Chasing Ghosts

by Nicola Pierce

  I did not spare either of us. ‘Until the sun sees fit to return next year.’

  Thursday, 17th September 1846

  Today was my birthday.

  Sir John summoned me to Erebus to drink to my health and receive my presents, a bottle of his favourite red wine and a woollen scarf.

  When I got back here, Thomas had left two good handkerchiefs that he had embroidered with my initials on my desk. Such a thoughtful young man.

  I have drunk most of the wine and feel quite content in myself and the universe.

  Wednesday, 23nd September 1846

  At dinner this evening, Sir John declared that we should have a play for Christmas. Naturally, Lieutenant Fitzjames proclaimed this to be the most wonderful idea, while I held my peace, wanting to see what was involved. However, I could not deny that it was a sensible proposal.

  It is of vital importance that the men be kept busy to prevent any boredom or lack of interest setting in. They need, I think, to care about something as it keeps the mind sharp and provides a reason for leaving one’s hammock every morning. Once their daily chores are completed, their spare time needs to be filled satisfactorily too. Providing dramatics requires a community effort, giving a role to whoever wants one.

  Lieutenant Fitzjames was fast making this his pet project by asking, ‘I have spent the last week or so cataloguing the books in Erebus’s library. Shall I check what plays we have?’

  ‘Well,’ said Sir John, his eyes glinting in the candlelight, ‘I was rather thinking of William Shakespeare. Lady Franklin and I always enjoy his plays and are particularly partial to Romeo and Juliet.’

  He knew that most of the crew would not have read it before but he fancies himself as a teacher, our commander, and takes pride in the idea of young, ignorant crew returning from his expedition with a new thirst for knowledge and books.

  Mr Goodsir piped up, ‘I enjoy Shakespeare too, sir, but I wonder if the men might enjoy something more modern.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Fitzjames. ‘It must be something that we have onboard.’

  ‘I think I have the perfect story here,’ smiled Mr Goodsir, as he pulled a reddish book from his pocket and held it up for us to read the title: A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

  ‘Bah humbug!’ shouted Sir John, startling me. ‘Oh, yes, I love Mr Dickens’ books, don’t you, Captain Crozier?’

  ‘I have not read it,’ I admitted.

  Lieutenant Fitzjames informed me that Terror must have her own copy. ‘Perhaps you might like me to catalogue your books too?’

  I assured him in turn that that would not be necessary but felt bound to offer my opinion all the same. ‘The very fact it has Christmas in the title suggests its merits as a Christmas play.’

  Sir John nodded in delight. ‘Indeed it does. Well, then, we are all decided. A Christmas Carol it is.’

  On my return, I had Thomas search Terror’s library for the novel. He has just delivered it to me, apologising for taking so long. ‘The books are all muddled up, sir.’

  I thanked him and sent him on his way.

  Thursday, 24th September 1846

  I have just finished A Christmas Carol. It is after five o’clock in the morning and my candle has little life left in it.

  What a wonderful little story about the true spirit of Christmas. Very sentimental in places but I must confess that it made my eyes water more than once, then left me smiling after I turned the final page. I hope that I have nothing in common with the cantankerous Mr Scrooge before he is converted by the trio of ghosts to redeem his ways by showering kindness on his employee, the unworldly Bob Cratchit and his family.

  Now, I must try to snatch a few hours of sleep or I will be good for nothing today.

  Sunday, 25th October 1846

  I wonder what is happening with the rest of the world. We are so cut off here. Today, we had our usual service presided over by Sir John. I felt like taking a walk but could only circulate Terror’s covered deck as it was snowing heavily and, in any case, it is not pleasant to walk in darkness. It will be some months before daylight returns. And, so, it is as dark as night whether it be night or day.

  Thomas made my excuses for escaping lunch on Erebus. ‘Just between us, mind,’ I told him, ‘I need a break from hearing about the Christmas play. You know how Lieutenant Fitzjames is; he seems to be under the impression, with Sir John’s encouragement, that he alone knows all that there is to know about the theatre.’

  Knowing better than to voice his own opinion about an officer, Thomas merely nodded his head. ‘I will say you are taken ill but that it is not serious.’

  ‘Yes, do, and will you quietly see about giving me my lunch here?’

  I do not wish to dine on Erebus but there is nothing wrong with my appetite.

  Thursday, 19th November 1846

  This evening, I found myself complimenting Sir John once more about his idea to put on a play. He beamed at me saying, ‘It has caused great excitement, hasn’t it? I have been reading it aloud to a large group of my crew and they seem quite taken with it.’

  ‘It is all anyone is talking about,’ I assured him. I refrained from mentioning that I had had cause to reprimand some of his cast – in particular the young steward Gibson who I found nose deep in the novel when he should have been attending his duties. He was ratted out by a colleague who was impatient to get his hands on the book.

  Sir John was still talking away. ‘Lieutenant Goodsir is designing the set, while Lieutenant Gore, a talented artist, is helping out with the costumes.’

  I thought that Gore’s artistry was restricted to charting maps but did not say that aloud.

  ‘It does the heart good to find the men sitting in the mess cheerfully sewing the costumes and curtains. I wish Lady Franklin could see them so happy in their work.’

  I smiled. ‘Well, perhaps we could put on a performance in London, on our return.’

  He laughed. ‘I never know if you are teasing me, Captain Crozier.’

  I hardly know myself.

  Christmas Day 1846

  The second Christmas on our ships. Sir John did his usual, Bible open in his left hand while his right moved in time to his own rhythm as he went on and on, doing his best, I suppose, to provide all the entertainment required. We sang our hearts out:

  A child is born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem

  And joy is in Jerusalem, Allelujah! Allelujah!

  Afterwards, I heard one man exclaim to his mate, ‘I can hardly remember what my missus looks like!’

  ‘At least you have one!’ was the unsympathetic reply.

  Excitement is building for New Year’s Eve, when the play is to be performed.

  Friday, 1st January 1847

  The men did themselves proud this evening. Mr Scrooge was brought to life by Sergeant Bryant, one of Erebus’s Royal Marines. He stumbled over his words once or twice, but we forgave him because of the earnestness he displayed in his performance.

  The ghosts were admirable in their parts, including young Irishman Private Pilkington who threw himself into his role as the third Christmas spirit, who shows Mr Scrooge a dark future and a bitter end.

  Of course, it was natural that the audience find itself succumbing to self-pity as we watched Bob Cratchit with his devoted wife and children, including the crippled Tiny Tim. How rich Mr Cratchit seemed to us, sitting at his dinner table with his family. I am sure that we all were reminded of loved ones back home who were celebrating yet another Christmas without us. All those empty chairs, all across England and Ireland.

  As soon as the curtain fell, up jumped Sir John to clap his hands as if he were in Drury Lane or Covent Garden. He even shouted ‘Encore’, summoning the ‘actors’ out to be clapped individually. A third cry of ‘encore’ was one too much for me, however, and I slipped away back here to Terror.

  Saturday, 20th March 1847

  I am sitting in my heavy coat, sipping my coffee and waiting to feel my toes throb back to life again. It occurred to m
e that the men were in need of exercise. So many are falling victims to colds and sore throats and such like. Since summer is still a couple of months away, I wish to toughen them up. To that end, I summoned them in groups of twenty or so and had the organ brought on deck so that they would have something to march to. I set the tone by leading Officers Irving, Little and Hodgson to stride up and down the starboard side while the men keep a smart pace on the port side.

  I saw no evidence of enjoyment, either on the port side or starboard, though that was hardly the point. However, I was irritated by the expressions of sheer mournfulness on the faces of my officers.

  Thursday, 15th April 1847

  I dined with Sir John this evening, who echoed my wish to be sitting down to a different meal. When faced with yet another plate of tinned carrots and peas along with some sort of meat pie, our commander paused before lifting his cutlery, to admit, ‘How I yearn for something fresh.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ I agreed. ‘I was only dreaming about a hefty, pink salmon myself and how it would be an excellent companion to our canned vegetables.’

  ‘I wish for strawberries,’ said Sir John, ‘and oranges and roast chicken or succulent lamb with potatoes newly pulled out of God’s good earth.’

  Typically, he looked suddenly guilty. ‘Now, Captain Crozier, please don’t repeat my words outside my cabin. I would hate our hardworking cooks to feel under appreciated.’

  Why does he care so much about the men’s feelings?

  Friday, 16th April 1847

  Sir John’s birthday!

  We celebrated in style. All the officers squeezed into his cabin, glasses aloft for their share of wine and rum. A singsong ensued, but not before Sir John told us how much he cared for each and every one of us. I gave him a box of fine notepaper, for which he expressed himself most grateful.

  The room is spinning a little. Time for bed.

  Thursday, 13th May 1847

  Eight months now we have been stuck here and there is no sign of a thaw just yet. I took a walk this afternoon, marvelling once more that I was walking on water, frozen water that is. Still, the ice is impressive. I cannot think of anything else that has the strength to hold our heavy vessels, powered as they are by steam engines, in place. What else could stop over a hundred and twenty men in their tracks?

  Looking around me, it is easy to be convinced that the ice has always been here and that there will never be free-flowing water on which to sail away. Meanwhile, I long for colour; for fields of billowing yellow corn and for neat red-bricked houses that sit on greyish streets lined with black lampposts that emit a creamy glow to light the way home.

  I miss evenings and towns and even traffic.

  As I walked off Terror this afternoon, I did my best to conjure up the streets of Banbridge. Instead of a deck, I pretended to have exited my parents’ front door and descended their nine steps to the pavement.

  Shades of white dominate here, with only Terror and Erebus providing relief from nothingness, like words on a blank page.

  Did we choose the right route? Is there any point to my worrying about this? It would hardly be fair to Sir John if I launched a private investigation of my fellow officers, who would, I think, be unable to say one way or the other since this is all new to them. Indeed, they act as if this is normal and so it is, I suppose. Yet, I feel that there should have been some sense of a break in the ice. It is approaching summer, but the Arctic seems bent on ignoring this fact. There is no life, no movement, beyond us and our ships.

  Tuesday, 18th May 1847

  Sir John summoned me to a meeting this morning. I found him alone in his quarters, poring over his maps. Mr Goodsir was not at his usual spot and his table was clear of his notebooks and plants. Sir John shrugged. ‘They are busy today in the sick bay.’

  Before I could question this, he announced that he wished to send out some men to explore the coastline of King William Land. ‘We might as well prepare ourselves for release soon enough and I would like Lieutenant Gore to make use of his talents for charting maps.’

  ‘A wise choice, sir,’ I replied.

  I meant what I said. Gore is a good man. Ten years ago, he was with me in Antarctica, on board Terror. A man of many talents, as well as being a skilled artist, he also plays the flute superbly well.

  ‘And,’ I said, ‘we should take this opportunity to leave word of where we are, sir.’

  He nodded. ‘We are of the same mind, Captain Crozier. I have asked Officer Fitzjames to fill out a naval sheet describing our whereabouts for Lieutenant Gore to deposit in the cairn at Victory Point.’

  ‘Sir John, Officer Fitzjames should write several notes that can be dropped by Gore throughout his journey.’

  Sir John gave me a strange look and asked, ‘Do you think we are in trouble, Captain Crozier?’

  Oh, how I wanted to remonstrate with him about leaving that empty cairn at Beechey Island, but it seemed foolish to mention it now. What was done was done. Instead, I fibbed a little to explain my position, ‘No, sir, of course not. I am only thinking that we are gone two years and it has been a year since anyone has heard from us. Is it not reasonable to think that ships might be sent out in search of us?’

  He made no reply, only staring over my head before taking time to peer at the four corners of his cabin. ‘Have you lost something, Sir John?’

  ‘Where is little Jacko?’

  The question confused me. ‘Jacko, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Where is she?’

  ‘Well, she died, sir. A while ago. Don’t you remember?’

  His face flushed as he snapped, ‘There is nothing wrong with my memory!’

  It is almost ten o’clock and I sit here in my cabin, trying not to worry about everything.

  Monday, 24th May 1847

  Wrapped up in coats, hats and scarves, we gathered outside to bid farewell to Lieutenant Gore and his seven men. Their two sledges carry enough food to last them six weeks while they scout out the best route for us to take, once the ships are free to move again and, of course, they will also be watching for open water. They have a tough trip ahead of them but at least they are turned loose from tiny cabins and roaming free. Indeed, the eight were boisterous in their farewells, laughingly promising to send us letters.

  Sir John smiled wistfully as we watched them leave. I found myself studying him carefully. Did he wish to be going with them? He rarely left Erebus anymore. Well, he is an old man compared to the rest of us and, I surmised, had put on more weight thanks to a lack of movement and his fancy evening dinners. His pallor is none too good and there is a stiffness as he walks that must surely be the result of doing no exercise at all. He looked out of place. A man of his age and girth should be back in London, in his gentleman’s club, reading a newspaper, drinking a cognac and smoking a pipe.

  If she could see him now, what would Lady Franklin wish for her husband? Surely she would prefer him to come home.

  Gore and his men took an age to disappear from sight. The ice did not provide an easy road and they were obliged, almost immediately, to climb and then drag the sledges up and over slabs of odd-shaped bergs.

  As for the rest of us, we returned to our chores and duties, which included anything from scrubbing dishes to mending clothes, to polishing brass, to reading, to teaching others to read and write, to writing up journals and checking out mathematical equations in relation to the magnetic North Pole.

  I am impatient to move on. With food for one more year, Sir John might well be prevailed upon to think about going home within the next few months. Once the ice clears, all our possibilities will be alive once more, that we will find the last link of the Northwest Passage and return victorious. If Sophie allows me, I will echo Mr Reid’s promise to his wife and tell her that I have done with exploring and am ready to make a permanent home.

  Two years ago, when we sailed away from England, I was so depressed about my immediate future and felt it was no more than a dreary, badly lit tunnel but now, two years later,
I have come out the other side. With every ending comes a new beginning. For the first time in a long time I feel that a new future is within my grasp. And this time, I will mould it to suit me.

  10

  Are you there, Weesy?

  William showed me one of his ships this morning. The three masts had snapped off and were hanging on by the threads that kept the sails upright and stretched them wide. Now, the sails dipped in defeat, while the threads were a complicated mess of tiny knots that criss-crossed one another.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ said William. ‘They will only blame me but it is not my fault that it fell!’

  I shrugged. ‘Fell from where?’

  ‘Here and, see, the window is closed. I pushed it right in, away from the edge.’

  The window ledge was wide like mine, wide enough to sit on, which I sometimes did if the sun was shining and I wanted to read in its warmth.

  ‘Was there anything else beside it, maybe a book that could have toppled over and knocked against the ship?’

  William shook his head. ‘No. It is my favourite one so I made sure it was safe.’

  He looked close to tears and I found myself feeling sorry for him. ‘I will help you fix it. We can probably glue the masts back together once we sort out the different threads.’

  ‘Ann Coppin, where are you?’

  My mother’s voice sounded out through the house while William and I tugged at the threads on his ships, folding them over one way and then the other when they refused to unravel. The ship almost landed on the floor a second time in my haste to be free of it. I shoved it at William and ran across the landing to my bedroom where Mama and Laura were standing together, waiting for me.