The Pole (4 page)

“She'll say the same thing 'cause it ain't no story, it's the truth.”

He took a long sip from his coffee but didn't say anything.

“You 'ave to believe me, sir!” I protested.

“I'm the Cap'n of this ship so I don't have to do anythin' … but I
do
believe you.”

A wave of relief washed over my body.

“What do ya think would have happened to young Marie if ya hadn't come upon her?” he asked.

“I don't know, sir,” I said, shaking my head. “She might 'ave gotten back inside by 'erself.”

“Or might not.” He took a big sip from his mug. “Ya shouldn't have been up on the deck,” he said slowly, “and if ya ever go topside durin' a storm like that again, I'll personally
throw
ya over the side.”

“Yes, sir, ya 'ave my word that I won't …” I heard the sound of the galley hatch opening and I turned around. It was Commander Peary. I struggled to get to my feet but before I could rise I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Sit … please,” he said, and nervously I settled back down into the seat.

He pulled out a chair and sat down beside me. “Cookie,” he said, “may I have a cup of your steaming java?”

“Sure can, sir.”

Cookie poured the Commander a mug and placed it beside him.

“How are you feeling, son?”

“I'm fine. How is Marie?”

“She's a little distraught, but fine … thanks to you.”

“I didn't do anythin',” I said.

“If not for you my daughter could have been lost.”

“I just helped get 'er inside … done what anybody would have done.”

“But it wasn't anybody, it was you. I am in your debt. And, as God is my witness, I will honour that debt, although there is nothing that could ever repay such a deed.”

He reached out and took my hand in his. “At some time, perhaps it will be years from now, if you require my assistance in any matter, no matter how small and insignificant or impossibly large, you may contact me, and whatever is within my reach or resources will be done.You have my word.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He released my hand. “Now, it is time to retire for the evening.” He got up. “Good night, and again, my thanks, and my word—at some time in the future, you may be in need of my assistance.”

I quickly got to my feet. “Good night, sir.”

He departed, leaving me and Cookie and the Captain alone in the room. I closed my eyes and thought about what Commander Peary had just said. It was all going to be all right.

“More coffee?” Cookie asked the Captain.

The Captain held up his cup. Cookie walked over and refilled first the Captain's mug and then mine.

“It's a shame,” Captain Bartlett said.

“What is?” Cookie asked.

“It's a shame for the boy here,” he said, motioning to me, “that it's
me
who's in charge of him instead of
Commander Peary. Commander wants to give him a medal … Me? I'm not sure if he should be toasted or have his bottom tanned.”

My feeling of relief was now gone.

“How is the boy doin' down here?” Captain Bartlett asked Cookie. “Is he doing his job?”

“I've 'ad worse and I've 'ad better.”

Those weren't the words I'd been hoping for to defend me.

“Could ya get by without him?”

“Might be easier without 'im under me feet some of the time,” Cookie said.

This was starting to look worse and worse … was he going to be punishing me? Was he going to fire me?

“When we arrive in Sydney, ya will no longer be employed by this ship as a cook's assistant an' cabin boy.”

I couldn't believe my ears. He was firing me! I felt like I was going to cry. How would I get back to Newfoundland, and what would I say to my sister, and—

“You'll no longer be a cabin boy, because I'm givin' ya a promotion. Seaman … third class.”

CHAPTER FOUR

AUGUST 15, 1908

I LOOKED UP
. Every inch of canvas that could be hung from the three masts was bulging in the breeze and we were moving at a tremendous clip—that was good … but dangerous.

Three days ago we had seen our first iceberg. It wasn't much more than just a distant shape on the horizon—tiny, hardly noticeable—and then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. As it continued to drift south, we sailed north. The second one was different. It was a mountain of ice that appeared just off the port side. I stood there on the deck, looking up, up, up at the berg, which towered well above the tallest tip of our middle mast. If it hadn't been so deadly I would have said it was beautiful, a dozen different shades of white and blue, and the way the light played off it was a sight to behold.We tacked well to the side but it was so massive that standing
there on the deck I could feel the change in the air as it cooled down dramatically.

Since that first sighting the watch had been tripled—two men on the deck and a third up at the top of the tallest mast in the crow's nest. It seemed like most of the time the man up top was Captain Bartlett himself—sometimes for ten or twelve hours at a stretch. He was up there now. I looked up through the sails. I could just see the outline of the Captain's head above the barrel.

“Hey, Danny!” It was Angus, one of the crew. “Are you still the cook's assistant or are you a sailor?”

“I'm a little of both,” I answered.

“Hopin' you'd be sayin' that. Here,” he said, offering me a small canvas sack he was carrying.

“What is it?” I asked as I took it.

“Supper.”

“But I've already eaten.”

“Not for you … for 'im,” he said, pointing upward.

For a few seconds I thought he meant God, but then I realized he meant the Captain.

“Cap'n Bob 'asn't eaten yet. Bring it up to 'im.” “Me?”

“Unless you're ascared of heights,” he said.

“I'm not ascared of nothin'!” I protested.

“Good. Sling the bag over your shoulder an' climb up the riggin'.”

“No problem. Nothin' to it.” Without another word I turned and walked away, leaving Angus—and any worries I might show—behind me. I didn't want to give anybody any excuse to say anything about me not doing my job.

Ever since I'd been promoted to sailor, some members of the crew had given me an even harder time. Not all. Most were pretty good, but some had lots of comments—about my age and my size and how I didn't deserve to be promoted. Funny how the emptiest heads can make the most noise.

I walked along the deck and over to the rigging that led from the railing up to the crow's nest. I looked up. Way up. I'd seen crew members moving along the rigging—some scrambled like monkeys—to work the sails. I'd seen it. I'd just never done it. How hard could it be, though? I'd climbed enough trees in my time. Then again, none of those trees were moving. I was suddenly even more grateful for the calm seas.

I reached up and grabbed the rigging, testing it with my hand—strong, and securely fastened. I looked over the side. The water was rushing by. I grabbed the rigging and swung myself up.

I took a deep breath and then started to climb. Slowly, carefully, deliberately. I made sure that I always had one hand firmly gripping the ropes before I moved the other hand. Always had one foot firmly
anchored on one step before I moved my other foot up to the next. Hand over hand I inched upward.

The wind was getting stronger and the sound of the sails flapping in the breeze became louder in my ears. The boat pitched and I felt a rush of fear race through my body. I gripped the rigging as if my life depended on it … after all, my life
did
depend on it.

I looked down through the ropes, frozen in place. Were the seas suddenly getting rougher, or was it just that I was climbing higher and that made it feel like the swells were getting bigger?

Far below was the deck. If I lost my grip and fell I'd be killed instantly. I'd break my neck. But if I started to fall and then pushed off, maybe I could clear the deck and hit the water instead. I could survive if I hit the water. Of course, if nobody saw me fall into the water I'd drown … no, I'd probably freeze to death first. I drove that thought out of my head. I wasn't going to fall. But I couldn't stay where I was forever. Up or down? No, there was no choice. I wasn't going down. If I went back down now I was finished as a seaman and I might as well go back down to the galley and learn to cook.

I took a deep breath. I had to think about what I had to do, think about climbing up. I unhooked my left hand and reached up to the next rung. I pulled myself up. I gripped the rope tightly and moved my right hand up, stepping up to the next rung. Rung by
rung, hand over hand, I was climbing. I looked up. I was practically there.

“Who is that?” Captain Bartlett's voice came down from above.

“It's me, Cap'n … Danny.”

“Danny, what are ya doin' comin' up here?”

“Bringin' your supper, sir.”

“Good. I'm hungry as a bear.”

I climbed up the final few rungs until my head was level with the top of the barrel of the crow's nest. Captain Bartlett reached out and offered me his hand. I took it and I was yanked up and pulled right into the barrel! Still holding me in a vise-like grip he plopped me down and my feet hit the bottom.

“Thought I'd give ya a little helpin' hand,” he said. “Now, how about givin' me my supper?”

“Sure, of course, sir.” I pulled the bag off my shoulder and handed it to the Captain.

He reached inside and pulled out a big sandwich. “Was hopin' for somethin' hot, but I knew that wasn't goin' to be happenin' as I saw ya start to climb.”

I gave him a questioning look.

“Speed ya was travellin' it was goin' be cold by the time I got it no matter how hot it was when it left the galley.” He chuckled. “One point there I thought I'd have ta come on down an' shake ya awake.”

“I was just bein' careful.”

“Careful is good.” He took a big bite from his sandwich and then reached into the bag and removed a clear glass bottle. It looked like coffee. He unscrewed the lid and brought it up to his face and inhaled.

“Ahhhh … as long as the coffee is hot, nothin' else matters.” He took a sip.

The Captain drank pots and pots of coffee every day. I'd never even seen him drink anything else— not tea, not beer, not even a shot of rum. It was pretty unusual for a sailor—and even stranger for a sailor from Newfoundland. My mother used to say that for a ship from Newfoundland to run there had to be wind in its sails and screech or rum in the bellies of the crew.

“Ever been up here before?” he asked.

“Never been in the rigging before.”

“Guess I should 'ave figured that out. Nice up here. Peaceful. Wonderful view. Look,” he said, pointing off to the port side. “Do you see it?”

I started back to attention. Was there an iceberg up ahead? I shaded my eyes and stared into the distance, scanning the seas. I didn't see any icebergs. I didn't see anything … no, there was a thin, dark line that stretched across the horizon.

“Greenland,” he said. “She moved into view about three hours ago. Do ya know why it's called Greenland?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“Place was discovered by a Viking. Leif Ericsson.

He wanted people to come and settle so he figured he had to make it sound nice. He called it Greenland even though there's not much more than ice and snow, gravel and rock.” He took a drink from his coffee. “Still, beautiful place in its own way. Coast is lined with fjords and glaciers. These bergs we've been dodging are mainly calved in those fjords.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Ya know, on a day like this, when it isn't too cold and it's dry, there isn't a much better place ta be in the whole world.”

“You're spending a lot of time here.”

“No choice. Don't think I've ever seen so many bergs in my life.”

“I've only seen a few,” I said.

“That's because I've seen 'em first an' had us change course. But by midday we'll have a break from the bergs.We'll be puttin' inta the Etah Fjord.”

“Why are we stoppin' there?”

“That's where we'll be gettin' the rest of the members of our expedition, the people who are goin' ta be doin' most of the work … the Eskimos.” He took a sip from his coffee. “You ever seen an Eskimo?”

“Never.”

“You're gonna be seein' a lot of 'em over the next ten months. I think you'll like 'em. 'Course, everybody is different, their own person, but as a whole you won't find a nicer, gentler group of people in the world.Treat each other with respect, love their children, share with each other.” He chuckled. “Funny, not a Christian amongst 'em but they sure do understand what bein' a good Christian is about.Ya go to church back home?” he asked.

I suddenly felt uncomfortable. “We used to … before.”

“Before what?”

“Before my father died.”

“An' then?”

“An' then me Mom said she didn't believe in God no more so she wouldn't be goin' ta church again.”

“And you?”

“I didn't go to church either.”

“But do you believe in God?”

“I … I … I guess I do.”

The Captain didn't say anything and the silence felt heavy and tense.

“Did ya know that I almost became a Methodist minister?”

“You?”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“I'm not surprised … well not
that
surprised.” I was trying to picture this man who could scream out
a lungful of profanities as a minister. Certainly if he'd used any of those words up in the pulpit it would have made for a pretty interesting sermon. I would have gone to church to hear that.