But the cabin was empty. I stepped inside and shut the door.

The cabin was a far cry from the fo'c'sle: whitewashed, low-ceilinged, with a red velvet settee, a captain's desk, a stove, and a piano. Doors led off from the cabin. I figured Elizabeth would be in one of the two port cabins.

But which one?

Taking a deep breath, I opened the forward door an inch and put my eye to the crack. The cabin was small, no bigger than my closet in New Bedford. Whitewashed like the main cabin, it con-tained a dresser, a closet, a washstand, and a single bed. Elizabeth lay sleeping, her cat curled at the foot of the bed. Strewn across her pillow and plastered in wet strands against her face, her hair looked caught in a tempest. I heard the pant of her breath.

As quiet as I could, I opened the door wider to step inside. Suddenly, my heart dropped to my brogans, for I heard the tromp of heavy footsteps on the companionway.
Blood and thun-der! Someone's coming!

aster than I've ever moved before, I dashed into Elizabeth's room, opened her closet, and squeezed inside, banging my knee and bumping my head. I pulled the closet door shut just as I heard someone enter the captain's cabin. There was the sound of papers rustling. A grunt. Heavy footsteps again. Then I heard the creak of a door being opened.