REVIEWS FOR NICOLA PIERCE
Kings of the Boyne
‘Moving and wonderfully written.’
Irishtimes.com
‘The research into the Battle of the Boyne seeps through subtly, but with unfading accuracy. The pacing is perfect … and the writing is utterly superb. Though it was over 300 years ago the reader is there. An incredible reading experience. Highly recommended.’
Fallen Star Stories
Behind the Walls
‘History as it really happened with its gritty and realistic depiction of the terror-struck city of Derry in 1689 … a vivid evocation of life in a city under siege. Memorable characters … heart-breaking in places.’
parentsintouch.co.uk
Spirit of the Titanic
‘Gripping, exciting and unimaginably shattering.’
Guardian Children’s Books
City of Fate
‘Will hook you from the start … historical fiction at its best.’
The Guardian
‘A compelling novel, combining rich characterisation with a powerfully evoked sense of time and place.’
Robert Dunbar, Irish Times
Dedication
For the Explorer in All of Us
With much gratitude to the Oncology Ward at Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital, the Breast Clinic at Beaumont Hospital, the Gary Kelly Cancer Support Centre, and the Drogheda Hospice
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to Brian Walsh from Dundalk Museum for introducing me to the subject of the John Franklin expedition in his quest to make the name of Captain Francis Leopold McClintock more widely known.
I contacted writer and explorer Frank Nugent with a question about Arctic conditions and could not believe my luck when he offered to meet me, a complete stranger, in the National Library to describe exactly what it is like in the Arctic. I highly recommend Frank’s important book Seek the Frozen Lands, about the Irish polar explorers.
My good friend Peter Heaney, in Derry, sent me wonderful information on the Coppin family and, also, went to St Augustine’s Church to locate the family grave. Also, I wish to thank Doctor Jona than Mattison, the curator of Belfast’s Museum of Orange Heritage, for his help and heartily recommend a visit to the museum too.
My sister Rachel, of Verba Editing House, offered to read the second and third drafts of the book and gave me much needed, and much appreciated, feedback.
As always, I am much indebted to my editor, Susan, who has been with me throughout my five novels and history book, Titanic; True Stories of Her Passengers, Crew and Legacy. I cannot imagine writing a book without her help and support. With Chasing Ghosts, in particular, I needed Susan to be open-minded about ghosts and spirits – and she did not let me down.
I feel so lucky to have had not one but three talented artists working on the book. Eoin O’Brien did the wonderful illustrations, while the cover is down to the genius of designer Emma Byrne and artist Jon Berkeley who performed a magic trick by accidentally drawing what I had quietly pictured since I typed the first sentence of the manuscript. I cannot thank them enough.
The Way They Went …
Home
‘There’s magic in that little word …’
Christian Melodies
In search of the Northwest Passage
British explorers had long been obsessed with the possibility of sailing from the Atlantic Ocean, straight across the top of North America, to the Pacific Ocean. By 1845, most of this dream had been realised.
All that was left to do was to find the last piece of this route – some 300 miles – which was known as the Northwest Passage.
***
The following is mostly based on two actual events forever entwined despite their difference in time and location.
***
Let us start with the story that began in May 1849, in the city of Derry.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
The Way They Went …
1 Poor Weesy is dead
2 Sir John bids his family farewell
3 Weesy is come back
4 Ann upsets Mama
5 HMS Terror Captain Crozier’s Journal
6 Visiting the grave with Mama and Aunt Harriet
7 Captain Crozier’s Journal
8 Papa changes his mind
9 Captain Crozier’s Journal
10 Are you there, Weesy?
11 Captain Crozier’s Journal
12 Ask me no secrets and I’ll tell you no lies
13 Captain Crozier’s Journal
14 It was only a dream
15 Captain Crozier’s Journal
16 Aunt Harriet’s friend takes charge
17 Captain Crozier’s Journal
18 Mama and Papa have important news
19 Captain Crozier’s Journal
20 Mama is finally convinced
21 Arctic
22 An Arctic farewell
23 Night-time visitors
24 New beginnings
Notes from the Author
Things to Do
Further Reading
About the Author
Copyright
1
May 1849, Derry
Poor Weesy is dead
My sister Louisa’s was the first dead body that I ever saw. We called her Weesy because that is what she called herself. When she was very little, she could not say her name properly so when we asked her to say ‘Louisa’, she could only manage ‘Weesy’, making us squeal with laughter. William, our brother, tried to teach her, pointing to her mouth as he slowly curled his tongue around the ‘L’ sound. She watched him, fascinated, as he repeated, ‘L…ouisa; L…ouisa’ and then, confident he had made his point, he invited her to answer the question, ‘Now, what is your name?’
Louisa nodded, accepting his challenge, took a deep breath and replied once more, ‘Weesy’, giggling as William slapped his face in mock horror. Finally, Papa decided he preferred her version and took to calling her Weesy too, and the name stuck.
Weesy was sick for ages, but neither Papa nor Mama had warned us that she would die. Perhaps they did not know. Grandfather did; at least I think he did. He lives with us and so does Mama’s sister, Aunt Harriet, who helps to take care of us. We all help to take care of Grandfather, although Mama told us never to say that in front of him. When Weesy fell ill he started to look gloomy long before our parents and Aunt Harriet did, although my aunt had told me that he was still lonely for my grandmother who had died before I was even born.
William, our baby sister Sarah and I were told that Weesy was tired, and therefore needed a lot more sleep than we did. We were only allowed to sit with her awhile in the afternoons. I usually read her one of my short stories, about our dog, Bobby. Her favourite one was entitled ‘Bobby Stands Up to Feline Bullies’. I had written it after watching Bobby become enraged at the sight of a large, stray cat stalking pigeons in our back garden. He soon sent the would-be murderer on its way, thus, I assured Weesy, ‘saving countless lives and rendering our garden safe once more’. She would smile and murmur breathlessly, ‘Thank you, Ann!’ Unfortunately, Mama would not allow Bobby in the house as he had a habit of chewing anything he could get his jaws around, including furniture, sheets and expensive slippers, but Weesy seemed content to listen to my stories about him.
Meanwhile, William liked to show Weesy his model ship that Papa had helped him to build, telling her, ‘You can paint the hull, Weesy, when you are better.’
He did not have to explain what the hull was since we were well versed in the different parts that make up a ship because of Papa’s shipbuilding business.
‘She is only four,’ I argued. ‘She might make a mess
… by accident,’ I added, to halt any protest from either of them, ‘but you know that I am good at painting, I can do it for you.’
‘No thank you, Ann,’ he replied. ‘I really want Weesy to do it.’
I did not bother to argue with him since I was sure that he would soon be pleading with me to correct Weesy’s mistakes.
But then she died.
William wanted to put the ship in the coffin with her so that she would have something to play with in Heaven. It was a clever idea, I thought, and generous too. However, Mama shook her head, unable to speak, leaving Aunt Harriet to explain that there was no space for it. So, I asked if we could see Weesy as it seemed only fair that we be allowed to judge the size of the coffin for ourselves. Buoyed by my support, William pleaded, ‘Oh, yes, please. I want to see my sister.’
She was in the parlour and, so far, we had been kept well away, Aunt Harriet confiding to us that our parents thought it would be too upsetting. As the visitors arrived, with cakes and flowers, we skulked around the closed door of the room but it seemed that all were advised to block our entrance. Still, when old Mrs Delaware took her leave, dabbing at her eyes with her lace handkerchief, she fumbled with the greasy door handle and I just had time to note that the coffin was white.
And tiny.
Just like Weesy.
I attempted to take charge of the family meeting. ‘I am nearly thirteen so I am old enough now, I promise!’
Papa sighed, ‘Alright, Ann, but what about William? He’s only seven. Don’t you think it might be too painful for him to see her … as she is now?’
William pouted. ‘I’m seven and a half!’
‘Plus, he’s a boy,’ I added, ‘and you always tell him that he is the man of the house when you are away at sea.’
Papa thought for a moment while the rest of us waited. ‘No, Ann, I tell him that if anything happens to Grandfather while I am away then he is the man of the house.’
My brother and I glanced at one another, neither of us brave enough to point out the obvious, that Grandfather was too old and wobbly to be much help if anything did happen. When Weesy died, Grandfather was the only adult to cry in front of us, with proper tears that splattered his jacket because his trembling hand could not catch them in his handkerchief. Yet, it was Grandfather who now addressed us. ‘My dears, do you truly feel that you want to see her? You understand that she might appear a little different.’
William shrugged. ‘She will look like she’s asleep, like Jenny did when we buried her.’
‘The cat!’ muttered Aunt Harriet when Grandfather looked confused.
Sensing that they were going to give in, I rushed to include our baby sister, saying, ‘And I know that Sarah is only two but she should see Weesy as well, just in case she forgets what she looks like.’
We left the dining room together, Papa holding my hand while Aunt Harriet took William’s. Mama carried Sarah, with Grandfather shuffling in last. Everyone was so solemn that I almost changed my mind, suddenly preferring to run out to the garden and jump and shout and make lots of noise or even break something. In the hall, golden sunlight trickled through the arc window over the front door, causing specks of dust in the air to sparkle. Earlier, I had overheard whispers between my parents. Mama wanted to cover all the shiny surfaces in the house, the looking glasses and the windows including the one over the door. ‘But why,’ asked Papa, ‘must we add to the awful sadness of the house? Think of the children.’
Mama sounded fierce as she replied, ‘The children? They are alive, aren’t they? This is nothing to do with them. I am thinking of Weesy only. I do not want her spirit to get trapped in a mirror.’
I am sure that Papa meant to be kind when he then said, ‘Oh, Dora, you cannot believe that, do you? That sort of talk is for poor ignorant people who do not know any better.’
There was a long pause before Mama spoke again. ‘I don’t know what I believe other than our little girl should not have died.’
As Papa opened the door of the parlour and led me inside, I imagined a spell had been cast that instantly exchanged day for night. The heavy curtains were pulled and the candles were lit, making me forget it was not yet evening; and not a sound did we make, our footsteps hushed by the thick carpet while the eyes of our ancestors, in the paintings on the wall, seemed to gaze sorrowfully upon the little white coffin that sat on its own table, just out of reach. It reminded me of a church altar, thus making the coffin seem like some sort of offering to God, a sacrifice. The crackling of the fire, at least, was familiar. Mama insisted on it staying lit so that the room should not be completely dark at night-time. It was too warm and yet, most peculiar, a shiver slithered its way from the top of my head down to my ankles.
And there she was. Even though I knew I was going to see Weesy, I was shocked to find her there all the same. Letting go of Papa’s hand, I reached in to touch her, to see if she was real or maybe to see if she was actually dead. She looked well. I had become used to her greyish skin and the shadows beneath her eyes that looked like fading bruises, along with the noisy cough that forced its way through her, hardly letting her sleep. Really, I thought she looked better now, much better. Her face felt cool, but perhaps it had always felt like that since I could not remember touching it before. A large white ribbon sat on top of her hair that looked like it had been brushed a hundred times and she was wearing her favourite dress, white too with ruffles about the neck. She called it her princess dress and was only ever allowed to wear it on Sundays. Flowers had been pressed all around her, forming a colourful, perfumed garland that perfectly framed her. Her fingers were entwined as if she was saying her prayers. I thought she looked as beautiful as a painting even as I willed her to open her eyes, not for me, but for our parents and Aunt Harriet and Grandfather who had grabbed the poker to prod the orange coals on the fire, turning his back to us.
No doubt William felt he had to say something since he was the reason we were all standing here.
‘My ship won’t fit in there.’
And that was all he said.
Afterwards, we were given a thick slice of lemon cake but only after we agreed to go to bed without a fuss. Oh, I would have preferred to have remained with the adults and be comforted by their solidness, that is, their living, breathing bodies. As I lay in bed, I felt somehow out of place as if I was in a stranger’s house and miles away from anything familiar. I imagined that my family’s sadness was draining our home of warmth and light. And I could not stop thinking about my sister lying so perfectly still in the parlour.
The next day was the funeral. Mama crumpled to the ground, her arms outstretched, as Papa carried the coffin out our front door. He saw Mama fall but did not stop or turn back. It was horrible. I supposed that Mama hated the coffin leaving the house as it meant that Weesy was being carried away from our family forever. I pretended not to hear Aunt Harriet whisper, ‘Oh, Dora, it is time to let her go.’
Funerals last hours. My arms itched from the long sleeves of my new black dress and, in the graveyard, the sun made me sweat unpleasantly. I could not help thinking what a waste of a beautiful day and then was ashamed of my selfish thoughts. I saw my teacher Mrs Lee amongst the crowd of mourners. She was alone and pretended not to see me when she did.
Once the reverend finished reciting the prayers, I followed William as he plucked daisies for Weesy’s grave, half-listening to the jumble of conversations floating around us:
‘… was such a pretty little thing …’
‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’
‘At least the weather stayed fine; funerals in the rain can be awfully pathetic.’
‘She’s in a better place now.’
‘Is she, then?’ asked William.
‘Is she, what?’ I asked in reply as I swiped a fly from my ear.
‘Is Weesy in a better place now?’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose so. She must be in Heaven.’
He nodded his head in agreement. ‘And Heaven is
better than here, isn’t it?’
I refused to answer such a silly question because of course Heaven was better than anywhere else or else it would not be Heaven, would it?
‘It is just that …,’ said my brother, who began to cry quietly.
‘Oh, William, don’t cry, please don’t cry,’ I pleaded.
Of course, neither of us had a handkerchief, but I tore some large leaves from the ground and bid him to rub his face with them. He did so, streaking watery green across his cheeks, and began again. ‘Must we really leave her here? I mean, won’t she be terribly scared when it gets dark, being here all alone?’
‘No, no, William. The real Weesy is safe. It is just her bones and skin and hair that we buried, like an empty tortoise shell. That is what being dead means. Weesy’s body can feel nothing, but her soul is in Heaven now.’
William sniffed. ‘I am glad to hear that, though I wish we could have kept her at home with us.’
‘Just think of her being happy in Heaven, eating as much chocolate as she wants and surrounded by lots of toys,’ I said, to comfort both of us.
2
19 May 1845, Greenhithe, England
Sir John bids his family farewell
Sir John Franklin was just fourteen years old when he joined the British Royal Navy. Back then, his dreams of trampling the shores of distant and unknown lands were the only things that mattered to him. He had yearned to be allowed to press his boot into foreign snow or sand, before any other man, and do so in the name of his beloved country. That was a long time ago now, forty-five years to be precise, but perhaps not that much had changed, not about his dreams anyhow. Surely that fourteen-year-old navy apprentice would be impressed to see his grey-haired self about to embark on one more journey.
Lady Jane peered at her husband’s face. ‘Are you excited, my dear?’
Chasing Ghosts Page 1
