Afterlands, page 9
Kruger, carrying his own burden, about the size and weight of a baby but feeling heftier, walks back to the crewhut with Meyer tottering alongside, precariously tall, his long bony nose and spectacles downturned in thought. Last night over supper he informed the men that he is in fact a member of the Prussian aristocracy, no less than a count, with a family seat in Torgelow, as well as a former captain in the Prussian army (Kruger understood that he was a second lieutenant, who emigrated because there were no prospects for advancement). Count Meyer has decided to reclaim his noble lineage—which he was obliged to set aside, he says, when he came to America and joined the Army Signal Corps, as a sergeant—so that the men will have greater faith in his fitness to command.
Mostly the men seem inclined, or determined, to take him at his word. At first aboard the ship the German sailors spoke proudly of being immigrants to Amerika and already part of a U.S. expedition. Now, in extremity, they’re Germans betrayed and endangered by poor American leadership. In their own fear and hunger the Swede and Dane stand with them. Something is shifting. Even Herron and Jackson seem encouraged to have a man of natural authority here to guide and protect the group—and perhaps Jackson looks to Meyer for personal protection. He’s anxious about the men’s guns, which they now carry all the time. As a youth he survived the conscription riots in New York City, which produced the biggest and most lethal lynch mobs that the country would ever see, North or South. Jackson was raised in the South in a village of Free Blacks, near Asheville, his family fleeing north in 1860. As for Jackson’s own weapon, Anthing has claimed it: It is wrong if a cook have a rifle and a sailor but a pistol.
Meyer assures Jackson that he is better off unarmed.
Herron’s case is different. He has been allowed to keep his rifle. But he’s the kind who, with friendly nods, will accept a story like Meyer’s, not out of cowardice but out of kindness, a deep reluctance to deny or embarrass anyone. He’s the kind who will swallow a great deal to avert discord. Who may love harmony too much for his own good. Besides—as he confides to Kruger, his bedmate—to cross Meyer or the others now would be foolish, reckless. For now he may be right. Meanwhile Kruger hopes to use his position to exert some moderating influence.
He and Meyer approach the crewhut in the still, bitter air. Kruger switches arms, cradling the food higher so as to catch faint, perhaps imaginary, whiffs of the biscuit. He’s glad to perform this coveted task for Meyer. Everyone wants to see the rations allotted, to spend as much time as possible in the presence of Food.
Now Meyer pants in German: Last night I looked about me and reflected on what a rare opportunity our presence here affords!
The ice is lit dimly, gorgeously, by the aurora borealis, which Tukulito has told Kruger her people see as the spirits of those who have died by violence, with heavy loss of blood. Today the shivering involutions are coral, crimson, golden; is Meyer talking about the scenery?
Think of it! When ever have the descendants of so many different peoples been gathered in such a small space before? We have Esquimaux here, an African, an American, an Englishman, a Swede, a Dane, a Russian-German, and of course ourselves, Germans. What an opportunity for comparative observations, tests, measurements!
Meyer stops in his tracks, out of breath. The northern lights crawl slowly over his framed, upturned lenses. Odd to hear him speak of tests and measurements when he seems to have lost interest in his meteorological observations, rarely going outside with his sextant, or now and then just sending Herron and Kruger out with the thermometer and barometer. He does, however, spend more and more time jotting, rearranging, pondering the data.
… observations of the sort that Monsieur Gobineau was forced to travel far and wide to conduct! And of course he never did reach the Esquimaux … to say nothing of the Africans. …
I suspect you may find that folk starve in pretty much the same way, sir.
Ach, vielleicht nicht! We may well discover that the natives are naturally adapted to starvations of this sort … and should therefore actually receive a lesser ration than we.
Kruger glances back at Tukulito’s snowhut: gently flushed from within by the lamp.
Their work is keeping us alive, sir.
I bear them no ill will, Herr Kruger. I am simply after the truths of Nature. In any case it can do no harm to view Great Hall Island as a kind of … floating laboratory. Important scientific work, even a book, might emerge from such research … one to supplement, or perhaps improve upon, Count Gobineau’s work.
To speak frankly, sir, the Count’s work would best be improved by obliteration.
Ah, but you would think so! I’ve seen you reading your Voltaire! I suspect our privations out here are likely to alter your views, however. You served well in the Danish war, as did I. I know you remain a loyal German. … Ah, here.
Kruger helps Count Meyer down onto his knees so he can crawl into the hut. A loyal German. He emigrated to find a country as free as his father once hoped their own country might become, and has said as much to the others on several occasions, but Meyer doesn’t take him seriously. As if such a high concept is all very well, but Blood will sooner or later reclaim him.
Thanksgiving-day, Nov. 28. Having to live all the time on such scant rations keeps the subject of food constantly before one. It is one of the worst effects of our excessively “short allowance.” While the stomach is gnawing, and its empty sides grinding together, it is almost impossible to fix the mind clearly, for any length of time, upon anything else. The scenes that have passed before my eyes during the last weeks were, many of them, worthy of the best efforts of the most accomplished artist, and of description by a poet’s pen, but I have not the heart to enjoy or record them; for disgust at the way in which I have to live, and “command,” overpowers every other sentiment.
We saved the can of dried apples for Thanksgiving. My breakfast consisted of a small meat-can full of hot chocolate (it was not a very delicate “coffee-cup,” but I had used it before); two biscuits, of a size which takes ten to make a pound, with a few dried apples, eaten as they came out of the can. This was the “thanksgiving” part of the breakfast. To satisfy my hunger—fierce hunger—I was compelled to finish with eating strips of frozen seals’ entrails, and lastly sealskin—hair and all—just warmed over the lamp by Hannah, and frozen blubber; which tastes sweet to a man as hungry as I was. But I am thankful for what I do get—thankful that it is no worse. If only we can get enough of such food as this we can live, with the aid of our small stores, with economy, until April.
No doubt many who read this will exclaim, “I would rather die than eat such stuff!” You think so, no doubt; but people can’t die when they want to; and when one is still in full life and vigor, albeit as hungry as we are, he don’t want to die. Neither would you.
Evening. Tonight Joe and Hannah are sitting in front of the lamp, playing checkers on an old piece of canvas, the squares being marked out with my pencil. They use buttons for men, as they have nothing better. The natives easily learn any sort of game; some of them can even play a respectable game of chess; and cards they understand as well as the “heathen Chinee.” If only we had two small chairs or stools to go with the writing-desk! Then we could sit properly, and also I could write there. As it is, the desk merely takes up space that we can ill spare, at the end of the sleeping-ledge; but still I am determined to protect it—as is Hannah. Punnie, at least, derives some amusement from it, constantly putting things in and out of the smaller slots, and even making a truckle-bed for her doll in the larger ink-drawer, where it slumbers alongside Joe’s ammunition!
I have been thinking of home and family all day. I have been away many Thanksgivings before, but always with a sound keel under my feet, some clean, dry, decent clothes to put on, and without a thought of what I should have for dinner; for there was sure to be plenty, and good too. Never did I expect to spend a Thanksgiving without even a plank between me and the waters of Baffin Bay, and making my home with Esquimaux; but I have this to cheer me—that all my loved ones are in comfort and safety, if God has spared their lives; and as they do not know of my perilous situation, they will not have that to mar their enjoyment of the day. I hope they are well and happy. I wonder what they have had for dinner. It is not so hard to guess: a fifteen or sixteen pound turkey, boiled ham, and chicken-pie, with all sorts of fresh and canned vegetables; and celery, with nice white bread; and tea, coffee, and chocolate; then there will be plum-pudding, and three or four kinds of pies, and cheese; and perhaps some good sweet cider—perhaps some currant or raspberry wine; and then there will be plenty of apples, and oranges, and nuts, and raisins; and if my little son and his cousins have been to Sunday-school, they will have their little treasures, besides all their home presents spread out too. How I wish I could look in on them!
Well, I set down what I had for my Thanksgiving breakfast; I will give my bill of fare for my dinner also. For the four of us in this hut we had six biscuits, of the size above described; one pound of canned meat, one small can of corn, one small can of mock-turtle soup, making altogether a little over three pounds and a half, including the biscuit, for four persons; and this is an extra allowance, because it is Thanksgiving. Mixing all the above in one pan together, it was just warmed over the lamp, and our dinner was announced. Poor Punnie—the child is so famished that, while eating, she entirely forgot to “feed” her doll too, as she usually does.
Let us hope this feast may “satisfy” our thief, or thieves, for now; for the pilfering has certainly continued.
Talk and a laden table are ancient and natural partners. As the rations diminish, conversation in the crewhut grows sparser, more functional, less friendly. It’s as if all motions of the jaw, even those of speech, are just an extension of the act of chewing food.
Thanksgiving morning the crew might be expected to feel less sullen, more festive, because along with their usual chunk of hairy sealskin they’ve had parings of dried apple, two biscuits, a drink of lukewarm chocolate, and a jerky-like morsel of Gumbo the husky. But they’ve looked forward to this morning for too long. These bonuses only taunt them. Now Herron, with a rare frown, contemplates the small helping of seal’s intestine plunked in the middle of his bowl.
My father urged me to go to sea for the food.
A thoughtful silence is relieved by the sound of Lindermann, kneeling on the floor before the pemmican-tin piss-pot, rattling a stream into the tin. On his knees he is about the same height that Herron would be standing. His tiny head, perched on his bull-neck like a newel and capped with a tight lid of orange hair, grazes the dome. Over his shoulder he asks in a heavy bass: Also, Herry, do you English hold this Thanksgiving in your homeland?
When there was eatables enough on the table for the nine of us, we gave thanks.
Anthing brings a spoon down on his bare plate and snaps at Lindermann, Warum sprichst du Englisch? Haben wir nicht beschlossen, dass in unserem Schneehaus nur Deutsch gesprochen wird? Wir sind hier in der Mehrheit!
What’s that he says, Kru?
Taking the pipe from his mouth, Kruger leans close:
He says German is the language in this snowhut now. Ignore him.
I’ve no choice, Kru, I don’t sprechen-Sie.
Krüger! Was hast du gesagt?
Jackson quits stacking plates and peers around carefully at the white faces: Anthing bulging his reddened eyes at Kruger, Meyer perched on his new, private bed-ledge—about the size of a fireside settle—with withered legs crossed under him, his head stooped forward to accommodate the wall’s inward slope. His spectacles keep slipping down to the top of the yellowed moustache that hides his mouth. In English he says, It is, however, what the majority has agreed, Herr Krüger. Herr Herron alone among us speaks English as his first tongue.
What about the cook? says Kruger.
That’s right! says Jackson boldly, though ducking his head slightly at the same time.
The cook is the cook. He has his tasks. He need not speak at all.
Count Meyer, says Kruger.
You mean ’cause I’m so busy preparing all these here vittles, sir?
Meyer peeks over the top of his spectacles like a schoolmaster.
Are you being insubordinary, Mr Jackson?
He means because you are a nigger, says Anthing.
“African,” I think, would be a more correct term, Herr Anthing.
Jackson’s ginger-yellow skin reddens—darkens—as if to confirm his ancestry. This is the first time since the expedition started that anyone has said nigger, at least openly. Jackson has often said that he prefers working on ships—the men on whalers and so on, it’s like they forget the customs of shore just as soon as they pass the seabreak. A ship’s like a special island.
Herron speaks in a polite yet frankly puzzled tone: You’re saying then, Mr Meyer sir, I’m no longer to speak my own mother tongue?
Not Mister, says Anthing. He is Captain now. Or Count—Graf. I say this to you in English for a last time. And what of that book you have borrowed of Krüger? This must be in English also?
English is all I speak.
Voltaire’s Littlebig, says Kruger, teeth clamped on his pipe.
This also will be forbidden—is it not so, Count Meyer?
Meyer weighs this, frowning. And Kruger can no longer squelch his natural impulse to expose any truth being conspicuously ignored.
But … I understood Count Meyer was most recently a sergeant, not a captain.
Yes, sir, and in the United States Army! says Jackson. This is a U.S.A. expedition!
Shut up, Anthing tells Jackson.
Shut up! adds Jamka, as if translating.
Ah, but we are not aboard an American ship now, says Meyer, still calm, pushing his spectacles back up his nose with a clawlike finger. And I am in command here.
A moment’s silence. Then Kruger asks, Here in this hut? Or for the entire floe?
Meyer turns sharply to Kruger and again his glasses slide down. Apparently this very question already weighs on his mind. The pale and blond-lashed eyes seem exposed, undecided. He rubs his cracked, flaking hands together as if trying to thaw something between them. Kruger glances at the rolled foxskin pillow where the man stows his pistol.
Lieutenant Tyson has showed himself … (Meyer short of breath now) … Lieutenant Tyson now shows himself to be … unfitted for command. By training, by character, and by class. In any case, not without help. Certainly he is unfit for command of the majority here, which is German. For now, then, we must … we will consider the command as … as divided upon this island. Which henceforth is to be known as—New Heligoland!
Wir grüssen den Herrn Grafen! cries Jamka with wide and mesmerized eyes. Anthing repeats this slogan with better strength and a moment later Big Lindermann, frostbitten hands still fiddling with his flies, throws in his lot. Lundquist and Madsen then add their voices, though with the forced, tinny fervour of conscripts. Kruger hangs his head. His pipe has gone out again. Meyer studies him, then looks seriously at Anthing, and Kruger realizes that without a word he has been demoted. Meyer has already given up on him. Anthing is his new lieutenant.
Some nights later Tukulito is awakened by the sound of Punnie, who always sleeps nested between her and Ebierbing, whispering in her father’s ear: ataataa, ataataa! But he is exhausted from a long day’s luckless hunting, on quarter rations. Nothing will wake him up.
Utarannaakuluk, Tukulito says softly. Kaapiasukpiit?
Yes, Punnie admits, she is a little afraid; footsteps in the snow outside. It might be that tall pale Qallunaat with the glass eyes!
Tukulito knows Mr Meyer is now too weak for night roamings, but somebody else might be outside to use the sheltered hole that they all squat over less and less often. It is not the lieutenant—she can feel his body warmth close behind her and hear his whistling snores and teeth-grinding muffled under the bedskins.
But everyone is asleep, Tukulito says, drawing Punnie into her; Punnie in turn draws her ragged little qitunngaujak, Elisapee, into her. You sleep now too, says Tukulito.
There it is again, Anaana!
I hear nothing.
Maybe it’s Nuliajuk, bumping the ice from below!
Nuliajuk does not trouble Christian people. Sleep now, little love.
Or maybe Satan-ee! Punnie adds in English.
The crewmen begin yelling in their various tongues. Tukulito sits up, shoving off the layered robes. She shakes Ebierbing’s shoulder. The child seems no more or less frightened than she was before the commotion began. She whispers, Nuliajuk has come up through the ice, Anaana! She’s eating them!
Lieutenant Tyson? Tukulito calls, switching tongues. Kindly wake up, sir.
He shudders and sits up, his eyes big in the darkness, teeth chattering. What is that? Are the men fighting?
She slips off the bed-ledge in her woollen nightdress—fawn, with its lace-trimmed collar and sleeves, the one, cherished article of southern clothing that she is still using—and drapes the bed-robes back over Punnie. I should think a bear means to eat them, sir, she says. She yanks Ebierbing’s feet out from under the robes and into the cold air, calling firmly: Husband! She slips into her kamiks. The lieutenant is on the rim of the ledge trying to pull on his own high kamiks. The crew continue to scream and now there is another curious sound … sneezing? Then a frail voice addressing itself to Ebierbing, Hans, Lieutenant Tyson. Help us!
She had told her husband she considered it a mistake to kill and eat the last dog.
Ebierbing! she calls.
He sits up. Suna?
Even in the dark she can tell he is not truly and capably awake. Those who are most fully, perfectly awake in the daytime are the most perfectly asleep at night. A needle cry from the crewmen’s iglu—the steward, she thinks—and this time it is a cry of pain as well as terror. She pulls out the ink drawer of Father Hall’s writing-desk and takes a bullet from her husband’s loonskin pouch and without donning her fur pants or amautik she crawls out through the entryway where he keeps his rifle and grabs it and stands up outside. The dense, pulsing stars and a bruise green ribbing of aurora borealis thinly light the floe: fifty paces away the emaciated he-bear hunches over the shattered iglu, digging down with his forepaw as if for a wounded seal through the ice. Disembodied arms stick out through the walls, frantically groping for the rifles picketed around it. It looks odd, funny, as if the men are trying to escape through the iglu walls—to pull themselves through into the open. Loading the rifle, Tukulito kneels. One of those reaching arms has just found and dragged a gun into the iglu. The steward is screaming louder. She takes aim. A second rifle is pulled inside. The bear dips his long head, probing deeper still. The head comes back up. Again she aims, then pulls the trigger. The snapping report has an instantaneous echo, as if resounding off a cliff face near by, and for a moment she believes that a high berg, or even the coast of Ellesmere Land, is upon them; then realizes that somebody in the iglu has fired as well. Hit twice from different angles the bear straightens abruptly, as if hearing with astonishment somebody calling his true and secret name, then flops heavily backward onto the ice, head to the side, tongue lolling.
