The Surfacing by Cormac James Read Free Book Online Page A

half-heard
word now felt some little barb. He would not be easy, he knew, until they entered
the ice again.
    It’s still the middle of the summer, Brooks told him.
    The solstice was six weeks ago, Morgan said. In a month it’ll be September. He was
tracking the calendar, counting the days. September, he said, as though that would
settle the argument once and for all. It did not. It was only a word. It was still
bright, close to midnight. Men were sleeping up on deck. All the evidence was against
him, and it was pointless trying to explain. Nonetheless, they were too late. That
was the simple fact. Even if the passage went fairly well, it had been a lost race
from the start, having to return to Disko, leaving again late in July. This far north,
the doors did not stay open long.
    26th July
    He did a round of the ship after breakfast, to distribute the letters from Parker’s
postbag. He handed each one over and quickly moved along. It was a poor life had
sent most of them out, he knew, and precious little promise in it anywhere, no matter
how hard a man looked, to tempt himself back.
    He found Banes on deck, trying to tempt the cat with a frayed bit of rope. But Banes
refused to take the thing. He needed Morgan to read it out.
    Would you not prefer to go below? Morgan said.
    I don’t care who hears, Banes said. It’s not me had the writing of it.
    It was a single sheet. Morgan tore it open and folded it out. He began to read it
aloud. First the formalities. Then: Well I bet you will be surprised to hear that
Anna Lennon is married. She married James Dempsey the schoolmaster last month in
Cork. They had a good day out. Everyone here was surprised at the news. I expect
you will be surprised yourself.
    Who was she? Morgan asked, wondering was the news proof or reprieve.
    A girl I knew, Banes said. I know the fellow too, fairly well.
    Another of his conquests, many and varied, DeHaven jibed. Leaving other men to clean
up his mess after him. Isn’t that it, Dan?
    That’s it exactly, sir.
    They had been ready for days. They were only waiting now for the word from above.
Above, the canvas was slapping joylessly against the masts. The wind from the south
was failing, that till now had held The Pack in place. Already the ice seemed a little
looser. Tomorrow morning very likely they would begin to bore.
    Myer was studying the whalers through the glass. One by one, he noted their names
in his book. What it was proof of, Morgan did not know. After a time Morgan himself
stood out at the bow and studied the land. At the far end of the glass, he saw another
life and another age. The houses were all sod, walls and roof. He felt he was looking
all the way back to Ireland, his father’s estate, the life he’d left behind.
    He watched until his eyes began to water and the world began to dance. He shook out
his head and saw the vision was not merely private. Between ship and shore the air
was dancing as over a stove. It was the warm air. It was like staring drunk through
old glass. The men did not like it. They stood frozen at their tasks to watch the
bergs being hoisted into the sky. Morgan stood on deck as rapt as any of them.
    As evening came on, they heard a new song set adrift from Parker’s ship. The voices
were brazen against the rough silence of the sea. Cabot stood alone, listening, tears
in his eyes.
    That’s not French, Morgan told him, as though to set him straight.
    Basque, Cabot said. They used to rule the seas up here. All this. The first of the
whalers. The bravest and the best. And all is left of that now is a few old songs.
He shoved the butt of his hand against his eye. It will be a time before I will hear
them again, he said.
    You could teach them to us, Morgan said. Beef up the repertoire. God knows I’d be
glad to hear a new tune.
    It is not the same, Cabot said.
    No, Morgan said. I suppose not.
    There had been a letter for Giorgio, the cabin-boy, from his father. Morgan read
it to the whole deck, with a sick taste