The Surfacing

By Cormac James

In Irish novelist Cormac James’s “vivid, hypnotic, and acutely piercing” (Colum McCann) North American debut, a ship’s lieutenant discovers a stowaway, pregnant with his child, while battling crushing Arctic ice

“An extraordinary novel, combining a powerful narrative with a considered and poetic use of language. . . . Reading the book, I recalled the dramatic natural landscape of Jack London and the wild untamed seas of William Golding.” —John Boyne

Far from civilization, on the hunt for Sir John Franklin’s recently lost Northwest Passage expedition, Lieutenant Morgan and his crew find themselves trapped in ever-hardening Arctic ice that threatens to break apart their ship. When Morgan realizes that a stowaway will give birth to his child in the frozen wilderness, he finds new clarity and courage to lead his men across a bleak expanse as shifting, stubborn, and treacherous as human nature itself.

A harrowing tale of psychological fortitude against impossible odds, The Surfacing is also a beautifully told story of one man’s transformative journey toward fatherhood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bellevue Literary Press
• Release date: May 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781934137932

Book preview

PART I

1850

25th May

THEY PASSED THROUGH BELTS the color of mud, and belts the color of mustard, that ran directly across the stream. They slid into banks of fog that stood dead on the water, that blanked everything but their voices, and slid back into the daylight as out of a steam room. Exiting one such bank, on the 25th, they met a queer-looking brig. They’d had the sea to themselves since Aberdeen, and hailed heartily, but she made no acknowledgment, slid silently by, into the fog aft, and they never saw her again.

Captain Myer insisted on a strict schedule, to tame the day. By seven o’clock. By eight. By half past. Bunks. Breakfast. Tubs. He wanted all mouths fed at the same time, whether they were hungry or not. At the fixed hour, he wanted them all abed, even if they were not ripe for it. He spoke of the ship as one family, one body, unified. Every noon without fail he could be seen reconciling his several chronometers.

On the 27th, finally, a coastline was cried out. The men all came up and stared at it as a wonder. Greenland, it was called. It looked like burned bog. There was not a single tree, or a single bush. There was no grass. Frayed and shabby at the edges, there was still snow on those hills that faced north.

At Disko there was no other ship. Well above the high water line stood a lone warped wooden house, with a line of huts behind, set directly into the hillside. The huts were roofed with sods level with the land, and from the ship, through the glass, the dirty bundles seemed to crawl out of a hole in the ground.

The whaleboat moved toward the shore with Myer standing at the bow. It was a pose he had admired privately. Already, crowds of women and children were waiting on the rocks. It was an open-air abattoir. Bones, waste, and offal everywhere. And everywhere strips of meat three and four and five feet long laid like frost-charred ferns on the bare ground, to cure. The air was almost sweet. To no one in particular, Myer announced: What a welcome. A carnival of the unclean.

Under the boat, giant gray tentacles, that looked more animal than vegetable, tried a lazy flourish. Lieutenant Morgan, the ship’s second, stared down at them from the stern. The previous summer, he had swum in the liquid jade of Aegean. That seemed another world to him now, another man.

The governor’s house was suspiciously clean, and suspiciously neat, as though something untoward had happened there, of which they hoped to eliminate every trace. It was a blatant rebuttal to everything seen on the shore. The floors were green, and looked freshly painted. The low ceilings were pale blue. The lady of the house was the governor’s sister, Miss Rink. She was pale as an invalid, yet glowed with health. Her skin too seemed strangely clean.

They sat and stared at a grumbling stove and let Rink talk. He was struggling to pull the cork from a bottle. Near the fire stood an empty brass birdcage. The cork came away with a sound, knowing sigh.

You and your officers are all my guests, Rink said. As long as you are here.

We couldn’t think of soiling your sheets for just one night, Myer said.

What does that matter? Rink said. Let her wash some sheets. She complains she is being bored most of the time.

We’re really not so badly off where we are, Morgan said. Quite tightly packed, it’s true, but comfortable nonetheless.

She asked outright how many they were, and Myer told her. They were six officers, ten men, one boy and one Greenlander, to manage the dogs and to translate, if need be. We couldn’t possibly ask you to entertain us all, Myer said.

It’s not often I have the pleasure of proper conversation, she said.

You see, Rink told them.

You must regularly have visits from the whalers, Morgan told her.

The whalers are a very particular, I almost said peculiar, class of man. I admire them greatly, but there are limits, I find, to their charms.

Her hair was blonde, pulled back very tight. There would be a great relief, it looked to Morgan, if all of a sudden the thing were undone.

Myer said they really could not linger, however much the hospitality of Mr. Rink and his charming sister might appeal. Already they were behind schedule, he said. They had a rendezvous with other Admiralty ships at Beechey Island, in Lancaster Sound, from where they would disperse to various points in the archipelago, to begin the search, before the winter set in again.

I do not think so, Rink said.

The winter is slow going this year, she said.

We’re hoping to get a good run through The Pack, said Myer.

You will be doing it well, Rink said, if even you get there at all.

That month alone, she said, three whalers had been crushed in Melville Bay. Out of Peterhead. Two more, crippled, had only just gone home.

Myer said he had not seen them, coming up the coast.

Did Myer really think there was still hope of finding them? Rink asked. Franklin and the two missing ships, he meant. Didn’t he think it had been rather long, how many years was it now, with neither sight nor sound of them?

We must try, Myer said. We must make our very best effort, and we must not relinquish hope.

The drawing rooms of London will not tolerate anything less, DeHaven said.

Myer scowled. Pay no attention to Dr. DeHaven’s irreverence, he said. At every opportunity he runs down the entire enterprise, but I can assure you there is no more resolute man aboard. His younger brother is on the Terror.

Myer said he had a letter for Rink from the Directors of the Royal Greenland Trading Company. He nodded at Morgan, who tendered the envelope.

What does it say? Rink asked.

Naturally I haven’t opened it, Myer said. And even if I had, I believe it is written in Danish.

Still Rink refused to touch the thing.

His sister took it and broke the seal. She mumbled through the formalities, scanned for the essentials. Where possible, she read, we are to—she checked her translation—generously to supply the bearer’s material needs.

Rink did not answer. He was staring out the window, seemed not to have heard. He had drunk half the bottle himself. The skeleton of a ship lay on the shore. A ship found drifting off the coast, abandoned, the previous summer. A strange story, Rink said.

The officers let the man talk. Every now and then Myer made a civil noise in his throat. Morgan caught the sister looking at him. She raised her eyebrows a fraction, her shoulders, and gave a silent sigh. Every year a package came down from Upernavik with the last of the whalers—however many sentimental novels the priest there had managed to beg from the captains that season. These and her brother’s stories were all she had to shorten the winter nights.

Standing at the window beside him, Myer said he dared not imagine what it was like, inside the natives’ huts. Rink led the way to the nearest one, and Myer followed eagerly. From the porch, they watched him pull aside the flap. They watched Myer lean forward, then jerk his head backward, as though he’d been struck. They live in a ditch, he shouted back to the house, and called his officers to come and see.

The officers all obeyed, but just as Morgan made to follow Miss Rink placed a hand on his arm. She shook her head. She made an ugly face. He did not go. They stood in silence, alone on the porch. Morgan watched her touch the tip of her cigar to the post and put what was left back into the case. Just as gently, she touched her fingertips to the drop of green glass hanging at her neck. This was as though it might not still be there—an elegant pretence. They stood and listened to the ice groan and stutter down at the shore. There was rain on the way. The low sky was a slab of stone.

Are you quite sure you cannot stay for dinner? she asked.

I would very much like to, he said.

They talked carefully. She said she had not so much as set foot on a boat or a sledge for five years.

Morgan made no comment. Rink and the other officers came back and stood up on the porch out of the rain. Myer was hounding him for supplies.

There were no supplies, Rink said. The most he could offer them was a few hares, a young goat. They could have all the codfish they liked, of course.

What about furs? Myer said. There was nothing he would not trade. Books, rum, beer—whatever Rink and his sister wanted most.

It made no difference. There were no furs. The reindeer, Rink said, sprawled his arms in a helpless gesture. The great days were gone. They should have stopped farther south.

But Myer refused even to think of going back. He was afraid of being late, of missing his chance, of not getting through. In the end, the officers all went back into the house and waited with the sister, and drank her coffee, while Rink did the rounds of the huts, confiscating what he could.

Through the window, they watched the rain flailing at the mud. The water ran red in the tracks, as though the whole country had been dyed on the cheap. They watched the mud fuming under the stampede until the hour was rung on the watch bell, out in the bay. Under the roar of the rain, the toll was cheap tin.

Even as they were throwing the furs into the boat, she came after them. She had brought him a bag of coffee, and a little bag of seeds. She had written in English on the folded paper. CARAWAY. The whalers swore by it, she said, for the blood. It needed heat, she said, but could be started off in the dark. Morgan told her to go back, quickly. The rain had eased off, but that would not last.

29th May

ON THE 29TH THEY PULLED OUT of the bay and swung north. The rigging was strung with salted cod. Water, ice, and sky were the color of ash.

Two days later, at four in the morning, Myer hustled all the officers out of bed and up on deck. Here, at last, forming a lee shore, lay the thing they had heard so much about: The Pack. In the early morning quiet, they listened. It crackled like a burning log.

After the rest had gone down for breakfast, Morgan remained at the bows with MacDonald, the chaplain. They stood side by side, like men hypnotized. Straight ahead, rising up out of the water, stood a block of marble about the size of the Taj Mahal. Each in his own way, the two men admired greatly its utter indifference to the constant fuss and clamor of the sea.

At lunch, MacDonald declared: In my sermon next Sunday, I am tempted to propose the iceberg as a symbol of the Almighty Himself, that is to say, the perfect embodiment of unlimited power held perpetually in reserve. An analogy of which Mr. Morgan, I somehow feel, will entirely approve.

Not wishing to contradict you, Mr. MacDonald, but I don’t know that I’d see the thing in quite the same terms as yourself, Morgan said.

What terms would you prefer?

I don’t know.

Come come, MacDonald said. We’ve all seen your bookshelf. We’ve all read your reports. You’re an articulate man. Give us at least an idea of what you mean. Look, you have a captive audience.

I’m not being coy, Morgan said. I simply don’t know how I feel about the thing. What we saw this morning. That is the simple truth.

The door burst open. It was Cabot, the cook.

Giorgio! He’s disappeared. Over on the floe.

They rushed up on deck. Two hundred yards from the ship, some fifty yards into The Pack, a group of men were standing on a giant pan of ice. The officers all rowed over, drove the boat as far in as they could, clambered out.

The boy had gone out with Petersen, to carry his rope and hooks. The Greenlander had spotted a seal, and they had gone to try their luck.

Only for the fun, Petersen said. He looked more annoyed than upset. They had been hopping from pan to pan, he’d been pushing on ahead, and when he turned around the boy was gone. The rope was floating in the water, in one of the cracks. The heavy grappling-hook, perhaps, had caught in his clothes and pulled him down. There was no other trace.

I want only the boy to see, Petersen said. I am telling him the story. He wants to see with his two eyes.

Hand over hand, Petersen drew the rope up out of the water. The gap between the two pans was barely a foot wide. Morgan watched the man coiling the rope nicely onto the ice. Inside him, a stupid hope had already bred, that the boy might still be attached to the end of it. He would come up laughing and spluttering, amused as much as relieved.

Perhaps Mr. MacDonald would consider saying a few words, Myer said.

Of course, MacDonald said.

They gathered about the coiled rope. So close to the edge of The Pack, the ice was always alive, and already the crack had completely closed over again.

Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends, MacDonald told them. Such has been our young shipmate’s sacrifice here today. Our every action must henceforth stand in its shadow. His memory must inspire us to equal abnegation. Our brother Giorgio, I say, has shown us the way.

Afterward, the whaleboat ferried the men back to the ship. As there was not room for them all at a go, Morgan and Cabot and DeHaven remained behind.

Not a bad way to go, when all’s said and done, DeHaven said.

How do you mean? Morgan said.

A smile on your face, all is right with the world, and a minute later . . . bonne nuit.

He might have preferred a few more rounds of the carousel, all the same.

Perhaps. But I hope when my time comes it’ll be as quick and as quiet.

I thought it was raging and cursing you wanted to go, Morgan said.

Under their feet and all around, the ice was awake. They listened to it fret. They stared at the spot. They did not yet dare to be bored.

The boat had ferried and unloaded its passengers, was coming back.

Well, DeHaven said, at least we now have an extra bunk. Maybe we could send Hepburn down with the men.

Geoff, Morgan said, the old man deserves a little comfort.

And the rest of us don’t? We’re living one on top of the other, the four of us, in that little cell.

Maybe we could send Hepburn down to berth with the crew, have MacDonald take his place, and MacDonald give you his cabin. Would that suit your convenience?

It would, DeHaven said.

They passed the Women’s Islands early the next morning, the 1st of June. By breakfast-time the wind began to fumble, and falter, and even as he sat eating Morgan could feel the life draining from the ship. By noon the wind had died to nothing, left them sitting like fools in thick fog, amidst phantom fragments of the floe. They could not see fifty feet. It did not matter. Morgan knew exactly what lay ahead. They were making their way north as into an estuary, that had been narrowing from the off, since Disko. Miss Rink had told him what every one of the whalers had told her—that where Myer hoped to pass, up along the coast, they would find a solid white wall.

2nd June

THEY WERE SET IN A PANE OF GLASS, a mile from the shore. The surface was sprinkled with thousands of eider ducks, as far as the eye could see. The world was at peace, the morning impeccable, the bergs sparkling thoughtlessly in the sun. All day long, there had not been a breath of wind.

Morgan was standing alone in a boat by the shore. Even a mile off, he was sure he could smell the dried cod. The mists and showers had ruined it, but Myer still insisted it would do for the dogs. To shut it out, Morgan closed his eyes, felt the cool air creeping over him, down off the glacier. Then he heard the thunder. The entire face of an iceberg was falling away, to reveal the same face again, shed of its mask. At the ship, too, they heard the guns in the distance, and saw the birds begin to bob. The wave reached them minutes later, and set the ship in a lazy roll.

The next morning the canvas began to stir, and the light ice began to drift away from the wind, southward. They watched the pieces sail by. They spotted a seaman’s chest. Morgan told Banes to row over and fish it out. The label was ruined for reading but they could tell it was neither Erebus nor Terror. Inside were last year’s Almanack and a fine pair of riding boots.

That evening, from the Crow’s Nest, free sailing was announced to the west, well inside The Pack, but from there stretching to the horizon. Myer declined to go up and see it for himself. He did not need good cause, only a good excuse. The next morning, he announced, they were going in.

4th June

ALL MORNING THEY FORCED THEIR WAY through the mess, until they made what Myer had baptized The Open Water. They drove hard, free and unhindered, north and west. By noon, from the deck, they had sunk the coast.

From the Crow’s Nest, Myer was shouting down directions. Brooks was at the helm. Morgan sat on a crate near the stern, smoking his pipe, trying to pretend he knew nothing of what was going on. But overhead Myer was bellowing like a schoolboy. Ahead of them now was half a mile of water at most.

The ice was visibly nearer. Inside it, the little lead they were aiming for was the color of ink. Another order was roared from above. Morgan watched the men heaving frantically at the braces. She turned shyly toward the gap.

The first contact put him lying on the deck flapping frantically at the cinders on his coat. All around him, fish were hopping off the boards. Far above, a man was screaming. It was a voice Morgan had never heard before. The shock was done, no more fish fell, but their dead eyes like dried peas rattled over and across the deck, as the ship ground and grunted, and bulled for an even keel.

Afterward, Morgan brushed himself off and went to the bows, to see where their commander wanted to go. Even here at its widest it was a nice fit, and tighter still in the distance. Myer seemed not to notice, but called for a full spread of canvas, even to studding-sails, and ordered all hands out on the floe, with picks and pinch-bars, to work them farther in.

At dinner that night, Myer did not say a word, and his officers did not mention the ice, or what they had been at. They leaned their elbows on the table, heads down, hunched under an invisible weight. They ate their food mechanically, but when Myer coughed, as though clearing his throat, all the forks stalled in mid-air. Still Myer said nothing. They kept eating, and the cutlery kept creaking and squealing on their plates.

After supper Myer sent Morgan forward to the crew’s quarters to get Daly, their strongest man. Out on the ice, they watched Daly crouch down, to lift their smallest kedge. The thing weighed at least one hundred and fifty pounds. They watched him waddle. There was no protest or complaint.

Now then Doctor, Morgan said, there’s a nice specimen for your collection. He could feel it inside him, the jealousy, now well awake. The man was of a different breed. The veins were standing out on his forearms, and the forearms looked carved from wood.

They watched him go. To his friend, quietly, DeHaven wondered about the wisdom of sending a man out over doubtful ice, carrying an anchor.

He is a sailor in Her Majesty’s Navy, Myer announced, turning to face his accuser. If he is not so fond of danger, he should have stayed at home to dig potatoes.

From the bows, they watched Daly hack a hole in the surface with some class of hatchet. Into this hole he hooked the anchor. He threaded the hawser through the eye. The slack was wrapped round the capstan. The men got into place, three to each arm. It was now half past eight at night. They leaned into the bars. The hawser rose up off the ice. It began to tremble. Soon they could hear it crack and splinter, like wood. The object of their efforts was beautifully simple: to pry apart the two halves of the world with their bows, and drive themselves into the crack, where the danger was greatest.

They had not been heaving two minutes when Myer swore he’d seen a definite twitch in the floe. It was like a wedge being hammered home. Ten minutes later, when they paused to swap teams, Morgan saw that a crack about two inches wide ran crazily out from the bow for a hundred yards. That little gap, of course, was nothing and everything. Somehow they had managed to push apart two floes each as big as a nice-sized cricket field.

Quod erat demonstrandum, Myer announced, waving his hand grandly at the entire visible world. Proof of a principle I have cherished all my life, but never before been furnished with so perfect an example. That every force, however small, against opposition however great, must ultimately have its effect, if exercised relentlessly. Naturally—the hand dismissed the notion prettily—the orthodox mind insists the thing cannot be done. We are simply out of our depth, n’est-ce pas? He showed the skeptics his sorry specimens, and their surrounds. This against this. One was small and weak, the other giant and indifferent. Now the hand showed them the new crack in the floe. Was ever evidence more eloquent? he asked. It has been done. We have done it. That is why a man must never listen to reason. He must merely exercise his will unceasingly, and only afterward stop to consider what he has achieved.

When they paused to swap teams again, Myer sent Morgan down to check the progress. He knelt on the ice to peer into the crack, to see how deep it was. To Morgan, the thing seemed no wider than before.

Put your hand in, said DeHaven, who was standing over him.

Morgan looked up, looked offended. Are you out of your mind? he said.

What are you afraid of? DeHaven said.

Put your own hand in. If you’re so brave.

What are you afraid of? DeHaven said. The anchors are well dug in. The hawser is brand new. The tension is good. Or do you think someone up there is watching and waiting? Do you think this has all been contrived, just to trap you?

Morgan curled the tips of his fingers around the top of the crack.

Deeper, DeHaven said.

Morgan slid in his whole hand, to the wrist.

Deeper, DeHaven said.

He forced his arm almost to the elbow, until it was firmly wedged in place. He had to tug hard to get it out. The skin was striped, white and red.

Now you, he said.

DeHaven looked at him askew. Me? he said, perplexed. Are you out of your mind? He was grinning superbly. Just how stupid do you think I am?

Up at the capstan, they leaned into the bars, and groaned, and cursed, and changed teams, and leaned into the bars again. For four long hours they stuttered forward, inch by inch. By midnight they had driven themselves quarter of a mile deeper, and the vessel stood motionless—dead center of a vast, featureless plain. But for a few streaks of water, the world around them was now perfectly white.

13th June

EIGHTY-FIVE FEET HIGH, Morgan stared over the frozen sea. Myer had sent him up to scout for a better lead. The order was perfect proof, if ever he needed it, that Myer was a fool. There were no better leads. To every point it now looked the same—proof, in turn, that the fool had led them into a trap.

They had warped all day every day for a week now without interruption, and today they were at it again. This morning, for no particular reason, the floes had relaxed a little, and it was a more polite affair than usual. From above, Morgan watched them strolling round and round. It looked like the visites of a French quadrille. The smart chatter of the pawls was music enough, he thought, after the strain of the previous days.

About eleven o’clock he saw that half a mile ahead the ice opened up into a kind of canal. From boredom, he called it out. Myer immediately hustled the men off the capstan and down onto the floe. The traces were passed down and every man rigged. They shuffled across the ice until the lines grew tight, and then they leaned forward, as into a stout headwind.

Unseen, Morgan looked straight down the length of the mast at Myer winding his chronometers again, and imagined putting a bullet straight through the top of the man’s head. It would be an easy, undeserved end. He imagined the mess. He wondered what they would do. He himself was next in line for the command. He could always say he had been climbing down with the gun. He had been sure it was not cocked. It would be interesting to see who was willing to believe.

16th June

THE LAST OF THE SLACK WAS BROUGHT IN, and the men leaned into the bars. For the moment, Brooks let them make their own pace. After a few minutes stretching, tightening, threatening, the ship suddenly jumped forward, or backward, about an inch. It felt like the first jolt of a departing train.

Well now, DeHaven declared, maybe there’s something in that house besides smoke.

Morgan, in his spoiled mind, wondered if the ice anchor was not coming home. The heaving began again, and soon it seemed to him, by closing one eye, and taking a bead on the bowsprit, that the ship was shuffling ever so slightly to starboard.

By now Brooks, the mate, was fearlessly goading the men as they filed past: Come on now boys and make a name for yourselves! Can’t ye feel it, honeys? The meat is gone out from it entirely! Are ye Christians or what kind of men are ye? Will ye not heave then, for the love of Christ? Heave now and be saved!

The feet were starting to scramble. Myer pretended he did not see. Brooks took a step forward and addressed directly those at the bars:

My dear boys, what had ye for breakfast at all? White bread and fresh butter is it? Damn it all to hell, Mr. Daly, is it idlers only they’re breeding in the county of Cork these past thirty years?

He had the teams piped down every fifteen minutes, for a five-minute pause. He did not want them looking any farther into the future than that.

After watching them for an hour, Morgan removed his jacket and shoved in beside the men. Soon his legs were faltering. Faltering, he goaded himself with half-forgotten insults, and imaginary slurs, searching for strength in anger and shame. But by the time Brooks finally piped them down for their midday meal, he was stupid from fatigue.

Halfway down the deck was a long flat crate he could lie on, if he could get to it. He shuffled across the deck like a man chin-high in water. Every breath now was effort or relief. He sat down stiffly, with old age in his legs, and stared into the darkness of the hatch. The sunlight blared up off the wood worn to a sheen and he could see nothing. As he lay back, and his head touched the boards, a strangled sound came out of his throat.

A gentle breeze was flowing over the ship, teasing the dangling lines. From nowhere, the cat sprang up onto the roof of the galley, spotted him, and shrank. All around, the sullen faces were watching.

Eventually Morgan stood up again, shuffled to the gunwale, unbuttoned his flies, and began to piss over the side. It sounded exactly like a tearing sheet. He watched the hole widen and darken. The thing seemed so easy. The ice seemed impossibly soft.

At lunch, Myer told the officers that they must meet the difficulty head-on. They must not shirk for so much as a moment, nor seem even to think of it. They must try every device and example to buoy up the morale of the men.

All the same, it’s little enough gain for so much sweat, Morgan said. The day before they’d named their progress in yards. Today they named it in feet. It might be as well, Morgan said, to wait for the ice to slacken a little, which it surely must, and spare their strength.

Mr. Morgan, Myer said, in such an enterprise as ours, the one sure warrant of discipline is the faith of those below in those above. But if you prefer dismay, distrust and disorder, it is easily bred. You have merely to hesitate at the first difficulty, and the job is done. If ever you have the privilege to command, try to remember that.

After lunch, Myer decided to change the angle of traction, again.

An excellent idea, DeHaven said.

They watched the men tugging at the anchor, which had burrowed deep into the ice.

The finest naval mind of his generation, Morgan said.

You do realize, DeHaven said, that there are men now sitting in armchairs in London would give their right arm to be in your shoes. To be able to say they were right there in the thick of it, by Captain Myer’s side. In Paris too, he said, pointing. Cabot had propped open the galley door, stood there watching with a pained look on his face.

Believe me, Morgan said, I feel it a privilege and an honor. I’m sure I’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

The men began to heave again. Ten minutes later, there was a wretched rush of noise. The men leapt back. Something had snapped. The new hawser was actually smoking, as it surged from the snatch.

And that there now, DeHaven nodded sternly, is why Mr. Gordon Myer is commander of one of Her Majesty’s finest sailing ships, and you, my dear fellow, are merely . . . He fluttered his fingers nimbly.

A witness to history, Morgan said.

Brooks was ordered to dismantle the capstan, to find out what exactly had gone wrong. Myer waited to watch him knock out the first of the blocks, then turned toward Morgan and DeHaven. It was not possible he had heard. There had been too much noise.

Perhaps, Doctor, you think you would do better in my place, Myer said. He stood facing them both.

DeHaven held his stare. To be perfectly honest, Captain, I don’t think I’d have got quite so far, he said. I don’t think I’d have tried quite so hard. Certainly not along quite the same lines as yourself.

Luckily for all of us, my friend cannot aspire to command, Morgan explained. However much he might like to do so. There was a kind of regret in his voice, theatrical, but what he said was true. In certain arrangements, the expedition was not altogether regular. DeHaven was a civilian, under contract.

If life aboard a naval ship is too trying for Dr. DeHaven, he can renege on his contract whenever he likes, Myer said. Though he’ll find it’s rather a long walk home, I think.

They watched Myer collect his coat, go down. Cabot had been listening at the galley door.

I suppose somebody has to be in charge, he said. It was a peace offering, to nobody in particular.

DeHaven turned his head, seemed to find something distasteful in what he saw. Somebody, not anybody, he said. In English there’s quite a difference. Perhaps one of your friends might be good enough to explain it to you.

Cabot considered the man. He cleared his throat scrupulously and spat far out onto the deck, stepped back into the darkness. Then Brooks was beside them. The captain wanted them to go below, fore and aft, to check for damage.

They crawled as far forward as possible, with a single lamp. Between the bows it was a mass of timber, shores radiating from every Samson post, in every direction, and extra beams and knees added wherever they could be got in. The two men lay port and starboard, facing each other, each lounging against the bow’s inner sheath.

Bravo, Morgan said. Another great diplomatic success. He nodded at everything overhead, the scene with Cabot, the scene with Myer. His friend could be resolutely, deliberately irritable at times. He seemed to enjoy it, as the assertion of a right.

In the silence, he could hear the ice fidgeting at the side of the ship, fussy but patient, only inches away.

You think I should keep my mouth shut, DeHaven said. Like you. And for why? For a broken-down horse soldier, that somebody somewhere one day decided to give a ship.

We were horse soldiers ourselves once. Both of us.

In a distant land, a long, long time ago.

Look, it matters not a whit what he or any one of us once was. Just now, he’s the captain, Morgan said.

Is that who he

Reviews for The Surfacing

[hobbitprincess · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When I started reading this book, it frankly didn't interest me that much, but the more I read, the more I found I could not put the book down. I knew very little about the ships lost during the search for the Northwest Passage, and James inspired me to do some research to learn more. I can imagine through the writing how quiet it must have been, except for the cracking and shifting of the ice. I was only displeased with the ending. Maybe I missed some hint, but the book just seemed to end.

[vicki_weisfeld · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Cormac James tells the story of the dangerous 1850 voyage of the Impetus, which sailed north of Greenland to find and rescue men who’d been lost while searching for the Northwest Passage. The story is told from the viewpoint of Impetus’s second in command, Mr. Morgan, and his doubts about the judgment of their captain are growing. Captain Myer has a monomaniacal desire to push on, even though it’s late in the season, and his ship risks being trapped in the ice.It’s ice and snow and wind and water and more ice everywhere. Such conditions might seem likely to become rather tedious, but James surprises with his inventiveness and acute perception, expressed in beautiful prose. Despite conditions, there’s good humor among the crew, especially between Morgan and his friend, the ship’s doctor. The woman with whom Morgan had a dalliance in their last port-of-call has been smuggled on board, pregnant, and he must contend not just with an incompetent captain and implacable weather, but with the unexpected pull of fatherhood.The conditions so far north put everyone to the test. As the darkness of another winter descends, they must each face their fate in their own way.

[schatje_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It is 1850; the Impetus is a ship looking for Franklin’s lost expedition in the high Arctic. Dispatched to the most northerly unchartered polar region, it becomes stuck in ice with a pregnant stowaway on board. The novel is narrated in third person from the point of view of Lieutenant Richard Morgan, the ship’s second-in-command and the father of the expected child. The story is much more about his journey of self-discovery than it is about a journey of exploration. Morgan’s usual modus operandi is to run away from problems and responsibilities. When faced with fatherhood, his initial reaction is to flee; when away from the stranded ship, he admits that “part of him did not want to return” (157). He feels he has not “any [attention and affection] to give” (234). Of course, since the crew is totally isolated and unable to communicate with the outside world, Morgan has no real option but to accept the role of father: “He would muster something, he supposed, to meet the need” (234). As one would expect, his transformation begins with the arrival of the child: “For the first time in a long time, he heard a call to his better self” (250).This is certainly not a novel of plot. For long periods of time, very little happens. It could be said that the book is about the human capacity to endure. Finding themselves in a hostile, unforgiving landscape, the crew must strive to survive. There is much description of shipboard life where the men are forced to live in close proximity with crew members. Obviously, there is a great deal of tedium.The problem is that the reader experiences tedium when reading the book. The almost 400 pages could be halved and the themes still be well developed. Reading should not feel like hauling a whaling boat across a frozen wasteland. And after sacrificing and enduring, the reader is left with few answers since the conclusion is open-ended. All that is known for certain is that Franklin and his men are not found; history tells us that. In fact, it was only last year that the remains of Erebus were found by Canadian scientists and archaeologists. I had difficulty identifying with any of the characters. The ship is an all-male enclave except for Kitty Rink who upsets the equilibrium. Unfortunately, she is also a problem for this reader. Her motivation, for example, is unclear. She wants to escape her life in Greenland, but why would she put her life and that of her child in jeopardy? It cannot be love she expects from Morgan who shows himself clearly to be emotionally repressed; for him, she is nothing but a temporary diversion during a stopover. And when she has one last opportunity to escape a journey she fully knows will be unrelentingly harsh, if not deadly, she doesn’t take it?Several of the excerpts of reviews included at the beginning of the book praise the author’s poetic prose. There is certainly a lyrical quality to the writing but, for me, it is insufficient compensation for the lack of plot in a lengthy novel. Descriptions of endless snow and ice need not be endless. This book seems to be an attempt to extend an Arctic exploration narrative into something resembling interpretive literature. Unfortunately, it has insufficient adventure to be the former and includes too much unnecessary detail to qualify as the best of literary fiction. Note: I receive an ARC of this book from the publisher via LibraryThing.

[lizzied_11 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Cormac James proves himself a real writer in The Surfacing, a novel set in 1850-52 in the Arctic on the British boat Impetus, set out from Greenland to rescue the lost John Franklin party. Even so, the first third was slow-going for me. I couldn't get any feeling for the characters' motivation, and that remained the case until the end. By the last third though, I couldn't turn pages quickly enough. For the last twenty pages, I was harrowed and had to put the book down - and then quickly to pick it up because I couldn't stand the suspense. The focus of the narrative is the second officer, Richard Morgan, a man who doubts himself and challenges himself through the whole book. He has made love with Kitty Rink, sister of the British agent in Disko, and she presents herself pregnant on the ship when it is too late to turn back. Why? Why risk your baby on a north-bound ship going into winter for a man you don't really love? This is only one of the questions I'd like to ask James about his characters. Also fascinating is DeHaven, Morgan's friend and the ship's doctor.The compelling character though is the Arctic itself. The Impetus is firmly imbedded in The Pack, frozen into an floe of several acres which is pushed inexorably north, farther north than any other ship has been. They have plenty of heat and plenty of food for several years and no way of escape. James's descriptions of that cold and unforgiving place will stay with me even when the characters are faded.Thank you, Early Reviewers, for an opportunity to read this book!

[gypsysmom_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Over the years I have read a number of books, fiction and non-fiction, that concerned the search for the lost Franklin Expedition. I have always found it fascinating to read about the lengths people have gone to in the most challenging circumstances to find traces of Franklin and all the crew of his two ships, the Erebus and the Terror. Of course, we now know that Franklin headed west and south of his wintering spot on Beechey Island. In fact, Parks Canada found the Erebus on the bottom of Victoria Strait near King William Island in 2014. However in the 1850s it was thought that Franklin went north from Beechey Island and that was where the search concentrated. This book is an account of a fictional ship, the Impetus, which took part in the search starting in 1850.The second in command of the Impetus was Lieutenant Morgan of Anglo Irish ancestry. He seems to have joined the expedition as much to get away from his family as for the adventure. When the Impetus put into Disko Harbour on Greenland Morgan became friendly with the governor's unmarried sister, Kitty. While the other officers and the governor were away on a short trip Morgan and Kitty fell into bed together. To Morgan it was a matter of no importance. He was thus astonished when, three weeks after leaving Disko, the chaplain informed him that Kitty was on board and was expecting his child. Morgan was sure Kitty was shamming and he was determined to get her off the Impetus as soon as possible. Despite his best efforts Kitty remained on board. When the ship got stuck in the ice beyond where any other ship had ventured Kitty gave birth to Morgan's son. To his amazement Morgan became besotted with his child. Thereafter his actions were couched in terms of what would be best for his son.I wanted to like this book but it just did not grab my attention. There were sections that were quite gripping but they would end suddenly and then a new time period would start up with little mention of what went before. Kitty's role was never developed; she remained a cardboard mother figure throughout the book. There were some promising secondary characters such as Dr. DeHaven and the French cook, Cabot, but they could not redeem that disconnectedness of the main story.If you want to read about the search for Franklin I can recommend both The Arctic Grail by Pierre Berton and Race to the Polar Sea by Ken McGoogan. For a modern and fictional take on the quest check out Darkness at the Stroke of Noon by Dennis Murphy

[whitreidtan · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I have a fascination for snow and ice. I don't particularly want to live in them full time (or even beyond the first driveway shoveling, if truth be told) but there's something very appealing about them in the abstract. Antarctica is on my bucket list. So are those ice hotels in Finland or Sweden. I am captivated by books about polar expeditions and their fates. The frozen North (or South) land calls to me. So I was fully prepared for Cormac James' newest novel, The Surfacing, a tale about a ship and its crew searching for the lost Franklin expedition to enchant me. I wanted to love this book in all its frozen glory. Unfortunately, it made me feel beaten down, like I always felt after a long, grueling winter when spring should be imminent but is still out of sight, hidden by dirty, monotonous banks of snow.In 1850, a fleet of ships headed for the Arctic in a bid to find and possibly even rescue the lost Franklin expedition. One of the ships searching, the Impetus, needed repairs after a short trip north and had to return to Greenland for a time. While the ship is in harbor, the first officer, Richard Morgan, thinks little of a dalliance with the governor's sister, Kitty. But when the ship's captain decides to go out searching again despite it being late in the season for safe travels, Kitty is discovered as a stowaway. And as the long months of the search drag on, it is clear that she is pregnant with Morgan's child. As Morgan comes to grips with what this means both in practical terms and for him emotionally, the Impetus is slowly and irrevocably encased in the ice pack, moving ever further north away from freedom and open water, frozen solid into a moving sheet of solid white.The book is written as a series of ship's log or journal entries but from a third person perspective, which is a little disconcerting, and there is no punctuation setting off dialogue from exposition. It is separated into two different sections: before the birth of the baby and after with a gap of almost a year in between the two. Morgan as a main character is coming to grips with fatherhood at a time when the only other thing occupying the crew is the daily slog of survival in such a harsh and unforgiving landscape. He is hard to know but is better fleshed out than the other characters, who took a very long time to show any signs of individuality. Without distinguishing characteristics, it is hard for the reader to care about them. Much of the book is like this, with well-constructed passages that unfortunately leave the reader nothing but numb. The interactions between the crew members are reduced to a line here or there, keeping them all distant despite the situation. The lack of plot makes it a struggle to stay engaged with the story and even as a contemplative reflection on fatherhood, the book doesn't quite deliver. The story of Morgan coming to cherish his son might have been more engaging had the year's gap, which allowed the hard work of building this development organically to be avoided, not been present. The story feels minimal and spare and yet still too long what with the unemotional tone and the completely unresolved ending. Perhaps I expected something different from this than the author intended but despite my initial eagerness, rather than a harrowing tale of life in extremis, I found this to be a mostly tedious and disappointing read.

[emr093 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This work is historical fiction and it is head and shoulders above the average novel in that it is well-written literature. However, the characters are interesting and not compelling. I found myself putting this down for ten days at a time before returning to it.

[ldvoorberg · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I did not think I would really love this book when I started. 1850 is the year, the location is on a ship in the Arctic, the purpose is hunting for another ship. The writing is primarily prose and the dialogue not marked with punctuation, but once I got used to it, the book pulled me along.Each chapter is a day or two, so they're often short sections, relatively easy to pick up and put down frequently. The whole book is an excellent example of concise narrative. Much is said and explained, but the reader also has to pay attention because much is insinuated or left between the lines -- in a good way. I didn't think I'd like reading a book about a ship full of men in snow and ice, but it was a great contrast to the real summer weather around me, and I was captivated by their wry humour, their wit, and their humanity.Certainly this is a literary read, not for the pop fiction crowd, but very worthwhile for the discerning reader, male or female. I thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed this book.Thanks to LibraryThing for the ARC!

[katylit · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Well, what to say about this book. I love Arctic/Antarctic exploration books and have devoured many a one about the intrepid explorers of the golden age, Franklin, Ross, Scott, Shackleton, just to name a few. So I was very excited to receive this book through the Early Reviewers program with LibraryThing. But I must confess to great disappointment. While the subject was interesting, following the adventures of the crew of the Impetus as they join in the search for the lost Franklin expedition, I found the overall story disjointed, obscure and frankly, boring. The writing is spare, evocative of the harsh landscape in which the characters find themselves. There were times when things happened and were not followed up on, as when the captain walks on the ice, seemingly disappearing with only his hat remaining. The reader is left to assume that he is lost, as nothing more is mentioned, yet a few pages later the captain reappears, seemingly none the worse for the experience. The characters are unlikeable, often their more undesirable traits are elaborated on rather than any redeeming qualities, giving an encompassing air of cynicism that I found dark and discouraging. The text, with it's lack of quotation marks often left me confused as to the speaker and overall the story simply fell flat.

[deltaqueen50 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Surfacing by Cormac James plays out within the setting of an 1850’s search for the lost Franklin expedition, but in fact, this is more of a psychological story as the rescue ship, the Impetus, becomes trapped in the artic ice and the captain discovers a pregnant stowaway on board. This stowaway is, in fact, carrying the captain’s unborn child and although there is no great love between the parents, the captain strives to find the right balance between his responsibility to mother and child and his duty to his ship.Being a novel about survival, I should have loved this story. I did find it interesting, especially due to the recent discovery of one of the ships from the Franklin expedition, but I was never fully drawn into this book. I felt held off at a distance and so, as much as I admired the descriptions of the barren, dramatic landscapes, I cared little for the people the author placed in these landscapes.The writing is beautiful, almost poetic and I was disappointed that I had such a struggle to stay focused on this story. . In the long run, I found the book rather tedious and would suggest that this is a book for people who prefer literary style or straight forward storytelling.

[vivienner_3 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I expected to enjoy this book. I have an interest in Arctic exploration and am familiar with the search for Franklin's expedition that continues to this day. However, James' writing simply didn't capture my imagination. I had to re-read sections so that I could summon up some kind of image of the scene in my mind. Some parts were explained in detail, yet so much more was left unexplained. What was illustrated very well was the misery, dreariness and strained relationships which reflected the harsh surroundings. While there is a dreamy quality to the writing, reading it was a slog with just not enough substance to absorb this reader.

[lriley_43 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Surfacing is a novel by Cormac James loosely based around one of the rescue missions to find the lost Franklin expedition in the Arctic regions circa 1850. Gordon Myer is the captain of HMS Impetus one of a fleet of ships charged with exploring these unknown regions and finding some trace of the missing. Myer is a stubborn, obtuse and somewhat arrogant man--a bit more ambitious and fame seeking than intelligent. Next in command is Richard Morgan an Irish born lieutenant who more often than not tries vainly to reason with him and who on a stopover in Greenland impregnates the sister (Kitty Rink) of the governor who then stows away on the ship (with the aid of the ships chaplain MacDonald) as it heads north towards its mission. There's also a ship's doctor DeHaven constantly clashing with Myer. As it happens the ship becomes locked in an ice floe and the officers and crew find themselves pushed further and further away from civilization. That's somewhat the setup for the last two thirds of the novel and it's a fairly compelling read though a little dry at times. It's basically about perseverance under extremely harsh conditions, failure, disaster and love--all with a historical background and James does a pretty good job of bringing it off. For people who like to read seafaring novels or arctic (antarctic) exploration fiction/non-fiction this would be a very good addition to their libraries.

[lynnb_64 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a story of man versus nature in two senses. First, it is a quest to survive in the Arctic as members of an expedition searching for the lost Franklin ships and crew. Second, it is a struggle against our own human nature as we watch Lt. Morgan come to grips with fatherhood, Captain Myer struggle with leadership and other crew members engaged in their own struggles with whatever has compelled them to join this rescue mission.The writing is, at times, very powerful. However, it is often cryptic enough to be frustrating. For example, we are told Kitty is awaiting confirmation of her pregnancy and taking the Doctor's little blue pills. What are the pills for? This had me curious, but they were never mentioned again. At one point, the Captain disappears, leaving only his hat on the ice. I thought he'd died....but no, he is mentioned again a few pages later as if nothing had happened. And Kitty's motivations are never clear....I can understand why she'd want to leave Greenland, but why she chose to stay on the ship when she had an alternative seemd strange. So, while there were many wonderful moments in reading this book, there were enough puzzling ones to reduce my overall enjoyment.

[bobbieharv · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

One of my sub-specialties is "in extremist" literature, especially ships caught in ice in the polar regions (all the Shackleton books, for example), so I expected to be similarly riveted by this. I did enjoy it, but it was a different kettle of fish. We plunged into it with no background information about any of the characters, which was a bit challenging but an interesting approach. The captain, for example, seemed not to be respected by Morgan or the rest of the crew, but we never found out why. And many situations were just tangentially portrayed, becoming essential only later - Morgan's affair with Kitty, for example, which seems a passing thing in Greenland, until she ends up, pregnant, aboard.I liked the writing. I was fine with the lack of plot (pretty much, until the end, which I found quite unsatisfactory), I liked the dailyness of it all. I would have liked more back story and understanding of Kitty (not to mention Morgan).But please, please: how can you give us a book like this without a MAP?

[scrabblenut · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I thought I was going to love this book, having enjoyed many other books exploring survival and adventure in harsh cold climates. However, I found it very hard to identify with any of the characters, nor their motivations. The descriptions of the ship being endlessly caught in the pack ice with very little change, while somewhat fascinating and poetic in nature, quickly gave way to desolation and tedium, not exactly the feelings I look for when reading a book. The pregnant stowaway was completely inexplicable but did add another dimension to the psychology of the main character, second-in-command Lieutenant Morgan. The book was very long, and very sad, yet also very memorable. It is told in small chapters headed by dates, like a log or diary. A map would have been much appreciated, as my atlas wasn't much help.

[fmgee · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The story of Richard Morgan, second in command of a ship bound for the Artic to search for the Franklin in 1850. This novel touches on Artic Exploration, fatherhood, and leadership in this studdy age. I found it enjoyable as well as harrowing to read. There were times when the book got a little lost but each section is short so that quickly find yourself again. The ending was more open than I would like but I can respect it none the less.

[santhony_35 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This work of fiction uses as its backdrop the disastrous 19th century Franklin Expedition, which was mysteriously lost while trying to discover the Northwest Passage. Franklin commanded two British ships, HMS Terror and HMS Erebus, which became icebound in the Canadian Arctic and presumably perished with all aboard.The Surfacing follows the adventure of one of the rescue ships sent to discover the fate of the Franklin Expedition. As you might imagine, the narrative is one of extreme privation and disastrous results. Having read the Dan Simmons novel The Terror, which also had as its basis the Franklin Expedition, I was aware of the background, as well as what one can expect from attempting Arctic Exploration. Much of the description of daily life and heroic effort involved with being icebound was, nevertheless, fascinating.The tone of the dialogue and the writer’s point of view is almost ethereal, written at some times as though seen as a dream, viewed through gauzy cloth. While this works well at times, at others it becomes somewhat confusing. I must confess to being disappointed with the unresolved ending. I suspect that there will be some fans of high-brow literature that will rave over the method in which the story is told, however those looking for a good story will be teased but likely ultimately left unfulfilled.I would be remiss if I didn't mention the almost unforgivable failure of the author to include any maps. When penning a novel involving exploration, which frequently makes reference to places and directions, how hard would it be to include a map so the reader can follow the progress of the explorers and get some feel for the geography involved. Hopefully, this will be rectified in the final version released to the public.

[hardboiled-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

The Surfacing not only challenges Lieutenant Morgan and his crew in their Arctic quest to hunt for Sir John Franklin's expedition but equally challenges the reader to fully engage in this quest. At face value the promise of a classic, Jack London "man versus nature" tale initially drew me into the novel. However, I quickly realized that any Jack London comparisons were both premature and unwarranted. Unlike London, no matter how much I tried I could not identify with any of the characters or their plight. In thinking back, I attribute this lack of empathy to a several factors. First, I could never get past the feeling that it was just a ship, snow and ice. I never gained an understanding of the scope of their journey which was paramount to empathizing with the magnitude of the challenges they faced, i.e., exactly where were they, where they were going, what was their progress in time/distance, etc. Second, there was plenty of opportunity from the nature of the plot line to draw me in and make me root for someone ... the Lieutenant, Miss Rink or any of the crew members ... but, sadly, it did not happen. As a result I quickly became detached from the action and characters. Third, I had problems with the relationship between Morgan and Miss Rink. Not that they had a relationship but that, even though she was dead set against staying with her brother, she would stowaway on the ship, remain undetected for as long as she did, and continue to put herself and child in jeopardy. It just did not work for me especially considering the nature of Morgan and Rink's feelings or lack thereof. As a result, the entire Morgan/Rink plot line became more of a distraction than the driving motivation I can only assume it was meant to be. The struggle I had with this novel was not with the snow and ice within but with the challenge as a reader to just get through it.