The North Water(47)

“She’s a good strong ship, doubled and fortified: ice knees, ice plates, stanchions, and the rest. She’s old but she int weak. I’d say she could stand a good deal of squeezing still.”

The sun, which never fully set, is beginning to rise again. The ship’s distended shadow spills across the larboard ice. To north and south, the purple tips of distant mountains gleam. Cavendish takes his hat off, scratches his head, and looks over at the men still working on the floe. They are building tents from spars, poles, and stun-sail booms. They are kindling fires on iron cressets.

“If she don’t sink now, I can always sink her later.”

Drax nods.

“True,” he says. “But that won’t look half so good. You built a fucking ice dock.”

Cavendish smiles.

“It was a rare stroke of luck the way it broke like that. Don’t happen too often, does it?”

“No, it don’t. And it appears you’re good and safe here on the fast ice too. Campbell can warp back easy if a lead opens up. With a bit of luck, you won’t need to walk more than a mile or two to get to him. And the rest of them think she’s stoved in already, I expect. They won’t be making any trouble.”

Cavendish nods.

“She won’t survive this one,” he says. “She can’t.”

“She will if you let her, but if you knocked a plank or two out of her arse, she surely wouldn’t. Give me ten minutes down there with an ax, that’s all. Why fuck about?”

Cavendish sneers.

“You kill Brownlee with a walking stick, and you honestly think I’m going to gift you a fucking ax?”

“If you don’t believe me, go look down there for yourself,” he says. “See if I’m lying.”

Cavendish licks his lips and paces round the deck awhile. The wind has slackened off but the dawn air is stiff and cold around them. Out on the floe men are shouting, and the ship beneath is keeping up its ghoulish groans.

“Why kill the boy?” Cavendish says to him. “Why kill Joseph Hannah? What’s the benefit in that?”

“A man don’t always think on the benefits.”

“So what does he think on?”

Drax shrugs.

“I do as I must. Int a great deal of cogitation involved.”

Cavendish shakes his head, curses abominably, and peers up at the paling sky above. After some moments of silence he walks to the gunwale and calls down to a cabin boy to bring him a lantern and an ax. The two men descend to the tween decks and then, with Drax leading the way, down into the forehold. The air is dank and frigid; the lantern’s yellow light illuminates a stanchion, the hold beams, the ribbed surface of the stacked casks.

“Dry as a fucking bone,” Drax says.

“Raise some of them casks up over there,” Cavendish tells him. “I can hear water leaking in, I swear it.”

“Nowt but a dribble,” Drax says. He squats and heaves up a cask and then another one. The two men lean in and peer downwards at the dark curving of the hull. Water is spraying through a breach where the timbers have separated and the caulking has dropped away, but there is no sign of serious damage.

“Fuck,” Cavendish whispers. “Fuck. How can that be?”

“Like I told it,” Drax says. “She bent a good deal, but she didn’t ever break.”

Cavendish puts down the lantern and the ax, and the two of them together begin moving away more casks until they are standing on the bottommost tier and most of the timbers on the starboard bow are exposed.

“She won’t sink unless you make her do it, Michael,” Drax says. “That’s how it is.”

Cavendish shakes his head and reaches for the ax.

“Nothing’s fucking simple in this world,” he says.

Drax steps back to give him room to swing. Cavendish pauses and turns to look at him.

“This don’t put me under any obligation,” he says. “I can’t free you now. Not after Brownlee. A cabin boy is one thing, a cabin boy is plenty bad enough, but not the fucking captain.”

“And I int asking for it,” Drax says. “I wouldn’t presume.”

“Then what?”

Drax shrugs, sniffs, and gathers himself.

“If the time ever comes,” he says slowly, “all I ask is you don’t hinder me, don’t stand athwart. Allow events to take their natural course.”

Cavendish nods.

“I turn the blind eye,” he says. “That’s what you’re asking.”

“The time may never come. I may hang in England for what I done and rightly so.”

“But if it ever does come.”

“Aye, if it ever does.”

“And what about my fucking nose?” Cavendish says, pointing.

Drax smiles.

“You were never no Adonis, Michael,” he says. “I ’spect some would call that an improvement.”

“You have some fair-sized fucking balls, to say that to a man hefting an ax.”

“Like a fine big pair of tatties,” Drax confirms lightly, “and I’ll even let you stroke ’em if you like.”

For a moment, they hold each other’s gaze, and then Cavendish turns away in disgust, swings the ax, and lets its ground steel edge bite down hard into the ship’s already dampened timbers eight, nine, ten times, until the doubled planking creaks, swells, and begins to splinter inwards.