Chasing Ghosts

by Nicola Pierce

  How I wish my friend James Clark Ross was here. I am lonely. There, I have written it down, plain as can be. I am lonely. This little room is my sole refuge from the crew and officers. Once I leave it, I cannot escape them. When I walk around, I am continually hampered by the men. No clear walkway exists. Men everywhere but not one real friend amongst them.

  The truth is I do not enjoy my solitary cabin and would prefer to share it with a trusted colleague. What a peculiar situation to be in, rarely alone but lonely just the same. I fear it is adding to my discomfort that I cannot ask a fellow officer whether he agrees that Captain Franklin should be more strident when it comes to discipline. And I cannot ask any other man here if he feels, like me, that we may be too late and, therefore, will possibly spend up to a year attached to an iceberg. And I cannot openly criticise the lack of Arctic experience amongst this crew. I am, therefore, restricted to sharing my worries with this notebook.

  What would Sir John make of my journal? Knowing him, he would approve and forgive me my doubts. Tonight, he urged us all to write and draw and ‘bear witness to everything from the flea to the whale. Those of you who can draw, fill your sketchbooks with seabirds, big fish and whatever else we find. Remember, we are the eyes and the ears of those who must stay home. To that end, we have a responsibility to record everything, in our journals and notebooks.’

  It was the first thing he said that suited me.

  If I had a friend here now, I would pour him a glass of sherry and watch him nod his head in agreement as I said something like, if that pest of a monkey ever goes for my watch again, I will fling him out into the middle of the ocean. Not that I actually would do that, just that it would be enjoyable to say it aloud and make my companion laugh, thereby making me feel a little more positive about everything. Or I could pout about the admiralty pointedly ignoring my expertise and placing Officer Fitzjames in charge of all magnetic observations. Are they smarting because I refused their offer to lead this expedition? They have taken away most of my usual duties, leaving me feeling that I am merely an ornament.

  Must I always be the outsider in my own life? I have no wife, no children and no real home on land. In fact, all I have is this little room containing my bed, this table and chair, and my few possessions which easily fit into one trunk. Am I rich or am I poor?

  I will now retire to bed after a chapter from my novel. I suppose that is something to be considered. Both ships possess two very fine libraries, over a thousand books. If my old school teacher was here, he would wish to persuade me that books are the only friends I need on this trip.

  Well, we shall see.

  Saturday evening, 31st May 1845

  We have reached Stromness harbour, the largest of the Orkney Islands, and our last stop before we head for Arctic waters. Our immediate plan is to replace four bullocks that have died with four live ones. However, we are too late for business today and it seems the good people of Stromness refuse to trade cattle on Sundays so we have to wait until Monday. I do not mind really. It is a chance to send off our letters, our final farewells. There will be no chance to post anything after Tuesday.

  My steward finally solved the riddle of my missing tea and sugar. I ordered it from Fortnum and Mason, who promptly sent me the bill onboard Terror before we left England. When I could not find the crates, I was told in no uncertain terms that they had made the delivery. Well, it turns out that they were telling the truth, only instead of sending the tea and sugar to me, they sent it to Officer Fitzjames. But didn’t they do well to get the right man to pay the bill!

  Tuesday, 3rd June 1845

  Let me write here that whoever allowed Officer Fitzjames to select the crew is a damned fool. Only seven out of the twenty-four officers he chose have been to the Arctic before. This is Fitzjames’s first time too, which explains his choosing one beginner after another, to make himself feel better about his own lack of experience. Now he has proved that he has no control over the men.

  Any officer worth his salt knows not to trust ordinary seamen who will take any opportunity to drink themselves into a stupor. This is why I refused to allow any of my crew to go ashore over the weekend. Not so, Officer Fitzjames. He permitted no fewer than four sailors to go to Stromness, and not only did they get blind drunk but they also smuggled alcohol back onto Erebus. So, we wasted two precious hours today because Fitzjames was obliged to make a thorough search of the ship to ensure that no illegal alcohol remained.

  This is an embarrassing start to our noble expedition. We finally leave tomorrow, a day late thanks to big winds and Fitzjames’s stupidity.

  Wednesday, 4th June 1845

  At last, we have left the Orkney Islands behind, along with one of our men who the doctors believed to be suffering from consumption. We cannot take chances. With so many men breathing in the same air for months on end, any illness would quickly become a shared one. Certainly, it is no laughing matter, yet it seems that there has been some joke about Jacko, the thieving monkey, having a bad cough. Doctor Goodsir, who was obliged to examine him, assured me that the only thing wrong with the animal was his greed. He gorges himself on whatever he can find. Well, I will not have him on Terror. Ever.

  Wednesday, 25th June 1845

  We have reached Arctic waters. Now, it becomes obvious as to who is experiencing their first visit. Some of my crew, on sighting their first iceberg, needed prompting to return to their duties.

  Certainly, my third mate, Officer John Irving, betrayed his innocence. I found him on deck, in awe of a colossal berg. ‘Do you see, sir? Oh, I had never imagined that they could be so … so … I mean, it is bigger than any church or town hall.’

  I was determined not to look so impressed, only saying, ‘I suppose one’s first iceberg is always a bit of a shock but you soon get used to them. In fact, the size of this berg is quite ordinary for this part of the world.’

  The expression on the lieutenant’s face suggested that he did not believe me. He was one of those ambitious young men in search of glory and fortune. Quite a few of his fellow officers shared his belief that all that was needed was a trip to the Arctic to be rounded off with the rapturous applause of their fellow countrymen on our return.

  The men were in good spirits, roused by the clear, green water and the sharp, fresh air. Even my heart yielded to the cold magnificence of our surroundings. The fog of the last few days has disappeared, making it truly seem that a veil has been lifted.

  Lieutenant Irving was still enraptured by our surroundings. For once, there was no breeze and the only movement on the water was the discreet push of waves caused by our ships. ‘It is like a painting,’ began Irving once more, ‘the sky, the water and the icebergs. Nothing moves or makes a sound.’

  The Arctic instantly made a fool of the young lieutenant as, at that very moment, there was a deep, guttural rumble before the iceberg seemed to shatter, almost half of it sliding gracefully into the water, the crash causing spray to leap towards the sky. Shouts of excitement sounded out from Erebus as the sea, which had been so placid, woken from its slumber by the massive mound of ice, spewed out waves that rushed towards us, billowing with menace. However, we were too far away to be troubled by them, and Erebus and then Terror merely swaggered in response.

  ‘What happened? What caused it to fall?’

  I fancied that I detected anxiety in the lieutenant’s tone and may have sounded a trifle smug in my reply. ‘Why, lieutenant, this serves as a reminder that nothing lasts forever.’

  Saturday, 19th July 1845

  Early this morning, I took my cup out on deck, enjoying the relative lull. It was cold with a pearl-grey mist that was disappearing even as I sipped my sweetened tea. A splash in the distance made me reach into my coat pocket for my telescope. I guessed it to be a whale before I could see a thing. In fact, I think that may have been what woke me so early, that strange haunting sound that a whale makes: neither a howl nor a whine. I can only describe it as a song, a ballad. To my delight, there was more than
one, including a mother and its calf. They are such unique creatures. I watched them taking turns to break the surface, smacking the water with their tails and, for those precious moments, I pretended that only they and I existed. They soon disappeared and I returned to my cabin to prepare for the day ahead.

  After lunch I was back on deck, in conversation with lieutenants Little and Irving when we heard the cry ‘Ship ahoy!’ We made our way to starboard. Even as Lieutenant Little needlessly declared, ‘A whaling ship, I’ll wager. Yes, there is the rowing boat’, I found myself looking at the same whales from this morning. There was the mother and calf again and it seemed to me that the group was striving to protect them. They swam either side of them, doing their best to form a shield from the hunters who were fast upon them. But it was too late. The mother had already been harpooned. She could swim another hundred miles as fast as she could and not be free of it. The spear in her side enabled the pursuers to follow them, the long, dark rope between the harpoon and the rowing boat never allowed to slacken while she was still alive.

  Lieutenant Irving gripped Terror’s side with both hands. ‘They almost have it!’

  The men in the rowing boat hardly saw us, so intent were they on their prize. Nevertheless, they were being championed by our crew and the men on Erebus who roared their encouragement at such entertainment. Meanwhile, their own ship soon arrived on the scene, the captain waving in salute.

  ‘It is starting to slow down.’

  The lieutenant was correct. The mother was tiring, her blood streaming behind, the bright red watered down by the sea. Her calf kept pace with her, though it must have been exhausted. This chase could have started hours ago. I suspected neither of them would leave the other. The rest of the whales began to surge ahead. What choice did they have? To stay with the wounded mother meant a violent death for all of them. Sensing that the end was near, the men in the rowing boat stood up together, spears in hand, and prepared to take aim once more.

  As the gap lessened between the boat and its quarry, the hunters threw their spears, only this time they included the calf in their attack. There were cheers all around, congratulating the men on hitting their targets.

  It was now that the other whales made their escape, abandoning their stricken comrades in the water that was blush and stank of blood. Then, the calf began to fall away from its mother who could do nothing to save him.

  Not wishing to see the final killings, I returned here to the calm of my cabin. Now, I am a practical man and a scientist. Men hunt whales for their blubber and oil that provides lamps for lighthouses and train stations and all manner of buildings, while their bones are needed to flesh out women’s skirts and corsets. They are thus required by both genders, by everyone. Still, I am made restless by a vague sense of regret.

  6

  August 1849

  Visiting the grave with Mama and Aunt Harriet

  We were going to visit Weesy’s grave. Papa was away on business, as usual, so it was just us: Mama, Aunt Harriet, William, Sarah and me. Grandfather had already been to the grave first thing this morning. I gathered he went every morning and always alone. Aunt Harriet carried bunches of flowers from the garden, whilst Mama pushed Sarah’s pram. I could smell the roses as I trailed behind them. William had Bobby on his lead. I had wanted to walk him, obliging Aunt Harriet to toss a coin: heads – the winner walks Bobby; tails – the loser walks alone and sulks. Typically, William won and did not bother hiding his pleasure from me.

  As I walked, I enjoyed listening to the clicks of my heels against the pavement. They sounded so grown up and I made sure to fasten my heel down heavily, step by step. Of course, my brother chose that moment to interrupt me with a grin, saying, ‘You sound like a pony!’

  I stuck my tongue out at him again. He was lucky we were in company or else I might have boxed his ears for him. He shrugged. ‘I thought you liked ponies!’

  ‘That does not mean I want to be one. Sometimes, you can be so rude!’

  He looked confused. ‘But I did not say you were a pony, just that you sounded like one.’

  I rolled my eyes, already weary of the conversation. Why was I even talking to him? He was just a silly little boy. What I needed was another sister.

  Oh!

  I blushed as I remembered where we were going and why.

  ‘When is Papa coming home?’

  Mama was surprised at my sudden question. ‘He should be back tomorrow week. Why do you ask?’

  I paused, trying to think of a good reason, but Aunt Harriet replied instead, ‘She just misses her father, don’t you, pet?’

  I nodded which satisfied them both. Papa was in Belgium or France or Spain, I think. They were the three countries he visited most, apart from England. Someday I hoped to travel with him. The farthest I had ever been was across the River Foyle. It is quite a thing to look back from a distance on the city you live in. Papa says it puts everything into perspective. I did not exactly understand what he meant, but he assured me that the more travel I did, the better appreciation I would have for my home. Before he left, I asked, ‘Can I come with you on one of your trips?’

  He looked at me and smiled. ‘That is something we can consider for the future, but right now I do not wish your mother to be lonely for you.’

  I nodded sweetly to cover my frustration at Weesy’s death preventing my own wishes from coming true.

  The streets were busy in the sunshine and there was plenty to look at. Ladies in pretty dresses strolled around in small groups, stopping now and then to gaze at the shop windows. Messenger boys, carrying boxes of goods, darted expertly in and out of the crowded paths, in their efforts to get by, as if they were racing time itself. A constant flow of carriages provided lots of noise thanks to the clatter of wheels and horses. The man with the organ was in his usual spot, his little monkey dancing to the music and then holding out its dainty red hat with a flourish, to collect coins from the small crowd that gathered. Of course, Mama and Aunt Harriet steered clear of him lest Sarah or William demanded to watch the whole act through. Bobby pulled on his lead and growled at the monkey, sniffing the air in a fury. It was difficult to hear my heels now, even though I continued walking as heavily as I could.

  We all wore black to show we were still in mourning. I envied the girls I saw who were dressed in assorted blues, pinks and yellows. Sometimes it seemed to me that Weesy was now in charge of our every move and mood. I recognised two girls across the road, walking arm in arm, about a step ahead of their chaperone, Betty, their maid. They were the Bradley twins, Tess and Katie, and they were in my class at school. How elegant they looked. Tess’s dress was patterned in different shades of greens, while Katie’s was checked in red and navy. They were probably visiting their grandmother who lived in a big house, much bigger than ours, to eat dishes of ice cream and pastries, while I was being marched to a graveyard, dressed in the most boring attire ever, from my neck to my ankles.

  ‘How much longer must I wear black?’

  I tried not to sound rude, but it did not seem right to wear black when the sky was blue and everyone else looked happy. When Mama said nothing, Aunt Harriet glanced back at me and said quietly, ‘For a while yet. We have to show our respect.’ She turned away again, not bothering to wait for my reaction.

  ‘Pardon!’ I wanted her to face me once more.

  Instead, William butted in, repeating Aunt Harriet’s last words, ‘Show our respect.’

  ‘Who asked you?’ I said through gritted teeth.

  Suddenly, Aunt Harriet announced, ‘Why, here comes Mrs Delaware and Stanley.’

  The two figures were waddling towards us, Mrs Delaware flailing her arms at us as if we were miles away. Stanley did his best to keep up with her on his short, stubby legs.

  ‘Hello there, Coppin family. Hello!’

  Mama and Aunt Harriet smiled a polite greeting.

  ‘Oh, my, it is so warm today. Poor Stanley has been complaining nonstop.’

  Glancing at the dog, I dou
bted very much that Poor Stanley could ever have an opinion on anything. He was a pug, that’s what they called them, with a short, tubby body, the colour of sour cream, although I could see grey hairs about his mouth. For all I knew, he was as old as his mistress. He licked my shoe and, despite my grumpiness, I bent down and scratched his head, accidentally delighting Mrs Delaware, who glowed when anyone was nice to her dog. Bobby whined in protest and stared coldly at Stanley, who was too busy sniffing the ground to realise that anything was amiss. Next to Stanley, Bobby looked scruffy and overgrown, a fact he seemed to realise himself.

  ‘Now, then, Bobby, let me scratch your head,’ bellowed Mrs Delaware. ‘There is no need to be jealous. See, we are even now, aren’t we?’

  Bobby had caught a whiff of something from the old lady and turned on all his charm, gazing straight into her eyes. Humming to herself, she reached into her coat pocket, ‘Who’s a clever Bobby? Did you smell the treats?’

  Bobby stretched himself towards her, staring at her, without blinking. Aunt Harriet laughed. ‘Oh, goodness, he is showing us up, acting as if he has not been fed this morning.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Mrs Delaware, ‘Bobby is the most well-behaved dog. See how he stands and waits patiently for his reward.’

  Producing the treat, she first asked for permission. ‘Stanley, we are going to share a treat with Bobby, alright, my dear?’

  Stanley sat down at the word ‘treat’. It was probably the only word that he recognised aside from his own name. ‘As I always say,’ sang out Mrs Delaware to the rest of us, ‘sharing is caring!’

  Both dogs gobbled up their biscuits before turning all their attention back to her again, hoping for more. Mama decided it was time to go, possibly after noticing the large bulge of Mrs Delaware’s pocket that suggested that the rest of our day was in danger of being lost to the bestowing of biscuits, one at a time. I would have liked a biscuit but that would never have occurred to the old lady. She only ever thought about dogs. I overheard Mama once explaining to Papa that Mrs Delaware was a lonely widow whose only reason to get up in the mornings was to look after Stanley. Papa grunted, ‘Well, then, I should hope for her sake she dies before he does.’