Icebound by Andrea Pitzer

Author:Andrea Pitzer [Pitzer, Andrea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN The King of Nova Zembla

After that with great cold, danger, and hardship, we had brought the yeare vnto an end,” wrote Gerrit de Veer in his journal. “We entered into ye yeare of our Lord God 1597, ye beginning whereof was in ye same maner as ye end of anno 1596 had been.”

The landscape held no relief in store, with snow, tempests, and always the cold haunting them. They spent New Year’s Day trapped in the cabin. Offered their ration of wine, a small serving every other day, some of the men abstained for the time being, imagining how much hardship lay ahead and thinking it might be better to bank their luxuries against some future need.

No light appeared except moonlight and what they created with fire. The ice on the inside of the walls muffled outside sounds, but the smell of humans trapped in tight quarters remained sharp enough. The scurvy spreading through the crew would lend its hallmark stench to unwashed clothes and bodies, making the cabin even more oppressive. Worst of all would be the urine and feces piling up at one end of the shelter.

January 2 unfolded much as New Year’s had: trapped inside again, they were reduced to using the last of the firewood they’d gathered from around the house. There was no question of getting more in that moment; it wasn’t possible to be outside for any length of time and survive. Instead they began to pry off non-essential parts of the doorframe. Next they chopped up a wooden block on which they usually prepared their fish when it came out of the barrels.

Not many superfluous things remained to burn in the cabin, however. And the following day was no better than those that had gone before. No matter how careful they were with their wood, the supply dwindled again to nothing.

A sailor’s destiny was tied to the weather and the wind. Along with a ship’s location, these were often the first details that went into the log after each date, even when sailors were ashore. But by January 4, conditions grew so bitter that they didn’t dare to open the doors for even the seconds it would take to determine the direction of the wind for the log. Instead, they hoisted a bit of scrap tied to one of their half-pikes, pushing it up through the chimney and watching to see which way it blew. Even that was tricky—they had to notice which direction it rose as soon as the pike went aloft. Within seconds, the separate parts of the impromptu windsock froze into one solid staff.

It was fitting that they continued to record the wind direction day after day, because they were still very much at sea. Trapped in their cabin like a ship battened down in a storm, their barrel chimney in place of a crow’s nest, not only had night crowded out day for them, but space and time had changed places, too. They no longer moved through the water, cresting wave after wave and trying to stay afloat; their shelter had become stationary.

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