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Book: The Second Birth of Frankenstein (The Department 19 Files #5) by Will Hill
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Authors: Will Hill
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I
23 rd September 1809
The Arctic Ocean, ninety miles north of Svalbard
Lars Bernsen stood on the deck of the
Agathe
, his eyes fixed on the horizon, and cursed his greed for bringing his ship and crew this far north. They had sailed out of Tromsø more than a month earlier, harpoons sharpened and greased, sails patched and mended, hold empty and waiting. The minke whales had been moving, their migration north bringing them within a day’s sail of the Norwegian shore, and Bernsen had been determined that the
Agathe
would claim her share, as she always had.
For days and weeks, they had toiled, sticking the fast, agile beasts with point after point, roping them and drowning them and hauling them aboard, where their blubber was packed and stored and their bones boiled and carefully stacked, ready to be turned into corsets in the boutiques of Paris. When the hold was full, Bernsen had been about to give his crew the order to make for home, an order that always provoked celebration on the slippery deck, when his lookout had called down from the main mast, urging him to look to the north-west.
Bernsen had crossed the deck, and looked out over the starboard rail. In the distance, a pod of humpback whales was making its way steadily north: five at least, maybe seven, or even eight. At the centre was a male, easily forty feet in length; as he watched, the animal’s huge tail fin rose from the water and crashed down, sending an explosion of frothing white water into the air. The meat, oil and bone of a forty-foot humpback would almost double the
Agathe
’s return on the trip, and it was not in Bernsen’s nature to ignore such an opportunity when it presented itself. He had climbed on to the quarterdeck, keeping his eyes locked on the distant whales. He spun the wheel, called for full sail, and began to bring his ship around after them.
“Ice ahead,” said Rolstad. “Thick.”
Bernsen nodded. His first mate was right; less than ten miles ahead of them was the southern edge of the Arctic ice shelf, the point at which they would be forced to turn back. For six days, he had pushed his crew after the humpbacks, without success; the huge animals had seemed to possess a supernatural ability to evade the ship, disappearing below the freezing grey water for long minutes at a time, then racing north as Bernsen’s crew struggled to relocate them. On two maddening occasions he had managed to get alongside them, and had ordered harpoons thrown. But they had whistled harmlessly into the waves, missing the whales by little more than inches.
Two days previously, Rolstad had suggested, in his usual gruff manner, that perhaps it would be wise to let them go. Bernsen had not replied, and his old friend had not mentioned the idea again. In truth, Lars knew that his behaviour was becoming irrational, but he no longer cared. He was irked by his failure to kill the humpbacks; it had taken on a personal dimension for him, as though it were
his
failure, despite the hold groaning with the remains of the minkes.
So he had continued to chase them north, as the temperature dropped, and the icebergs became bigger and more frequent. His crew were visibly unhappy, although all were too stoical to say so. They were alone, far beyond the rest of the Norwegian fleet. They had seen only a single ship in the last week, a vessel heading for England under the captaincy of a man named Walton that had passed them the previous day. They had tied up and exchanged pleasantries, but there had been a wild look about Walton, and Bernsen had allowed their encounter to end quickly; there had been dread rising from the very deck of Walton’s ship, drawn thickly on the faces of his crew, and he had wanted no part of whatever had befallen them.
“About time to turn back,” said Rolstad. His beard was thick with ice, but his eyes were clear, and his rumbling voice was steady.
Bernsen grunted. Far ahead, he saw the breaking water where the whales were swimming, as
23 rd September 1809
The Arctic Ocean, ninety miles north of Svalbard
Lars Bernsen stood on the deck of the
Agathe
, his eyes fixed on the horizon, and cursed his greed for bringing his ship and crew this far north. They had sailed out of Tromsø more than a month earlier, harpoons sharpened and greased, sails patched and mended, hold empty and waiting. The minke whales had been moving, their migration north bringing them within a day’s sail of the Norwegian shore, and Bernsen had been determined that the
Agathe
would claim her share, as she always had.
For days and weeks, they had toiled, sticking the fast, agile beasts with point after point, roping them and drowning them and hauling them aboard, where their blubber was packed and stored and their bones boiled and carefully stacked, ready to be turned into corsets in the boutiques of Paris. When the hold was full, Bernsen had been about to give his crew the order to make for home, an order that always provoked celebration on the slippery deck, when his lookout had called down from the main mast, urging him to look to the north-west.
Bernsen had crossed the deck, and looked out over the starboard rail. In the distance, a pod of humpback whales was making its way steadily north: five at least, maybe seven, or even eight. At the centre was a male, easily forty feet in length; as he watched, the animal’s huge tail fin rose from the water and crashed down, sending an explosion of frothing white water into the air. The meat, oil and bone of a forty-foot humpback would almost double the
Agathe
’s return on the trip, and it was not in Bernsen’s nature to ignore such an opportunity when it presented itself. He had climbed on to the quarterdeck, keeping his eyes locked on the distant whales. He spun the wheel, called for full sail, and began to bring his ship around after them.
“Ice ahead,” said Rolstad. “Thick.”
Bernsen nodded. His first mate was right; less than ten miles ahead of them was the southern edge of the Arctic ice shelf, the point at which they would be forced to turn back. For six days, he had pushed his crew after the humpbacks, without success; the huge animals had seemed to possess a supernatural ability to evade the ship, disappearing below the freezing grey water for long minutes at a time, then racing north as Bernsen’s crew struggled to relocate them. On two maddening occasions he had managed to get alongside them, and had ordered harpoons thrown. But they had whistled harmlessly into the waves, missing the whales by little more than inches.
Two days previously, Rolstad had suggested, in his usual gruff manner, that perhaps it would be wise to let them go. Bernsen had not replied, and his old friend had not mentioned the idea again. In truth, Lars knew that his behaviour was becoming irrational, but he no longer cared. He was irked by his failure to kill the humpbacks; it had taken on a personal dimension for him, as though it were
his
failure, despite the hold groaning with the remains of the minkes.
So he had continued to chase them north, as the temperature dropped, and the icebergs became bigger and more frequent. His crew were visibly unhappy, although all were too stoical to say so. They were alone, far beyond the rest of the Norwegian fleet. They had seen only a single ship in the last week, a vessel heading for England under the captaincy of a man named Walton that had passed them the previous day. They had tied up and exchanged pleasantries, but there had been a wild look about Walton, and Bernsen had allowed their encounter to end quickly; there had been dread rising from the very deck of Walton’s ship, drawn thickly on the faces of his crew, and he had wanted no part of whatever had befallen them.
“About time to turn back,” said Rolstad. His beard was thick with ice, but his eyes were clear, and his rumbling voice was steady.
Bernsen grunted. Far ahead, he saw the breaking water where the whales were swimming, as
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