The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(14)
Reynolds contemplated Captain MacReady, who seemed to have been infected by the same air of indifference as the others. At that moment, the officer was also off the ship, sitting on a bundle next to the iron dog cage that Peters had installed on the ice. Like the other men, MacReady was wearing several layers of wool under his oilskin, and one of those woolly hats with earflaps jokingly known as a Welsh wig. As he studied the burly captain, so motionless he might have been posing for a photograph, Reynolds realized he had to shake the men out of their stupor at once, before the whole ship’s company fell into a state of hopeless lethargy. Yes, they had become icebound, but that did not mean nothing mattered anymore. It was time for him to ask MacReady to organize teams of men to explore the area, with the aim of continuing the mission that had brought them there, the mission that would shower them with more glory and riches than they could ever imagine: the discovery of the entrance to the center of the Earth.
And yet, despite his intention, Reynolds did not move a muscle. He stayed where he was, watching the captain from a distance, still hesitating to approach him. He disliked the captain. He considered him coarse, cynical, and hotheaded, the kind of fellow you could sooner imagine comforting a hound caught in a trap than a man suffering from a broken heart. Anyone could see that MacReady harbored mutual feelings, and, owing to the onboard hierarchy, his loathing had spread to the other men, so that Reynolds soon found himself leading an expedition in which he had no allies, except for Allan, the gunner who dreamed of being a poet. The two men were the youngest in the crew. Perhaps because the sergeant was the only one who did not see Reynolds as an impulsive young fop, something resembling a friendship had grown up between them. However, Allan was doubtless in his cabin, scattering words onto paper as he so often did, his quill scarcely touching the page, like a cloud skimming the surface of a river. And so Reynolds began scuffing the snow with the tip of his boot, trying to pluck up the courage to challenge MacReady alone, for that was what their recent conversations had seemed like to him, swordless duels in which the captain attempted, metaphorically speaking, to pierce him through the heart. Ten more minutes passed before he thrust his fists into the pockets of his oilskin and strode resolutely toward the captain. After all the effort it had taken him to get there, he had no intention of letting some arrogant numbskull stop him from finishing what he had begun, no matter that the man was a head higher than he and looked strong enough to tear him limb from limb with his bare hands.
“Captain MacReady,” the explorer ventured.
“What is it, Reynolds?” the captain asked, annoyed at being interrupted in the middle of an important task, which appeared to be none other than feeling the cold in his bones and making sure the snow was still white.
“I would like us to begin exploring the area today,” Reynolds replied, undeterred. “I don’t think we should just sit around waiting for the ice to thaw.”
The captain smiled to himself for a few moments. Then, with calculated slowness, he got up from where he was sitting, his imposing bulk rising before the young explorer.
“So that’s what you think we’re doing, is it, waiting for the ice to thaw?” he asked.
“If you are engaged in some other activity, then you could have fooled me,” Reynolds replied sarcastically.
MacReady gave a disdainful laugh.
“I don’t think you’ve quite understood the situation, Reynolds. Let me explain it to you. Being stuck in the ice in this godforsaken place isn’t our only problem. Do you know what those sporadic groans are that wake us up at night? That’s the ice, Reynolds. The accursed ice, slowly crushing our poor ship so that when it finally releases her, assuming it does, her hull will be so damaged she’ll probably no longer be seaworthy. That’s the exact situation. I haven’t told my men because I don’t want to alarm them, although I imagine most of them suspect that those groans don’t bode well. But since you are in charge of this expedition, I thought you ought to know. And what can we do about it? I’ll tell you before you ask: we can abandon ship and cross the frozen sea until we reach the coast, taking with us the team of dogs, the provisions, the lifeboats, and at least two iron stoves with enough coal to keep us from freezing along the way. Tell me, does that strike you as a plan that could succeed?”
Reynolds made no reply. Naturally, this suggestion struck him as crazy. No one knew for certain how far the coast was or in what direction, and traipsing blindly across that landscape bristling with icy peaks, which they would have to circumnavigate with their loaded sleds, would only exhaust them. Except for that crazy plan, the only one Reynolds could think of was crazier still. He had heard that, in similar situations, some captains had ordered their men to build makeshift camps on a block of ice and then let those improvised vessels be pushed by the currents, although the number of times a far-fetched plan of this sort had actually worked could be counted on the fingers of one hand. The storm-wracked waves and winds had drowned the rest, without the slightest sympathy for those amusing examples of human ingenuity. Reynolds did not dare even mention this option to MacReady. Perhaps it was preferable to stay in the shelter of the ship and just drink rum while they waited for something—anything—to happen. But he did not intend to simply do nothing while awaiting a miracle. It was preposterous to come all that way and not explore the area.
“What about the mission?” Reynolds asked, at the risk of angering the captain. “I see no reason why we cannot proceed with it. It might be the best way to cope with the boredom, which I am sure you know can quickly turn to madness.”