The Surfacing by Cormac James

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breathe, felt he was standing on the back of a lazy Leviathan. All day there’d been
a fair breeze blowing that worked with the tide to open everything up. They’d been
boring a week now, were making much better progress this time round. He wondered
would it last. He hardly cared, now, if it all closed up again. The prospect no longer
vexed. Now he was simply glad to be back in the ice. Now he felt and enjoyed its
preserve. On the open water he’d still felt too close to Kitty, to Disko, to home.
Now he breathed deeply and freely, great lungfuls of cool, clean air. More than anything
he felt relief.
    10th August
    In the officers’ cabin, they all felt the breeze, and all lifted their heads. It
was MacDonald, in the open doorway. Most likely there would be some extra duty for
one of them, or something very like a reproach.
    Mr Morgan, I wonder if I might talk to you privately, he said.
    Of course, Morgan said. He turned his book face down on the table. It was something
he would take up again exactly where he’d left off. But Hepburn and Brooks were already
on their feet, and already stood between him and the door.
    We’re going to take a little turn, Brooks said. Stay where you are.
    Too quickly, they were gone. Morgan was still sitting at the table, looking up.
    There is someone wishes to see you, MacDonald said.
    Here I am, Morgan said.
    It would be better if you came with me.
    Morgan studied the man’s face, searching for the eloquent clue.
    Trust me, MacDonald said. It was not an order but an appeal, and an offering.
    Morgan got to his feet slowly, burdened. Do I need my coat? he said.
    No.
    MacDonald led the way, the few steps down the corridor to his own cabin. He opened
the door and stepped aside, for Morgan to go ahead. Morgan stepped inside, and MacDonald
stepped straight in behind him, closing the door. She was sitting on the bed, her
legs folded beneath her tailor-fashion, her back to the partition wall.
    Morgan stood there in silence. He needed a moment to let the information soak right
the way through. To open himself up to it, physically.
    Who else knows? he said, and heard himself saying it. That was what he finally managed
to say.
    Just the three of us here in this room, MacDonald said. No one else.
    Three weeks you’re stowing her in here, without one other soul in the know? I don’t
believe you. It’s not possible.
    Believe what you like, MacDonald told him. But there she is.
    The man was right, of course. What he said was true. The proof of it was only three
feet away, sitting on the bed.
    She says she is carrying your child, MacDonald said.
    Even as he heard the words, Morgan felt the planks under his bootsoles wavering,
preparing to cede. A sickening lurch, as the entire solid world fell away. Suddenly
there was no bottom, no solid surface to crash – crush – into, to give this moment
an end. He reached for the post to steady himself.
    She says, he said.
    A woman tends to know these things, MacDonald said. Especially when it concerns herself.
You’re not going to contradict her, I hope. Or are you going to try to tell me that,
how shall I put it, that the means were not put at her disposal, for such a thing
to come to pass?
    Morgan had been listening with his head bowed, penitent. He now reached out and opened
the door, as if to go. In turn, MacDonald reached to take hold of Morgan’s arm, to
keep him, and oblige him to face full square his responsibilities. At the first touch
Morgan’s hands shot out and lifted the man bodily off the ground. He carried him
out into the corridor, like a docker hefting a hundredweight sack of grain.
    The officers’ door was kicked open.
    MacDonald was thrown into the room.
    At the table, Cabot was looking up expectantly, ready to be amused. He’d come to
collect the dirty ware.
    Out, Morgan said, but Cabot stood where he was, faltering, unsure. MacDonald lay
sprawled on the floor, panting, a hounded look on his face.
    OUT! Morgan roared, and there