Page 1 of Her Creation

Chapter 1

Log entry

November 24 1802

Location: The British Admiralty’s Hydrographic Office

The end & the beginning.

I went in search of a story I could tell for a lifetime, and instead I returned with a secret that could never be told.

December 11, 1802 Log entry: Embarkment

Location: Whitby Harbor Latitude: 54°29′N Longitude: 0°36′W

Icy wind nipped at my cheeks as I heaved my enormous trunk aboard the Prometheus. My lungs struggled with the sharp intake of air, but I forced steady, even movements as if lugging the cumbersome chest were no trouble at all. The skin at the back of my neck prickled with the feeling of a dozen eyes on me as I moved through the brig. My gaze remained lowered, pretending not to notice the many irritated stares as I moved through the dimly lit corridor between bulkheads to my quarters, nearly losing it all as I maneuvered the companionway with all the stealth of a newborn fawn. Not that I was unfamiliar with the tight layout of ships or the steep and narrow ladder between decks, but more that my incommodious attire prevented me from retaining even a crumb of grace or pride as I struggled and silently prayed that no one would offer their help.

So far, I recognized almost none of the men from any of my other expeditions. The thought twisted in my gut awkwardly just as I caught sight of Dover, a tall lower-ranking naval officer. He stood like a reed in a meadow, talking to Paviasuk and Aputsiaq, better known to us as Small Boy and Snowflake, two Kalaallit Inuit whalers, all of whom I’d sailed with before. They were good men, and the small bit of familiarity caused my rigid shoulders to loosen slightly.

The men gave me a nod of acknowledgment as I passed. If Small Boy and Snowflake were on this expedition, that meant the Admiralty had likely hired Michael Flynn as the ship’s navigator. Another small crumb of worry dropped away as I continued through the brig. I liked Mick immensely. He and I had worked together briefly on another excursion, and I always found the quiet, straightforward, somewhat surly man to be quite intelligent with a perfect amount of thoroughness and caution. He had been the navigator for several of the most successful coastline discoveries of the last ten years, many of which had sailed with my father and grandfather. Mick was well-known for bringing men from the local whalers aboard any of the Arctic excursions he sailed, and this quirk caused tension among the rest of the crew. Most of the men on these ships didn’t seem to think or care much about what might be best for the mission unless it fit inside their brains of little thoughts—thoughts hand-fed to them by the men that came before them, and the ones before them. Wait until they found out I was aboard.

December 15, 1802

Location: Aboard the brig Prometheus Latitude: 57°45’ N Longitude: 8°15’ E

Weather overcast, sea ice thickening to the east, barometer falling. Coastal lines faint under mist but discernible rise in topography with low, ice-laden cliffs and a dark inland elevation suggesting rock, not pack ice.

Below I have sketched a preliminary outline from the quarterdeck under clouded light. Est. landfall distance: 6–8 leagues.

Excitement for the journey has bubbled up among the men like a cauldron of boiling soup. I fear we’ve already reached the place in my logbook where I’ve become haunted by the distant memories of every warm, decent meal I’ve ever eaten. It’s amazing to me how easily one takes for granted the delectable magic that is hot food. As always happens on these trips, the luxuries of land are fresh, bleeding wounds that seep out onto the forefront of my mind even as we are only a few days out to sea.

If that I sail alone with forty to eighty men for months and months on end wasn’t enough to deter any sort of potential suitor, then I fear the harsh wrinkles and freckles on my face from days spent in the sun or the unkempt, hardened appearance I’ve earned with this life spent at sea would likely be the final deterrent needed. And rightfully so. Despite enjoying romantic stories, I believe it all to be a myth. True love is as fictional as the sirens below this ship. As a woman in the world as it is, I have no desire to belong to a man. I feel as though I am as much a man as the rest on this ship, and I will not squander it in pursuit of being taken care of. That is another gift this life has given me: a frightfully unmatched case of selfish independence. I would rather throw a potential suitor overboard than risk someone else putting my passion anywhere other than on documenting unseen land first.

I will go down in history after this trip. I am the first woman to chart. It’s as good as in the papers and textbooks already. And I’ll be damned if I let a man impede that. Here I am now, all riled up in my quarters alone with only paper to tell my thoughts to. Fortunately, I will remove most of this from the final logbook before I submit it, as it’s turning into more of a diary.

It’s disgustingly lonely being a woman. My quarters are lovely, an old storeroom that was quickly converted to my living space as it would obviously be unfit for me to sleep among the rest of the members of the scientific mission, as they are of course all men, and my ranking and sex would also not allow me to have bought a hammock among the lower ranks of the men. That is all understood well and fine, but I have to draw the line at being forced to dine in my quarters. For God’s sake, are they afraid I will dine tits out at the galley table? Absurd. If it were not for Captain Sheamus and Mick, the navigator, being so kind, I’m not entirely sure I wouldn’t have attempted a trip to the galley tits out just for some company or someone to talk to.

Heavens, I shall leave the book at that. Mick is at the door to compare our measurements and loggings now.

Chapter 2

January 12, 1803

Location: Greenland Sea, north of Iceland Latitude: 68° 20’ N Longitude: 16° 00’ W

Sea moderately rough with long rolling swells. Visibility fair, though mist gathers low on the horizon.

Dr. Brox and Mr. Harold, the expedition’s medical officer and our naturalist, had kept mostly away from me. I’d hardly even seen the two of them for the last month. When I informed the men that we would near our destination within the week, the three of us began daily meetings discussing the roles each of us would take once on land and how best they would be done with the other members of the team. Precise thoroughness was a requirement of the most base-level cartographer. Dr. Brox told me when we first met that he had been surprised they had chosen a woman, particularly one as inexperienced as I was at thirty-four, to map this expedition. “It’s quite an enormous responsibility to have your name attached to this map and this discovery,” he’d said. After that, he had been kind enough to keep his concerns to himself—or at least out of my earshot.

March 18, 1803

Location: Uncharted coast, eastern Greenland Latitude: 73° 40’ N Longitude: 21° 10’ W

The call from the lookout rang. “Land ho! High land to the east!”

An excited hush fell over the men. The captain hurled commands about, each order gaining enthusiasm with each repetition from the first lieutenant.

“Bring her to wind!”