by Cormac James
Exactly the opposite, DeHaven said. Even a Frenchman ought to know that.
The tip of the blade nicked the ankle, and the foot didn’t even twitch. Morgan rolled off the sock. The thing looked and felt like soap. Outside, the wind was again beginning to bustle and fret.
An hour’s hard rubbing, with no mind for his whimpers, eventually brought the blood back. Afterwards, they wrapped the feet in blanket squares, and stockings, and boot-hose. He would have to wear moccasins from now on.
In a way, Morgan was disappointed. In the kit made up for the party before they set out, DeHaven had included a small saw. Mortification, amputation, he had explained. It’s very simple, really. Morgan remembered the conversation perfectly:
Where do I cut?
There’s what’s dead and what’s not. You try to cut right along the line.
But how do I know where that is?
Again, very simple. Start where you think you should start, and if he screams, just move the blade down a quarter of an inch. There’s always going to be a grey area, of course. Between high tide and low tide, if you will. That’s where you want to be.
Explaining, he had been bumping the blade up and down Morgan’s index finger. The teeth left their print on the skin. Morgan remembered them clearly, those little red marks. There had been a promise in it – of great suffering, of clean hard choices, of sacrifice. But here in the tent the saw was still wrapped up in the medicine chest, with all its tiny little teeth. It was another promise unfulfilled.
By morning the snow was falling so hard he could not see ten feet. It was a deliberate tease. The cairn was not two miles off, and still out of reach. All day and all the next night again they lay in their bags. About ten o’clock on the second day the storm lulled a little, and the same faded spectre as before appeared. Good and loud, Daly offered to go along, if Mr Morgan wanted to push on without the other men. And then the wind lulled a little more, daring him to refuse.
Hard sharp snow, like handfuls of fine gravel, flung through the air. Heads down, eyes closed, feeling their way with their feet, the two men pushed on. About midday they reached the cairn. It was not a cairn. It was nothing at all. It was a lump of rock a little more stubborn than the rest. Without a word they turned around. Already their last footprints were filling up.
The next morning Morgan ordered them to pack up everything. They were heading south. He tried not to catch DeHaven’s eye, not to see his satisfied smile, his vindication.
He had decided to make a depot at Cape Osborn, where they had first made the eastern shore. It would lighten the load, make progress less painful. And give them something to come back to, that was not quite so far, if and when they returned. For almost an hour they bounced the pickaxe off the shingle, until there was a neat crack. The handle had broken. Daly stood there disconsolate, staring down into what looked like nothing so much as a shallow grave. There was nothing for it, they piled in their tins and bags and those sundries sufficiently cheapened by their week’s work, and piled all that over with their rubble, and over again with ice and snow, to stay the scent. Then stamped round on top of it, triumphant.
He had done his calculations. He was leaving five days’ supplies, no more, to get them home. In a bottle, he left a note that read: 28 Oct. Search party from HM Impetus, currently lying in Lat 75°36' N, Long 94°21' W, NE coast Cornwallis Island, under Capt. Myer. Lt. R. MORGAN, auxiliary command. Essentials here deposited for party’s own use. Capt. Austin & other searching vessels currently at Beechey Island. Our intention is to communicate with them.
Myer’s orders were to track the coast all the way to Beechey, scouring it for clues of Franklin. This great work of humanity, he called it. But in his journal Morgan wrote: My people’s health is my only measure. I will go as far as I safely can.
They kept at it, day after day. They had their routine. Packing up, hauling, pitching the tent. Setting out, he thought they would soon get to know each other, like brothers, every kink and scar. There was nothing of the sort. They were almost always too tired to talk, even on the days they were trapped in the tent.
Day after day they inched their way down the coast. The fabric was being slowly worn down, worn away. Underneath, through the bare threads, a lone word showed through: Why? He did not know. Out here, no answer could compete. He was earning the right, perhaps, to talk about what other men had done. Yet with every destroying day, every hour of drudgery, more and more he felt the breach between himself and them, the men of renown. He had read their books. For them, there had been far horizons, all around. He had gone to the windows they had looked through, and found them walled up. They had been lying, or he was a different sort of man. From where he stood, there was never anything further off than the next step, the next sip of water, the prodigious pains in his legs.
They made their camp high up on the shore, in the centre of a stone circle twenty feet across. Morgan sent Banes to scout for driftwood, and a few minutes later they heard him calling, screaming almost. He was up on the ridge, waving his arms. They rushed towards him, sure the mystery had been solved. Day after day, it was the same. Every mound on every headland looked man-made. It seemed nothing could blunt the hope.
Overhead, vertical cliffs. Beyond, clouds of impeccable fleece feathered the sky. Banes was pointing to the next headland, its knob of rock, perfectly turned to tempt them. Beyond it, the coast drifted away to the southeast, as far as they could see.
Morgan lifted the glass to his eye, and let out a long, stale breath, that sounded like a punctured balloon. The thing looked as much of a cairn as the rest. He told them to go back to the tent, set the conjuror going, get themselves into their bags.
He spent almost an hour climbing. The heap of stones was no more than three feet high, but definitely hand-built. At the bottom, for once, to balance against all their efforts, was a little green bottle. It had been left by a search party Austin had sent up the coast. Here turning back, the note said. This was their farthest point north. The disappointment felt familiar, almost reassuring. It was as though a trick were being played, by someone watching, hidden, and always slyly moving ahead of them, determined to draw them on. At the bottom of the sheet he scribbled Morgan, Impetus search party, 31 Oct, continuing S, and shoved the paper back into the bottle, for the next fool.
By morning the wind was barrelling down off the land, and kept them in their bags. It gave them time to mull over the note. Here turning back, it said. It gave the date, and the officer commanding. It said Austin would winter at Beechey, Morgan told the men. He was trying to tell them they were not obliged to go back to the ship. Previously, he’d always pushed that thought from his mind. Now he let it come, with all its arguments prepared. He figured their distance from the Impetus. He wrote the figure down, in geographical miles. It was a fantasy, of course, with straight lines – not the scribbled course they would be forced to take, if they went back. The truth was, he was afraid to go on. At Beechey, with food and fuel and shelter, he would not have the courage to about turn and go north again. It would be too far, and too cold, and too stupid, and too brave.
That evening, waiting for his dinner, he read over his journal, to see in black and white the decision he wanted to make. Only two days before, he’d written: We move too slowly, but cannot quicken our pace. We must match our ambitions to our mea
ns. Let it be said, I have full faith in the men’s desire to pursue our course. However, I believe our efforts might be better directed, over greater distances, with greater chance of success, in the spring. To continue now, in our current state, would not only put at risk our own lives, but also, indirectly, the lives of those it is our purpose here to locate, for the capacities of some of our party, I fear, are likely to be reduced permanently, if we now persist. The food was still not warm, and he read the passage over again. It all sounded so wise and reasonable, yet he had said nothing of any of this to the men, and they had not turned back, but gone on exactly as before, south.
He set the next tin on the scales, began to spoon the mess into it. Watched the scale-pan lift cautiously from the floor. The spoon in mid-air, waiting. The pans levelled off, settled, and were still.
On the other side of the conjuror, Cabot sat with his eyes closed.
Next, Morgan said, picking up a tin.
Banes, Cabot said.
Morgan handed it on, picked up another.
Next, he said.
And so the food was shared out.
He waited until the last tin had been handed over. They would want to eat while it was still warm, and that let him speak. He asked them what they wanted to do, and gave them their choices. It was time to decide, he said, whether to push on or turn about. If they pushed on and were by some mishap delayed, they might not be able to get back. It was a simple enough calculation, he said. Pounds of meat per mile per man. On the other hand, tempering their ambitions now meant they might be renewed and extended at a later date, he said. He spoke with no great conviction. But to men spent and sore, for the moment that seemed buffer enough against what might be said back at the ship. They offered grunts of acknowledgement, that was all. He had expected more resistance, but they had disappointed him.
If you have a contrary opinion, Banes, now is the time to state it, Morgan said.
I do what I’m told, Banes said. That’s what I’m doing this past fortnight, isn’t it?
Morgan explained again as simply as he could. The simple fact was, their food and fuel for the outward leg was now consumed. Not only was it credible, it was true. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Morgan said, but we’ve had an extra mouth to feed, all the way down.
But they can resupply us, said Banes.
Who?
The other ships. You said it yourself, a dozen times.
And if the other ships are gone? If they struck out in September, before it all closed up?
They’ll have left supplies. Not necessarily for us, but for Franklin. Surely.
And if they haven’t? If they’ve already found him, and shipped out? How are they to know we’ve drifted north, and not gone home before them?
I’m not afraid to take that chance.
You think it’s just a question of courage? You think you have more of it than me?
Banes did not bother to respond. That made the answer obvious. DeHaven had said nothing either. It sounded like a conspiracy.
You’ve obviously been talking to Dr DeHaven, Morgan said.
It took Banes a moment to soak this up. I don’t know what you mean, he said.
Of course you don’t. You think he came along to admire the scenery. Or for the pleasure of our company, perhaps.
That night he lay awake, playing the same scene over again. He had been protecting himself from every imagined accusation, should they push on and not go back. He had been playing the Devil’s Advocate, but now wondered had he played it too well.
When they woke, DeHaven was gone. He could not be gone long, Morgan decided. His bag was still warm. Through the glass Morgan watched him climbing the headland. Why he had decided to climb the headland, Morgan did not know. To cut overland? Morgan scanned and found him again. He had already stopped to lean on his knees. He had started off too eagerly, overestimated himself. Before he was halfway up, the wind began to swing round to the northward, and within an hour a gale had come on.
All day the snow came squalling over them, and all day they lay in their bags, sleeping or smoking or cobbling. Morgan was quiet. Visibility was zero. It would be useless to search.
You’re just going to leave him out there? Banes said.
Shut your mouth, Cabot said.
If you care so much about the man, Morgan said, why don’t you go? Well? What are you waiting for?
By next morning it had calmed enough for Morgan to go out. He told Cabot to soak and set fire to DeHaven’s bag, to send up smoke, and stop the smoke if ever DeHaven came back.
Even as he took the first step, he knew he was wasting his time, that this was all just for show. He was loyal to that idea and nothing else. It was almost ten before he reached the top of the headland. He’d not seen the slightest trace in the snow. Far below, the last of the smoke had faded long since. He stood and turned on the spot. He’d learned to look closely, to let himself be distracted by the details, but today that wasn’t enough. He stood a long time looking towards Beechey. He could feel, physically, the magnet’s lure. Old friends. The old life. A temptation he did not quite know how to resist. Behind him, the Impetus and everyone on it were now almost beyond reach.
It was noon. A lone figure came trudging towards them over the tragic snow. They rushed out to meet him, arms flapping, staggering through the drift like men wading into the sea. Afterwards, their disappointment was not easy to hide.
Eight hours later, they were eating their pemmican, warm in their bags. They had hauled all the way round the bay, along the beach, shouting his name. For good measure, every now and then Morgan had clambered up to bellow into a crack in the cliff face.
He’s gone to Beechey, Cabot said.
Deserted, you mean, Banes said. He was accusing Cabot of speaking Morgan’s lines, and Cabot looked to Morgan to object.
I’ll leave that for Captain Myer to decide, Morgan said. He’s gone. Very likely he’s frozen. They say it’s not a particularly unpleasant way to go. A bit like falling asleep, apparently.
The faces soured. This was a new tone, and a new voice. They had a new, strange taste in their mouths.
Morgan could not understand the man, why he’d gone on ahead, alone. Had he really thought Morgan was ready to turn back, so close to their goal? He had merely wanted the explicit endorsement of the other men, and to acknowledge the risk they ran, pushing on now. He wanted it all on record – his alibi – for his superiors to read, if ever he did not return to the ship.
Alone, on foot, pushing hard, a man might make it in a day or a day and a half, if he didn’t stop. If he stopped, he would close his eyes, and fall asleep, and freeze. If the ships were still there, he could invent any story he liked. Blame the storm, say he had been lost. In any case, he would be saved. Even if the ships were gone, he might not be condemned. As Banes said, they would have left a cache of supplies for Franklin. Food and fuel, maybe even a boat. All he had to do, to stay alive, was stay on his feet.
Gentlemen, Morgan said, with a false, cheery voice. Tomorrow we have another long day ahead of us, and I am now turning out the lamp. I wish every one of you goodnight.
He woke at s
ix, lit a match, counted the heads. They were all still there. He watched the flame crawling along the wood, feasting on the soft white flesh of it, and the puny black skeleton left behind. He watched the froth riding ahead. He watched the fingertips begin to glisten and brown. They were somebody else’s fingers. They were leather now. They would decide for themselves when to let go.
He lit another match, and lit the conjuror. The warmth would wake them one by one. He pulled on his boots and went outside. He walked over to the wall of hummocks, out of sight. Found a niche where he would be sheltered on two sides at least, and that’s where he squatted down. It was his first proper movement in a week. Afterwards, he turned to look at the thing and found it already frozen. In the days and months to come he would be leaning into the traces, or lying in his bag, or in a bunk inside a ship, or in his very own feather bed back home, and all the while what had once been inside him would still be lying here in the ice, unseen and soon forgotten, even by Morgan himself, much as it was now – not being slowly absorbed back into the earth, with a life of its own, but frozen in time.
He was grateful, even glad, that DeHaven had gone on ahead. It was a perfect reason now to push all the way to Beechey, and at Beechey who knew what they would find? He was sure Dr DeHaven had got lost and merely gone on ahead of them, he told the tent. They themselves would now temporarily abandon the sledge, the quicker to push on, and catch him up. It ought not to be much more than the matter of a single day. At Beechey, he said, they would recover their friend, make their communication to Austin, renew their supplies, then retreat to the ship, exactly as planned.
5th November
Lancaster House, it was called. The words were burned into the lintel. Morgan stood alone in the doorway. The men were inside, lying on the bare shale. He looked north and south. It was now calm and clear, visibility anything up to seven or eight miles. They’d found no trace of DeHaven here or anywhere else. Offshore, there was no hint of a mast. That put the ships at an impossible distance. Trapped out in the Sound as helpless as themselves, or in some safer haven.
