people it is easy to know (their overt expressions, their spilling words)—essential to know! Kruger clears his throat and with untypical earnestness calls out, Sir? Allow that I take the watch now. Come in and take shelter, sir.
Tyson twitches, wheels around. By the time he is fully turned—that fast—he has pulled himself together. He always seems to gain inches of height and pounds of solidity whenever he feels himself under observation. Ebierbing’s other hand squeezes the good fat of her belly and tugs downward, commandingly. Being freshly adrift, jammed here in a midden of sleepers, is nothing new to him, no sexual deterrent. He has never been as discreet as she would like. She pushes the hand away; she needs to observe this exchange. Lieutenant Tyson is now in command and much depends on him. Twice crushed by the loss of a son, Tukulito means to ensure her daughter’s safety one way or another.
Ah, Kruger! says Tyson, as if clearing his throat with the name.
Come in and find shelter, sir. Room can be found.
I mean to scout a little yet. Go back to sleep, Kruger.
Giving up on sheer force, her husband is easing down her caribou pants, stroking between her thighs. She swats at his hand. He grips her hand and tugs.
Any sign of the Polaris? Kruger asks hoarsely. Again no trace of irony. In fact, fresh from sleep like a child, he looks dazed and anxious.
Nothing! By God, when I lay hands on Budington again, he’ll …
You’re shivering, sir.
Never mind that. You rest now, with the others. At dawn I’ll call you—all of you. And he strides off along the floe’s edge, as if on a morning’s brisk constitutional in a city park. Lunar rounds of breath rise and dissolve above him. Ebierbing’s caresses are diligent and Tukulito is beginning to sag down to him, into the stuffy warmth under the pelts; Kruger turns, noticing her face, and stares for a long second. She stares back while Ebierbing’s hand smoothly continues. Kruger nods, says stiffly Madam , then ducks back down into the snowdrift, as if in some children’s game.
She is back in her husband’s silent, barely moving embrace.
Above, massed stars droop and arc down to the horizon where the calm sea-leads around the floe are slick and milky with mirrored light. The floe seems to slide not over the sea but through the heavens. One of the men moans and babbles in German, the sounds muted through this huddle of bodies buried in the night’s snow. They will never again sleep, or think, as a single group like this; for now they all believe that the Polaris must return for them at any time. It’s silent. Snow cloaks the sleepers like quicklime over a mass grave.
TYSON, FROM ARCTIC EXPERIENCES
Oct. 16, 1872 . Blowing a strong gale from the north-west. We are adrift on the ice, and the Polaris is nowhere visible.
I think it must have been about 6 P.M., last night, when the vessel was nipped with the ice. The pressure was very great. She did not lift to it much; she was not broad enough—not built flaring, as the whalers call it; had she been built so she would have risen to the ice, and the pressure would not have affected her so much. But, considering all, she bore it nobly.
In the commencement of these events, I came out of my cabin, which was on the starboard side, and looked over the rail, and saw that the ice was pressing heavily. I then walked over to the port side. Most of the crew were at this time gathered in the waist, looking over at the huge floe to which we were fastened. I saw that the ship rose somewhat to the pressure, and then immediately came down again on the ice, breaking it, and riding it under her. The ice was very heavy, and the vessel groaned and creaked in every timber.
At this time the engineer, Schuman, came running from below, among the startled crew, saying that “the vessel has started a leak aft, and the water is gaining on the pumps.” The vessel had been leaking before like this, and they were already
Tyson twitches, wheels around. By the time he is fully turned—that fast—he has pulled himself together. He always seems to gain inches of height and pounds of solidity whenever he feels himself under observation. Ebierbing’s other hand squeezes the good fat of her belly and tugs downward, commandingly. Being freshly adrift, jammed here in a midden of sleepers, is nothing new to him, no sexual deterrent. He has never been as discreet as she would like. She pushes the hand away; she needs to observe this exchange. Lieutenant Tyson is now in command and much depends on him. Twice crushed by the loss of a son, Tukulito means to ensure her daughter’s safety one way or another.
Ah, Kruger! says Tyson, as if clearing his throat with the name.
Come in and find shelter, sir. Room can be found.
I mean to scout a little yet. Go back to sleep, Kruger.
Giving up on sheer force, her husband is easing down her caribou pants, stroking between her thighs. She swats at his hand. He grips her hand and tugs.
Any sign of the Polaris? Kruger asks hoarsely. Again no trace of irony. In fact, fresh from sleep like a child, he looks dazed and anxious.
Nothing! By God, when I lay hands on Budington again, he’ll …
You’re shivering, sir.
Never mind that. You rest now, with the others. At dawn I’ll call you—all of you. And he strides off along the floe’s edge, as if on a morning’s brisk constitutional in a city park. Lunar rounds of breath rise and dissolve above him. Ebierbing’s caresses are diligent and Tukulito is beginning to sag down to him, into the stuffy warmth under the pelts; Kruger turns, noticing her face, and stares for a long second. She stares back while Ebierbing’s hand smoothly continues. Kruger nods, says stiffly Madam , then ducks back down into the snowdrift, as if in some children’s game.
She is back in her husband’s silent, barely moving embrace.
Above, massed stars droop and arc down to the horizon where the calm sea-leads around the floe are slick and milky with mirrored light. The floe seems to slide not over the sea but through the heavens. One of the men moans and babbles in German, the sounds muted through this huddle of bodies buried in the night’s snow. They will never again sleep, or think, as a single group like this; for now they all believe that the Polaris must return for them at any time. It’s silent. Snow cloaks the sleepers like quicklime over a mass grave.
TYSON, FROM ARCTIC EXPERIENCES
Oct. 16, 1872 . Blowing a strong gale from the north-west. We are adrift on the ice, and the Polaris is nowhere visible.
I think it must have been about 6 P.M., last night, when the vessel was nipped with the ice. The pressure was very great. She did not lift to it much; she was not broad enough—not built flaring, as the whalers call it; had she been built so she would have risen to the ice, and the pressure would not have affected her so much. But, considering all, she bore it nobly.
In the commencement of these events, I came out of my cabin, which was on the starboard side, and looked over the rail, and saw that the ice was pressing heavily. I then walked over to the port side. Most of the crew were at this time gathered in the waist, looking over at the huge floe to which we were fastened. I saw that the ship rose somewhat to the pressure, and then immediately came down again on the ice, breaking it, and riding it under her. The ice was very heavy, and the vessel groaned and creaked in every timber.
At this time the engineer, Schuman, came running from below, among the startled crew, saying that “the vessel has started a leak aft, and the water is gaining on the pumps.” The vessel had been leaking before like this, and they were already
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