The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(16)
“Steered?” MacReady exclaimed.
Griffin nodded.
“He’s right, Captain. That’s what it looked like to me, too,” agreed Wallace, one of the other sailors.
MacReady looked at Griffin without saying anything, trying to digest what he had just heard. Alarmed by the noise, the rest of the men still aboard the Annawan had descended the ramp and were gathering round their fellow crew members, asking what had happened.
“Perhaps it is some kind of . . . flying object,” Griffin ventured, ignoring the others and addressing the captain, who was deep in thought.
The sailor’s assertion surprised Reynolds. A flying object? But what sort of object might that be? he wondered. Not a balloon, clearly. It had crossed the sky at a devilish rate, as though something was propelling it, although he had seen no steam engine attached to it. Looking more like the statue of an explorer, Captain MacReady surveyed the distant mountains as if he were planning to build a house there.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” he declared at last. “We shall go to where it fell.”
With a rush of energy, as though he had suddenly remembered he was the captain of the ship, he studied his men, called out a list of names, and within seconds had organized a search party. He left Lieutenant Blair in command of the Annawan and of the remaining sailors. Then he gave the explorer another of his condescending smiles.
“You’re welcome to join us if you wish, Reynolds. Perhaps we’ll come across your hole on the way.”
Reynolds did not deign to respond to the gibe. He bobbed his head as if to say yes, then followed the other men aboard to kit himself out with everything needed for a journey across the ice. Reynolds attempted to ignore the wave of heat from the stoves and kitchen that hit him as he descended to the lower deck. He dodged the confusion of beds and hammocks and, guided by the faint light of the lanterns, managed to reach the narrow passageway leading to the officers’ quarters. Once inside his cramped dwelling, dimly lit by the pale rays filtering through the porthole, Reynolds cast a melancholy eye over the uncomfortable room where he now spent his days: the built-in bunk with its lumpy horsehair mattress, the tiny desk, the table and two stools, the armchair he had insisted on bringing from home, the small larder, containing mainly bottles of brandy and a couple of cheeses, the washbasin in the corner, its water now frozen, and a few shelves lined with books, which he scarcely dared displace, for he had discovered a new use for the great classics that had never occurred to him before: as insulation from the cold on the other side of the wall. As soon as he was properly outfitted, Reynolds went back on deck.
Twenty minutes later, the men MacReady had picked were outside on the ice once more, warmly wrapped up, armed, and accompanied by a couple of sleds and a handful of dogs. In addition to Reynolds and the captain himself, the group consisted of Doctor Walker, Gunnery Sergeant Allan, and seven ordinary seamen with whom Reynolds scarcely had any association: Griffin, Wallace, Foster, Carson, Shepard, Ringwald, and the Indian Peters. After making sure they were all present, MacReady gestured energetically in the direction of the mountains, and without further ado the group set off.
III
DURING THE JOURNEY, REYNOLDS AVOIDED POSITIONING himself next to the captain, although that was the most appropriate place for him. He did not want to be drawn into a verbal battle with MacReady while they crossed the ice, so he deliberately hung back, until he found himself walking beside Griffin, the scrawny sailor whose remarks had aroused his curiosity. He remembered that Griffin had signed up for the Annawan at the last moment, when the ship’s crew was already complete, overcoming MacReady’s misgivings with his insistence on joining the discovery team and proving that not only was he genuinely passionate about the voyage but also able to surmount obstacles, including a boorish, stubborn captain. But, Reynolds wondered, why was it so important to Griffin to be there now, in that freezing cold?
“I think you’re right, Griffin,” he said as they drew level. “No doubt we will find some kind of flying machine in those mountains.”
Griffin was surprised that the man leading the expedition, who scarcely fraternized with the sailors, should address him in the tone of someone wanting to engage in pleasant chitchat. Visibly awkward, Griffin simply nodded his head, reduced to a ball of kerchiefs and scarves with a frozen nose and mustache poking out. But Reynolds was not put off by his reticence and resolved to strike up a conversation with the mysterious sailor, whether he liked it or not.
“Why were you so keen on joining our expedition, Griffin?” he asked him outright. “Do you believe in my Hollow Earth theory?”
The sailor looked at him for a moment, aghast. His thin mustache was caked with frost, and it occurred to Reynolds that when they returned to the ship, Griffin would have no choice but to chop off the frozen hair. This was precisely why Reynolds himself insisted on continuing to shave, even though he had to do it with a basin of melted ice. Clearly Griffin preferred not to put himself through that torture every morning.
“The idea is very poetic, sir,” the sailor replied at last.
“Very poetic, yes . . . But you don’t believe it,” Reynolds deduced, looking askance at Griffin. “I suppose like all the others you are here because of the money. But in that case, tell me why you were so keen to come aboard the Annawan. The wages are the same on any other ship, possibly higher, and the conditions less dangerous.”