The Arctic Fury

by Greer Macallister

  “It’ll be a real loss when you’re hanged,” he replies. “You are an infinitely interesting young woman.”

  It’s hard to keep a straight face, but she manages. She won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing he’s rattled her. “You’re so confident? Even though I’m innocent of the charges?”

  “Whether you are innocent is completely beside the point, Miss Reed. You know that as well as I do. What matters is whether you can convince the jury of your innocence. And do you think that’s likely?”

  If she were not shackled, she would slug him in the nose, and even with the shackles, she finds herself rushing toward him, her hands rising in the air.

  He steps back smoothly, avoiding her charge, and then grabs the short chain between her wrists. With one sharp twist, he shortens it so she can’t pull far away enough to hurt him. He does not hesitate. He’s done this before, she realizes, with rougher criminals than she.

  “There’s that legendary temper,” he says. “What is it the Clarion calls you? The ‘Arctic Fury’? I wish they’d gone with ‘the Northern Borgia’—that was one of my other suggestions—but fury does have a certain ring. An apt one, I assume.”

  To hell with this, she decides. She glares at him and tries to angle her leg away to kick him. He anticipates her move and twists her wrists until she is between his body and the wall, and his face is so close to hers she can feel his hot breath, and she cannot get away no matter what she does. In their very first meeting, she had wondered whether he was an envoy or an enforcer. She sees now that his skills transcend both categories.

  “We don’t have long,” he says. “Let’s not waste time. I’m authorized to make you an offer.”

  “Authorized by Lady Franklin?”

  “I’ll say this for you,” he says, almost snarling, “you don’t give up.”

  “You are correct,” she says, though what she thinks is not anymore.

  “Perhaps, sometimes, you should.” He eases the pressure on her wrists but keeps hold of the short chain, so they are close but not touching. “Now listen to the deal I’m willing to offer. We can make all this go away.”

  He pauses, perhaps wanting her to ask what he means, but she stays silent, betting he won’t be able to contain himself.

  If she’d have bet, she’d have won.

  He goes on. “The trial, the possibility of being hanged for your crimes, all of it. With a financial settlement for you to go back to your beloved California or anywhere you’d like to go.”

  “Australia?”

  “If you want,” he says without emotion.

  “Do it, then,” she says, like a dare. “Make it go away.”

  “But we need something in return.”

  “What.” Not a question but a demand. When negotiating with the devil, one must know what devil’s bargain is offered. She realizes now that this is why he came back to Boston, why he allowed himself to be found and called as a witness in the trial. Why he didn’t stay away. Jane Franklin had sent him to make her an offer.

  “We’ll send you an interviewer from the Clarion. And you will tell that interviewer precisely the things that we advise you to say. No more, no less.”

  It comes to her then, when she considers his earlier comments about her nicknames, and now this. Obviously, the Collins family is pulling strings at the Clarion, shaping the coverage of her trial to paint her in the worst possible light. They have their fingers in every single pot, this family. The selection of her defense counsel, though she had at least thwarted them on that front eventually. Social connections with the judge and jury. And now, the newspaper.

  No wonder it feels like everything is against her; everything is.

  She remembers how she felt before she started struggling against her fate. Perhaps she should go back to that. Perhaps, like Caprice did in that ravine, she should just wait to die. Only Caprice could not have survived more than an hour or two. Even once it’s a certainty, Virginia’s death will take much, much longer.

  To Brooks, she says, “What exactly would I say?” This keeps the door open. Besides, she’s curious. And not eager to go back to her cell, not today. She does not want to be alone with her thoughts just now.

  “Tell the world that Lady Jane Franklin sent you.”

  “I’ve been saying that for weeks.”

  “She will back you up.”

  Magical words, and ones she’d have thought she’d give anything to hear. At the same time, something tingles within her, an instinct. Something must have changed. Franklin could have made this offer at any point; why is she making it now? What isn’t Virginia seeing?

  Brooks goes on, “She’ll say she was unaware of your predicament earlier, and now that she knows, she is proud of your journey and even more impressed with the knowledge you brought back.”

  “And what is that knowledge?”

  “That you discovered the fate of Franklin and his men.”

  “Oh, did I? And what did I find?”

  “Evidence that they perished of poisoning on their ships, which were frozen in the ice in a remote location.”

  “Really! Poisoning, more than one hundred men? Some nefarious sailor took them all down with—what? Cyanide in their rum ration?”

  “We’ve found out that their food supplies were tainted,” he says.

  She feels but does not show a shiver of familiarity. She does not have to believe him to know that this is the truth.

  He goes on, “The cut-rate contractor who stocked the ships has been exposed. That was all they had to eat, so they ate it, and they perished. That man is the man who killed them.”

  “So I say this to the interviewer from the Clarion, and Lady Franklin owns up to sponsoring the expedition, and what? You make this trial go away? How?”

  Brooks says grimly, “It may surprise you to know we’ve had the power to make this go away all along.”

  It does not surprise her. Not in the least. All that surprises her is that he’s willing to say it out loud. Again, she wonders why they want her cooperation now. They have placed little value on it so far. Her value has gone from nothing to everything, like a plot of rocky California land that hides an untapped vein of gold, and she has no idea why.

  The anger wells up again. “So my life is ruined, my friends are either dead or disgraced, but at least if I tell an outright lie before God and man to benefit the woman who abandoned me, I won’t be unjustly hanged for a crime I didn’t commit? Pardon me if I don’t shout hallelujah!”

  He says, “And she’ll pay you the reward. Twenty thousand pounds. Everything you were promised.”

  “Just me?”

  “Just you. You’re the only one who can give her what she wants. So I suggest—strongly suggest—you do.”

  She cannot decide in the moment. Her head spins. She needs more time, and however much time he gives her cannot truly be enough. “I’ll consider it,” she says.

  “Please do. You’ll be called again tomorrow morning. If you’re willing to do what’s required, simply tell your counsel to request a private audience with the judge. We will take it from there.”

  She can’t help asking one more question. “My defense—Mr. Mason—he isn’t working with you, is he?”

  “Oh no, of course not. His involvement is an interesting wrinkle, but as you can see, not enough to change our course.”

  “It is interesting,” she says frostily, “that you regard shoving me toward the gallows as merely executing a plan.”

  “We needn’t shove you toward the gallows, Virginia. You’re doing a fine job of getting there yourself.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” she says hotly, feeling her temper slip away again.

  “So you’ve claimed. Take your chances if you want. See if the jury will believe you. But making you an offer isn’t the only thing I’ve been authorized to do, Virginia.”
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  Creeping dread comes upon her. “What do you mean?”

  “If you don’t play along—agree to the interview with the Clarion, say what we want said—there will be other consequences.”

  She should have guessed this, she realizes. They are not taking chances on her, not anymore. They’re not just going to offer her a rich reward and assume she’ll fall into line. The best wagon drivers know that when an animal shows itself stubborn, it’s wisest to ready both the carrot and the stick.

  She has one secret that not even the women of her expedition know. Jane Franklin knew it, and now it seems obvious that Brooks does too. She can only assume revealing her secret is the consequence he speaks of. It is not a secret she wants revealed, but if it is, at least she is the only one who will suffer for it.

  Virginia spends a long night alone in her cell thinking of Caprice’s death and what happened after. She thinks of the promises she made. She cries, now that there’s no one here to see, as she faces up to the choices that brought her to this place. So many secrets, held on behalf of so many others.

  Tomorrow’s choice only matters to Virginia. And only she can decide how to make it.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Virginia

  On the Expedition

  April 1854

  The days immediately following Caprice’s death passed in a kind of haze for Virginia. Somehow, no one could have explained how, they fought their way back to the ice house and collapsed there in a dejected, exhausted heap. After a few hours’ rest, perhaps they could have stirred themselves, but what was the point? They were doomed anyway, Virginia thought. If Caprice couldn’t survive this wilderness, who could?

  But the instinct to survive was strong. And when the fire died out, Virginia found herself, with some surprise, moving to relight it. That was when she discovered Lady Franklin’s letter to her husband was the only paper remaining in her possession. When the thaw advanced, they would likely discover twigs or leaf scraps to dry out for kindling, but who knew when that would come? Nothing could be counted on.

  Before she burned the letter, Virginia intended to read it. It wasn’t hers, but how much did that matter now? More than likely they would all die out here on the ice, and no one would know what she’d done with her final few days. If that was the case, she was not going to deny herself anything, even her curiosity.

  Her mittens made the letter nearly impossible to open, but as she was finding over and over again on this journey, sometimes the distinction between nearly impossible and truly impossible made all the difference.

  She tore the envelope in half and handed half to Doro, who began to work the stove. With her teeth, she pried off the wax seal, spat it out, and focused on the spidery, inky words on the page.

  Dear Virginia,

  Of course this letter is not for my husband. He is dead. I know that. This letter, like all the others, is for you.

  Yet I am disappointed to find you here, fingers trembling. Did you open the envelope with care or rip it in a rage? How do you feel, Virginia, your eyes raking over the words you thought were never meant for you? How did you decide to violate what I told you clearly was not yours?

  I can only deduce you have given up hope.

  I suppose I cannot blame you. You are my mirror, as I have said. Though I am still disappointed to find us mirrored in this way. I chose you because I thought you would never give up hope. You did not before. The fact that you have now brings you one step closer to death, and I fear that your expedition, like my husband’s, is doomed.

  Virginia, I fear you will become careless now. That is what happens when hope is gone. Where you are now, any mistake, any error, can be fatal. I fear your hopelessness has sentenced both you and your expedition to death. Please, in the name of God, prove me wrong.

  And if you are opening this letter because you have found the remains of John’s expedition—if you know now he is dead because you have seen it with your own eyes—I have one more favor to beg of you.

  Look at his bones. Look at the ship. Look at what the expedition left behind.

  If you see any evidence that he and his men turned to the solution to which you and your family were driven, never tell.

  J

  When she saw the letter was addressed to her, she sucked in her breath. Sentences later, she had to remind herself to let it out. Breathe in, breathe out, she told herself. The air under her hood was warm enough to breathe without pain, and the world around her, its danger, receded as she read.

  Lady Franklin had known.

  When she’d addressed Virginia by her real last name at their first meeting, Virginia had believed it could be an honest mistake. But it hadn’t been honest, and it hadn’t been a mistake. Lady Franklin had been signaling that she knew Virginia’s whole history, not just her life as a guide, and Virginia had let herself believe otherwise.

  But now she knew.

  This grand experiment of sending women to the north hinged on Virginia, and now that she knew Lady Franklin’s reasoning, the experiment seemed to come from a completely different root. If Lady Franklin didn’t like how things turned out—and she wouldn’t, Virginia thought grimly—she could write off the women’s ramblings. She could disown the entire operation. That was why she only worked through Brooks. Stayed in that hotel under an assumed name. Sent her with a captain who had African and native blood, capable and respected on the waves but easy to push to the margins on land. Now it all fit together.

  This was all about John Franklin’s precious reputation. All to keep the world from finding out that he and his men had turned cannibal at the end. Virginia had thought it was about putting women forward in a new way, showing their competence and their power; now she realized it was because women were easier to disown, deny, discredit. Especially, given her history, Virginia herself.

  Virginia did not know how long she stood there in the deathly cold, half an envelope and one sheet of paper pressed in her thick mittens, hating Jane Franklin.

  A small but unmistakable happy whoop from Doro meant the fire was lit. The sound brought Virginia back to the world.

  She could think about hating Jane Franklin later. There had been some wisdom in her words too—Virginia hated that, how often the infuriating woman was right—but there would be time to think about that later.

  Now was not the time to think. It was the time to act.

  In the light of the fire, they discussed what came next. Would they go on searching for Franklin or turn back? In honor of Caprice, Virginia did not call a vote, but consensus was reached quickly.

  The search for Franklin was over. Only half the original expedition remained, and they could not afford to lose any more. Now the only goal of the six surviving women—Virginia, Doro, Siobhan, Irene, Stella, and Elizabeth—was to save their own lives.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Virginia

  Massachusetts Superior Court, Boston

  October 1854

  When court is called back into session, Virginia’s choice is clear. Brooks had left no room for ambiguity. She can resume her testimony and leave her fate in the hands of the jury, risking exposure of her greatest secret, the Very Bad Thing, or she can throw herself on the mercy of Lady Franklin, lie for her to protect her husband’s legacy, and walk away not only free but rich. If she trusts Lady Franklin to keep that promise.

  In the end, that’s what makes her decision. Lady Franklin has not proven herself worthy of trust.

  So Virginia does not tell her counsel to request a private audience with the judge. She knows Brooks will not be in the courtroom to see what she has chosen—it would be too odd for him to appear, and his face would be recognized—but she pictures him receiving the news that she will not do his bidding.

  She hopes he chokes on it.

  So she gives the rest of her testimony under Mr. Mason’s gentle questioning, de
tailing her regret over Caprice’s death, their path back to civilization, and finally, her shock and horror that when she went to the Collins house to offer condolences to Caprice’s parents, they seized her and demanded her immediate arrest. She testifies that she has spent months in jail, alone and cold to the bone, waiting for her trial. She is glad he does not ask her what she will do if she is found innocent. That might be the straw that breaks her; she cannot picture herself being set free, back out into the world, nor can she imagine what she’ll do if she gets there.

  After Mr. Mason states that he has no more questions, letting Virginia’s downcast eyes and rounded shoulders speak her sorrow, the courtroom is hushed for a long moment.

  But then the prosecutor stands with clear relish, breaking the somber mood.

  He approaches Virginia, a smirk on his face that only she can see. During this whole farce of a trial, she has seen him dancing and ducking, beaming, snarling, the range of his pretended emotions worthy of the stage. She does not enjoy seeing his arch expression turned on her, but at least she’s prepared for it. The prosecutor must know that Brooks tendered her the offer and she has refused it; he would have to adjust his questions if the questioning were to continue. One way or the other, their reckoning has come.

  “So, Miss Reeve. I will not dillydally with pleasantries; we are all waiting to hear you answer specific questions about your past actions, and I think you know which ones I mean. Let us begin. Please explain how you found yourself in the Arctic.”

  “Finding my way there was the easy part.”

  “We are not here for comedy, Miss Reeve.”

  “I am keenly aware of that, Counsel,” she says, making a concerted effort to blunt the mocking edge of her tone.

  He sighs theatrically and says, “In the interest of keeping the peace, even in the face of antagonism, I will proceed. You testified under your own counsel’s questioning—wait, I know there’s been a change. I have trouble keeping track—what’s the name of your new counsel?”