A Haunting in the Arctic by C. J. Cooke

Author:C. J. Cooke [Cooke, C. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-08-23T12:00:00+00:00

II

She chatted with Reid most days after that, in the quieter periods when he could steal away for a short while to write. She made sure to stay out of Lovejoy’s sight, and it brought a small comfort to build a friendship with one of the crew. He was her sister’s age, and although he had left school at twelve his writing skills were good.

‘Did you always want to be a whaler?’ she asked one afternoon, when he had helped the men haul a thirty-foot sperm whale on to the boat. He was spent from the effort, and agitated by the animal’s death. Reid struck her as a sensitive lad, unsuited to this life.

He shrugged. ‘Didn’t think much about it. I need to earn money. It’s this or the mill. And my cousin died in the mill, so I prefer this. Especially since I don’t get seasick. My da says I’ve got good sea legs.’

‘When did you start writing?’ she asked.

‘I can’t remember,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘I’ve always liked a good story. Macbeth is my favourite.’

‘That’s a play,’ she said.

‘Aye, but it’s still a story.’

‘Have you ever seen it staged?’

He scoffed. ‘What, at the theatre? Naw. No money for things like that. Do you read Rabbie Burns?’

She nodded. ‘Of course. “Wee, sleekit, cowrin—”’

Reid clapped his hands together in delight, finishing her sentence. ‘“—tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie.” That’s one of my favourites. I’ve memorised loads of his poems.’

‘We were forced to memorise them at school,’ she said. ‘I suppose it took the joy out of them a little.’

‘Oh, I love him. Could read him all day. No books on a whale ship though. That’s got me writing, actually, more than I do at home.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘I think I’d like to write a song,’ Reid told her. ‘For the men to sing.’ He looked at her meaningfully. ‘Could you help me?’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’

They wrote several shanties together, he offering the themes and the opening lines and she helping him swap words to make the rhyme and rhythm stronger. He wrote shanties mostly to make tasks easier, such as hauling the bowline and flensing a whale, which the men could sing while performing their duties.

It lifted the men’s spirits to try and learn a new song when the days stretched out. Wolfarth played Reid’s tunes by ear on his fiddle and memorised the words, before leading any willing crew members in a singsong. Even Lovejoy joined in, his face lighting up as he clapped and sang along.

She watched the men carefully as they sang, tankards and spirits high, many of them still drunk from the night before. She wondered if whaling didn’t breed men like this, debase them – men who might have exercised dignity and morals in some other form of employment, but out here, forced to slaughter such majestic beasts of the ocean, they became, stroke by stroke, little more than animals.

It wasn’t just work that made monsters of men, but guilt. That, after all, was something she understood only too well.

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