Chasing Ghosts

by Nicola Pierce

  I did not hear Mama’s reply, only Papa’s apology for his unkind words.

  ‘It was lovely to see you, Mrs Delaware, but we must be going on our way. Children, say goodbye.’

  ‘Bye, bye, cherubs!’ bellowed Mrs Delaware as she and Stanley watched us walk away from them. I had the feeling that she was used to people rushing off as soon as she met them so I turned and gave her a little wave, which she immediately returned. She tugged at Stanley’s lead to make him bark his own farewell.

  ‘She might have liked to come with us?’ I suggested.

  Mama and Aunt Harriet exchanged a glance but neither answered me. We kept walking, except for William who had been dragged to a halt thanks to Bobby’s eager pacing in front of a lamppost. William tugged at him helplessly. ‘C’mon boy, come on, now!’

  I waited for him, idling, watching the retreating figures of Mrs Delaware and Stanley in the distance. How odd, I thought, I don’t remember seeing that man behind her. Only Stanley persisted in looking around to bark at the man. A perplexed Mrs Delaware turned to see what was causing the dog to fuss. It struck me that she continued to look when it should have been perfectly obvious that the man was upsetting Stanley because he was walking far too close to his mistress. What was he doing? Could he be planning to snatch her handbag? Instinctively, I turned to call Mama, but she and Aunt Harriet were too far away and I was not allowed to shout on the street. All I had to hand was my little brother and Bobby. ‘William, we have to help Mrs Delaware. I think that man is going to rob her!’

  ‘Huh?’ was his uninspired reply. In his haste to turn around, he tripped over Bobby’s lead and lay sprawled on the ground while Bobby gave him a sympathetic lick on his ear. ‘What man? I don’t see who you mean.’

  Stanley was still barking away while I lifted my arm to point out the would-be robber. ‘There!’

  Only he wasn’t.

  How could that be? Even if he had overtaken Mrs Delaware, I should still be able to see him because it was a long street, with no side streets. Quite simply, there was nowhere else to go. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, I shrugged. ‘Well, I am glad he is gone. He gave me a fright when I saw him lean toward her bag.’

  I was exaggerating to justify my behaviour. Then, as an afterthought, I said, ‘Don’t tell Mama.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Bobby was waiting patiently to walk again and off we trotted after our aunt and mother. Just as we turned the corner, I took a last look backwards. Mrs Delaware and Stanley were tiny now, but it was just the two of them, although I could still hear Stanley barking his annoyance.

  In order to reach the church, we had to climb the walls. Well, climb is not exactly the right word. Once we reached Bishop Street, there were steep steps that took us onto the wide boardwalk atop the city walls. Papa said the walls were famous all over the world and that he had met people from different countries who had visited Derry to walk them especially.

  Aunt Harriet began to stoop down to help Mama get the pram up the steps until a gentleman approached to present his services.

  ‘Please, ladies, allow me!’

  He doffed his hat and gave me his umbrella and newspaper to hold while his companion, a woman wearing a dark blue coat and a tight smile, waited for him at a distance. Mama was most gracious. ‘Thank you, sir. We were at quite a loss as to how to proceed.’

  ‘Of course, madam, of course.’

  He did not look very strong to me, but his manners had pushed him into action. Taking a moment to study the situation, he suggested, ‘It might be best to remove the child until we have achieved our goal.’

  Bobby gave a woof of approval to this and sat down as if ready to offer his advice, should it be necessary. Aunt Harriet lifted a delighted Sarah out of the pram. She much preferred to be walking alongside us, while I could not think of anything more pleasant than being pushed around in the sunshine.

  Advising Mama to keep hold of the handle, the man took a deep breath and bent down to take the pram by the two back wheels, inching his way to the first step.

  ‘Oh, do mind your back, Horace!’

  William and I did our best not to laugh. We had recently found a small hedgehog in the garden and decided we would adopt him. The first thing we did was give him a name. Guess what name we chose!

  Hearing Aunt Harriet’s warning murmur of ‘children’, we refrained from looking at one another.

  Horace explained his companion’s concern with two words, ‘My wife!’

  Mama and Aunt Harriet took turns to nod graciously at Mrs Horace, with Mama adding, ‘He is most kind.’

  His wife accepted the compliment with a complacent smile.

  It took longer than expected due to Horace’s unwillingness to take a single step without checking his measurements and position. He tried not to huff and puff, which would have been most ungentlemanly. Meanwhile, Mama politely struggled with her end of the pram, not wanting to overburden him. Aunt Harriet looked uncomfortable, but there was no room for her to get involved so she stood there, helpless, holding Sarah by the hand.

  The handle of the gentleman’s umbrella was a duck’s head, that is, it was shaped to look like the head of a duck and it was well polished, shiny and smooth to touch. ‘Look, Aunt Harriet, Grandfather used to have an umbrella like this.’

  Perhaps fearing that I was accusing Horace of somehow stealing Grandfather’s umbrella, my aunt loudly addressed Sarah, ‘Look, little one, at the seagulls in the sky.’

  Sarah gazed upwards and began to flap her arms in excitement.

  I switched hands, swapping the newspaper and umbrella from left to right and, as I glanced down, a heading caught my eye or one word of it did, Mystery. It was a favourite word of mine, both for how it sounded and for what it might mean, which could be anything at all. I read quickly, about two ships that had sailed to the Arctic to find some passageway or other. Alongside the article were two small pictures of the captains. Before I had time to read any more, Mama was thanking Horace profusely while giving his wife a brief wave and looking to the rest of us to follow her immediately.

  ‘Ann, give the gentleman his newspaper.’

  I looked up in dismay, making Horace curious about what I had been reading. ‘Ah, the missing ships in the Arctic. Yes, a shocking story, isn’t it? Over a hundred men and no word from them in over two years.’

  Horace spoke quickly as he retrieved his paper and umbrella, glad to be free of the pram and able to continue his morning stroll with his wife. They left in haste amid a flurry of thank yous, obviously planning to be nowhere in the vicinity for when we needed to return to the street once more.

  Climbing the steps, I asked, ‘Can we buy a newspaper?’

  I wanted to finish reading about the two ships. Both my mother and aunt ignored me. Mama shooed Bobby away from her. ‘William, pull him out of the way. I almost wheeled the pram over him.’

  Sarah was trying to unhand Aunt Harriet, wanting to walk by herself. Aunt Harriet was pleading with her to behave. ‘Now, Sarah, good girl. You must hold my hand. We are almost there!’

  Nobody was listening to me so I tried again. ‘I saw something interesting. Two ships have gone missing!’

  This time, Mama and Aunt Harriet swung around to me; Mama, in particular, looking frightened. ‘What ships? Gone missing where?’

  Surprised at the vehemence in her tone, I answered, ‘In the Arctic.’

  Mama sagged a little and put a hand to her chest. Aunt Harriet was shaking her head. ‘We thought you meant two of Papa’s ships. Really, Ann. How could you scare your mother like that?’

  I felt foolish and apologised. ‘Sorry, Mama. I forgot about Papa being away.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mama, a little too loudly, ‘I wish I could!’

  ‘Oh, now,’ said Aunt Harriet. ‘I am almost sure that Grandfather got the paper this morning. He might let you borrow it, provided that you ask him nicely.’

  Grandfather! Of course! I had forgotten all about him too. ‘Thank you, Aunt Ha
rriet. I will ask him as soon as we get home.’

  ‘Here we are, at last!’ Mama announced.

  ‘And we are just in time. Look, it’s a wedding!’ gushed Aunt Harriet.

  We joined the crowd already gathered at the gates. If I was ever getting married, I would want to do it in this church. Everyone stops to admire the scene. Ceremony over, the bride and groom walked outside as their family and friends swarmed around in delight, throwing rice and laughing at the squeals of the women who mistook the rice for insects or bird droppings.

  The bride’s white dress was covered in lace and bows, and as wide at the church’s porch. Aunt Harriet whispered to me, ‘So, Ann, what do you think? Would you like to get married one day?’

  I considered her question and also the fact that she had never married. Was there a reason? ‘I am not sure.’

  She put her arm around my shoulders and drew me close. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said.

  It took a while for the wedding party and the audience to disperse. Mama warned William to pull Bobby away in case he was tempted to offer his own congratulations by jumping up on the bride’s white dress or the groom’s pristine suit. As the couple moved through the crowd of onlookers, they acknowledged the well-wishers. Unable to contain herself, Aunt Harriet joined in. ‘Long life to you both. Many congratulations!’

  The bride gave her a warm smile. Somebody clapped their approval and a few others joined in. What was it about weddings that made everyone happy and giddy, even people who knew neither the bride nor groom? I asked Aunt Harriet, but she only said, ‘Oh, everyone loves weddings!’

  We waited until we were alone before filing into the churchyard. While Mama sorted out her flowers, I scuffed at the rice on the ground, wishing I could have followed the wedding party instead. The headstone sparkled in the sun, thanks to tiny shards of glass that were strewn throughout, while we stood side by side to silently read the letters that had been chiselled out of it, letter by letter:

  Louisa Coppin

  departed this life

  on 27th May 1849

  Aged 3 years and 8 months.

  Beloved child of

  WILLIAM COPPIN

  of this city

  7

  Friday, 10th October 1845

  Captain Crozier’s Journal

  It has been a while since I have written here.

  We have now been farther north than any sailor before us. Sir John was wise to call a halt to further pursuit of open water. Enough has been achieved for the time being. September faded away and we rushed to find a sheltered spot to avoid the storms that were coming. The experienced few amongst us know all too well how the Arctic summer signifies her departure with dangerous winds that would batter us to kingdom come. So, here we are, moored at Beechey Island, to see out the winter, taking advantage of its cove to provide a safe harbour from what just might well be the worst weather on earth.

  Settling in kept us frantically busy for two weeks as the necessary tasks were performed. The topmasts were dismantled and the carpenters on each ship built us a roof. Made of wood and canvas, they cover the decks, waiting for Mother Nature to take care of the rest, insulating our man-made roofs with thick layers of ice that will help seal in the heat below. From now on we rely on candles to illuminate our days indoors, while outside it will be pitch black, day and night, no matter the hour.

  On the island itself, we built two out-houses and a store house that allowed us to free up much needed space below decks. The men spent twelve days bringing out the tins of food, amongst other things, and depositing them in the store house. Once done, the sight of the stacks of tins set out by themselves was rather thrilling. It had been hard to appreciate them on board. This is the first expedition to be so thoroughly supplied with canned food. Over eight thousand tins filled with such delights as potato, meat, soup, peas, carrots and pudding now have a house of their own on Beechey Island. Oh, but it was wonderful to watch the bellies of our ships increase with the removal of each tin.

  I ordered a four-foot-high cairn to be built, tall enough to be seen for miles around, in which I will leave written word about where we are going after we leave the island. That way, if a ship is sent out to find us, they will know what direction we went. Let us hope that we will never need it.

  Saturday, 15th November 1845

  Today, I took a short walk by myself, leaving the voices of colleagues and crew behind me to concentrate on the crunch of my own feet in the fresh snow. It is an exquisite sound that reminds me of slowly relaxing into a leather armchair. Of course, the cold was unrelenting, gnawing at me like a hunger that could not be satisfied. Oil lamp in hand, I walked as fast as I could, which was not easy, yet I never got any warmer. At least I knew what to expect. Most of the others, those Arctic innocents, are dazed by the weather, acting like children whose feelings have been hurt by an inconsiderate adult who was meant to be caring for them.

  This morning I overheard a few of them asking each other why it was so cold! I could not help it and had to ask, ‘Pray tell me. What did you expect? Did you not know our destination was a world of ice and snow?’

  ‘Well, yes, Captain Crozier,’ one of them protested, ‘but we didn’t realise that it was going to be this bad.’

  I knew I was smirking and wishing that Captain Fitzjames was in hearing distance, although I have to admit that this type of temperature has to be experienced. If you have never been, you simply cannot begin to imagine a chill that pierces your body as painfully as any dagger would and can make it sore just to breathe.

  The sight of our ships in their winter coats – their roofs – reminds me of Noah’s ark. He built it from wood to carry two of everything so it had to have depth for giraffes along with considerable width for elephants and such like. Old Noah must have had to stop up his nose against the exotic smells of his densely populated ship. The downside of my walks is that they make me aware, on my return, of the staleness and smelliness that is inevitable from too many men, along with a few animals, existing cheek to jowl in cramped conditions. Oftentimes, I confess that the only attraction to boarding Terror is the thought of being warm again.

  Christmas Day 1845

  Today was a good day.

  It began with Captain Franklin leading the officers and men in morning prayers, making sure we did not forget the spiritual relevance of the day, although we were thousands of miles away from our churches and loved ones. He seems to relish this role, acting as our father and reverend, and would have made an excellent clergyman. There he stood, with a sombre yet kindly expression on his face as he opened his Bible to the relevant passage. His voice is not so very deep nor loud but he commands our attention by the niceness of his manner. He truly cares about the message he is relaying and, in turn, his men feel cherished and honoured by him, even though I suspect he could not be heard much beyond the first rows of listeners.

  I got caught up with emotion in spite of myself when he followed me out afterwards to shake my hand and ask, ‘Was that alright? Did the men enjoy it?’

  All my jagged thoughts about him melted away and I was genuine in my assurance. ‘Of course, Sir John. You spoke so very well as always.’

  His eyes shone at my words. ‘Well, I cannot forget that they are bound to be missing their homes and their families on this special day, as we all are.’

  I said nothing, not wanting to point out that they may be away at least two more Christmases and had better get used to it. Imagine my surprise when he seemed to guess my thoughts, saying, ‘You must think me a soft sort of leader …’

  Well, what could I say to this? I could not argue with him, which would be the same as lying. He continued, ‘And, perhaps, you are right, Captain Crozier, but today it is Christmas and I see no reason for us not to be in good spirits.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, Sir John. Merry Christmas to you!’

  He patted me on my arm, reminding of my grandfather, as he replied, ‘You, too, my boy!’

  The two ships had been sp
ruced up and decorated. Some of the men had devoted several evenings to making paper lanterns and long, twisting streams of colourful materials that hung from the ceilings and embellished every wall throughout. They had also made two large Christmas trees out of bits of wood and cloth.

  While the men had their dinner, the officers adjourned to our commander’s quarters for our party. As usual, we brought our own cutlery with us and handed them to the stewards on our arrival, who then provided us with wine glasses that were topped up again and again with Sir John’s good wine and cognac. There was cake and pudding and beef. I was as well fed as if I had been sitting at my dear mother’s table. After our meal we sang Christmas carols with Lieutenant Gore on his flute. I smoked too many cigars and drank too much wine and rather enjoyed myself.

  Then, on my way back here, I spent a few minutes gazing at the night sky, fancying that the stars that punctured the darkness might be the very ones twinkling upon London and Banbridge. I pretended it was so. On seeing three shooting stars, one after another, a sight that will never bore me, I made a wish or two, the substance of which I refuse to describe even here. And now I am ready to sleep.

  Wednesday, New Year’s Eve 1845

  I have just had a visit from John Peddie, our surgeon. A reliable man, he is the oldest member of the expedition’s four-man medical team and not given to hysterics or exaggeration. Just before we left England, his wife gave birth to a baby daughter. Had we been better acquainted, I might have asked him if he regretted his decision to absent himself from their lives for so long. Thomas, my steward, answered his knock and let him in. I looked up from my book and guessed that the news was not good.