Read Online Afterlands by Steven Heighton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Heighton
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night before we parted with the ship. Now the ice-floe proved a refreshing bed, where I slept soundly until morning, when I was suddenly awakened by hearing a loud cry from the natives, and the barking of the dogs.
It had snowed during the night; but that was nothing. The ice had broken! —separating us from the boat which we had left, being unable to haul it the night before. Our cache of six large bags of biscuit remained with it on the old floe, and we were left on a very small piece of ice—the thick part where we had made our extemporized lodgings. As soon as I saw the position of affairs, I called the men out, desiring them to go for the boat and bread. It could have been done with safety, for there was no rough sea running between the broken pieces, and they had not separated much at the time; but I could not move them—they were afraid. (I noted that Hannah also by this point seemed quite unhappy with the men; I believe she has been so for some time.)
And so we drift, having but one boat on our piece of ice, while the other boat, and a good part of what provisions we have, remains on the main part of the broken floe. We drift apparently to the southwest, for I have neither compass nor chronometer with me; my compass is in that other boat, and even my watch is on board of the Polaris . Our piece of ice is perhaps one hundred and fifty yards across each way. Quite a heavy sea is running; piece after piece is broken from our “raft.” God grant we may have enough left to stand upon!
Tukulito is melting snow in one of the big Schuyler Pemmican tins over the fat lamp, constantly checking the wick, adding more snow, stirring and now scooping in hunks of half-frozen pemmican from the tin Jackson has just opened. The walls of the snow cookhut are yellow with lamplight, damp and soft with the heat. Toward mealtimes everyone crowds into the cookhut. It’s the warmest spot, of course, but also everyone wants to keep an eye on the food.
The bread now, please, Mr Jackson.
I suppose you mean this here wormy tack.
In pieces the size of playing cards, please.
He pushes his forage cap back on his head, where it rides lightly on a froth of curls.
This one here went along on Sherman’s march, I wager. And I bet they wouldn’t of et it then either.
Grimacing with the strain Jackson starts hand-breaking slabs of ship’s biscuit to stir into the stew. On the Polaris he was in charge of the galley, and Tukulito was an unofficial assistant, but since their stranding on the ice, with no discussion and no fuss, they have exchanged roles. Sea ice is a constantly shifting extension of the Esquimau homeland; this is Tukulito’s ancestral kitchen, as Jackson himself seems to realize.
God damn it half to blind, he cries, flinging down a chunk of biscuit. It’s like cracking a god damn ox bone by hand, and for spoiled marrow.
He reaches for his cleaver.
Mr Jackson, Tukulito says with her soft English accent, I ask you again please not to swear so. The children often hear.
Well, but it ain’t even their language!
It is mine, sir, by adoption. Hers as well.
Punnie is on the snow-bench poking eiderdown into Elisapee, her scowling doll, and sewing up the tear in its belly, her face bent close to the tip of the needle. She doesn’t look up. For a moment Jackson stares at Tukulito. In his ginger-coloured face his green eyes are fixed hard; his mouth, fringed with a wisp of beard, is sullenly slack. At last he starts chuckling. Well, I am sorry, Mrs Ebierbing. I know I keep telling you this same sorry, then I keep saying them words again.
You are better than most on the ship.
What ship? says Anthing in his thin, breathy tenor. He’s playing euchre, teamed with Jamka against Herron and Kruger, all the men stripped to grimy drawers and heavy, high-necked sweaters. Tukulito’s impression of Anthing is always of a large pair of bloodshot eyes bulging under pressure, as if meaning to pop out at you. They give him a constantly
It had snowed during the night; but that was nothing. The ice had broken! —separating us from the boat which we had left, being unable to haul it the night before. Our cache of six large bags of biscuit remained with it on the old floe, and we were left on a very small piece of ice—the thick part where we had made our extemporized lodgings. As soon as I saw the position of affairs, I called the men out, desiring them to go for the boat and bread. It could have been done with safety, for there was no rough sea running between the broken pieces, and they had not separated much at the time; but I could not move them—they were afraid. (I noted that Hannah also by this point seemed quite unhappy with the men; I believe she has been so for some time.)
And so we drift, having but one boat on our piece of ice, while the other boat, and a good part of what provisions we have, remains on the main part of the broken floe. We drift apparently to the southwest, for I have neither compass nor chronometer with me; my compass is in that other boat, and even my watch is on board of the Polaris . Our piece of ice is perhaps one hundred and fifty yards across each way. Quite a heavy sea is running; piece after piece is broken from our “raft.” God grant we may have enough left to stand upon!
Tukulito is melting snow in one of the big Schuyler Pemmican tins over the fat lamp, constantly checking the wick, adding more snow, stirring and now scooping in hunks of half-frozen pemmican from the tin Jackson has just opened. The walls of the snow cookhut are yellow with lamplight, damp and soft with the heat. Toward mealtimes everyone crowds into the cookhut. It’s the warmest spot, of course, but also everyone wants to keep an eye on the food.
The bread now, please, Mr Jackson.
I suppose you mean this here wormy tack.
In pieces the size of playing cards, please.
He pushes his forage cap back on his head, where it rides lightly on a froth of curls.
This one here went along on Sherman’s march, I wager. And I bet they wouldn’t of et it then either.
Grimacing with the strain Jackson starts hand-breaking slabs of ship’s biscuit to stir into the stew. On the Polaris he was in charge of the galley, and Tukulito was an unofficial assistant, but since their stranding on the ice, with no discussion and no fuss, they have exchanged roles. Sea ice is a constantly shifting extension of the Esquimau homeland; this is Tukulito’s ancestral kitchen, as Jackson himself seems to realize.
God damn it half to blind, he cries, flinging down a chunk of biscuit. It’s like cracking a god damn ox bone by hand, and for spoiled marrow.
He reaches for his cleaver.
Mr Jackson, Tukulito says with her soft English accent, I ask you again please not to swear so. The children often hear.
Well, but it ain’t even their language!
It is mine, sir, by adoption. Hers as well.
Punnie is on the snow-bench poking eiderdown into Elisapee, her scowling doll, and sewing up the tear in its belly, her face bent close to the tip of the needle. She doesn’t look up. For a moment Jackson stares at Tukulito. In his ginger-coloured face his green eyes are fixed hard; his mouth, fringed with a wisp of beard, is sullenly slack. At last he starts chuckling. Well, I am sorry, Mrs Ebierbing. I know I keep telling you this same sorry, then I keep saying them words again.
You are better than most on the ship.
What ship? says Anthing in his thin, breathy tenor. He’s playing euchre, teamed with Jamka against Herron and Kruger, all the men stripped to grimy drawers and heavy, high-necked sweaters. Tukulito’s impression of Anthing is always of a large pair of bloodshot eyes bulging under pressure, as if meaning to pop out at you. They give him a constantly
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