The Broken Lands

by Robert Edric

  Hartnell lost weight. His joints ached and he bruised easily; he became listless and enervated. Reporting all this to Franklin, Stanley conferred with Peddie, who told him of the identical symptoms in Torrington. Both surgeons knew that the disease seldom struck isolated individuals, but afflicted whole crews to varying degrees, and it was Peddie who made the alarming suggestion that if the cause of the men’s suffering was scurvy, then their lemon juice or other antiscorbutics were considerably less potent than they had been led to believe. Franklin ordered a cask of the juice to be brought to his cabin, and in the company of Crozier, Fitzjames and the two surgeons, he opened it and ladled out its contents for them to sample. They all declared it to be fresh and strong. It had not frozen or diluted itself, and nor had it been contaminated in any way. After a year or two in the cask it would begin to congeal into a glutinous ball at its center, but as yet it showed no signs of doing so.

  Reassured, Franklin resealed the cask.

  Stanley suggested that the two men might be suffering from some kind of food poisoning, and this, in view of the spoiled food which had already been brought to light and destroyed, seemed a more likely explanation. Franklin asked his surgeons if anyone else had reported sick to them, and was told that three or four men on each vessel had reported stomach cramps, vomiting and loss of appetite.

  The sun finally dipped below the horizon on the 21st of November. Some were unsettled by the change from light to dark, and all, regardless of their previous internments, were made cautious by it. To some, the full moon seemed to be as bright as the waning sun.

  The ice, which had earlier been so noisy as it moved into place along its channels around them, was now almost completely silent. Occasionally it cracked in the darkness with the sound of a pistol being fired, and with the same wooden echo of a gunshot; and sometimes it fell in sheets from the cliff faces, collapsing into powder before it hit the ground below. Sometimes it murmured in the distance with the noise of an approaching crowd, and those who heard this for the first time swore they could detect the voices of others in it calling out to them. More than one man on watch made a fool of himself by calling back in answer to these voices, convinced he had established contact with someone when all he had done was pick up the returning echo of one of his own companions.

  A fortnight later Christmas wreaths and decorations were hung on the covered decks of both ships. The path between the vessels was marked with stakes and macadamized with coal ash from their boilers and ovens.

  Their tenting was doubled and reinforced, and by the time the first of the bad weather arrived both ships were ready to withstand it. Ice formed quickly in the rigging and on the exposed areas of deck, sealing canvas and rope to wood and preventing all draughts from penetrating below. A thick, insulating layer was allowed to build up, to thaw and refreeze into an impregnable protective coating, and this too was strengthened with scattered ash.

  It gathered a foot deep on their vaulted roof and then in twelve-foot drifts against their hulls, through which corridors were cut for the men to take their daily exercise on the land and frozen sea. On the coldest days this amounted to no more than running the short distance from one vessel to the other and back again, but whenever the weather was kinder to them they spent several hours outside, collecting supplies by the light of the moon or exploring the changed contours of the world around them.

  On Christmas Eve a service was held on the ice and the enclosed bay was filled with their singing voices.

  Two sides of frozen ox were roasted, and forty of their geese slaughtered. The cook Richard Wall made a pudding in the shape of the island and in the vanilla sauce at its base he floated two small cinnamon ships. Toasts were drunk to the Queen and to those left at home.

  Fitzjames wrote in his journal that he doubted if he had ever celebrated a more joyful or hopeful Christmas. He wrote an eighteen-page letter to his sister and opened the gift of books, knitted socks and waterproof cape she and her husband had sent with him. In addition to this she had given him a Fortnum and Mason’s hamper, instructing him not to open it until Christmas Day, having chosen its contents so that none would spoil in the meantime. Some men unwrapped fruit cakes baked for them by their wives, and these they cut and ate with the greatest fondness of all.

  The cabins and quarters remained decorated for the full twelve days of Christmas.

  On New Year’s Eve a concert was given, in which some sang and others recited. A small drama titled “Arctic Light” was enacted, featuring both Neptune the dog and Jacko the monkey. Goodsir produced a shadow-play telling a tale of piracy, and Gore performed a magic show, producing fresh eggs from his ears and mouth until a dozen filled his cap.

  John Torrington died on New Year’s Day. He had remained weak and barely conscious for a fortnight, eating nothing, drinking little, and continuing to lose weight and the will to live.

  During the celebrations of the previous evening Peddie had sat with him, knowing he was close to death, every hour checking his heartbeat and weakening pulse. He died at four in the morning, and at nine the surgeon reported the death to Crozier, who refused permission for an autopsy to be carried out, insisting instead that the body be prepared for immediate burial, either later that same day or the one following. In this, however, he was thwarted by a snowstorm which began to blow around them at noon and which lasted for six days.

  On board the Erebus, the condition of John Hartnell also continued to worsen. He was attended by Goodsir, and by his brother Thomas, another seaman, whom Franklin had excused his duties so that he might attend to his younger brother’s needs. There was no doubt in Goodsir’s mind that Hartnell was dying of whatever it was that had already killed John Torrington.

  During the six claustrophobic days of the storm, of which he saw and heard nothing, Hartnell remained conscious. He had lost weight at an alarming rate during the past month and was now little more than a skeleton. Sores had erupted the full length of his back, and his knees and elbows were stiff and painful to bend. He had lost many of his teeth, and each time he coughed or tried to speak those remaining rattled in their sockets. His gums had wasted, and were now almost transparent in places. He ate nothing, but was able to swallow half a cupful of thin broth twice a day, spoon-fed to him by his brother. The two men had served together for the past five years, and it was a painful ordeal for Thomas Hartnell to watch his brother decline and waste in this manner.

  Following the death of Torrington, it was also obvious to Goodsir that only the will to live in the company of his brother kept John Hartnell alive. But eventually this was not enough, and he died during the afternoon of January the 4th.

  Goodsir reported the death to Stanley, who immediately told Franklin. Like Crozier, Franklin ordered the body prepared for burial, but then changed his mind and acceded to Goodsir’s request to perform an autopsy.

  Thomas Hartnell gave his permission. He undressed his dead brother and washed his body. He combed his hair and picked out the loose strands which came away in his comb. Defeated in his task of improving the appearance of the discolored and emaciated corpse, he knelt and prayed until Goodsir returned to start work upon it.

  The procedure was swift and straightforward. An incision was made running vertically from the breastbone to the navel, and then two further cuts were made from this toward the thigh bones, creating an inverted Y. Goodsir then peeled back the skin and dry flesh beneath to examine the organs inside. The stomach had shrunk to a withered sac, and the intestines were desiccated and ruptured in several places. He was not convinced that either of these had caused Hartnell’s death, believing them to be the consequence of some other, greater debilitation. He himself was now certain that both Torrington and Hartnell had suffered some kind of poisoning, possibly as a result of sharing an illicit meal of contaminated food during their time ashore together. The liver and both kidneys were darker and harder than normal, the former enlarged to the point where it could be seen pressing up into Hartnell’s skin. Goodsir removed th
is and made an exploratory cut along its full length. Inside it was darker still, and its consistency unlike any other he had seen.

  He was joined by Stanley, curious as to his findings. The surgeon was not convinced of the need for the investigation, knowing that its results would remain inconclusive. No written report was to be made of the autopsy.

  “Definitely not scurvy,” Stanley said, leaning closer to examine the opened liver, and to lift out both kidneys and prod them with his thumb in the palm of his hand. He opened Hartnell’s closed eyes and kneaded the flesh of his face, noting the marks this left. He was easily able to pull out another tooth, inspect it and then push it back into its socket.

  Goodsir agreed with him, even though many of the symptoms corresponded with those of long-term scurvy sufferers.

  “That, I think, is all we need to know,” Stanley said, dropping the kidneys back into the open flesh.

  Goodsir was annoyed that Stanley, Franklin, Crozier and Peddie had all arrived at the same expedient and reassuring conclusion before he began his investigation. He had asked Crozier to reconsider and let him perform the same operation on John Torrington, but again Crozier had refused, and Franklin had been unwilling to pursue the matter on his behalf.

  “The stomach,” Stanley said.

  “Empty.” Goodsir raised the limp bag and severed its connecting pipes.

  “Then poisoned by what? A single can of food, an unfortunate coincidence?”

  Goodsir could not deny this. He continued his examination of the liver, and after this the spleen, frustrated that no other explanation had so far suggested itself to him.

  “I think you might close up the body,” Stanley said as he washed his hands and prepared to leave. “And I think we might all say our prayers that no one else has so far exhibited any symptoms.”

  Goodsir nodded his agreement. He returned the organs and then pulled the flaps of skin back into position, securing these with a dozen crude stitches and replacing Hartnell’s shirt and trousers before calling for his brother to resume his funeral preparations.

  Coffins were built and tin plaques nailed to their lids. Wooden markers were carved for both men, containing the simple details of their names, ages, and the date they died. John Hartnell had been twenty-five, John Torrington twenty.

  The bodies were dressed and their arms bound to their sides. A blue woolen blanket was wrapped around John Torrington, and Hartnell was folded inside a canvas shroud.

  Loaded on to sledges, the two coffins were hauled to the beach.

  The bay had been swept clean of loose ice by the strong winds, and everything was now etched in black and gray, with the occasional silvering of the ice where the half moon revealed itself through the liquid cloud.

  Lanterns were set out on the beach to guide the coffin bearers through the darkness, and upon their arrival at the gravesite Franklin read the speech he had prepared.

  It began to snow again as the ceremony progressed. Hartnell’s grave needed to be widened by a few inches, and sparks flew from the picks of the men chopping at the hard ground.

  The snow began to fall more thickly, and at times the ships beneath them were lost to sight. A sense of urgency overtook the proceedings, but Franklin was determined that the burial should be carried out properly, and that both men should be laid to rest with as much propriety and ceremony as they would have received at home. He had examined their Service Certificates, knowing that he must later write letters of sympathy and regret to their families; it was with some relief that he saw neither man was married.

  The graves were filled and the excess gravel built into low mounds above them. The markers were driven into place and stones collected to build borders.

  When the final prayers were said, Crozier dismissed his own officers and returned with Franklin to the Erebus, where the two men remained alone together for the rest of the day.

  The two unaccountable deaths had cast a small but inescapably dark shadow over the otherwise auspicious start to the expedition.

  Crozier expressed his surprise that Franklin had allowed Goodsir to carry out his examination, but Franklin dismissed this veiled criticism by insisting that it needed to be done. Crozier remained unconvinced.

  Occasionally, steward Hoar arrived to add fuel to the stove and to bring them drinks. When he called for a final time at midnight, Franklin asked him how the other men had taken the two deaths. Hoar said that the crew was pleased that the burials were over and that the taint of sickness was at last gone from the ship. Crozier said that his own crew felt the same. Only Thomas Hartnell continued to grieve.

  When Fitzjames called at half past midnight to report some slight damage to the foremast rigging, both Franklin and Crozier were asleep in their chairs, the cabin as warm as a furnace.

  TEN

  One of the first tasks Franklin had ordered upon establishing their winter quarters was for as much of their coal as possible to be unloaded from the ships and for this to be mounded on the shore. When the weather allowed, sledge parties went daily from both vessels and returned with their immediate requirements, which they stored in their fore-deck bunkers. In this way both Franklin and Crozier hoped to keep their ships clean. Prior to its removal, the fine dust had spread everywhere and had been a constant source of irritation to the two captains, both of whom had been raised and schooled under sail alone.

  At the beginning of each week the decks of both ships were cleaned with hot sand, heated overnight in the galley ovens, and scrubbed dry from stern to prow, where the sand was then collected and bagged for further use.

  One other day every week was set aside for doing the laundry, when the ships’ coppers were set out and each man delivered a bundle of clothes to be washed. Cleanliness was considered to have an important civilizing influence under those conditions, and for this same reason men were also encouraged to shave their beards, mustaches and side-whiskers on a regular basis, and to submit to the weekly dental inspections carried out by both surgeons. It was uncommon for beards to be worn on Arctic duty, because rather than protect exposed skin, as was first believed, the hair encouraged the formation of ice. Even the moisture from breathing froze hard when the temperature was low, threatening the skin beneath with ice sores if not regularly rubbed away.

  As the weather deteriorated throughout January and February, warrant officers were appointed to keep a watch on all the individuals and working parties who went ashore or out on the ice. A system of handing out and then collecting metal tags—in reality drilled and punched coins devised by paymaster Osmer—was used to ensure that no one remained unaccounted for when the call to return aboard was sounded at three each afternoon.

  The first occasion this system proved its worth was when one of the Terror’s stewards failed to return from the most distant of the stores with a sack of cocoa beans he had set out to collect.

  It had been a calm day, with a temperature of minus 35, no higher or lower than the previous fortnight, and if not actually lit by the light of the sun, then a day that suggested to all who ventured out that this was shortly to return to them.

  At three, warrant officer John Lane checked his drilled coins and saw that he was one short. The missing man, Edward Genge, had been seen by others making his way to the store.

  At half past three, Lane reported the absence to Crozier, who suggested that Tozer be informed. Crozier himself believed that an error had been made and that Genge would be in the galley or in his hammock. A search was carried out, but Genge was not found, after which Lane, Tozer and two other marines left the Terror and went ashore.

  The temperature had fallen rapidly since midday, and halfway between the shore and the storehouse, Lane and one of the marines turned back, both insufficiently dressed against the cold. Only Lane went back out on the frozen sea to await the return of the others.

  Tozer reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a man over his shoulder, running as fast as the weight would allow and frequently stumbling and falling. The other marine fo
llowed behind pulling a sledge. Lane ran over the ice to meet them, taking the unconscious Genge’s legs and running with Tozer back to the Terror, where the alarm was raised and Peddie prepared a bed in his surgery to receive the injured man.

  Almost unbelievably, it seemed that Genge had entered the store, smoked a pipe, and there, amid the mounds of casks and crates, and well insulated from the outside, had fallen asleep. Later, the door had blown open, and when Tozer had found him, Genge was unconscious. Unsuccessfully attempting to revive him where he lay, Tozer had then lifted him and carried him back to the ship.

  Genge remained unconscious for several hours longer, and upon coming round was fed three pints of warm broth and informed that he was to be punished for his carelessness.

  The following morning the store was revisited and sealed, and afterward there was a suggestion that Genge and others had been pilfering from the supplies of canned goods kept there. Upon these suspicions becoming common knowledge, an inquiry was set in motion with Fitzjames at its head, assisted by Vesconte and Fairholme.

  Fitzjames interviewed Genge and, badly shaken by his near fatal carelessness, Genge confessed that he and several others had been supplying men on both ships with food extra to their rations.

  Reporting all this to Franklin, both Fitzjames and his captain were dismayed that such corruption and disregard for the well-being of the expedition as a whole should already be present, and Franklin was determined that all the facts of the thefts should be brought into the open before others were charged with their part in them, and before any punishment was decided upon.

  Genge, it transpired, was working with one of the Erebus’ marines, William Braine, in the supply of these foodstuffs to both crews.

  Confronted with his partner’s sick-bed confession, Braine immediately admitted his part in the scheme. He was genuinely remorseful for what he had done, his shame and disgrace all that much greater for his being a marine. He was handed over for punishment to David Bryant, who sought permission to flog him. Both Franklin and Fitzjames reluctantly agreed to this, and the punishment was carried out ashore, without an audience other than that of the marines and the men of the inquiry party. Fitzjames marked off each of the dozen strokes in the punishment book, and called for warm water to be thrown on Braine’s bleeding back after the fourth and eighth stroke. Braine fell unconscious after the tenth, and the final two strokes were delivered by simply laying the whip across his back.