The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice (18 page)

Straightaway, the
Chloe 4
fell behind.

The other boats – their crews calling challenges to each other, and their lieutenants loudly wagering silver coins – quickly raised sail and dashed off on the northwest tack. But Samson dithered nervously with setting the
Chloe
4's
sails, and even after they were raised, kept changing his orders about their reefing and trimming. Dow too was at a loss initially; the rudder was more sensitive than he was used to, and the bow was more liable to turn than the
Maelstrom's
had been. Between his own inexperience and Samson's, their early progress was a lurching succession of accidental jibes and near broaches into the wind. And all the while the other boats skipped further ahead, the laughter of their crews fading in the distance.

Eventually, however, Dow began to get a feel for the new craft – it was a less stable vessel than the
Maelstrom,
but one, thanks to its more complex rigging, with greater power and manoeuvrability, especially close to the wind. He could imagine that the cutter would make for some fine sailing indeed – if only someone other than Samson was in charge.

On top of his indecision, the lieutenant seemed to have no natural instinct at all about boat handling. It was obvious to Dow that they should be steering closer to the wind than they were, and that the sails were drawn much too taut, so that air was spilling from them uncaptured. But when Dow tried to bring the bow around a little, Samson rebuked him sharply – and Dow could issue no commands about the sails, even though Alfons was grinning at him when the lieutenant wasn't looking.

‘First signal, Excellency,' said one of the other sailors, who had been given the task of watching back to the
Chloe.

Far ahead the leading boat was turning west now, dropping a sealed bottle – painted red – in its wake. With a sinking heart, Dow saw that it was Diego's boat. He was sure he even glimpsed Diego himself staring back to laugh at how far Samson and Dow had fallen behind ...

It was embarrassing. Dow had pictured this race many times in his head, and in those imagined encounters he had always triumphed. In some of them, a desperate Diego had even resorted to cheating – and still Dow had always beaten him! But it wasn't happening that way at all in reality. Diego didn't need to cheat – he was winning easily, and fairly.

And so it went for that whole first trial. At each marker, the
Chloe 4
wallowed further behind the rest of the flotilla, and Dow's frustrations mounted helplessly, for there was nothing he could do about it. They were a full mile astern of the others when they turned back for the
Chloe
at last, and by the time Samson navigated to the battleship's side, the first three boats had already long finished and been hauled back on board.

On deck, Dow and his crew found Diego collecting winnings from his admiring fellow lieutenants. ‘Never fear, Samson,' Diego called happily, pocketing the silver coins, ‘no one expects
you
to wager anything. It wouldn't be sporting, after all – not with
two
beginners in your boat.' Samson blushed red.

And if Diego's glee wasn't bad enough, Dow saw that Vincente was on the high deck, watching on. What would the captain think of such inept sailing? But worst of all was Nell. She was at the high deck rail, hands jammed in her pockets, a fond smile curled amid the scars of her face as she gazed down at Diego.

Dow's mood sank lower. He felt that he'd been tricked. He suspected now that Nell's taunting of Diego in the Great Cabin had been but a ploy to stiffen Diego's resolve and make him sail all the better – and to make all the bigger fool of the New Island boy.

‘Or perhaps Samson was slowed by something dragging behind,' Diego was laughing now to his friends. ‘Like a New Island fishing net …'

Humiliated and disgusted, Dow fled below.

The next day they did it all over again, and then every day after that for a further week. The exercises varied; sometimes the cutters were set a simple course to sail, as on the first day, other times they were made to perform more complex manoeuvres, like retrieving men fallen overboard, or righting the boat from a deliberate capsize. But whatever the task, in the end it was always a race back to the
Chloe
, and day after day, to Dow's mortification, Diego's boat was the victor. There was no disputing it, no matter how much Dow would've liked to; the Valdez lieutenant was a fine small-craft sailor.

Samson was not – nor did he show any signs of ever becoming so. Each morning he set out seemingly intent upon mastering his boat and the sea, but by each exercise's end he had retreated into a thwarted silence, leaving the crew to fend for themselves. Dow's own performance improved enough to ensure that they were never again beaten as badly as the first time, but even so they always finished last – and then Dow would have to endure not only Diego's victorious preening, but also the galling sight of Nell's superior smile from the high deck, in testimony to her suitor's triumphs.

The exercises continued no matter the weather or the seas – and indeed, these both worsened as the
Chloe
pushed steadily north. The sky clouded over and the wind stiffened until it was a constant thing, whipping and moaning across the ocean. The smaller chop of the first few days was gradually swallowed by greater waves that reared from all quarters and then sank away again without breaking, but with foam frothing even so from their broad crests. They were no particular threat or hindrance to the
Chloe,
but they loomed impressive and forbidding from the low seats of the cutters.

The sun, if it was seen at all through the overcast, climbed lower in the southern sky each day, and the cold deepened, both of the air and of the sea. Already, the water was so chill that a man could not hope to survive long should he fall in; the exercises for men overboard were thus carried out with an urgency that was entirely real. When Dow took his turn at jumping from the
Chloe
4
he was astonished at how the shock stole his breath away, and at how quickly the water sapped the strength from his limbs. He had to be hauled back on board like a giant infant. Afterwards, only the heat of the forge in the smithy seemed to truly warm him through again.

But despite the deepening cold and the darkening days and the regular insult of Diego's victories, these were in fact the most satisfying times Dow had yet known at sea. Partly it was because he finally had a purpose on board, after so many weeks of idleness, and partly it was the simple pleasure he found in sailing a small swift craft in open waters, no matter how clumsy its commander. But mostly it was the ocean itself, and the sheer majesty and desolation that was revealed in it, the further north the
Chloe
sailed.

It was a sea that now seemed incapable of calmness, where the sky was never blue and where the wind was never less than a gale; an ocean in which even a travelled ship like the
Chloe
was a stranger. It was frightening, such vastness and hostility, but it was beautiful too, and sometimes Dow would stand for hours on the main deck, shivering in his timberman's jacket, soaked by spray or by rain, but unable to look away.

This
was what he had left his home to behold …

It was also during the trials that Dow saw his first sea monster.

The encounter took place on the last afternoon of the exercises. Fidel had set the cutters a course roaming far out eastwards from the
Chloe
– almost beyond sight – before turning back. And it was at that turning point, with the
Chloe 4
already well behind the other three craft, the race lost yet again, that Alfons suddenly pointed further to the east, and shouted, ‘Lieutenant – look!'

A mile or so off, appearing and then disappearing as the grey waves rose and fell, something huge rolled low in the water.

Samson peered uncertainly. ‘Is it a whale?'

The poet nodded. ‘A big one – but dead, maybe.' The old sailor was squinting hard. ‘At least, there's
something
wrong with it …' Dow watched the shape intently. It was long and black, streaked with white discolorations, and big enough that surf broke across it, but due to the distance and the intervening waves, it was impossible to tell more. Without thinking he said, ‘We have to get closer!'

Samson gave an annoyed glance – but it was clear that his own curiosity was roused. He looked west to the far-off
Chloe,
and to the other cutters already well advanced on their homeward leg. ‘I suppose it hardly matters now. And the captain would want us to investigate.'

They came about and made for the object. Its true size became ever more apparent, the closer they approached. Dow caught glimpses of immense flippers, and a mighty tail – but they were lifeless, merely flopping back and forth as the thing rolled sluggishly in the swell.

‘It's a whale sure enough,' said Alfons. ‘An old bull, by the look. Must be a hundred and fifty feet long. I reckon he's come up here to die – no other reason he'd be so far north at this time of year.'

Dow stared on. So this was a whale – one of the great beasts that men hunted for oil, in the faraway southern seas around the Twin Isles. To think, that such a mighty creature could be caught and killed by mere men! But he could see so little; they must get closer still.

But suddenly Alfons was yelling, his voice high with terror. ‘Turn back! Turn back! Excellency, look! Ropes! White ropes!'

The effect was instantaneous; panic gripped the boat, the men rearing back convulsively in their seats, as if to get as far as they could from the whale in front of them. ‘Come about!' Samson was shrieking at Dow, the fear naked in his voice. ‘Come about, you fool!'

Dow did as he was told, but he didn't understand. White ropes? What did that mean? What was wrong with everyone?

‘Does anyone see any?' Samson asked feverishly. ‘Keep watch now! Knives at the ready, and sing out at a sighting.'

The men were all staring over the side, their faces alert with trepidation. Dow looked too, but saw only empty water. He turned to stare back at the whale. And now, finally, he discerned a disturbing thing. What he'd thought were white markings on the whale's skin were in fact long, rope-like tendrils. There were dozens of them draped across the carcass, stuck fast seemingly, and each of them leading down to vanish in the sea.

‘What is it?' he asked, whispering almost, for such was the tension in the boat. ‘What's happening?'

‘There is a Rope Fish below us,' uttered Samson.

The name meant nothing to Dow, but there was no mistaking the dread in Samson's tone, or in the other men's eyes. They sailed on in silence, the whale falling further behind. Dow could feel the fear lessening slightly around him, and finally Alfons looked up from the water long enough to note Dow's puzzlement.

‘You do not know of this thing?' the poet enquired. He gave a shuddering breath. ‘Then do not be misled by its harmless sounding name. There are few things more vile and deadly in all the ocean.'

Dow glanced back to the whale, scarcely visible now. ‘All those ropes – they're part of the one creature?'

‘Aye – although what the whole creature looks like, no one can say for certain; at best, men have glimpsed a great shapeless bulk in the depths, far below, like some monstrous jellyfish grown beyond all reason, vaster than any ship. That, and tentacles; a Rope Fish has hundreds or even thousands of them, reaching up. They're thin, but supple and grasping, and stronger than any ship's cable. They drift upon the ocean's surface like seaweed, but woe be to any craft or beast that strays into their clutches.' The old sailor addressed his fellows, ‘Look sharp now. Any hint of white, yell out!'

‘It will drag us down?' Dow asked.

It was Samson who answered. ‘Nay – the Rope Fish does not kill so quickly or so mercifully. Indeed, some scholars say that it does not mean to kill at all, that it merely takes hold of its victims for buoyancy's sake, so that it may drift all the easier in the depths. It's likely that the whale was already dead, or dying, before the Rope Fish took hold of it – for a dead whale floats much as does a ship. But by intent or not, the Fish's embrace is lethal. For once one tentacle has taken hold, hundreds will follow, and they cannot be pried loose. They will reach up over the side and smother a ship, preventing it from setting sail and thus holding it fast upon the ocean.'