OCTOBER 1853
Viewing Deck, HMS Erasmus
Captain William Andrews could see little beyond the glass. White frost crept up the viewing window's surface relentlessly, obscuring his sight-line and forcing him to swipe his mittened hand across it with maddening regularity. The action did little to help, really; this far north, the sun hugged the horizon for most of the day, the light was permanently dim and the monotonous contrast of dull grey ocean and white sky all served to browbeat the senses to distraction. He fought back a yawn, watching his breath dissipate in front of him. Outside, the rolling swell of the sea lifted slabs of ice that boomed alarmingly against the wooden hull of Erasmus as she moved Northward.
It had begun to snow, he noticed. Unconsciously, he tried to pull his greatcoat tighter around him as protection against the cold, but the white leather was stiff and unyielding. Settling for wrapping his arms around his midriff, Andrews tried to focus. It was a futile gesture; once the unremitting cold got into the bones and settled there, it seemed you would never be warm again. It was utter misery - ice formed from the moisture of the breath, hung from the tips of the eyelashes, tangled painfully in the beard... he felt himself drifting momentarily. He wrenched his mitten off, and reached up into his furred hood until his fingers found his ear. He closed his eyes, grabbed the lobe and gave a sudden, vicious twist. The sharp pain was horrendous, and he gritted his teeth, but it brought him back to himself... for a while, at least.
Damn it all, he thought. Where are you, you bloody...
There was a cough behind him.
"Captain," a voice said. Jones, the first mate, stood silhouetted in the doorway, weak orange light spilling into the room from the corridor. Andrews spared him a distracted glance, then turned his attention back to the ocean.
"Mister Jones," he said, narrowing his eyes. Out in the rising sea, he thought he saw...just for a second... no. Just another iceberg. "What can I do for you?"
Jones stepped into the room, blowing into his cupped hands as he did so.
"Goodness me, 'tis damned cold in here, Sir," he said. Andrews wondered idly why the man wasn't wearing his mittens. Come to that, he wasn't wearing his slops, either. How could he stand it? The cold had long since penetrated the depths of the ship; hoarfrost had decorated every wall for weeks now.
"You are improperly dressed, Mr Jones. What is the meaning of this?"
Jones smiled, and clasped his hands behind his back.
"I wondered if you would like me to spell you for a while, Captain. You've been up here for a rather long time," he said.
Andrews did not turn around. He had come to dislike Jones as the voyage progressed, annoyed by the man's ability to avoid a direct question, and his petty insolence - slippery, difficult to define - yet never beyond the bounds of professional decorum. More to the point, Andrews knew the man did not approve of his pursuit of the creature - did not, perhaps, believe in the creature. This was not the first time one of the officers had come to the viewing deck with the intention of persuading him to give up the chase and turn around. He peered out the window and waited for Jones to go on.
"Perhaps you'd like me to stand this watch for a while, Sir? You look like you could do with a good meal and, if you'll forgive me for saying - a good sleep, too. The men... you have to understand, Sir...," he stopped, uncertain.
Reluctantly, Andrews turned away from the window in time to see Jones' smile falter. There appeared to be genuine concern in his eyes, but Andrews wasn't fooled.
"Go on, Mister Jones," he said.
Jones dropped his gaze.
"It's just... this thing you seek... has become an obsession, Sir. No-one else has even seen it, yet we have followed it - followed it further North than any ship has ever dared to venture. Pack ice threatens us more every day - the leads are narrowing, the 'bergs are more frequent. Winter is coming," he said. He looked up at Andrews, beseeching.
"Sir, you are a good Captain, and a fine man. But this... pursuit - I am afraid for you, William. I am afraid this is madness. I beg you - please, abandon this folly now, and turn around. It isn't too late."
Andrews snorted, and turned back to the window. The snow was falling faster now, the swell of the sea fiercer.
"Madness? You think me insane?" he said, his voice thin with anger, "Let me tell you again - let me assure you: I know what I saw. This creature was like nothing science has ever seen before. Its tentacles were longer than Erasmus herself. Its body - the size of it! Ye Gods, I thought at first it was an uncharted shoal. Waves were breaking around it!"
Andrews swept frost from the glass.
"Let me tell you also, Jones - I will find this thing. I will prove all of you wrong, as God is my witness. The Steam Cannon will do the job - I will find it, and I will drive a harpoon into its...,"
His voice trailed away, the breath hitching in his chest. Out in the darkness beyond the window, he saw a massive dark shape break the water, ice sliding over its vast surface as it moved past the ship. Its size defied all rational thought, was an offence against nature itself.
Andrews screamed in triumph.
"THERE! THERE IT IS! Jones! You see it, man? You see it?"
For a moment, the creature's bulk hung suspended above Erasmus, dwarfing her, then the ocean closed around it as it disappeared beneath the surface again.
Andrews turned from the window, but the doorway was empty. Jones was gone.
"Jones? JONES!" he roared. He turned and pressed his face against the freezing glass, desperately trying to follow the animal's passage.
"HARD-A-STARBOARD! Jones! For the love of God, charge the Cannon! Full Steam ahead! Jones? JONES!"
* * * * *
There was laughter as the the old man's face flattened against the glass, grotesquely distorting his features. Twisting and thrashing in the straitjacket, the old man was shouting, his eyes wild and bulging. They couldn't quite make the words out - the Asylum was a noisy place, indeed - the shrieks and howls of the inmates were quite alarming until one got the measure of it; but it was singularly amusing to watch the antics of the lunatics. The Sunday tours had proved immensely popular, especially among the upper classes of Victorian Society.
"We call this chap the Captain," the Orderly said with a grin. "Imagines himself Captain of a Royal Navy ship, no less!"
The small crowd laughed again. A gentleman stepped forward for a closer look. Dressed in top hat and tails, he was holding a silk handkerchief to his nose.
"What is it he is seeing, Sir? He does seem a trifle... vexed," he said, to more hilarity. Behind him, the glass shuddered as the old man flung himself into it again. The Orderly laughed.
"Who really knows? He talks of giant sea monsters - squid the size of St. Paul's Cathedral, great white whales, sharks that could swallow a horse and cart whole - but it might as well be angels and devils. The poor old fool's away with the fairies, most of the time. But the Captain? He's no trouble - not like this one...," the orderly said, gesturing the crowd on to the next cell.
* * * * *
Andrews stared out at the ocean, his rage dissipated now. God damn Jones, he thought. This was all his fault, disappearing just as the bloody thing showed itself again. He would tear a stripe off the man the next time he had the temerity to come onto the viewing deck questioning Andrews' command in such a manner.
In the meantime, his resolve had hardened. Andrews was a patient man. He could wait until the thing showed itself again, he could ignore the cold, and the pain, and the idle whisperings of the crew.
He thought he could wait forever.