The White Voyage

  Mouritzen assumed Olsen had not seen all that had taken place. He said:

  ‘It was Mrs Jones. She was trapped under it.’

  He pointed to where she lay with Jones holding her.

  ‘Two people pulled her clear,’ Olsen said. ‘They could see to her. The sledge was your responsibility.’

  Mouritzen realized the truth of this. He said:

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. But I could only think of the woman.’

  ‘Even if there was no one to get her out, the sledge still came first. You should have left her there until I came.’

  ‘She might have been dying.’

  Olsen turned away from him. ‘And through your stupidity, we might all die.’

  Josef and Mama Simanyi came to them. Josef said:

  ‘She is all right, I think. The sledge – can we get it back from the water?’

  ‘Get your rod,’ Olsen said, ‘and fish for it.’

  Josef stared down into the depths; the water was like black crystal. It was possible to see several feet down, but there was no sign of the bottom, or the sledge.

  Mama Simanyi said: ‘The food.’

  Olsen turned to her, his face intent. ‘What was on that sledge?’

  ‘Before, I packed things equally. But today you said not to waste time with that. There is some food on the other sledge – not much.’

  ‘The tents!’ Olsen said. ‘How were they packed?’

  She nodded towards the dyke. ‘One on that.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Ours, I think. Yes, I am sure.’

  ‘The smaller one lost,’ Olsen said. ‘Better than the other – or both. And the Primus stoves?’

  ‘There was one on each sledge. But …’

  She hesitated. Olsen asked sharply: ‘What?’

  ‘The paraffin is all on the one which sank. There was a confusion over that.’

  Olsen stayed silent, and his silence seemed to bind them all with it. He walked across to the Joneses.

  ‘How is she now? Can she walk?’

  Jones said: ‘She can’t walk. It hurts when she moves at all.’

  ‘Then we change our plans,’ Olsen said. ‘She must ride on the other sledge. It will not be very comfortable, because the sledge is loaded already, but it is the only thing possible.’ He turned briefly to Mary. ‘We will take it in turns to carry the little one on our shoulders.’

  Annabel said: ‘I can walk. I don’t mind walking.’

  Olsen smiled slightly. ‘But piggy-back is better, is it not?’ There was a shifting of the ice again; they all felt it. ‘First we get to land,’ Olsen went on, ‘before worse happens. You and I will carry your wife up to the other sledge.’ He called to the others: ‘Pick up what is fallen. Not much, I guess, but everything is of value.’

  ‘I’ll carry her,’ Jones said.

  She gave a little cry of pain as he picked her up, and then was silent, her arms round his neck. Olsen went with him up the slope to the remaining sledge. The others salvaged the items that had been scattered on the ice. Mouritzen picked up a shovel and an emergency chocolate ration.

  Olsen said: ‘We repack this sledge so Mrs Jones can ride on it. But quickly. We must get clear of the ice.’

  They began stripping the sledge. Jones lowered Sheila gently and knelt by her, supporting her. Looking at her, he did not see Thorsen who, last of the party, now appeared over the brow of the slope. He was carrying the typewriter case.

  ‘Good news for you,’ Thorsen said. Jones looked up, and Thorsen tapped the case. ‘This was thrown clear, too. Battered a little, but it is safe.’ He smiled. ‘You will still be able to write your book, Mr Jones.’

  * * *

  Immediately offshore the ice was badly broken, and Sheila had to be taken off and carried over the obstacles. They ceased quite suddenly. Instead of the hummocks and ridges and jagged pinnacles, untroubled snow curved up in a long, gentle slope to an escarpment with hills behind it.

  ‘Land,’ Olsen said. ‘We have walked across the Arctic Ocean – some of it. Now we are in Greenland.’

  ‘I have known greener,’ Josef said.

  Jones said: ‘Can we camp here for the night?’

  The sky was very dark grey, but still held a fair amount of light. Olsen looked at his watch. ‘Not yet. It is not yet three.’

  Jones said: ‘My wife – she’s in pain. She must have a rest from the jolting.’

  ‘There will be less jolting now. The sledge will travel easier over snow.’

  ‘She needs complete rest.’

  Olsen looked at him. ‘I will give her such rest, if I can. But I must think of all. We have lost much of our food, one of the tents, the paraffin. We are on land but a long way from help. And I think snow may come.’

  He turned to the others. ‘We continue. Now we will make better speed, eh?’

  Mouritzen walked beside him. The snow surface was soft in places and Olsen, with his short legs, had difficulty in floundering through these patches.

  ‘Where do you think we are?’ he asked him. ‘Greenland – that is a lot of territory.’

  ‘There is a fjord system north of Scoresby. A lot of islands – I think we are on one of them.’

  ‘We have to cross water again?’

  ‘They will be frozen – frozen enough to cross, anyway.’

  ‘How far are we from Scoresby?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty kilometres. Maybe a little more.’

  ‘Six days?’

  ‘If we find the way through the hills.’ Olsen looked up at the sky. ‘And if the weather holds.’

  ‘How much food is left?’

  ‘We will discover that when we make camp tonight.’ His face was grim. ‘That will be soon enough to think about it.’

  The foreshore ran straight for a time, and then began to curve to the west. Olsen called a halt, and peered through the field-glasses into the deepening shadows of the southern sky.

  He pointed. ‘Our course lies that way.’

  Josef shook his head. ‘Across the ice again? I think it will be better to stay on land now we are here.’

  ‘There are hills there,’ Olsen said, ‘and Scoresby is beyond the hills. This is not open sea, but a fjord. But I think we will not cross it today. Tonight we stay here.’

  Stefan’s voice, itself startled, startled the others.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘over there! There are men on the ice.’

  They stared where he was pointing. In the distance, dark figures moved. Half a dozen; perhaps more.

  Puzzled, Mama Simanyi asked: ‘Are they lying down?’

  Olsen laughed. ‘Lying down,’ he said. ‘Diving in the water, catching fish. They do not feel the cold and wet because they wear seal skins.’

  The disappointment brought home to them still more strongly their isolation in this barren land. They stood staring across at the seals until Olsen rallied them.

  ‘We will make camp,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we cross the fjord. In a few days we will eat biksemad in Scoresby.’

  * * *

  There had not been much spare room in the tent for six men; with the addition of the four women and Annabel there was none at all. A little space was made by having them all, except Sheila, huddle together at one end, while Mama Simanyi and Olsen made an inventory of the remaining stock of food.

  The result was discouraging. Olsen announced the details in a dry, even tone.

  ‘Oats, four kilos. Chocolate, nine hundred grams. Biscuits, about two and a half kilos. Butter, nil. Cocoa, maybe five hundred grams. Dried milk, three cans. Sugar, three and a half kilos. Two cans of beef, a few onions, a can of potato powder, a can of pineapple in syrup. That is everything.’

  Josef said: ‘And we cannot cook it either.’

  ‘By the previous standard of ration,’ Olsen said, ‘there is six day’s supply of oats, and no butter or margarine at all. Of other foods, varying quantities, but not much biscuit or chocolate, and very little meat.’

  ‘Two cans,’ Stefan s
aid. ‘I could eat them myself, right away.’

  ‘Mama,’ Olsen said, ‘tonight we will open one of the cans, but half you will save for tomorrow. The other half you can divide into eleven pieces. It is not so much, but something. Six biscuits each – they are not very big, I am sorry. And if you melt some snow, you can put a little water with cocoa and sugar and make a paste to go on the biscuits. And some more water can be mixed with the oats and sugar and dried milk. Perhaps not so tasty, but it will nourish.’

  ‘How do we melt the snow?’ she inquired.

  ‘I grow stupid,’ Olsen said. ‘If we bring some in, the heat from our bodies will melt it by morning. But morning is not now. How much water have we?’

  She held a flask up and shook it. ‘Maybe half a litre here; and as much in the other, I guess.’

  ‘We need that for drinking.’ Olsen rubbed his chin. ‘And if there is any to spare, I will shave myself. So no paste tonight. We must eat the oats dry, with a little sugar. And you can mix up cocoa, milk and sugar, and we will have two spoonfuls each.’

  Stefan said dolefully: ‘We will not grow fat on this diet.’

  ‘There will be time to grow fat,’ Olsen said. ‘Just now it is enough to keep alive.’

  Thorsen gestured towards the pile of provisions.

  He said: ‘There is some more food than you have counted there.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In the haversack that the bear carried.’

  Nadya said angrily: ‘That is Katerina’s food. She carried it. It is hers, and there is little enough.’

  Olsen stretched his hand out. ‘Give it to me, Nadya. Jorgen is right.’

  She shook her head. ‘It is Katerina’s.’

  His voice deepened slightly. ‘Give it to me.’ She stared at him in sullen refusal. ‘You fool!’ he said. ‘Do you think this is a game? Do you not understand that, unless the food lasts till we can get help, we must eat the bear itself?’

  She had put the haversack just outside the tent. She nodded slowly.

  ‘All right. I will get it.’

  She put her boots on and went outside. Already, in so short a time, the tent had become stuffy, and she breathed the fresh night air with relief. A brown hump showed where Katerina had curled up in the snow. Nadya made a whistling sound through her teeth, and the bear sat up, shaking herself. Nadya had given her supper before retiring to the tent; now, tearing open the haversack, she reached inside. She grabbed in haste, and threw an assortment of things across the snow: some carrots, a couple of apples, and a handful of biscuits.

  ‘Eat while you can,’ she said. ‘The rest they steal.’

  Katerina moved in a leisurely fashion to retrieve the items that had been tossed to her. Nadya picked up the haversack and stooped down to get into the tent. She hesitated, straightened up again, and fished once more inside the bag. She took out a can of syrup, prised off the lid, and walked with it to Katerina. She put the open can down on the snow.

  ‘You are a faithful bear,’ she said. ‘Perhaps too faithful. I think you should not stay longer – they talk of eating you.’

  Going back to the tent she saw a face looking out: Thorsen’s. She pushed him aside to get in, and threw the haversack to Olsen.

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘She has taken some out,’ Thorsen said, ‘and given it to the bear. A full can of syrup.’

  Nadya smiled mockingly. ‘I fatten her for the feast. She will taste better for that can of syrup.’

  Olsen emptied out the haversack. ‘Carrots, apples, three oranges, biscuits, more oats, a little chocolate,’ he said. He held a packet up curiously. ‘And these?’

  ‘Dried bananas,’ Nadya said.

  ‘I did not find them in the ship’s pantry,’ Mama Simanyi said.

  ‘I looked first.’ Nadya shrugged. ‘But Katerina did not like them much.’

  * * *

  Most of the blankets had been on the sledge they still had; crowded into the one tent as they were, they did not, after a time, miss the heat the Primus stoves would have given. Mouritzen, Mary and Annabel were at one end, with Nadya next to them. Mama Simanyi and Jones were on either side of Sheila; beyond Jones lay Thorsen, and then Stefan and Josef. Olsen had the end position on that side.

  They lay and talked quietly in the darkness; the awareness of Sheila lying injured had a sobering effect. She had refused to eat anything, despite urging. She seemed to have no bones broken, but was painfully sensitive in the region of the spleen. She said there was very little pain as long as she lay still; watching her face in unguarded moments, Jones had not been sure that he believed that.

  The evening that was also night dragged on. Jones held Sheila’s hand, and talked to her in a low voice. Mostly he talked about the future: the flat in Rio, high above the city, looking out on the Sugarloaf and the sea, the warmth and gaiety, the golden beaches, the cafés … She listened and answered him from time to time. Once, when he paused, she said: ‘I love you, I love you,’ and their hands pressed together as though for the first time, as though everything was still ahead.

  Gradually sleep claimed her, and Jones drifted into sleep in turn. He woke some time later and, in an unreasoning panic, thought she had stopped breathing: her body, against his own, seemed stiff and immobile. He sat up and, in the dark, put his face close to hers; the relief of feeling her breath against his cheek was exhilarating. Punching his coat into a more comfortable pillow, he lay down again.

  A moment or two later, Thorsen whispered:

  ‘You awake, Henry?’

  He whispered back: ‘Yes. What is it?’

  Their heads were close together. ‘Henry,’ Thorsen said. ‘Henry what?’

  He said: ‘I don’t understand.’ A chill of fear touched him. ‘You know my name.’

  ‘Jones,’ Thorsen said. ‘A good name, Jones. Like Nielsen, in Denmark. The kind of name that does not stand out, that draws no attention.’

  Jones made no reply. Thorsen went on:

  ‘Don’t go to sleep, Mr Jones. I want to have a little talk. If we whisper quietly, no one will hear us.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ Jones said. ‘I’ll show you my passport in the morning.’

  ‘That’s right. Talk quietly. I’ve already seen your passport, Mr Jones. I look into these things. It tells me something. It tells me you are a clever man, a man who arranges things in advance, who makes plans. It is not too hard to get a new passport in a new name. Maybe you put a new wife on the new passport, too?’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense.’

  There was silence; long enough for Jones to begin to hope that Thorsen had been bluffing, and that his bluff was called. Then the thin voice said:

  ‘I listened to you and Mrs Jones talking. I heard a little bit of it now and then.’

  ‘However much you eavesdropped,’ Jones said, ‘you didn’t hear anything that it would have mattered if the whole tent heard.’

  ‘Montevideo,’ Thorsen said. ‘I was there once. That’s a great place. I guess you will have a good time with Mrs Jones in Montevideo. You know what – I wouldn’t mind going along with you?’

  Jones said nothing.

  ‘Don’t go to sleep,’ Thorsen said. ‘I think you will be happy in Montevideo. But I will not come with you. Three is a crowd – that’s an English saying, is it not? Anyway, I cannot leave my mother for too long. She is a fine old lady, but strict. If I went to Montevideo, she would come after me. It would spoil the fun.’

  He paused. ‘I guess I have a lot of commitments in Denmark. Expenses, too. The things I like cost a lot of money. You can understand that, Mr Jones. The cheap stuff is no good when one has a taste for the best. You and I like the same kind of things, Mr Jones.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  They lay face to face, conspiratorial, almost like lovers. Thorsen gave a thin chuckle.

  ‘But we do. You like money, and I like money. Have you looked at your typewriter since it fell off the sledge?’

  ‘No.’


  ‘That was lucky, it falling off like that. At first I thought it had gone down with the rest. I tell you, I felt bad about that. I was curious about that typewriter from the start, having a big new lock on it. And when you insisted to bring it with us, I knew it was a valuable machine. Maybe you are worried in case so valuable a machine got damaged when it was thrown off on the ice?’

  Outside the tent the sound of the ice was farther off and muffled, but the wind howled loudly. Jones lay quietly, waiting for his tormentor to continue.

  ‘It got a bit damaged,’ Thorsen said. ‘I think it hit a hard piece of ice. The lock broke. You don’t have to worry, though. It still shuts. And tomorrow I will tie a piece of rope round to make sure it doesn’t fly open by accident. I know some good knots. I can tie one no one else will be able to undo.’

  He drew in breath and sighed it out. ‘I will help you look after that typewriter, Mr Jones. When I saw the lock was broken, I looked inside. That’s a good model. I like that model. You and I will take good care of it the rest of the journey.’

  Jones said: ‘If I choose to carry currency in a typewriter case, that’s my affair. It has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘And nothing to do with the Customs Officer, when you came aboard the Kreya? I guess the Customs people would be interested to ask you questions over it. Maybe the police would be interested, too. But you are right – that’s your business. I will help you look after it till we get to Scoresby. I think you will pay me something for helping.’

  ‘How much?’

  Thorsen chuckled again. ‘We will think about that. It is hard to decide right now. If it is only the Customs, fifty-fifty might be fair. But if it is the police as well … We will talk about that another time, Mr Jones. In the morning. Now we go to sleep. You dream of Montevideo. I will find something to dream about also.’

  * * *

  Mouritzen woke when he was kicked in the stomach by a small foot. The figure that had nestled between him and Mary wriggled. He said:

  ‘What is it, Annabel?’