Bartlett and the Ice Voyage Page 10

  Captain Wrick didn’t say anything. No more calculations, no predictions. He sat in his cabin with his charts, poring over them for hours to find the shortest course back. They were only days away. But days, hours, would make the difference. Not even Captain Wrick could make the winds blow or the currents run.

  One morning the sailors came back from the iceberg and said it wasn’t possible to cut any more ice out when it was still in the sea. It was no longer big enough to stand on and every time they hit it with the pick it pitched and heaved in the water. So they reeled in the iceberg and tied ropes around it, and then they hauled it up onto the deck, like some kind of big, dead, glassy fish that they had captured. Gozo looked at it sadly. They chopped it up into blocks, and carried them below deck where it was cool. And then Bartlett or Jacques le Grand chopped the blocks into smaller chunks whenever more ice was needed to keep the melidrop frozen in its bucket.

  And then one morning there were only two small blocks left.

  They lay on a shelf in a dark room beside the ship’s pantry. Streams of water dribbled onto the floor beside the bucket containing the melidrop. It would be the last time that Bartlett replaced its ice. By the end of the day the two small blocks would have melted. And when that had happened, the melidrop itself would start to thaw, first softening, then ripening, then spoiling.

  When would they reach land? Bartlett didn’t know. No one knew for certain. Today or tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Maybe when the melidrop could still be eaten. Maybe after it had turned into repulsive brown sludge.

  Bartlett placed his hands on the cold, wet surface of the ice blocks. For some reason, he was reluctant to lift them. The dark room was very quiet, and Bartlett was alone. His fingers started to go numb, yet he did not raise them. For a long time he gazed vacantly at the last two pale pieces of the iceberg. If the ice melted, if the melidrop thawed and rotted, then everyone would say that they had failed. But hadn’t they really succeeded? He and Jacques, together with Gozo, and Captain Wrick, and Mordi, and Michael, and all the others who had helped along the way, had captured an iceberg, and towed it across thousands of miles of ocean, and preserved a melidrop for weeks. No one had done any of these things before. Did it really matter now if the melidrop reached the Queen? It was a question of hours, that was all. How had it happened that these particular hours had suddenly become so important?

  Bartlett was so deep in thought that it was a long time before he became aware of the shouting that was coming from the deck.

  Everyone had already rushed on deck by the time Bartlett arrived. Captain Wrick was peering through his telescope. Gozo had scampered up the rigging and joined the lookout in the crow’s nest.

  ‘Can you see?’ said the lookout.

  Gozo squinted. ‘Where?’

  ‘There. Can’t you see? Look.’

  Gozo squinted harder. There was a smudge, just a faint smudge, as if someone had smeared a little dirt above the horizon.

  ‘Land,’ said the lookout.

  Captain Wrick brought the Fortune Bey around and steered hard for the harbour. He raised the emergency flag, which is used only when there is an urgent message or a dying man on board, or some other reason that a ship must be allowed to dock without delay, and every other captain must make way for him.

  Early in the afternoon they entered the mouth of the bay, where the water was always choppy. The Fortune Bey pitched until it reached the calmer waters of the harbour. Other ships stood by as Captain Wrick passed. Only one ignored the emergency flag. It was heading for the open sea and it slashed straight across their course, forcing the Bey to slacken speed. Captain Wrick whipped out his telescope and examined it. His compressed lips showed his anger. Bartlett looked through the telescope as well.

  ‘You know who that is, standing at the bridge on that ship, don’t you?’ said Bartlett.

  Jacques took the telescope and looked. He nodded, grinning.

  ‘Who?’ demanded Captain Wrick.

  ‘Sir Hugh Lough,’ said Bartlett. ‘The Queen’s favourite. You’d recognise him anywhere by the way he stands.’

  Jacques placed his right foot forward and raised his hand dashingly in the air, exactly as they had seen Sir Hugh, through the telescope, standing on the bridge of the other ship as it cut across their path.

  Captain Wrick shook his head in contempt. He had never seen a ship ignore the emergency flag before. It had passed them now and was pitching in the waves at the exit from the harbour. Captain Wrick turned the wheel, swung the Fortune Bey back before the wind and headed straight for the dock.

  Bartlett glanced at Jacques.

  ‘What do you think Sir Hugh Lough was doing sailing out of the harbour?’ he murmured. He thought for a moment. ‘You don’t think the Queen lost faith in us? You don’t suppose she gave up hope that we were coming back?’

  Jacques raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No, Jacques.’

  Jacques cocked his head and glanced up at the sky. Bartlett knew what he was thinking. He began to calculate, trying to remember the exact date. Suddenly he understood. He gasped.

  ‘It’s seven months, isn’t it?’

  ‘To the day,’ said Jacques.

  Chapter 20

  THE NEWS THAT Bartlett had landed whipped through the town. The courtiers flocked to the Throne-room to see the wiry fellow and his big friend appear. The Queen waited on her throne. She had just come back from the harbour, where she had sent off Sir Hugh Lough in a ship that she had bought especially for him. She looked away in embarrassment each time she met Lord Ronald’s eyes, as if she were just waiting for him to say ‘I told you so’. But Lord Ronald of Tull did not say ‘I told you so’. He didn’t need to. The Queen was saying it for him, over and over, to herself.

  Eventually the Queen beckoned, and Lord Ronald went over to the throne.

  ‘Closer, Lord Ronald,’ the Queen said. ‘I suppose,’ she whispered, ‘that we should send a fast boat to overtake Sir Hugh and bring him back.’

  Lord Ronald shrugged. ‘I would not be so hasty, Madam’ he murmured, gazing calmly at the courtiers who were watching as he whispered with the Queen. ‘It would not do Sir Hugh any great harm to spend a few weeks looking for a melidrop.’

  The Queen smiled sheepishly. ‘Perhaps you are right, Lord Ronald,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps I am not the only person who should learn a lesson out of this.’

  Lord Ronald nodded gravely, taking four or five steps back from the throne with great solemnity. It was an unusually humble remark from the Queen and it pleased him greatly.

  But there was nothing humble about Sutton Pufrock, who was just arriving at the palace, carried by four of his neighbours. Through the streets he came, waving his stick in triumph and whooping with delight from his stretcher, shouting ‘That’ll show Hughie Lough!’ as he went round each corner. Even when he had been placed on a table in the Throne-room he continued muttering excitedly and occasionally cried out loudly enough for the Queen herself to hear a contemptuous ‘Loughy Duffy!’ coming from his direction. She had to send a footman to clasp a hand over his mouth every time his excitement got the better of him.

  Eventually Bartlett arrived. The Royal Usher bashed his staff on the ground and announced him from the doorway of the Throne-room. He was flanked by Jacques le Grand and Gozo. The trio strode straight towards the throne. All around there was a hush. Only Sutton Pufrock broke the silence, triumphantly crying ‘Bart—’ before being stifled by the quick hand of the footman.

  They stopped in front of the Queen. The Queen glanced at Bartlett and Jacques le Grand for a moment, then she looked carefully at Gozo.

  ‘I do not remember this one,’ she remarked to Lord Ronald.

  ‘His name is Gozo,’ said Bartlett.

  ‘Indeed?’ said the Queen. ‘Don’t tell me he helped you. He is rather young, don’t you think?’

  Gozo stared fixedly at the Queen. He was too overwhelmed by the massive palace, the magnificent Throne-room and the Queen herself to say anythi
ng. In fact, he was too overwhelmed to get excited.

  ‘He was indispensable,’ said Bartlett. ‘So was his Uncle Mordi.’

  ‘Really?’ said the Queen. ‘Then we thank you and your Uncle Mordi,’ she said, nodding in Gozo’s direction.

  Gozo’s eyes were wider than ever.

  The Queen smiled. ‘And we thank you,’ she said, turning to Jacques le Grand.

  Jacques nodded in return.

  The Queen looked back at Bartlett. ‘You have brought back a melidrop, I presume.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartlett.

  ‘May we see it?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Bartlett.

  Bartlett untied a small canvas bag that was hanging from his belt. The Queen watched him in surprise. This was hardly the golden casket that Sir Hugh Lough had taken with him. A moment later Bartlett extracted a small fruit, no larger than a child’s fist. Its colour was bright red and it had yellow streaks, and it looked as fresh as if it had been picked only that morning.

  A footman stepped forward holding a fine silver tray. Bartlett placed the melidrop on the tray and the footman carried it to the Queen. The Queen peered at the fruit. She bent forward and sniffed it. She glanced at Lord Ronald with a look of extreme satisfaction, reached out her hand, and picked the melidrop up.

  She dropped it at once, with a shriek.

  The melidrop bounced off the footman’s tray and rolled across the floor. Quick as a flash, Gozo scrambled forwards and grabbed it.

  ‘It’s hard!’ the Queen cried. ‘Hard as a rock. I can’t eat that! Mr Bartlett, what sort of trick do you think you are playing? If you think this is funny, you are wrong, very wrong indeed. He is wrong, is he not, Lord Ronald?’

  ‘It’s frozen,’ Bartlett replied calmly.

  ‘What is?’ demanded the Queen.

  ‘The melidrop,’ said Bartlett. ‘It’s still frozen. That’s how we preserved it.’

  ‘Frozen?’ said the Queen. She frowned. ‘How on earth did you freeze it?’

  ‘Well, it’s quite a long story. We got an iceberg.’

  ‘An iceberg?’ said the Queen. ‘An iceberg?’ she repeated softly, turning to Lord Ronald.

  Lord Ronald nodded, smiling with amazement.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s why we took so long,’ said Bartlett. ‘Getting the iceberg took quite a while.’

  ‘I’m sure it did,’ said the Queen. She gazed at Bartlett with wonder, as if she didn’t know quite what to think.

  Bartlett shrugged. ‘I couldn’t think of any other way, you see.’

  ‘But Mr Bartlett, I have never heard of anyone doing that before. Should I have heard of it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Bartlett. ‘I’d never heard of it either.’

  The Queen continued to gaze at Bartlett. ‘Well, that is most extraordinary,’ she said eventually. ‘Most exceptional. Most …’

  ‘Exhilarating?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Lord Ronald. It is most exhilarating. An iceberg? Mr Bartlett, however did you come to think of it?’

  ‘Inventiveness!’ cried Sutton Pufrock, ‘Desperation and—’

  ‘Perseverance,’ said Bartlett, as Sutton Pufrock’s voice was stifled by the footman. ‘He’s right, Your Highness, it took all of those. It took all of those and more.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine Sir Hugh coming up with that idea,’ murmured Lord Ronald, and the Queen couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

  ‘Well, that was very exceptional, Mr Bartlett,’ she said. ‘Very exhilarating.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The Queen glanced at the melidrop sitting in Gozo’s hand, as if she had only just remembered it. ‘One can still eat this melidrop, I presume?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartlett.

  ‘When?’

  ‘You will have to wait a little.’

  ‘Yet more waiting!’ the Queen cried impulsively.

  Lord Ronald smiled. There was, it appeared, nothing better than a melidrop to teach patience to a Queen.

  ‘How long must I wait?’ inquired the Queen.

  ‘Not long,’ said Bartlett. ‘Until it thaws properly. Tomorrow, probably.’

  The Queen sighed. ‘Tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘For breakfast,’ said Bartlett.

  The Chief Butler took the melidrop and placed it in a beautiful silver box lined by cotton wool. He deposited it on a shelf in the pantry that was reserved for delicacies, spices and food items of exceptional rarity, where the temperature was even and cool and the melidrop could thaw at a moderate rate. Then he locked the door so that no one could get to it. But Gozo, who had not come all this way with a melidrop from Mordi’s farm just to see someone come along and steal it at the last minute, announced that he was going to sit in front of the pantry door and guard it all night. And that is exactly where he was, fast asleep, when the Chief Butler, Bartlett, Jacques le Grand and the Head Chef came back to get the melidrop the next morning. The Chief Butler stepped over him, unlocked the door, got the box with the melidrop and stepped over him once again, and Gozo didn’t wake up until they had taken the melidrop out of the box and were all standing around the table in the middle of the Queen’s great kitchen, examining it.

  The melidrop’s skin looked almost perfect. It still had the wrinkles that were there when Mordi first discovered it. Bartlett turned it over and everyone scrutinised the other side. A slight bruise had appeared near one end, which must have occurred the previous day when the Queen threw the melidrop back at the footman and it bounced on the floor.

  Bartlett picked the melidrop up. He squeezed it tentatively. He sniffed it. The Head Chef watched him, waiting. Bartlett gave the melidrop to Jacques and then to Gozo. They tested it gently as well. The melidrop had thawed but was still firm. It had a sweet but fresh aroma.

  Bartlett looked at Gozo. Gozo nodded. Jacques nodded as well.

  ‘It’s ready,’ Bartlett said, and he handed the melidrop to the Head Chef.

  The Head Chef took his sharpest knife and cleanly split the melidrop in two. He placed the halves face up on a plate of the finest white porcelain.

  The yellow flesh of the melidrop glistened invitingly. Suddenly Jacques remembered the delicious sweetness of the melidrops that he had eaten in the bazaar, and it was all he could do to stop himself leaping at the fruit and wolfing it down in two bites. The Head Chef put the plate on a bright silver tray together with a delicate silver spoon. He gave the tray to the Chief Butler. The Chief Butler carried the tray out. Bartlett, Jacques le Grand and Gozo followed.

  The Queen was already waiting in her breakfast room. A crowd of courtiers had gathered to watch her eat the melidrop. The crisp white tablecloth was entirely bare except for a glass and a crystal jug of pure mountain water. The Chief Butler placed the melidrop in front of the Queen. The Queen picked up the silver spoon. She looked at the cut melidrop for a moment. Then she took a small scoop of the melidrops flesh and placed it daintily in her mouth.

  The Queen chewed slowly. Her face remained completely expressionless. She swallowed. She put her spoon back into the melidrop and took another scoop.

  The Queen ate the whole melidrop without saying a word. Her expression did not change. She cleaned out one half of the melidrop, took a sip of water, and then cleaned out the other half. No one could tell what she was thinking.

  When she had finished the Queen took another sip from her glass of pure mountain water. Then she sat back in her chair. She gazed at the plate in front of her for a long time. The two empty halves of the red melidrop stared back at her, hollowed-out pieces of skin with yellow streaks that would soon start to curl and darken and wither away.

  Finally she looked up. ‘I believe we had a deal, Mr Bartlett.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartlett.

  ‘I said that I would provide an expedition if you brought me a melidrop before I sent Sir Hugh. And you said that you would be back within seven months. So I’m afraid you did not fulfil your side of the bargain. You arrived three hours after the sev
en months were up, and Sir Hugh had already been sent.’

  Bartlett didn’t reply. He glanced at Jacques. Jacques gave a faint shrug. He didn’t really expect anything better from the Queen.

  Suddenly the Queen smiled. ‘But I will provide your expedition,’ she said, speaking directly to Jacques le Grand, whose shrug she had seen. She turned to Bartlett. ‘It will give me great pleasure to provide it. I have never heard of anything so clever or so… desperate, or even so inventive, as getting an iceberg. I have never heard of anything that even comes close to it. I admit, I doubted your dedication, Bartlett. You have proved me wrong.’

  There was a stifled gasp from the courtiers. They tried to remember when they had last heard the Queen admit a mistake.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the Queen, looking around. ‘I was wrong. And there is another lesson I have learned,’ she said, glancing at Lord Ronald, ‘the importance of patience. And trust, that is also important, when there is one who is worthy of it.’

  The courtiers stared at her in amazement.

  ‘Why are you so surprised?’ said the Queen, ‘I have always been eager to learn from experience.’

  The courtiers shuffled nervously. Something very strange had happened to the Queen since Bartlett had come back with the melidrop. They even wondered whether she had been writing poems again.

  Bartlett nodded. ‘I have learned something also, Madam. I did not think that going to get a melidrop could be a real adventure. But it was. It was one of the greatest adventures of my life.’

  Jacques le Grand raised an eyebrow. Bartlett was going a bit too far!

  ‘Now, tell me something else, Mr Bartlett,’ said the Queen. ‘Could you have brought back more than one melidrop? Two perhaps, or three? Or a dozen?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Bartlett. ‘But you only asked for one.’