Graves of Ice

by John Wilson

  Chapter 2: Resurrection

  Woolwich, England, 1844

  I never thought I would see Davy again but, to my surprise, there he was standing by my favourite bollard only three days after I had helped him from the river. With great enthusiasm, he told me how much he had made from selling the rags and trinkets he’d saved from the mud. Even though it was mere pennies, his enthusiasm was infectious and I found myself being drawn into his world, so different from the one I knew.

  We saw each other frequently, and eventually took to meeting daily by the river. I began sharing my lunch with him and telling him stories of Father’s life in Nelson’s navy. Davy made me repeat his favourite tales endlessly. I suspect that with those tales I planted a seed in his mind.

  In exchange, Davy regaled me with stories of the underside of life in the city I thought I knew. He and many others had no secure home and lived by scrounging and stealing whatever they could. I was shocked, but I was also fascinated, and if I was honest with myself, attracted. Davy’s life was hard and he lived on the edges of the law, but he was free. In comparison to my life, which I was increasingly seeing as a prison with me chained to my clerk’s desk, Davy could come and go as he chose, with no responsibilities and beholden to no one. I began to envy him.

  By the river we talked of wild, unlikely schemes for getting rich quickly, or impossible plans for escape to exotic, unreachable places like India or Canada. Davy, in particular, was full of ideas for bettering his life.

  One day he told me that a plan was coming to fruition and that I had to help him. I agreed without thinking. Davy told me to sneak out of the house and meet him by the river after my family were asleep. Once more I agreed. It was only after I returned to my desk that I began to worry about what I was getting into, but I was committed. I could not let my friend down.

  That night, nervous and excited, I dressed, crept downstairs and made my way to the docks. Davy was waiting.

  “Hey there, Georgie,” he said when he saw me. “You ready for an adventure?”

  The moon was almost full and cast a silvery glow on the river. I could see Davy quite clearly. His teeth gleamed in the light as he grinned at me.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  The grin vanished. “You ain’t sure? But you’re here.”

  “I promised I’d come, but I’m scared. I don’t want to get into trouble. Mother and Father would be horrified if they knew I was here.”

  To my surprise, Davy laughed out loud. “Mother and father,” he said. He calmed down and looked straight at me. “When were you born?” he asked.

  Confused by the sudden change of topic, I said, “September 5th, 1827.”

  “Maybe I was, too. It were about then. What does your da look like?”

  “Ordinary,” I said, still confused. “Grey hair and whiskers, wrinkled face, but smiling eyes.”

  “My da had a big nose. I only know that because I have one and me ma’s nose were small, so I must have got it from him. I never knew him.”

  “Did he die when you were young?”

  Davy laughed again, bitter this time. “For all I know, he’s still alive. Might even be drinking this minute in one of the sailors’ inns along the docks. My da was long gone afore I were born.”

  “Could your mother not tell you about him?” I asked.

  Again the harsh laugh. “I don’t know if my ma knew who he was. Even if she did, she were confused in the head when I were old enough to remember. She died when I were just a nipper.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I ain’t looking for pity. I’m just saying. Besides, I had a big family.”

  I frowned, wondering where all this was going.

  “You’re a real innocent, Georgie,” Davy went on, his tone much lighter. “I grew up in a workhouse for the poor. When me ma went strange in the head and after she died, the women in the workhouse looked after me. You could say I had twenty mothers.”

  His face took on a wistful expression. “Best days of my life, I reckon. Always someone nearby to fuss over me, and other boys my age to play with. The women came and went, but I loved them all.

  “Point is, Georgie boy, I been looking after myself as long as I can remember. I seen ups and downs. There’ve been wonderful times and times I’d rather not dwell upon, but I’m still here, ain’t I?”

  I nodded, although Davy wasn’t looking for an answer. “You been lucky,” he went on. “A ma and da to care for you, put a dinner on the table and see to new boots and jacket when the old ones wear out. I don’t begrudge your luck. Fact is, I envy it; but life ain’t like that. Unless you’ll be happy sitting at a clerk’s desk the rest of your days, you got to go out and seek your own adventures. Now, if I read you right, Georgie, I reckon you want adventure, so time’s come to make a choice. Go home to your nice warm bed and your clerk’s desk, or come with me tonight for a taste of the other side of life.”

  I thought for a long time as Davy watched me in the moonlight, but I didn’t think there was ever any doubt about my answer. “I’ll come with you,” I said.

  “That’s the spirit,” Davy said, jumping off the bollard and slapping me on the back. “Now, we’d best hurry if we’re to meet my friend.”

  It was the first I’d heard of a friend, but I didn’t have time to ask. Davy was off through the streets of Woolwich and I had to almost run to keep up. To my shock, we headed back up Church Hill toward my house. I kept to the shadows as much as possible, even though the chances of anyone who might recognize me being up and about at this hour were slim. We passed number 58, swung round the corner and farther up the hill to the square shape of St. Mary Magdalene Church. A figure stepped out of the shadows by the cemetery gate. “Where you bin?” a gruff voice asked, “And oo’s this?”

  “I’m here, ain’t I, Jim?” Davy replied. “And my friend Georgie’s here to help with the heavy work.”

  “Don’t look much good,” Jim said dismissively. “Long streak o’ misery.” He was a short man, but powerfully built, and his face was covered in pox scars. He leered at me, showing the dark gaps where he was missing teeth.

  “He ain’t getting a cut,” Davy said. “I’ll share my part. Let’s get on, it’s near as bright as day.”

  Jim grunted but turned back to the shadows, where I noticed a small handcart sitting in the trees. He took out two wooden shovels and tossed one each to Davy and me. I examined mine closely, surprised to see a shovel made from wood instead of iron.

  “Makes less noise when you’re digging,” Davy explained.

  Jim lifted out a heavy iron bar and a coil of rope, and led the way round to the back of the church.

  “What are we doing here?” I whispered.

  “Digging for treasure,” Davy replied with a laugh.

  A graveyard would be a good place to hide treasure, I thought, but it was certainly eerie. The tilted gravestones and statues of angels stood out a ghostly white in the moonlight. As we moved between them, I had the feeling that I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned my head they stood as cold and still as the people whose graves they marked.

  My brother, Thomas, was buried over by the far wall, but I deliberately avoided looking in that direction. I preferred to remember the day of his funeral — a busy occasion in comforting daylight — and the times Mother and I had come to place flowers by his simple headstone.

  I wondered if what we were about to dig up were the proceeds from some robbery. What was I getting into? I thought of dropping the shovel and running, but fear of Jim made me hesitate. Then it was too late.

  “Here,” Jim said, stopping in front of a mound of fresh dark earth. A large bouquet of flowers lay at one end. The moonlight was bright enough to read the writing on the attached card: To our beloved son, Simon.

  “Nice new un,” Jim said, kicking the flowers aside. He scanned the surrounding shadows. “We’d best be quick, now. Dig where them pretty flowers were.”

  Davy thrust his shovel into
the soft earth. This must be where the treasure was hidden, but what was it and why was it here?

  “Stop gawking and dig!” Jim ordered. “’Less you want the daylight to catch you.”

  Reluctantly, I joined Davy and began work. It was easy going through the freshly turned damp earth and we were soon both standing in the hole we had created. I was concentrating on our work, trying not to think what we were doing, so it came as a surprise when my shovel thumped against wood. With a shudder, I realized I was standing on a rough coffin. Davy scraped earth off the lid.

  “Break it open,” Jim ordered, handing Davy the iron bar and dropping the rope down beside him. Throwing the shovel aside, Davy began prying the coffin lid up. The cheap wood splintered easily. I stepped back from the dark hole Davy was creating.

  “The treasure’s in the coffin?” I exclaimed, clambering out of the grave.

  “’Course it is,” Jim said. “Where’d you think? Now get down there and ’elp Davy.”

  “No,” I said. I surprised myself with the firmness of my denial, but there was no way I was going back into that fresh grave.

  Jim’s hand grabbed me by my jacket collar and hauled me round until our faces were mere inches apart. His breath stank of stale alcohol. “You get down there and ’elp Davy get that body up or it’ll be you in the cart sold for a few shillings.”

  Suddenly I realized the full horror of what we were doing. “You’re a Resurrection Man,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to sell this body to a hospital to be cut up for the students to learn.”

  Jim turned his head to the side. “God love us, Davy,” he said. “Where’d you find this idiot?”

  I thought I saw my chance and lashed out at Jim, catching him a solid blow to the side of his head, but he barely flinched and his grip only tightened. His head flashed forward and caught me a dizzying blow to the forehead. I slumped to the ground in a daze.

  From what sounded like a great distance, I heard Jim’s voice. “Never mind that un, Davy. Your friend ’ere’ll make more. They don’t come fresher than ’im.”

  Through the haze of pain, I struggled to make sense of what was going on. Things seemed to be happening very slowly. Jim was a dark figure crouching beside me. Something in his hand glinted in the moonlight. “We’ll bleed ’im ’ere, throw ’im in the cart and take ’im down to the ’ospital. Easy money.”

  “Wait up, Jim. I’ve got a better idea.”

  Why was Davy’s voice so unconcerned?

  “What?” Jim grunted.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Davy scramble out of the grave. He came over and draped an arm around Jim’s shoulder. “We do him,” Davy said calmly, “and that’s murder, straight up. The Peelers catch us and it’s a rope around our necks outside Newgate Prison, for certain. Let’s just take the fresh one out of the grave and be done.”

  “And leave this un to blab what we done to the world?”

  “He won’t say nothing. Will you, Georgie boy?”

  “No,” I mumbled. Strangely, I felt no fear. It was as if I were watching a play that didn’t involve me.

  “Ain’t taking that chance,” Jim said. “’Course, you could always join ’im in the cart.”

  “Now, now, Jim.” Davy’s voice was smooth and soothing as he leaned in closer. “We don’t want to do anything hasty, do we?”

  There was a sudden movement and Jim gasped as Davy pushed hard against his chest. Jim waved his arms about in slow motion. His mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on the beach, and something dark ran down his chin. He gave a surprisingly soft, gurgling cough, as Davy shoved him into the open grave.

  “You all right, Georgie boy?” Davy asked. He wiped a long, narrow knife on Jim’s jacket.

  “You killed him,” I said slowly, still dazed stupid by the blow to my head.

  “Well, he were going to kill you,” Davy pointed out. “Would you rather that happened?”

  “No,” I said. Things slowly came back into focus and time began moving at its normal speed. It registered even more fully that my new friend had just killed someone.

  “I reckon we’d best get you home, Georgie. Afore you get into more trouble.” Davy looked back at the open grave. “Shame about the body, but it’s too late now.” He helped me to my feet and we stumbled back out onto the road.

  “You were going to sell that man’s body,” I said as I struggled to make sense of all that had happened. “You’re a body snatcher.”

  “I was just there to help retrieve it,” Davy explained as we walked back down Church Hill. “Jim were the one with contacts. He’s been a Resurrection Man for many a year. One of the best, they do say, but business ain’t too good these days. Used to be only gallows bodies were allowed for dissection — big demand for fresh bodies then — but now anyone can be cut up. Jim couldn’t change. Body snatching were all he knew. He could only sell to some very suspect characters what wanted corpses for God knows what purpose. Prices dropped way down. Poor Jim started drinking hard to drown his sorrows. See where it got him.”

  I stopped walking as we neared my house. My head ached, my mouth was dry with fear and my legs were barely able to support me. It was as if I were trapped in a nightmare. “If this is your idea of adventure,” I said, turning to face Davy, “I want none of it. Maybe I’ll stay a clerk, or maybe I’ll find another path, but it will not be yours. I do not wish ever to see you again.”

  “Well, there’s gratitude,” Davy said. He seemed unconcerned by what I’d said. “I saved your life not a half hour ago.”

  “And I thank you for that from the bottom of my heart, but it was you who put my life in danger a half hour before that. I envied you your freedom and adventures, but now I see the other side of it, and I want nothing more to do with it — or you.” I was desperate to break into a run, to get as far from Davy as I could, and quickly, but I forced myself to walk casually down the hill to our house. At the door I stopped and brushed off as much of the damp earth as possible. Then I slipped inside. The last thing I heard before I closed the door was Davy whistling a jaunty tune as he strolled past on the street.

  Chapter 3: An Adventure Born

  Woolwich, England, 1845

  It took me many weeks to put the horrors of the graveyard behind me. In that time, I saw no more of Davy and assumed that that episode of my life was behind me. I continued working at my dull desk, until one day I saw in the newspaper that Sir John Franklin was about to lead a wonderful expedition to the Arctic to complete the Northwest Passage. That evening I ran all the way home, determined to persuade Father to contact Sir John and call in the favour that the great man had promised at Trafalgar. I would go north with Sir John and begin a new life of adventure.

  Father hesitated, but I persuaded him that this was my great chance. Mother was harder to convince. She saw Thomas go to sea and come home in a coffin and did not want that to happen again, but the weight of Father’s and my arguments eventually swayed her.

  “There’s no safer way for the boy to have an adventure than to go north with Sir John on this expedition,” Father explained. “The ships are the strongest and best Her Majesty’s Navy can supply. Word is that they will be provisioned with all essentials for three years —”

  “Three years!” Mother exclaimed. “George will be gone three years in that land of ice and snow?”

  “No. No, dear,” Father said, trying another tack. “The expedition will take but a season, two at most. The extra is merely a precaution. Ice is a fickle thing, and who knows what wonders they may find to detain them.”

  “Even so, to be up there, in such cold.”

  “The ships have a system of pipes that bring heat to all parts of the living quarters,” Father explained. “I’ve read about it in the newspapers. Young George shall be as snug as a bug in a rug.”

  “And there are to be real steam engines,” I added.

  “Indeed there are,” Father said. “Each vessel shall have a complete steam engine f
rom the Greenwich railway, and the coal to run them. Even should the winds and currents be contrary once the ships reach the narrow channels of those Arctic lands, they need only fire up the engines and be on their way as easily as if they were sailing down the Thames River itself. No expense is to be spared and Sir John is to have the best of everything. Every new-fangled invention that our imagination can conceive will be represented, from portable, inflatable boats to image-fixing devices.”

  “Imagine that, Mother! Pictures of all that we shall discover and learn. When we return, there will be the most amazing exhibition of illustrations and discoveries, perhaps set against a painted diorama of the northern lands. People will flock from all around the world to marvel at what we have accomplished.”

  Father laughed. “Do not worry in the least. Our boy will be as safe and comfortable as if he were asleep in his bed upstairs. All the talk of the formidable Northwest Passage is simply put about to sell newspapers. Thanks to the exploits of Parry and Ross — on expeditions in which not a single man was lost, I might add — the unknown part of the Passage is little more than the distance of a coach ride from where we sit now down to Dover.”

  “Then why go at all?” Mother asked, not quite ready to be convinced.

  “To learn,” Father replied. “The route is known, but there is still so much we do not know about the exotic realms of our Earth. Sir John leads a scientific venture. Its primary purpose is to study everything from the smallest swimming creature in the ocean to the largest whalefish, from the strange magnetic fluctuations near the Pole to the speech of the peoples who live thereabouts. The expedition would establish the Arctic and all the treasures it contains as part of our growing empire. What an honour it would be to have George a part of that.”