“But Parry — I think the old bastard always wanted to be an actor more than a ship’s captain — he does the whole thing up right, scratching away at his fiddle, hopping on that fake peg leg, and shouting out, ‘Give a copper to the poor Joe, your honour, who’s lost his timbers in defence of his King and country!’
“Well, the men laughed their arses off. But Hoppner, who loved that make-believe rubbish even more than Parry, I think, he comes into the ball dressed as a noble lady, wearing the latest Parisian fashions from that year — low bustline, big crinoline dress bunched up over his ass, everything — and since I was full of piss and vinegar in those days, not to mention too stupid to know better, in other words still in my twenties, I was dressed as Hoppner’s black footman — wearing this real footman’s livery that old Henry Parkyns Hoppner had bought in some dandy’s London livery store and brought along just for me.”
“Did the men laugh?” asks Fitzjames.
“Oh, the men laughed their arses off again — Parry and his peg weren’t in it after old Henry appeared in drag with me lifting his silk train behind him. Why wouldn’t they laugh? All those chimney sweeps and ribbon girls, ragmen and hook-nosed Jews, bricklayers and Highland warriors, Turkish dancers and London match girls? Look! There’s young Crozier, aging midshipman not even lieutenant yet who thinks he’s going to be an admiral someday, forgetting that he’s just another black Irish nigger.”
Fitzjames says nothing for a minute. Crozier can hear the snores and farts from the creaking hammocks toward the bow of the dark ship. Somewhere on deck just above them, a lookout stamps his feet to keep them from freezing. Crozier is sorry he’s ended the story this way — he speaks to no one like this when he is sober — but he also wishes that Fitzjames would get the brandy out again. Or the whiskey.
“When did Fury and Hecla escape from the ice?” asks Fitzjames.
“Twenty July the next summer,” says Crozier. “But you probably know the rest of the story.”
“I know that Fury was lost.”
“Aye,” says Crozier. “Five days after the ice relents — we’d been creeping along the shore of Somerset Island, trying to stay out of the pack ice, trying to avoid that God-damned limestone always falling from the cliffs — another gale grounds Fury on a spit of gravel. We man-hauled her free — using ice screws and sweat — but then both ships get frozen in, and a God-damned iceberg almost as big as that bastard squatting between Erebus and Terror shoves Fury against the shore ice, tears her rudder away, smashes her timbers to splinters, springs her hull plates, and the crew worked the four pumps in shifts day and night just trying to keep her afloat.”
“And you did for a while,” prompts Fitzjames.
“A fortnight. We even tried cabling her to a berg, but the fucking cable snapped. Then Hoppner tried raising her to get at her keel — just as Sir John wanted to do with your Erebus — but the blizzard put an end to that idea and both ships were in danger of being forced onto the lee shore of the headland. Finally the men just fell over where they were pumping — they were too exhausted to understand our orders — and on the twenty-first of August, Parry ordered everyone aboard Hecla and cast her off to save her from being driven aground and poor Fury got shoved right up onto the beach by a bunch of bergs that slammed her hard ashore there and blocked her way out. There wasn’t even a chance of a tow. The ice was smashing her to bits as we watched. We barely got Hecla free, and that only with every man working the pumps day and night and the carpenter laboring round the clock to shore her up.
“So we never got close to the Passage — or even to sighting new land, really — and lost a ship, and Hoppner was court-martialed and Parry considered that his court-martial as well since Hoppner was under his command the whole time.”
“Everyone was acquitted,” says Fitzjames. “Even praised, as I recall.”
“Praised but not promoted,” says Crozier.
“But you all survived.”
“Yes.”
“I want to survive this expedition, Francis,” says Fitzjames. His tone is soft but very determined.
Crozier nods.
“We should have done what Parry did and put both crews aboard Terror a year ago and sailed east around King William Land,” says Fitzjames.
It is Crozier’s turn to raise his brows. Not at Fitzjames agreeing that it is an island — their later-summer sledge reconnaissance had all but settled that — but in agreeing that they should have made a run for it last autumn, abandoning Sir John’s ship. Crozier knows that there is no harder thing for a captain in anyone’s navy to do than to give up his ship, but especially so in the Royal Navy. And while Erebus had been under the overall command of Sir John Franklin, Commander James Fitzjames had been its true captain.
“It is too late now.” Crozier is in pain. Because the Common Room shares several outer bulkheads and has three overhead Preston Patent Illuminators, it is cold — the two men can see their breath in the air — but it’s still sixty or seventy degrees warmer than it had been out on the ice and Crozier’s feet, especially his toes, are thawing in a rush of jagged pin pokes and red-hot needle stabs.
“Yes,” agrees Fitzjames, “but you were wise to have the gear and provisions sledged to King William Land in August.”
“It wasn’t a fraction of what we’ll need to ferry there if that is to be our survival camp,” Crozier says brusquely. He had ordered about two tons of clothing, tents, survival gear, and tinned food to be removed from the ships and stored on the northwest shore of the island should they have to abandon ships quickly during the winter, but the ferrying had been absurdly slow and extremely dangerous. Weeks of laborious sledging had left only a ton or so of cache there — tents, extra slops, tools, and a few weeks of canned food. Nothing more.
“That thing wouldn’t let us stay there,” he adds softly. “We all could have moved to tents in September — I had the ground prepared for two dozen of the big tents, you remember — but the campsite would not have been as defensible as the ships are.”
“No,” says Fitzjames.
“If the ships last the winter.”
“Yes,” says Fitzjames. “Have you heard, Francis, that some of the men — on both ships — are calling that creature the Terror?”
“No!” Crozier is offended. He does not want the name of his ship used to evil purposes such as that, even if the men are jesting. But he looks at Commander James Fitzjames’s hazel-green eyes and realizes that the other captain is serious and so must be the men. “The Terror,” says Crozier, and tastes bile.
“They think it is no animal,” says Fitzjames. “They believe its cunning is something else, is preternatural … supernatural … that there is a demon out there on the ice in the dark.”
Crozier almost spits he is so disgusted. “Demon,” he says in contempt. “These are the very seamen who believe in ghosts, faeries, Jonahs, mermaids, curses, and sea monsters.”
“I’ve seen you scratch the sail to summon wind,” Fitzjames says with a smile.
Crozier says nothing.
“You’ve lived long enough and traveled far enough to see things that no man knew existed,” Fitzjames adds, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
“Aye,” says Crozier with a bark of a laugh. “Penguins! I wish they were the largest beastie up here, as they seem to be down south.”
“There are no white bears there in the south arctic?”
“None that we saw. None that any south-sailing whaler or explorer has seen in seventy years of sailing toward and around that white, volcanic, frozen land.”
“And you and James Ross were the first men ever to see the continent. And the volcanoes.”
“Aye, we were. And it did Sir James much good. He’s married to a beautiful young thing, knighted, happy, retired from the cold. And me … I am … here.”
Fitzjames clears his throat as if to change the subject. “Do you know, Francis, until this voyage, I honestly believed in the Open Polar Sea. I was quite sure Parliament was
correct when it listened to predictions from the so-called polar experts — in the winter before we sailed, do you remember? It was in the Times — all about the thermobaric barrier, about the Gulf Stream flowing up under this ice to warm the Open Polar Sea, and the invisible continent that must be up here. They were so convinced it existed that they were proposing and passing laws to send inmates of Southgate and other prisons up here to shovel the coal that must be in such plentitude just a few hundred miles from here on the North Polar Continent.”
Crozier laughs with real humour this time. “Yes, to shovel coal to heat the hotels and supply the refueling stations for the steamships that will be making regular trips across the Open Polar Sea by the 1860s at the latest. Oh, God, that I were one of those prisoners in Southgate. Their cells are, required by law and for humanity’s sake, twice the size of our cabins, James, and our future would be warm and secure if we only had to sit in such luxury and wait for word of that North Pole continent being discovered and colonized.”
Both men are laughing now.
There comes a thumping from the deck above — running footsteps rather than mere feet stamping — and then voices and a sliding of cold air around their feet as someone opens the main hatch above the far end of the companionway and the sound of several pairs of feet clattering down the steps.
Both captains are silent and waiting when the soft knock comes on the Common Room’s thin door.
“Enter,” says Commander Fitzjames.
An Erebus crewman leads in two Terrors — Third Lieutenant John Irving and a seaman named Shanks.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Commander Fitzjames, Captain Crozier,” says Irving through only slightly chattering teeth. His long nose is white from the cold. Shanks is still carrying a musket. “Lieutenant Little sent me to report to Captain Crozier as soon as I could.”
“Go ahead, John,” says Crozier. “You’re not still hunting for Lady Silence, are you?”
Irving looks blank for a second. Then, “We saw her out on the ice when the last search parties were coming in. No, sir, Lieutenant Little asked me to fetch you right away because …” The young lieutenant pauses as if forgetting the reason Little had sent him to report.
“Mr. Couch,” says Fitzjames to the Erebus mate on duty who had led the two Terrors to the Common Room, “be so kind as to step out into the companionway and to close the door please, thank you.”
Crozier has also heard the odd silence as the snoring and hammock creaking has all but ceased. Too many ears in the crew’s forward berthing space were awake and listening.
When the door is shut, Irving says, “It’s William Strong and Tommy Evans, sir. They’re back.”
Crozier blinks. “What the devil do you mean, back? Alive?” He feels the first surge of hope he’s had for months.
“Oh, no sir,” says Irving. “Just … one body … really. But it was propped against the stern rail when someone saw it as all the search parties were coming in for the day … about an hour ago. The guards on duty hadn’t seen anything. But it was there, sir. On Lieutenant Little’s orders, Shanks and I made the crossing as quickly as we could to inform you, Captain. Shanks Mare as it were.”
“It?” snaps Crozier. “One body? Back on the ship?” This makes no sense at all to the Terror’s captain. “I thought you said both Strong and Evans were back.”
Third Lieutenant Irving’s entire face is frostbite white now. “They are, Captain. Or at least half of them. When we went to look at the body propped there at the stern, it fell over and … well … came apart. As best we can tell, it’s Billy Strong from the waist up. Tommy Evans from the waist down.”
Crozier and Fitzjames can only look at each other.
12
GOODSIR
Lat. 69° 37′ 42″ Long. 98° 41′
King William Land, 24 May–3 June, 1847
Lieutenant Gore’s cache party arrived at Sir James Ross’s cairn on King William Land late on the evening of 28 May, after five hard days of travel across the ice.
The good news as they approached the island — invisible to them until the last minutes — was that there were pools of salt-free drinking water as they neared the shore. The bad news was that most of these pools had been leached from the base of an almost unbroken series of icebergs — some of them a hundred feet tall and more — that had been swept up against the shallows and shore and now stretched like a parapeted white castle wall as far as the eye could see around the curve of land. It took the men a full day to cross this barrier and even then they had to leave some of the robes, fuel, and provisions cached on the sea ice to lighten the sledge load. To add to their difficulties and discomfort, several of the cans of soup and pork they had opened on the ice had gone putrid and had to be thrown away, leaving them less than five days’ rations for the return — assuming that more of the cans were not bad. On top of all that, they found that even here, at what must be the sea’s edge, the ice was still seven feet thick.
Worst of all — for Goodsir, at least — King William Land, or King William Island as they later learned, was the greatest disappointment of his life.
Devon Island and Beechey Island to the north had been windswept, inhospitable to life at the best of times, and barren except for lichen and low plants, but that was a veritable Garden of Eden compared to what the men now found on King William Land. Beechey had boasted bare ground, some sand and soil, imposing cliffs, and a sort of beach. None of that was to be found on King William Land.
For half an hour after crossing the iceberg barrier, Goodsir did not know if he was on solid ground or not. He had been prepared to celebrate with the others since this would be the first time any of them had set foot on terra firma in more than a year, but the sea ice gave way beyond the bergs to great tumbles of shore ice and it had been impossible to tell where the shore ice left off and the shore began. Everything was ice, dirty snow, more ice, more snow.
Finally they reached a windswept area free of snow and Goodsir and several of the seamen threw themselves forward onto the gravel, going to hands and knees on the solid ground as if in thanksgiving, but even here the small round stones were frozen solid, as firm as London cobblestones in winter and ten times as cold, and this chill traveled up through their trousers and other layers covering their knees, then into their bones and up through their mittens to their palms and fingers like a silent invitation to the frozen infernal circles of the dead far below.
It took them four more hours to find Ross’s cairn. A heap of rocks promised to be six feet high on or near Victory Point should be easy enough to find — Lieutenant Gore had said this to all of them earlier — but on this exposed point the heaps of ice were often at least six feet high and high winds had long since blown off the smaller top stones of the cairn. The late-May sky never darkened into night, but the dim, constant glow made it exceedingly difficult to see anything in three dimensions or to judge distances. The only things that stood out were the bears, and only because of their movement. Half a dozen of the hungry, curious things had been following them off and on all day. Beyond that occasional awkward waddle of movement, everything was lost in a grey-white glow. A serac that looked to be half a mile away and fifty feet high was really only twenty yards away and two feet tall. A bare patch of gravel and stone that seemed a hundred feet away turned out to be a mile away far out on the featureless wind-scoured point.
But they found the cairn finally, at almost 10:00 p.m. by Goodsir’s still-ticking watch, all of the men so exhausted that their arms were hanging like those in sailors’ tales of apes, all speech abandoned in their tiredness, the sledge left half a mile north of where they had first come ashore.
Gore retrieved the first of two messages — he had made a copy of this first one to cache somewhere farther south along the coast as per Sir John’s instructions — filled in the date, and scribbled his name. So did Second Mate Charles des Voeux. They rolled the note, slid it into one of the two airtight brass cylinders they’d hauled with them, and, af
ter dropping the cylinder into the centre of the empty cairn, replaced the rocks they’d removed to gain access.
“Well,” said Gore. “That’s that then, isn’t it?”
The lightning storm began not long after they had trudged back to the sledge for a midnight supper.
To save weight during the iceberg crossing, they had left their heavy wolfskin blanket-robes, ground tarps, and most of the tinned food cached out on the ice. They assumed that since the food was in sealed and soldered tins, it would not attract the white bears that were always sniffing around and that even if it did the bears wouldn’t be able to get into the tins. The plan was to get along on two days’ reduced rations here on land — plus any game they might see and shoot, of course, but that dream was fading with the dismal reality of the place — and to have everyone sleep in the Holland tent.
Des Voeux supervised the preparation of dinner, removing the patented cook kit from its series of cleverly nested wicker baskets. But three of the four cans they had chosen for their first evening’s meal on land were spoiled. That left only their Wednesday half-ration portion of salt pork — always the men’s favorite since it was so rich with fat, but not nearly enough to assuage their hunger after such a day of heavy work — and the last good can, which was labeled “Superior Clear Turtle Soup,” which the men hated, knowing from experience that it was neither superior nor clear and most likely not turtle at all.
Dr. McDonald on Terror had been obsessed for the last year and a half, ever since Torrington’s death at Beechey Island, with the quality of their preserved foodstuffs and was constantly busy experimenting, with the other surgeons’ help, to find the best diet by which to avoid scurvy. Goodsir had learned from the older doctor that a certain Stephan Goldner, the expedition’s provisioner from Houndsditch who had won the contract through extraordinarily low bids, had almost certainly cheated Her Majesty’s government and Her Majesty’s Royal Navy Discovery Service by providing inadequate — and possibly frequently poisonous — victuals.