oyster shell. They took to late nights, lingering in the saloon. Life became one long, timeless afternoon. There were always more stories, and when reminiscence failed, there was another hand to be played, the same songs to sing, the jokes at Compton-Hill’s expense which never seemed
to pall (and which the boy, to his credit, took with patient condescension).
If living in such proximity was ever an irritant, then Edward does not betray it, although his diary is filled with solitudes — and he had, after all, his private berth to retreat to, while the crew slept four to a cabin. He was often to be found out on the ice alone. Miles from the ship, he would imagine himself free as he sped over the ice on snowshoes, or pulled by the dogs that at last, after months of practice, did his bidding. At the end of every day, after the turning back that he must always wrench his mind around to (it would be so easy to go on, and on, the ice so flat, less than five hundred miles now), he would lie on his bed and feel the pull in his thighs still, and let his body speed in his dreams through the night. The ship edged north, slipped back, drifted west. The light, everywhere, reflected off the surface and suffused what should have been shadowed. As the summer drew on and the ice broke up, they began to see the tell-tale dark cast of water against the flat sky, and could sail at a stretch across occasional polynya, the wide lakes an inky shock in the expanse of pastel white. Travel on foot across the ice became impossible; even a short distance from the ship could prove fatal if the current parted the floes, stranding the hapless walker on a tiny drifting island.
Come late August, twilight and the ice closed in again upon them. Persephone groaned, but would not crumple. By crunching, painful degrees, they edged onward. Every other day, the measure was taken, with compass, quadrant and watch. Edward marked their route on the map, a scribble of increments which crossed and recrossed. He was frustrated, but not concerned; he had seen the same tangled knot of progress, drift and backslide in other men’s accounts, and he did not doubt he would reach the Pole. It seemed to him that since he was a child in the nursery he had been toddling on uncertain legs
towards it, waiting to grow strong. He could not remember a time when this desire did not consume him. Had he joined the navy only for this reason? It seemed so to him now. Others had set out for the north in the service of ambition, to advance up the ranks; for him, the career itself was a means to the end of this sole purpose. He would reach it; he must.
But what of Emily? Was there room in his heart for her? She was always in his thoughts, at his side. Her passion met his own, spurred it on; she kindled to his ambition and her flame kept his burning through every long night. Every night, when he lay down to dream and let his mind loose on the ice, he was striving towards her, where she waited at the Pole. In the ship’s log, he never uses her name. He wrote no long laments at her absence; it haunts every line, as if she is just at his back as he sits at his desk, a hand upon his shoulder as if it were their drawing room, not some cubby-hole on the border of the civilized, the known and charted world.
All through the pages of 1900, all the long year, he makes his promise to her: ‘I shall surely reach it; it is within grasp.’
If a man repeats his conviction daily, how could his belief be doubted? How, indeed, could it fail to come true?
And the year was passing for Emily, too, with no promise of adventure. She did her best to take pleasure in the daily round of visiting and strolling in the garden and gracious welcomes. She was cheerful and bright and helpful, doing what she could to assist Arabella in the running of the house, taking on her share of invitations to tea. Her laugh was attractive, she had gained confidence, maturity, composure. She was at all times exceedingly
to pall (and which the boy, to his credit, took with patient condescension).
If living in such proximity was ever an irritant, then Edward does not betray it, although his diary is filled with solitudes — and he had, after all, his private berth to retreat to, while the crew slept four to a cabin. He was often to be found out on the ice alone. Miles from the ship, he would imagine himself free as he sped over the ice on snowshoes, or pulled by the dogs that at last, after months of practice, did his bidding. At the end of every day, after the turning back that he must always wrench his mind around to (it would be so easy to go on, and on, the ice so flat, less than five hundred miles now), he would lie on his bed and feel the pull in his thighs still, and let his body speed in his dreams through the night. The ship edged north, slipped back, drifted west. The light, everywhere, reflected off the surface and suffused what should have been shadowed. As the summer drew on and the ice broke up, they began to see the tell-tale dark cast of water against the flat sky, and could sail at a stretch across occasional polynya, the wide lakes an inky shock in the expanse of pastel white. Travel on foot across the ice became impossible; even a short distance from the ship could prove fatal if the current parted the floes, stranding the hapless walker on a tiny drifting island.
Come late August, twilight and the ice closed in again upon them. Persephone groaned, but would not crumple. By crunching, painful degrees, they edged onward. Every other day, the measure was taken, with compass, quadrant and watch. Edward marked their route on the map, a scribble of increments which crossed and recrossed. He was frustrated, but not concerned; he had seen the same tangled knot of progress, drift and backslide in other men’s accounts, and he did not doubt he would reach the Pole. It seemed to him that since he was a child in the nursery he had been toddling on uncertain legs
towards it, waiting to grow strong. He could not remember a time when this desire did not consume him. Had he joined the navy only for this reason? It seemed so to him now. Others had set out for the north in the service of ambition, to advance up the ranks; for him, the career itself was a means to the end of this sole purpose. He would reach it; he must.
But what of Emily? Was there room in his heart for her? She was always in his thoughts, at his side. Her passion met his own, spurred it on; she kindled to his ambition and her flame kept his burning through every long night. Every night, when he lay down to dream and let his mind loose on the ice, he was striving towards her, where she waited at the Pole. In the ship’s log, he never uses her name. He wrote no long laments at her absence; it haunts every line, as if she is just at his back as he sits at his desk, a hand upon his shoulder as if it were their drawing room, not some cubby-hole on the border of the civilized, the known and charted world.
All through the pages of 1900, all the long year, he makes his promise to her: ‘I shall surely reach it; it is within grasp.’
If a man repeats his conviction daily, how could his belief be doubted? How, indeed, could it fail to come true?
And the year was passing for Emily, too, with no promise of adventure. She did her best to take pleasure in the daily round of visiting and strolling in the garden and gracious welcomes. She was cheerful and bright and helpful, doing what she could to assist Arabella in the running of the house, taking on her share of invitations to tea. Her laugh was attractive, she had gained confidence, maturity, composure. She was at all times exceedingly
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