Graves of Ice

by John Wilson

  For the real George William Chambers and his 128 lost comrades.

  Research for this novel was generously supported by a grant from the Access Copyright Foundation.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Beginnings

  Chapter 2: Resurrection

  Chapter 3: An Adventure Born

  Chapter 4: Old and New Friends

  Chapter 5: Learning the Ropes

  Chapter 6: Into the Northwest Passage

  Chapter 7: New Year

  Chapter 8: The First Winter

  Chapter 9: Hope Destroyed

  Chapter 10: The First Horror

  Chapter 11: Visitors

  Chapter 12: Hope Rekindled

  Chapter 13: Mutiny

  Chapter 14: Davy

  Chapter 15: Escape

  Chapter 16: The Last Friend

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Credits

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Other books in the I Am Canada series

  Copyright

  Prologue

  The Shores of Boothia Felix, September, 1849

  I place the final flat stone on the low mound before me and stand up. It’s not much of a grave, but it’s all I can manage. Sickness and starvation have left me too weak to do more than scrabble out a shallow hollow in the frozen ground and scrape a few stones over the body — enough, I hope, to keep the curious foxes away.

  I should say something over this final grave. There have been many in my life — my brother’s, Simon’s, John Torrington’s, William Braine’s, Sir John’s, Lieutenant Irving’s, Davy’s — they all had someone to speak for them.

  “Here lies the body of Commander James Fitzjames,” I begin. “He was born …”

  When was Mr. Fitzjames born? If I ever knew, it’s gone from my tired brain now.

  “He died today, September …”

  What’s today’s date? It’s September 1849, but the day hasn’t mattered for a long time. Only the seasons matter now — the cold terrifying darkness of winter or the bright hopeful light of summer.

  “I’ve done the best I can, Mr. Fitzjames. Strange, but after five years together and all we’ve been through, I still can’t call you James. You are an officer; I am a cabin boy. That will never change.

  “Do you remember when we first met? It was on the Woolwich dock in April of 1845. You stood at the bottom of the gangway leading up to Erebus ’s deck, surrounded by the mad activity of preparing the ship for her great journey. You scared me, looking so grand in your formal uniform, but your smile and a few kind words calmed the nerves of a frightened boy.

  “We’ve been through so much together since those far-off days in a different world. We’ve seen triumphs and tragedies enough for the pen of Mr. Shakespeare or Mr. Dickens — but who will ever know?”

  A wracking cough drives me to my knees, leaving me gasping for air, my body heaving in spasms of pain. As the fit passes, I rock back onto my haunches and stare at the fine spray of blood spattering the patch of dirty snow in front of me. “It will not be long until I join you,” I croak. “But who will dig my grave?”

  I struggle to my feet, wipe my mouth and manage a shaky salute, remembering to keep my palm down, the Navy way. “I’m sorry. I should not salute when I am not wearing a cap. I have learned enough to know that is unforgivable.

  “If only it had turned out differently. It’s a shame that so much hope and promise came to this. Nonetheless, it has been a pleasure to serve with you, Mr. Fitzjames.”

  I can think of nothing else to say. My gaze drifts over the few pitiful possessions that we have managed to drag this far — the tiny canvas awning that is all we have for shelter, a sleeping sack made from two blankets sewn together, a musket, a tin cup and a flint, although there is no wood left to burn. Mr. Fitzjames’s wonderful brass telescope lies buried with him. It is no use to me — my salvation will depend on someone seeing me, not the other way around.

  I turn my back on the grave and stumble across the stream, past the scavenged carcass of the deer and up the low hill that is our lookout point. It’s a gentle slope, but walking is difficult. It is something I have done without thinking most of my life, but now I must focus on placing one numbed foot before the other. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot — a mesmerizing, shuffling rhythm. The soles of my rotting boots flap mournfully with each step and give flashing glimpses of my black, frostbitten toes. Likely very few can be saved even if I am rescued.

  Another fit of coughing wracks me as I reach the hilltop, stagger over to a flat rock and sit down. The hills behind me are patched with snow, the dark rocky shore barren and lifeless, the swelling water stretching away to the far horizon where ice floes glisten in the low sun. My gaze rests on the sharp, unbroken line between the sea and sky. It is late in the season, but if there are still search vessels or whaling ships nearby, that is where they will come from.

  There are no more choices. I am too weak to seek help, so it must find me. My joints ache, my gums bleed and my teeth are loose — signs of scurvy. The remains of the deer might keep me alive for a few more days, but what the animals have left will rot fast and there is nothing else.

  The coming cold and the ache of starvation scare me, but not as much as the loneliness — the horrifying, empty, crushing loneliness. I am George William Chambers, the last of Sir John Franklin’s mighty expedition that left England with such high hopes and dreams more than four years ago.

  We were to find the Northwest Passage and return home heroes. How has it come to this?

  My mind is wandering into the past more and more these days. Sometimes I barely know what is real and what is only a vivid memory. The ghosts of my past — my family, Fitzjames, Franklin, Crozier, and most of all Davy — haunt my dreams and, increasingly, my waking hours as well. Is that what death is? A release from the present, a letting go of reality, a long slow drift into an endless past?

  Memories flood over me — scenes, images, incidents — but all so real that I must fight to prevent them from overwhelming me. Should I struggle against the past, force myself to stay in the present and continue searching for that glimmer of hope on the horizon? Just one whaling ship and all would be changed …

  Seductive voices and images fill my head. Am I going mad? The past, my story, is pulling me back, away from my unhappy present, back to a time when all the dead were alive, back to the beginning.

  Chapter 1: Beginnings

  Woolwich, England, 1834–1844

  From my attic window in the narrow red-brick house at 58 Church Hill, Woolwich, I could look out over the dockyards and the eternal bustle on the Thames River. Ships of all shapes and sizes came and went from distant, exotic lands and fuelled the dreams that were my escape from the crowded house I shared with my parents, four sisters and three brothers.

  In the evenings we would congregate in the main floor parlour, my father reading to us or telling stories, my mother sewing. That was when I first heard of the strange realms of Canada and of Sir John Franklin. Father used to read from his book: Narrative of a Journey to the Shores of the Polar Sea, in the Years 1819, 20, 21, and 22.

  My mother did not completely approve of Father’s subject matter, but, at six and seven years old, I was captivated by the tinted plates of the land, animals and peoples of those wilds. Haunting names like Slave Lake and Bloody Falls excited me. Even more, the tales of starvation, murder and heroic rescue fed my imagination as I lay awake in my bed at night. Franklin — The Man Who Ate His Boots, as he was known — was my childhood hero. Despite the deaths and suffering, I saw his f
irst expedition only as a magnificent adventure.

  My father also told us stories of his own younger days as a Royal Marine in the wars against Napoleon. His careworn face would light up with a ready smile when my brothers and I begged for tales of adventure. We sat at his feet, warmed by the crackling fire in the narrow grate, as he filled his pipe and pretended not to heed our pleadings.

  “Tell us the tale of the Billy Ruffian,” I urged.

  “Yes, please,” Alexander and William, my younger brothers, agreed. Thomas didn’t join in. He sat to one side, silent but listening intently to every word.

  “Perhaps I could prevail upon your mother to enlighten us on the complexities of needlework or sewing,” Father suggested. It was a game we played — Father suggesting stories we had no interest in until we were at fever pitch for the exciting one we all knew he would tell.

  “No!” we shouted as one voice. “Billy Ruffian. Billy Ruffian.”

  “Very well then. If you’re certain.”

  “We are! We are!”

  “Back in those dark days, when it seemed that the demon Napoleon Bonaparte would rule the world, the only thing standing between him and an invasion of these isles was His Majesty’s Royal Navy.” We cheered and Father settled deeper into his chair.

  “I was a mere boy in 1805, the youngest Royal Marine in the squadron,” Father continued. “I was nervous and worried that I would not be able to learn all the complex duties I would be expected to undertake, but I was thrilled to be assigned to HMS Bellerophon. Can anyone tell me what the sailors called the Bellerophon?” Father asked with a smile.

  “Billy Ruffian,” Alexander and William shouted.

  “And who was Bellerophon?”

  “The warrior who rode the winged horse Pegasus and defeated the Chimera,” I answered.

  “Well done, George. I am glad you pay attention to your lessons. Now, as you know, at the Battle of Trafalgar, the French and Spanish fleets greatly outgunned Admiral Nelson’s squadron, but our famous admiral had a trick up his sleeve. Instead of sailing alongside the enemy and exchanging fire as everyone else had done until then, he determined to cut the French line in two places and destroy their ships piecemeal.

  “The Billy Ruffian was to the fore when we broke through the enemy line and became engaged with the seventy-four–gun French warship Aigle. Our rigging became entangled, and for an hour or more we were locked together so close that our gunners could thrust their bayonets into the bodies of the enemy sailors through the Aigle’s gun ports.

  “The French had the habit in battle of placing sharpshooters in the rigging of their vessels —”

  “That is how Lord Nelson was slain on HMS Victory,” I interrupted, eager to show off my knowledge.

  “Indeed,” Father said, leaning down to ruffle my hair. “He fell in the moment of his greatest success, shot through the breast by a French sharpshooter. Our own Captain Cooke on the Billy Ruffian also fell in exactly that way. In fact, the musket fire from the Aigle’s rigging swept our decks with such murderous intensity that the scuppers ran red with blood.

  “And at that very moment, the French marines attempted to storm over Billy Ruffian’s rail. Now was my chance to be involved, since it was the Royal Marines’ job to repulse these attacks. I was scared, I admit it freely, but if everyone else was performing their duty, how could I not?

  “I rushed forward with my companions and found myself close to a huge Frenchman who had leaped the narrow gap between the vessels and was charging a young midshipman on the quarterdeck. The man was immense.”

  “How big was he?” we shrieked. This was also part of our game. We asked, and with each telling the man grew in stature.

  “Well,” Father said, scratching his chin. “It was hard to tell in the heat of battle, but he must have been close to eight feet tall.”

  We gasped in mock wonder.

  “I was too far off to reach this giant before he would decapitate the poor midshipman with his cutlass, so I shouted the one French word I knew.”

  “Arrêtez!” we yelled at the top of our lungs.

  “Exactly,” Father continued. “I yelled, Arrêtez, and it was just enough to cause the man to hesitate. I leaped forward and thrust the long bayonet on the end of my trusty Brown Bess musket — which was longer by a good few inches than I was tall — into the Frenchman’s side. He fell, but as he did so, he swept his cutlass wide, catching me a glancing blow on the side of the head.”

  “Show us the scar,” we shouted.

  With theatrical slowness, Father lifted the hair on the right side of his head to reveal a long, livid line across his scalp. “After the fight,” he said once his hair was back in place, “while I was having my head bandaged, the young midshipman, the only man unwounded on the quarterdeck that day, visited me to thank me for saving his life.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He introduced himself as John Franklin of Spilsby, Lincolnshire, and promised to help me if it was ever in his power to do so. Now he is Sir John Franklin, famous explorer and The Man Who Ate His Boots.”

  “Read us some of his book,” we pleaded.

  “I think,” our mother said from the doorway, “that will be enough excitement for the boys tonight.”

  We groaned and complained, but half-heartedly, before we trudged up the stairs to bed, our heads filled with adventures and battles.

  Quiet though my brother Thomas was, Father’s stories bewitched him even more than I. He left us for a life on the sea as soon as he was able. Tragically, after less than one year away, he was lost when his ship foundered in a storm in the Channel. His body, and those of many others of the crew, washed ashore near Portsmouth and was returned home for burial in the local churchyard. On the day of his funeral, I stood by his open grave, overwhelmed as much by the display of emotion from the black-clad adults as by my own confused thoughts. How could Thomas’s adventure end so quickly and so sadly? It wasn’t fair.

  After Thomas was put to rest, I took employment as a junior clerk for the princely sum of nine shillings a week. I worked for Mr. Mumford, a decent man who ran a company supplying wares to the Navy.

  It was tedious work, bent over a cramped desk in a tiny room beneath a grubby window, but my workplace was at the very water’s edge, so I could occasionally escape to walk by the docks, listening to the shouts and songs of the sailors, the rattle and clang of chains and the lap of the tide against hulls.

  One day I was sitting in my favourite spot on a bollard, looking out over the reeking mud flats at a newly arrived vessel whose three masts and single line of eighteen cannons down each side marked her as a fast frigate. The crew were busy painting the upper woodwork and setting the running rigging.

  A voice from over the edge of the dock startled me. “Ain’t you going to give me a hand up?”

  I looked down to see a filthy face staring up at me. A mop of dirty red hair framed the face, which wore a broad smile.

  “Well, you going to sit there gawking, or help?”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, sliding off the bollard and reaching over the edge of the dock. The creature I hauled up seemed, from the neck down, to be made from the thick, grey slime of the river bottom, and smelled as if it had been dead a long time.

  “Thank you kindly,” the boy said, scraping the worst of the slime off himself. “I don’t smell the best, do I?” he added with a lopsided smile. He was shorter than me and slightly built, and he wore nothing but a pair of short trousers with a filthy bag tied at his waist.

  “What were you doing?” I asked. “Did you fall in?”

  The boy’s grin exposed a row of uneven teeth. “Ain’t you never heard of mud-larking?”

  “Of course, I have,” I shot back, not wanting to seem stupid. “It’s treasure hunting when the tide’s out.”

  “Don’t know that it’s treasure hunting, though I did hear of a lad once found a diamond ring. I expect it’s just a story though. Pickings’re better in the city — best stuff’s gone by the
time it’s washed down this far. Still, I ain’t wasted my morning.” The boy untied the neck of his sack and shook the contents out onto the cobbles.

  The pile looked like things my family might throw away, but the boy sorted through it eagerly. “A few rags that’ll wash up good enough” — he lifted some unidentifiable pieces and what looked like a silk kerchief and set them aside. “Might get a penny for this” — he turned a battered pewter tankard over. “Still holds ale, I’ll warrant.” He placed it on the rags, lifted the final piece, spat on it and cleaned as much mud as possible off it. It looked like a coin, round and quite large. He hefted it in his palm. “Thought it was a silver crown when I first seen it, but it’s only some old soldier’s medal. Still, might be worth something at the pawn.”

  The boy replaced the items in his sack and held out his hand. “Name’s David Young,” he said, “but everyone calls me Davy. Much obliged for the hand up.”

  “George Chambers,” I said, clasping his grubby paw. “You’re welcome.”

  Davy tilted his head and looked at me. “You from round here?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I live on Church Hill, number 58.”

  “Bit of a toff, then,” Davy said.

  “No,” I said, offended by the idea that Davy thought I was an upper-class snob. “I work as a clerk for Mr. Mumford.” I pointed to the nearby warehouse where I had my desk.

  “Like I said, a toff what can read and write.”

  I had nothing to say to this. I was proud of my reading and writing.

  “Don’t look so offended, Georgie. I meant nothing by it. I like you. Maybe we’ll have some adventures together one of these days.”

  Swinging his sack over his shoulder, Davy strolled off along the dock, whistling a music hall tune. After a few steps he stopped, looked back over his shoulder and said, “I ain’t going to be mud-larking forever, you know. I got plans. Maybe I’ll take you along with me on my journey to fame and fortune.” With a broad wink, he turned back and continued down the dock.

  I watched until he was out of sight, fascinated by his vulgar confidence. My mother would have been shocked that I had even talked with a mud-lark, but there was something about Davy — his confidence, jaunty manner and knowledge — that I found interesting. And his talk of adventure. Adventure’s what I craved more than anything else.