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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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though they were mocking him, but he knew his first mate was right; there was no disputing the evidence of his own eyes. There was simply no chance that the
Agathe
would catch the humpbacks before they disappeared beneath the ice shelf and out of reach forever.
“Bring her about,” he said. “Make for home.”
Rolstad nodded, and stepped across to the wheel. Bernsen walked down from the quarterdeck, up to the prow, and stared at the horizon, not wanting to see the whales escape, but unable to tear his gaze away. He watched the male lift its tail from the water a final time, a gesture that seemed deliberately meant for him, and then the pod was gone, the last churned water of their passing lapping against the solid ice that stretched to the horizon, rising in ranges of distant mountains to the north and spreading out to the east and west in an impossibly vast landscape of white.
He was about to turn away when something caught his eye. It was a dark speck on one of the thousands of chunks of ice bobbing at the edge of the field, rising and falling with the ocean currents beneath them. It was no more than half a mile north of the
Agathe
, and the dark shape, whatever it was, seemed already too big to be a seal.
Bernsen felt the ship begin to turn to port. “Keep this course!” he shouted, and pointed a gloved hand at the dark blot on the landscape. The momentum changed beneath him as the ship came about, and he gripped the deck rail, keeping his eyes locked on the approaching slab of ice.
Rolstad appeared beside him. “What is it?” he asked.
“Something on the ice,” said Bernsen. “Straight ahead.”
“I see it.”
The
Agathe
crept forward, ice thudding against her hull in a constant drumbeat. The wind blew from the north, chilling Bernsen’s bones and making his eyes water. The tears froze almost instantly on his cheeks, and he wiped them away with the back of his gloved hand, trying to focus on the dark shape. It was close now, a spreadeagled smudge of black against the white ice. He watched in silence as it came closer and closer, unable to comprehend what he was seeing, his mind searching for an explanation.
“My God,” said Rolstad, his voice low. “Do you see?”
“I see,” said Bernsen. “I do not believe it, but I see.”
Lying on the floating chunk of ice was the motionless figure of a man, wrapped in layers of sealskin. He was huge, that much was clear, even lying down; his limbs were thick, and his head, hidden beneath a fur-lined hood, was large and rectangular. Bernsen stared down at the man, his mind racing.
What is any man doing this far north, alone? Was he part of Walton’s expedition? Did they abandon him here?
Then the man moved his arm, and Bernsen fought back a scream as his heart froze as solid as the ice that surrounded him.
II
15 th November 1815
Stephens Lake, Rupert’s Land, British North America
The man who was currently going by the name of John Wallace twisted his thick wrists against the ropes, searching for any looseness, and found none. He was not surprised; McTavish had done the binding, and the small, hard Scot had a way with a rope. Wallace had seen him truss up the skinned carcass of a deer in mere minutes, the animal still warm and wet with melted snow when it was slung across McTavish’s broad shoulders, the knots so constricting that barely a trickle of blood flowed from it.
“Dinnae try it, devil.”
Wallace looked up. McTavish was staring at him with narrow eyes that glowed orange in the light of the fire. He was holding his knife in a hand that was perfectly steady, despite the freezing cold. Beyond him, Wallace could see the pale face of Paterson; the younger man was huddled as near to the flames as he dared, his eyes full of fear. Standing guard at the edge of their camp, axes dangling at their sides, were Grant and Munro. Their gazes were fixed on the darkness of the forest, and he could see only their backs. Lying on a blanket, his eyes closed,
Agathe
would catch the humpbacks before they disappeared beneath the ice shelf and out of reach forever.
“Bring her about,” he said. “Make for home.”
Rolstad nodded, and stepped across to the wheel. Bernsen walked down from the quarterdeck, up to the prow, and stared at the horizon, not wanting to see the whales escape, but unable to tear his gaze away. He watched the male lift its tail from the water a final time, a gesture that seemed deliberately meant for him, and then the pod was gone, the last churned water of their passing lapping against the solid ice that stretched to the horizon, rising in ranges of distant mountains to the north and spreading out to the east and west in an impossibly vast landscape of white.
He was about to turn away when something caught his eye. It was a dark speck on one of the thousands of chunks of ice bobbing at the edge of the field, rising and falling with the ocean currents beneath them. It was no more than half a mile north of the
Agathe
, and the dark shape, whatever it was, seemed already too big to be a seal.
Bernsen felt the ship begin to turn to port. “Keep this course!” he shouted, and pointed a gloved hand at the dark blot on the landscape. The momentum changed beneath him as the ship came about, and he gripped the deck rail, keeping his eyes locked on the approaching slab of ice.
Rolstad appeared beside him. “What is it?” he asked.
“Something on the ice,” said Bernsen. “Straight ahead.”
“I see it.”
The
Agathe
crept forward, ice thudding against her hull in a constant drumbeat. The wind blew from the north, chilling Bernsen’s bones and making his eyes water. The tears froze almost instantly on his cheeks, and he wiped them away with the back of his gloved hand, trying to focus on the dark shape. It was close now, a spreadeagled smudge of black against the white ice. He watched in silence as it came closer and closer, unable to comprehend what he was seeing, his mind searching for an explanation.
“My God,” said Rolstad, his voice low. “Do you see?”
“I see,” said Bernsen. “I do not believe it, but I see.”
Lying on the floating chunk of ice was the motionless figure of a man, wrapped in layers of sealskin. He was huge, that much was clear, even lying down; his limbs were thick, and his head, hidden beneath a fur-lined hood, was large and rectangular. Bernsen stared down at the man, his mind racing.
What is any man doing this far north, alone? Was he part of Walton’s expedition? Did they abandon him here?
Then the man moved his arm, and Bernsen fought back a scream as his heart froze as solid as the ice that surrounded him.
II
15 th November 1815
Stephens Lake, Rupert’s Land, British North America
The man who was currently going by the name of John Wallace twisted his thick wrists against the ropes, searching for any looseness, and found none. He was not surprised; McTavish had done the binding, and the small, hard Scot had a way with a rope. Wallace had seen him truss up the skinned carcass of a deer in mere minutes, the animal still warm and wet with melted snow when it was slung across McTavish’s broad shoulders, the knots so constricting that barely a trickle of blood flowed from it.
“Dinnae try it, devil.”
Wallace looked up. McTavish was staring at him with narrow eyes that glowed orange in the light of the fire. He was holding his knife in a hand that was perfectly steady, despite the freezing cold. Beyond him, Wallace could see the pale face of Paterson; the younger man was huddled as near to the flames as he dared, his eyes full of fear. Standing guard at the edge of their camp, axes dangling at their sides, were Grant and Munro. Their gazes were fixed on the darkness of the forest, and he could see only their backs. Lying on a blanket, his eyes closed,
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