The Arctic Fury

by Greer Macallister

  Virginia squinted. She didn’t even see a smear; she saw nothing. But she said, “Let’s go,” and gestured for Caprice to lead them in the direction she wanted them to go. If there was no hope, there was no reason to go forward. Without hope, they might as well lie down on the cold, stony ground to die.

  As they closed the distance, she began to see it. A faint gray line at first—how did Caprice even spot it? Perhaps her eyes, experienced as they were at reading the territory of snow-covered mountains, adjusted more quickly to the light that seemed to blind the rest of them. As they got closer, the object grew, defined itself as a thick mark of dark gray against the mottled, lighter grays of the landscape. A cairn, likely made of stones piled high, not quite as tall as a man.

  It stood out clearly with its regular, artificially precise angles, the first man-made thing they had seen in days. Wait, far more than days, she thought, tallying up what passed in this part of the world for sunsets. Two weeks at least. She would have to ask Irene to tell her how many days they’d been on land. Of all of them, the mute woman had the most unerring sense of time.

  Virginia’s heart quickened, which was a painful, squeezing motion in the cold. She could not afford for her heart to gallop out of control. But the excitement brought that perilously close to happening. She forced herself to look at the exploration as an exercise. What possible things could a party find in a cairn in the far North? If this were merely an exercise, if her life and the lives of the women who’d trusted her didn’t hang in the balance, then she could calm her racing heart.

  In a way, she wished Margaret had left the ship to come with them so there would be a record. Then again, perhaps nothing good would happen here, in which case a record would only cause pain. Would the records the journalist had written so far praise her or condemn her? How would it all work out, if it did? She supposed that depended on whether they found evidence of Franklin’s whereabouts. The world, and most specifically Jane Franklin, would laud a success and ignore a failure. They had kept the door to success open by heading off in the direction of Victory Point, still in search of the Franklin party, instead of making for Repulse Bay. But the odds were still very much against them. They were a long way from succeeding.

  “Something’s wrong,” she heard Siobhan say, and the women’s footsteps slowed.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s too regular,” Siobhan said. “Those aren’t stones.”

  As they approached, once the shapes came clear, they lost their concern in the face of curiosity.

  The cache was not made of stones but a pile of tin cans, stacked a bit higher than all their heads. The labels had worn away, but the seals remained.

  “Is it food?” someone asked.

  “They just look so…wrong,” said Elizabeth, echoing what Virginia supposed they were all thinking.

  “No, not wrong,” said Stella in a thready voice. “Althea told me once how the British packed their ships. Tons of supplies like you wouldn’t imagine. Because they were headed into a wasteland.”

  “So it is food. That we could eat,” Caprice said.

  “Wait.” Stella reached out, holding her palm in front of Caprice’s eager form. “The other thing Althea said was that a few years after the Terror and the Erebus sailed, the man who’d won the contract to furnish it out was barred from doing business with the government again. Seems his cans didn’t preserve as well as he’d claimed.”

  “So the question is,” Elizabeth said, “are these cans from Franklin’s expedition or another?”

  “Likely another,” said Doro, at the exact moment that Caprice said, “Well, no way to know for sure.”

  “Even if we could open them up,” said Stella, “I’m not so sure I’d try one.”

  “Oh, I’ll try it,” said Caprice, oddly merry. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve eaten on mountainsides. Local stews, the occasional eyeball from who-knows-what animal, whatever it was, it kept me alive. I’ve got an iron stomach by now. So hand it over.”

  Irene had a can in one hand, and as she was nearest Caprice, Caprice reached out for it; Irene yanked it back before she could wrap her glove around the metal.

  “Oh, come on,” Caprice said gruffly.

  Irene shook her head. When Caprice feinted toward her, the mute woman whipped her hand back and hurled the can as far as she could throw it, which was indeed far. It clanged once against a stone and disappeared somewhere in the endless hillocks and buckles of variegated brown and gray.

  With a glare and a shrug, Caprice walked over to the stack of cans next to the cairn and grabbed another tin. “Someone needs to try.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Virginia.

  Caprice said fiercely, “Don’t be ridiculous, Reeve. We can’t leave them behind if they might be valuable; we can’t afford to take them if they might kill us all. So the only logical thing to do is for someone to open a can up and tuck in. And I’m volunteering to do it. No one in their right mind, no one who cares about the future of this expedition, can say nay.”

  But what Stella had said weighed too heavily on Virginia, and before she really understood what she was doing, she’d reached over and smacked the tin out of Caprice’s hand.

  “No!” said Virginia. “I forbid it.”

  Unlike the high-flying can Irene had hurled, this one rolled across the landscape unevenly, wobbling on its dented side, until it came to rest on a tiny hillock. This one, they could still see.

  Caprice’s eyebrows leapt up in amusement. Her expression turned mocking. “Oh, do you? Do you forbid it, Virginia?”

  “I am the leader of this expedition,” said Virginia. “A fact of which you are well aware. Without someone in charge, all we’ve got is chaos.”

  “I don’t see much difference from chaos in what we’re doing now. Do you? We’ve found nothing. We’re nowhere.”

  “We’re making progress.”

  “We’re dying slowly,” Caprice nearly shouted, her voice growing louder still. “Maybe you consider that a success compared to dying quickly, but I sure don’t.”

  “Caprice. Keep your voice down.”

  “Oh, should I? Do you get to decide what we all say as well as what we do?”

  “I’m not the one whose family treats their servants like slaves.” The words slipped out before she had time to consider their wisdom or lack thereof. Once they were out, she wished she could take them back. This was neither the time nor the place. Elizabeth was looking back and forth between the two of them, visibly horrified.

  With a snide, distant air, Caprice said, “Do you mean Elizabeth? Elizabeth is free to leave my family’s employ whenever she wishes. I wouldn’t recommend right this minute, of course.”

  “Is she so free? Did she want to come on this journey at all? Did you even ask her before you hauled her a thousand miles into the unknown?”

  Both women turned to Elizabeth, whose gaze flickered toward Virginia in quiet desperation but then fixed back down on the ground.

  The flash in Caprice’s eyes could have been either anger or fear. Either way, almost as soon as Virginia noticed it, it vanished.

  Then, Caprice waved a hand dismissively. “You know the truth? She’s no worse off than you or me. Women are all slaves of one sort or another.”

  “How can you say that?” Virginia was aghast. Surely, the woman must see the difference. She hadn’t realized it herself at first, how much more constrained Elizabeth’s choices were than her own, but as soon as Elizabeth had pointed it out, she understood. All her life, Caprice had lived in a household with servants, had been their mistress. She must understand they were not all the same. Didn’t she?

  “You think I’m free?” challenged Caprice. “I’m not. I do what my parents tell me up until they marry me off so I can do what my husband tells me.”

  “Poor you,” Virginia returned, her voice dripping w
ith sarcasm. Anger heated her blood. She was surprised it didn’t heat the air around them, warm it until it felt like true summer, not just the North’s version of it. She felt that much fire. “It must be so hard to get everything you want.”

  “Everything I want? You know nothing about me.”

  They were both shouting now, completely out of control, heedless of the horrified women watching them in silence.

  “I know you’re spoiled and childish and the only reason you’re on this voyage is because I was forced to bring you along for the money,” spat Virginia.

  “Money isn’t everything.”

  “That’s what people with money say.”

  Caprice answered, her voice harsh with anger, “You never gave me a chance! You saw a woman of means and decided because I was lucky, I couldn’t also be good.”

  “And have you been good? Have you contributed, worked hard, put yourself at risk for the other women here?”

  “It’s come to exactly that, hasn’t it?” said Caprice. “And I will.”

  Then she drew her knife.

  Instinctively, Virginia leaned back, putting herself out of reach.

  Then, Caprice took the blade and began stabbing down into the nearest can. The sound of the blade piercing the metal fell somewhere between a thump and a shriek, and every time it repeated, Virginia winced.

  Caprice paid no mind. She stabbed the can over and over, more than a dozen times, until it yielded up its contents. Then she put her mouth against the tin and slurped directly from it. Virginia was terrified she’d cut herself on the metal. She looked over to Siobhan, who clearly shared her worry and readied herself.

  They all watched Caprice in horrified silence. Or at least in Virginia’s case, it was horrified; how did the other women feel? Did they admire her, even a little bit, for taking the risk? Were they bold enough to follow her lead?

  No one did.

  “Well then,” said Virginia. “You’ve made your point. Now we can go.”

  “Go? Without the cans? You can’t be serious,” said Caprice, gesturing at the cairn, taller than she.

  “I am in charge, remember,” Virginia snapped. She could feel control slipping away. “If you wanted to be out from under my thumb, you could have stayed on the ship. Played it safe, ridden along, headed home to Pop-Pop and Mummy. But no. You’re on land, headed for Victory Point. Which means you think we’re going to accomplish something here. What is it?”

  “We’re accomplishing something just by setting foot in this part of the Arctic. First women to do so.”

  “First white women,” Stella added quietly from her position on the sledge. As she got stronger, she’d begun to contribute more. She looked to Irene, who nodded encouragement. “The Esquimaux were here. Are here. They’ve forgotten more about surviving in this environment than we’ll ever know.”

  “When they write the record books,” said Caprice, “no one will put an asterisk by our names because of the color of our skin.”

  “You think we’ll be in the record books?” asked Virginia with surprise.

  “We could be. If you don’t screw it up.”

  “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

  Caprice said frostily, “I’m just reminding you of your tremendous responsibility.”

  “Don’t you fret your little head about that,” said Virginia. “I remember that you’re my responsibility every damn minute of every damn day.”

  “Language!”

  “When I get back to Boston,” Virginia snapped, “the very first thing I’m going to do is buy myself a parrot. And I am going to teach him to pipe up ‘Language!’ at regular intervals to annoy any and all around him.”

  “I don’t an—”

  “And I will name him in your honor.”

  From the look on Caprice’s face, a slightly stunned expression, she thought she’d struck home with her barbs. But it was something else entirely.

  The rich girl bent over and vomited.

  The contents of her stomach splattered with an awful sound, everyone around her shocked into utter silence.

  Caprice stood back up with a green, grim look and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Only a moment later, she bent over to retch again.

  In Virginia’s gut roiled a combination of grim satisfaction and sickly uncertainty.

  What was it now? Had the contents of the tin or something else sickened Caprice? Virginia couldn’t abandon an unwell woman in these wastes, even Caprice. Besides, she had no desire to answer for a disappeared heiress upon her return.

  That seemed unlikely, though. Caprice had a constitution of iron and a will to match. If Virginia had to lay odds on who would survive all this without a scratch, Caprice would be a good bet. Heaven knew, in her weak, overwhelmed moments, she had given the rich girl poor odds to survive this expedition. She had said it to her face. But personally, she thought Caprice was the toughest of them all. Irene had better wilderness skills but could not lead, partly because she could not speak, partly because she did not want to. Siobhan didn’t know enough about the North. Elizabeth was strong but not naturally venturesome, though she gained new skills every day. And Doro, poor Doro. Her knowledge of the Arctic had been essential on the journey so far and would be even more essential going forward, but could her body keep up with her mind? Virginia couldn’t know for sure.

  Caprice, though. She had the skills, the youth, the fire. She wouldn’t give up just because things seemed impossible, Virginia told herself. Caprice would be fine.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Chapter Forty

  Virginia

  Massachusetts Superior Court, Boston

  October 1854

  The first words Mr. Mason says to her, even before she sees his face, are the two words she both can never hear enough and has already heard far too many times: I’m sorry.

  She’d been praying for hours, wrestling with something much like a pain in her chest, that wringing-out feeling of hopes growing and hopes dashed. It felt as if something green were forcing its way out of her, and the only way she could forget the pain was to pray.

  She lost track of how long she’d been there, knees dully aching on the hard bluestone, and when she heard the guard announcing a visitor, she did not look up. She had been disappointed so many times. So many times, she’d caught her breath when a visitor was announced, always wondering if it could be someone she expected never to see again, hoping it wasn’t and yet unable to embrace that hope fully.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and when she hears the unfamiliar voice, she finishes her prayer, Thy will be done, Amen, and then looks up with battle-wearied eyes.

  The man is unfamiliar, but she’s pretty sure she knows who he is. The pain of hope in her heart, that green shoot, pushes up harder toward the sunlight.

  “My name is Thomas Mason,” he says, “and I’m your new attorney. I’m sorry it took me so long to arrive. There were some complications untangling you from Mr. Clevenger’s representation. He did not go willingly, but now the deed is done, and you will deal only with me for the remainder of the trial.”

  “Thank you. That’s good news,” says Virginia.

  There is no smile on his face. “To be frank, I wish it were better,” he says. “I fear the time when I could have made great strides in your case may be behind us.”

  Virginia stands, her legs creaking as she puts weight on her feet for the first time in hours, and almost falls. She puts out her hands and catches the cold metal of the bars to keep herself upright. The bars are so cold. They are always so cold.

  Thomas Mason is around her height, not a tall man but with a strong jaw and broad frame that give him a larger man’s presence. His nose is sharp and angular, his mouth wide. There is a warmth and sympathy in his eyes that makes Virginia’s mouth go dry. Whether or not that warmth is real, it
is compelling. She wants to be sure of him, but at the same time, does it matter whether she is? He has to be better than her last counsel, and there is no way she’ll have the chance at a third.

  “Are you a friend of the captain’s?” she asks.

  “Captain Malcolm engaged me, yes,” says Mr. Mason. “We are old friends, from before his seafaring career began.”

  “And what do you mean? About it being too late?”

  “I cannot object to anything that has already happened,” he says. “I cannot cross-examine witnesses who have already been dismissed. If I’d been here at the very beginning, certainly I would have argued the case’s very jurisdiction. Why Massachusetts, when the body was not found here?”

  Her head spins. She counters, “The body was not found at all.”

  “Of course, of course,” he agrees smoothly. “But I could have argued that because Caprice was known to have departed the United States by crossing the border at Sault Ste. Marie, if the case is to be tried in an American court at all, it should have been tried in Michigan.”

  “Would that have been better?”

  “The state of Michigan has abolished the death penalty,” he says, and the kindness in his voice almost undoes her.

  Struggling to speak, she forces words out, mindful that she doesn’t know how long she has with him. “So there are many things we can’t do. What can we do?”

  “We are entering a new phase of the case, Virginia,” he says. “They have called every witness they plan to call.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We know.”

  “So what comes next?”

  “Our witnesses. Our strategy.”

  Somehow, Virginia’s dizziness overtakes her, and what she hears coming from her mouth are the very last words she intended to say. “My last attorney was not keen on letting me take the stand.”

  To his credit, her new attorney seems unfazed by this revelation. “Really. Did he give you a reason?”

  “He said I wasn’t credible.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with that,” he says, and her heart lifts a little. His manner becomes more businesslike. “What’s most important is that I don’t think it matters. We can’t very well just roll over and admit that everything they’ve said is true; we need to counter it. Which you can do. You’re a well-spoken young lady.”