Chasing Ghosts

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Chasing Ghosts Page 10

by Nicola Pierce


  With that, he offered me his hand. I shook it and he turned away from me, finally heading in the direction of his cabin.

  I did not feel it necessary to follow him. Instead, I returned here, only focusing on putting one foot down, one after the other.

  Friday, 11th June 1847

  I have failed in my promise to young Eleanor Franklin, to bring her father safely home. Alas, Sir John, our esteemed commander, is dead.

  I have just returned from his cabin on Erebus, having spent the previous two hours watching him die. They did everything they could to save him, both surgeons and their assistants, but, in the end, God took him from us.

  I am not sure why I stayed in his quarters; he had no need of company with four attendants. In truth, I was probably in their way. Yet, I could not leave. I brought my notebook in case of final instructions and to be ready to put his last words to paper for Lady Franklin. However, he was unable to fathom his whereabouts and did not seem to understand that he was not at home in London. At one point, he cried out, ‘Where are my boots?’

  In his final moments, he called for his wife, shouted her name, before his last breath left his body. We stood by his bed in silence. Even though we had guessed that the end was near, it was still shocking to see him gone. Mr Stanley, his surgeon, closed Sir John’s eyes and I saw his hand tremble in doing so. Perhaps he was tired. I hoped I was imagining that Mr Stanley’s pallor reminded me of Sir John’s in recent days. We are all so tired these days.

  Someone had Erebus’s bell ring out the sad tidings and seconds later Terror’s bell replied in sympathy. As I walked back here, the men lined the decks of the two ships, shuffling their feet. Several were in tears. They were so fond of him, as I was too, in my own way. He was a lovely, kindly man but I am almost angry for him. He should not have been allowed to spend his remaining years on an expedition to the Arctic and now, in death, he will never leave it.

  Saturday, 12th June 1847

  We buried Sir John at two o’clock this afternoon. I asked Officer Fitzjames to read from Sir John’s Bible since I had not the voice for it.

  We placed him into the frozen sea. It took the marines more than two hours to dig their way through to a sizeable trench.

  Knowing the type of man he was, I felt he would want us to keep him near the ships. Then, when the ice melts into sea water once more, it will take him wherever he wishes.

  Sunday, 13th June 1847

  I am just returned from Erebus. How strange it was, to enter Sir John’s quarters and not see him there, holding court. The atmosphere on board both ships is solemn. I feel solemn too. I am now chief commander of an expedition that I had politely refused to command when asked to do so by the Navy three years earlier. I took coffee with Officer Fitzjames, James Reid and Mr Goodsir, who showed me his portrait of Sir John. ‘Do you think it is a satisfactory likeness, Commander Crozier? It is only that I thought Lady Franklin might appreciate it.’

  He had drawn an elderly man who looked for all the world like he was in blissful slumber, free of the worries that pursue the living. I complimented the artist, ‘You have captured him very well, Mr Goodsir. I am sure that Lady Franklin will be most grateful to have this.’

  He smiled at this and we sipped our coffee in silence until Officer Fitzjames suddenly looked up at me. ‘Sir, will you be moving to Erebus now that you are in charge?’

  The thought had not crossed my mind. I looked around the room that was full of Sir John’s possessions, his books, clothes and boots. There was his cutlery and delph on the shelf, and there on the table next to his bunk was his telescope, snuff box and his pride of joy, his Royal Guelphic Order medal that he was rarely seen without. There had been some discussion about pinning it to his collar to bury with him but I disagreed. I explained my feelings to the doctors and surgeons, as we stood over Sir John, having watched him take his last breath: ‘For a wife to be robbed of her rightful place at the bedside of her dying husband and then, furthermore, never be able to visit his grave, we are surely obligated to return as much of him as we can. This medal belongs to Lady Franklin now.’

  To my surprise, young Doctor McDonald became quite emotional as he declared, ‘Well said, Commander Crozier. What you say is perfectly sensible and correct.’

  In fact, everyone agreed with me. As commander, this was something I would have to get used to. ‘No, Officer Fitzjames, I will not be moving to Erebus but please see to it that Sir John’s belongings are packed away safely for Lady Franklin.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  I wished to keep talking so I added, ‘Lieutenant Gore and his party will hopefully have some news for us on their return. Mr Reid, I take it you have not seen any break in the ice yet?’

  Erebus’s ice master looked apologetic. ‘No, sir, not as far as we can see. It is awfully peculiar to be this far into June and the ice as hard as ever.’

  Catching something in his tone, I stared at him until he shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘The truth is, Captain Crozier, I have never seen anything like it. The ice should be melting.’

  ‘Well,’ I sighed, ‘let us hope that Lieutenant Gore can tell us more. After all, we cannot stay here forever.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ agreed my companions.

  Tuesday, 29th June 1847

  There is a plague on our ships. I have just been in sickbay, at the request of Doctor McDonald and Mr Peddie, Terror’s surgeon. Men are getting sick despite our cans of food and lemon juice. I had understood that the canned juice was all we needed to prevent scurvy, the biggest scourge of sailors at sea. However, I have just seen a poor man exhibiting all the usual symptoms.

  Able seaman Samuel Crispe, just twenty-four years of age, recently lost the use of his legs and was carried to his hammock. There, his teeth loosened and fell out, some he must have swallowed in his sleep since they could not be found. Next his mouth and tongue turned as black as my boots, along with his saliva. A gruesome sight, perhaps made even more distressing by the appalling smell. It made my eyes water and I begged Doctor McDonald for an explanation. He admitted to being horrified himself by it, saying, ‘It is as if his body is rotting away now instead of waiting for him to die.’

  Rolling up Crispe’s trousers and sleeves, he showed me how his now-wasted limbs were an unpleasant shade of purple.

  ‘Well, isn’t that scurvy, then?’ I asked. ‘Had he not been taking his ration of lemon juice?’

  ‘According to his mates, he was,’ shrugged the young doctor. ‘For myself, I suspect that the juice might not be enough for some fellows. In their case, there might not be a suitable substitute for fresh vegetables.’

  It is a disheartening diagnosis.

  Ah, Lieutenant Irving has just informed me of Crispe’s demise. I gave orders for his burial to be carried out immediately. I have to rid Terror of the stink of death.

  Saturday, 10th July 1847

  A long week ended this afternoon with the return of Lieutenant Gore and his men. It was a far less boisterous scene in comparison to their departure.

  I held back, allowing my officers to explain Sir John’s loss, and then asked for the lieutenant to make his way to Sir John’s cabin, where I was waiting to see him with Ice Master Reid and Officer Fitzjames, who had ordered coffee and biscuits.

  I had pinned a lot of hope on Lieutenant Gore’s party. The men and I were in need of good news and I was impatient to speak with him.

  However, when he arrived, I was disappointed to see him looking pale and thin. I greeted him quickly, ‘Did you have a good trip?’ The question seemed foolish considering our location. The Arctic rarely permits anyone to experience anything as innocent as a ‘good trip’.

  Lieutenant Gore is not a stupid man and, therefore, he did not waste time trying to impress me. Also, he was in shock over Sir John. He glanced around us as if expecting our commander to suddenly appear, and I wondered at his feelings at finding only me in command instead.

  ‘Sir,’ he began, ‘we did not find any break in the ice.’ H
e paused, allowing that to sink in before continuing, ‘Furthermore, we travelled along the coastline and did not find any signs of life. There was nothing to hunt, I mean, in all these weeks we never saw a single caribou, hare, seal or bear.’

  Mr Reid shook his head, whilst Officer Fitzjames gazed at me for my response. The lieutenant succumbed to a coughing fit while I poured myself another coffee, for something to do.

  Then I remembered to ask, ‘Did you find the cairn?’

  Managing to catch his breath, Lieutenant Gore answered, ‘Yes, sir, that we did. We stored the report sheet in it and ensured that the cairn was solid before adding a few more stones, giving it a greater height. And we dropped the rest of the notes sporadically.’

  ‘Well, then,’ I said. ‘That is good news. It is more than we did at Beechey Island and, for that, I am grateful to you, Lieutenant.’

  Officer Fitzjames agreed, ‘Why, yes, sir. They will have no trouble finding us now.’

  Mr Reid stared off in the distance, refusing to meet my eye. No doubt, he was thinking about the fact that the autumn was coming around again and we would still be here thanks to this summer’s failure to melt the ice. Our ships cannot move and, likewise, no ship would be able to reach us.

  I told the lieutenant to get some sleep before writing up his report of his trip. ‘I look forward to reading it.’ I do not know why I said that.

  Anyway, it is only early July. Who knows what the next few weeks will bring? September ushers in the autumn and, hopefully, we will be long gone from here.

  Friday, 3rd September 1847

  We face another autumn, winter and Christmas here. I will refrain from writing so frequently as there is little to report. I never imagined that we would end up stuck for another year. No, that is not exactly true, is it? But I find no comfort in seeing my initial worry, about sailing too late in the year, being realised.

  12

  Ask me no secrets and I’ll tell you no lies

  I was excited because our relatives were visiting us that afternoon, all the way from County Cork. Papa had received a letter, last week, announcing the time of their arrival, sending Mama into a bit of a tizzy over the ‘state of the house’. Aunt Connie was Papa’s older sister, married to Uncle Virgil, with my three cousins, Charles, Charlotte, and baby Virgil the second. Actually, I was not sure if I needed to say ‘the second’ and meant to check before they arrived.

  Charlotte was fifteen years of age, with dark brown hair and brown eyes like mine so that some people mistook us for sisters, which pleased me tremendously. Oh, but she was much more sophisticated, and I had always wished, for as long as I could remember, to be tall like her and as slender too. And she was so clever. ‘My dear,’ she would say, ‘you must read this poem. It is simply divine.’

  She helped me see that I should become a painter. When we were older, we planned to visit Paris together. Just the two of us, if we were allowed to, of course. Charlotte said that every sensible person knew that Paris was the most beautiful city in the world, which was why all the best artists lived there. She had met someone who had been there and they described elegant women in the most stylish gowns and hats and how civilised people sat for hours over cups of coffee and pastries outside the coffee houses. ‘Can you imagine, ma petite? There they sit, for hours on end, having the most intellectual conversations while watching a parade of the most fashionable persons walk by. Does it not sound utterly heavenly? Oh lá lá!’

  Her French was ever so good too.

  In truth, I felt a little unsure about it but had to believe that if I was with Charlotte I would be brave enough to take my seat at a café. For now, we would keep our plans from our parents as they would be sure to dismiss them, though I was hopeful that Papa, at least, would understand.

  When we were not discussing such things, Charlotte would take me into confidences about her little crushes, as she called them, on her brother’s friends.

  Charles had a lot of friends, it seemed to me, because every time we met up, Charlotte was talking about a different boy who was making her blush and feel anxious by his very presence. I found these talks thrilling. She was living in a completely different world to mine. William’s friends were mostly annoying creatures who still needed their nurses to wipe their noses and tie their shoe laces. I wished I had a brother like Charles. He was sixteen, going on seventeen, almost as tall as Papa and brimming with intelligence and social graces as far as I was concerned. I made the mistake of saying something along those lines to Charlotte once and, for ages after, she taunted me about having a crush on her brother. It was mortifying – mostly because, for all I knew, it was true. Certainly, he was the only older boy that I really knew and it was hardly my fault that I found him handsome. Even Aunt Harriet complimented him on his good looks, which made him laugh. And he had such a pleasant laugh, gentle and light, in direct contrast to his father’s, Uncle Virgil, which Aunt Harriet once compared to Roaring Meg, the loudest cannon on the walls of Derry, left over from the Siege of Derry.

  Aunt Connie did not look anything like Papa but she was serious like Papa could be. She rarely smiled and, in fact, could look quite fierce when she was merely listening to someone. She dressed in black a lot, I mean, even before Weesy got sick. I felt that Mama was slightly nervous of her. Well, she did have an unnerving habit of staring. For example, I would be listening to Papa or Charlotte and, gradually, a sense of unease would pluck at me until I realised that my aunt was studying my entire figure, inch by inch. I got the feeling that she disliked Aunt Harriet as she rarely spoke to her.

  They had not been here in ages, probably not wanting to come too soon after Weesy’s funeral which they had been unable to attend. Mama dashed about making sure that the house was perfect. Not surprisingly, Papa was locked away in his study while the preparations were being made, only allowing William to share his hiding place if he promised to be quiet. Aunt Harriet was on flower duty and kept moving around vases of our roses to see where they looked best and where we could make use of their perfume. I overheard her telling Mama not to overdo matters. ‘You know what she is like.’ I assumed she was referring to Aunt Connie.

  I helped Laura polish the good silverware, which was only used when we had guests. I did not mind doing this, although I was quite sure that my cousins were never expected to do any housework since they had twice as many staff as we did. Mama did not believe in filling our house with extra servants when there was no harm in doing some things for ourselves. ‘There,’ I said to Laura, ‘I can see my face in all of them.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Ann,’ she replied. ‘Now, let us set out the places. The napkins are pressed and I have already polished the glasses. We just need to ask your mama for a seating plan.’

  ‘I’ll go ask her!’

  ‘Miss Ann?’

  I turned back. Laura appeared to be deciding what to say or how to say it. I waited politely for her to speak, although if it was anything to do with the table and dinner, Mama was the one to ask.

  ‘Well, now …,’ said Laura, ‘it is only that … well, you will need to ask her how many places we need to set, not just where everyone will sit.’

  Her embarrassment confused me and I said, ‘I’ll get Mama. She will sort it all out.’

  Mama was in the kitchen, gazing in earnest at the custard that Cook was making. Cook stirred her mixture flippantly, hardly bothering to hide her annoyance at being supervised in this way.

  ‘Were those eggs all right?’ Mama was asking, wisely ignoring the ill-mannered grunts from her cook.

  ‘Yes, ma’am’ was the tense reply.

  ‘What about the goose, did it smell a little off to you? I thought the eyes looked somewhat cloudy to me.’

  ‘Well, it is dead, ma’am.’

  Mrs Boxall, for once, looked pleased to see me, obviously hoping that I would rescue her by fetching Mama away. Still, Mama felt the need to explain herself, sounding slightly hurt that our cook needed the situation explained to her. ‘It is just t
hat I want everything to be perfect for Captain Coppin’s sister and her family.’

  Mrs Boxhall increased the speed of her stirring, the wooden spoon chiming tunelessly against the sides of the large enamel bowl. As she punished the mixture, she addressed it, that is, instead of looking up at Mama or me. ‘Yes, ma’am, and I want everything to be perfect too!’

  I spoke quickly, ‘Mama, Laura and I need you in the dining room.’

  Mama gave Mrs Boxhall a final look. I was afraid that she was considering chastising her for her rude tone, which would probably produce an almighty row.

  ‘Mama, we need you.’

  ‘Yes, Ann, I am coming!’

  Laura smiled nervously at our arrival. ‘I didn’t know where you preferred everyone to sit, madam.’

  ‘Well, then, where to start?’ Mama was not exactly talking to us. ‘Yes, so, Mr Coppin sits here at the top of the table and I will be facing him, at the far end. We will put his sister on his left with her husband on her right. Ann, you will sit on your father’s right, with Charlotte beside you. Charles will face Harriet, either side of myself.’

  ‘What about William?’ asked Laura.

  I had to admit that I had forgotten all about my little brother.

  ‘Oh, he can sit the other side of Harriet. I was thinking of leaving him out but that would not be fair to him.’

  ‘What about Grandfather, will he be joining us?’ I asked.

  ‘No. He prefers to eat in his room. He is too tired for company these days.’

  Perhaps he was just too tired for Aunt Connie and her family. I was never sure if he particularly disliked them or if he did not feel obliged to make an effort for Papa’s side of the family.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Laura was giving Mama the same look she had given me earlier. What on earth was the matter with her?

 

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