Chasing Ghosts

by Nicola Pierce

  ‘Who are you talking to, my pet?’ cooed my aunt, while Papa hurriedly took another sip of wine and refused to look in my mother’s direction. For an answer, Virgil the second gave a shout of laughter, startling his mother. Virgil the first, my uncle, helped himself to some more potato, showing little interest in his son.

  ‘Maybe he sees a ghost,’ said William helpfully.

  A strange noise escaped my mother, while Aunt Harriet dropped her fork noisily onto her plate. Virgil the second jumped in fright at the crash and scrunched up his features, sucking in his breath until he was ready to release a titanic howl that made his face turn red. Clasping her arms around him, Aunt Connie flashed Aunt Harriet a look of disgust as she positively shouted, ‘My poor, poor baby. Did you get a nasty fright?’

  Papa had to shout too as he asked my uncle and Charles, ‘Anyone like a top up, red or white?’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ said Charlotte, while Mama told William to go and join Sarah in the playroom, promising to send him the biggest slice of cake.

  After the family visit came to an end, the house slumped back into the usual sombre Sunday mood. Mama went to rest in her room, claiming a headache. She had been up earlier than the rest of us, getting things ready, and wilted before our eyes once we waved off Aunt Connie and the others.

  I headed to the playroom. I was too restless to read or draw and so thought to entertain Sarah. Also, Charlotte had confided in me how much she longed for a baby sister to look after, so much so that I felt guilty as, most days, I paid Sarah little attention. Well, that was going to change. I was determined to be a better big sister. After all, she was rather cute, with blonde curls that folded back into place when you tried to straighten them, blue eyes and a ready, gummy smile. Furthermore, she hardly ever cried, unlike Virgil the second who had refused to be consoled after Aunt Harriet had dropped her fork. Finally, Aunt Connie had decided they should leave as she became convinced that there might be something seriously wrong with him and wanted a doctor to examine him.

  Aunt Harriet came in and found Sarah and me sitting on the floor in front of the mirror that I had propped up against the chest of drawers. ‘So, here you are. Oh, Sarah, your hair is lovely.’

  I was brushing it with the large hairbrush. Sarah bobbed her head and smiled broadly in agreement. ‘Me too! Me too!’ she said.

  I explained, ‘I told her she could brush my hair next.’

  ‘Ouch! Good luck!’ laughed Aunt Harriet. ‘She can be violent with a brush in her hand. Can’t you, pet?’

  Sarah had no idea what Aunt Harriet was talking about but gave an ecstatic ‘YES!’ to the question. It delighted her when we both laughed at this. We swapped places, Sarah clumsily getting to her feet so that she could move to stand behind me. I handed her the brush. ‘Now, Sarah, gentle hands. Good girl!’

  She over-reacted to my advice and, as a result, the brush barely struck a strand of my hair. I tried again. ‘Sarah, just do it like I showed you. Remember how I brushed your hair?’

  She gave another ecstatic ‘YES!’ before almost knocking me out. The clonk of the brush as it bounced off my skull made my ears ring.

  ‘Ow, my head! Ow! Ow!’

  Only slightly put off by my cries, Sarah merely shrugged a half-hearted ‘Sowee’ before lifting the brush towards my head again.

  Aunt Harriet was no help at all, giggling helplessly as she said, ‘I told you so!’

  I had to distract Sarah and fast. ‘Eh, why don’t we do something else, Sarah? Do you want to do your new jigsaw? Wouldn’t that be fun? Will I set it out on the ground here?’

  Aunt Harriet jumped to get it and quickly joined us on the floor, opening up the box and spilling out the contents, to keep Sarah distracted whilst I discreetly threw the brush to the far side of the room.

  ‘Look at all this, Sarah!’ cooed Aunt Harriet.

  Sarah plonked herself back down and reached for the nearest piece, completely forgetting about hair brushing. I briefly checked my scalp for blood but only felt a small bump that failed to justify the pain I had felt.

  ‘That was a pleasant visit, wasn’t it? Charlotte is looking like a proper young lady.’ Aunt Harriet’s tone was light but it did not fool me.

  The three of us moved pieces around the floor, trying to find their partners and slot them into place. Although, when we connected one piece to the next, Sarah would immediately pull them apart as if searching for the magic behind their connection.

  ‘It is strange,’ said Aunt Harriet. ‘William has a bruise on his leg exactly where he claimed to have been kicked.’

  I accidentally nodded to this and stopped abruptly but it was too late.

  ‘Ah!’ said my aunt. ‘You are not surprised by this?’

  I slotted one piece into another and did nothing as Sarah grabbed them apart once more.

  ‘Ann?’

  It was no use. I reached for another jigsaw piece and said, ‘He was sitting in Weesy’s seat.’

  I looked up at my aunt’s face when she made no reply. After a moment, I said, ‘William and I feel we should not mention her in front of Mama and Papa.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Aunt Harriet, ‘but I don’t think your parents would want you or your brother hiding things from them or to be wary of telling them about anything that is troubling you.’

  ‘Well, they get too sad when they hear Weesy’s name and Papa now says he never saw her ghost which probably is because of Mama. So, what are we to think?’

  Aunt Harriet made no reply to this. Just then something occurred to me. ‘Aunt Harriet, did you drop your fork on purpose?’

  My aunt grinned and stood up to take her leave of us, saying simply, ‘Ask me no secrets and I will tell you no lies.’

  13

  Saturday, 1st January 1848

  Captain Crozier’s Journal

  Lieutenant Gore died today. Just like the rest, he had been sick for some time and fought bravely to the end.

  Our dead colleagues are scattered around us, encased in the icy folds of this petrified water.

  It is a bleak and dreadful start to the New Year.

  Sunday, 16th January 1848

  My day of rest was interrupted by a pathetic scene. I was here reading when I heard the sound of shouting and cheering. I waited to see if anyone would inform me what was happening but then, when no one did, my curiosity got the better of me. I followed the sounds to the lower deck where, to my horror, I beheld a fist fight between Officer Irving and a stoker whose name I have no wish to learn. Their audience, resembling a handful of illmannered louts, were cheering them on.

  So distracted was everyone that I stood there for a few moments until I was noticed. Lieutenant Little detached himself from the group. ‘Sir, I tried to stop them.’

  Officer Irving had a bloody nose and his uniform was scuffed and even torn. An absolute disgrace. I was furious, shouting at him, ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Irving hung his head and I certainly had no intention of interviewing his opponent whose face was bloodied too. Lieutenant Little spoke. ‘The officer was slighted by this stoker, sir.’

  To my surprise, the stoker whined, ‘He bumped into me, knocking me into the wall.’

  Determined to bring the conversation to an end as quickly as possible, I nodded to Lieutenant Little to explain matters further. He obliged. ‘A collision, sir, after this man refused to stand aside to allow Officer Irving to pass.’

  The stoker opened his filthy mouth to say something but I put a stop to him. ‘I will not have officers of Her Majesty’s Navy mistreated by inferiors. Is that understood? When you meet an officer in the passageway, you will stand aside.’

  I stared at each man in turn until he nodded and muttered, ‘Yes, Captain.’

  Addressing Lieutenant Little, I said, ‘Sir, you will give this man ten lashes for insubordination while Lieutenant Irving returns to his quarters to make himself presentable as befitting his position on my ship.’

  Not wanting to hear another word fro
m any of them, I returned here.

  Two and a half years of living like this naturally results in frayed tempers. However, I rely on my officers to maintain a firm discipline or we are lost.

  Friday, 11th February 1848

  It has been eight months since Sir John’s death left me in charge of this expedition.

  Over seven hundred days and nights of seeing the same faces, eating the same meals, coping with the same weather conditions whilst surrounded by a landscape that refuses to change.

  Some days, it feels like our actual lives have been frozen solid. For instance, at home how many miles does a man normally walk in two years? How many different people does he meet whilst out strolling on a Sunday afternoon? How many different things does a man usually accomplish or see in one week?

  I might well have continued writing gloomy thoughts but a wet snout has just nudged my hip, reminding me that I now share my rooms with a colleague, albeit a four-legged one. I did not encourage him in any way but when his minder died a while back, Erebus’s dog Neptune set out to convince me that I would make a perfect substitute. I had not paid him much attention before then, but he embarked upon a campaign that involved sleeping outside my door for days on end until I saw sense enough to allow him in here one evening. He never leaves my side and I confess that I have grown quite attached to him. I no longer feel so isolated.

  Tuesday, 21st March 1848

  Erebus’s carpenter, John Weekes, has died during the night. I went over to ask his doctors for an explanation and found Surgeon Stanley with Mr Goodsir and Officer Fitzjames deep in conversation in Sir John’s quarters.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, what news?’

  The surgeon shrugged. ‘He did not die of scurvy, sir. We are all agreed. There was none of the usual, no blackened mouth, saliva or lunatic ravings.’

  I considered this for a moment before asking, ‘Is that a good thing?’

  Mr Goodsir spoke. ‘I cannot tell you that, Captain Crozier, but I have a theory, if you care to hear it?’

  I sat down heavily, Neptune settling himself at my feet.

  Mr Goodsir began, ‘The carpenter had a wound on his arm that seemed slightly infected. I checked with Watson, the carpenter’s mate, who told me that Weekes had hurt himself whilst fixing that leak a few weeks ago. Something about dashing his forearm on a nail.’

  ‘And you think that this killed him?’ I asked.

  Surgeon Stanley said, ‘He never came to see myself or Mr Goodsir so he did not consider himself seriously wounded. And, ordinarily, it would not be. The cut was not that deep.’

  ‘Alas,’ continued Mr Goodsir, ‘these are not ordinary times.’

  He paused, making me nervous. ‘Please be good enough to tell me what you are thinking, Mr Goodsir.’

  ‘Sir, remember when Lieutenant Gore returned from his trip looking less than his usual self.’

  I nodded.

  ‘It turned out,’ said Mr Goodsir, ‘that he had taken a bad fall, cutting his leg. At the time I did not think much about it but now it is beginning to make sense.’

  ‘What are you telling me?’ I asked. ‘That our medicine cabinet is useless?’

  Mr Goodsir tugged at his ear and spoke slowly. ‘Sir, our diet lacks fresh food and has done for some time now. And I think that this lack of fresh fruit and meat could result in a man’s health dwindling from a little cut like John Weekes or a bruised limb like Lieutenant Gore. The body needs proper food in order to heal fully.’

  I tried to be positive. ‘Spring will be here in a couple of weeks. Once the days get brighter, I will send out our best hunters in search of meat or whatever else they can find.’

  It is the only remedy to our situation, that and the ice melting this summer.

  Thursday, 23rd March 1848

  Two more deaths today. I have given the task of investigating and recording the deaths to Officer Fitzjames. I see no point in my having the same conversation with the doctors and surgeons.

  Needless to say, no animals have been sighted and, therefore, our diet has not yet been improved with fresh meat.

  This morning I bolted awake at three o’clock and, for one moment, thought that someone was in my cabin. Only Neptune’s snoring reassured me that all was as it should be.

  Sunday, 2nd April 1848

  Last June, after burying Sir John, we expected to be shortly on our way. The ice masters kept up a twenty-four-hour watch, working in two shifts, and I planned to make one last try to locate the last section of the North West Passage. My officers and I agreed that we make a final attempt dedicated to the memory of Sir John before turning Erebus and Terror homewards. Yes, all agreed, that is, except the Arctic, which refused to co-operate and release us from its clutches.

  Our ice masters, Mr Reid and Mr Blanky, are focused once more on searching for a thaw, but they cannot hide their concern. In particular, Mr Reid looks far from confident. His hair and sideburns have taken on the same colour as his favourite subject. I waited for him to approach me with his worries, although I suppose he feels that it is unnecessary to tell me what I can clearly see for myself.

  This afternoon, following a wretched lunch of tinned soup of some description, and biscuits, I decided to walk out after Mr Reid. He was a little way off from the ships, testing the ice and referring to measurements in his notebook. It was bitterly cold, of course, but there was no wind and the sun was shining though providing no warmth. He looked up at the sound of my feet crunching into the snow and I saw his shoulders droop as he realised that he would have to face me. We were both muffled up with scarves and hats and wearing goggles, to protect our eyes from the sun’s glare off the white ground. ‘Mr Reid,’ I said, ‘I think it is time that we discussed our situation.’

  ‘I am trying my best, Captain Crozier, but …’

  ‘What, Mr Reid,’ I said, trying to keep my tone light, ‘are you unable to conjure the ice into melting?’

  He made no reply to this and I had to prod him once more. ‘We are in the second month of spring and you are much worried.’

  He sighed deeply before saying, ‘I wish I had better news for you, Captain, but the fact is that every time I detect a softening in the ice, it quickly hardens over again with a new layer. As you say, we are well into spring so my instruments should be able to detect a shift but there is nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

  I scuffed my boot against the snow in an effort to awaken my toes, which were numb with the cold. Finally, Mr Reid made his grand confession, ‘In all my years, I have never seen anything like it. Sir, I … well … I have no reason to believe that there will be a thaw this year.’

  Thanking him for his work, I returned here. Mr Reid did not surprise me with his opinion, but to hear it said aloud was shocking all the same. Next month brings our three-year anniversary of leaving home, and being stuck here for yet another year was not part of anyone’s plan. I have sent Lieutenant Irving to quietly check with our purser about Terror’s supplies and have sent word to Fitzjames to have the same done on Erebus.

  Wednesday, 5th April 1848

  It is half past one in the morning. I cannot sleep and so have re-lit my candles and wrapped my blankets and coat around me in order to write here. At my encouragement, Neptune has settled across my feet, providing some warmth at least.

  As I lay in my bunk, chasing sleep in vain, I had the most peculiar experience. I felt … that is, I thought – or could almost have sworn – that I heard a voice whisper my name.

  Am I now going to lose my mind like Sir John and the others? Must I add that to the list of worries that already consume my waking day? At least the carpenters do not work at night. We spend too many days listening to the making of coffins. Indeed, the sound of the hammer has become the heartbeat of this expedition. If they are not building coffins, they are stopping up leaks. The freezing temperatures are taking their toll not just on us but on Erebus and Terror.

  I am going to pour myself a large tumbler of brandy and read my book. Writing here adds to
my depression tonight because I have nothing positive to record.

  Thursday, 6th April 1848

  I finally called a meeting with my remaining officers this evening in Sir John’s quarters. We need to decide on a plan of action away from the prying eyes and ears.

  These days, we are a much smaller group. Nine officers, including Sir John, have died. What in God’s name is killing them? Amongst the crew, fifteen are gone, and that includes the three we left behind at Beechey Island. Twenty-four in total. Like Mr Reid with his rebellious ice, I have never experienced anything like this before. Too many have died for this to be considered natural. In fact, I would go as far as to say that it is unnatural – all these deaths and all this ice.

  We sat huddled in our overcoats. There was no comfort to be had, even as our crystal glasses of Sir John’s cognac sparkled merrily in the candlelight. It was just too cold. Outside, the wind howled miserably about us, clamouring at the shutters, as if looking for a way in. I opened the proceedings as always, thanking my fellow officers for their hard work to date before stating my reason for calling the meeting. ‘Gentlemen, I will come straight to the point. We have reached, I think, a crossroads.’

  They surely knew what I was about to say. Only a fool would have been surprised at my declaration.

  ‘Quite frankly, we are facing a dangerous situation. Our supplies are finally starting to dwindle although, even now, the evidence shows us that our diet is not good enough. We have lost some of our best men to scurvy. Neither the lemon juice nor our canned foods are protecting us as they should be. How I wish I could relay this particular important information back to the Admiralty today.’

  They all dipped their heads slightly in agreement, a couple of them muttering, ‘Hear! Hear!’