by John Wilson
For what seemed like an eternity, we stood completely still, regarding one another. The bear was trying to work out what I was; I was thinking these were my final moments on earth.
I didn’t recognize the explosion as a musket firing nearby. The bear reared up and threw its great head back. I cried out in terror, certain that I was about to be crushed by the weight of this mountainous form looming over me. However, the bear swung to one side of me.
As it did so, one of its massive forepaws caught me on the right shoulder. Had I not been wearing such a thick layer of clothing against the cold, the blow would have ripped my arm off. As it was, it knocked me some 10 feet across the beach, where I lay gasping. I was vaguely aware of a figure running towards me and of the huge bear lumbering off, before I passed out.
I came to in the sick bay of Erebus, with Surgeon Stanley fussing over me. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully.
I attempted to sit up, but waves of pain in my shoulder forced me back.
“Quite the blow you took there, young man,” Stanley informed me. “No bones are broken, but it will be some time before you lift a cup of rum with that arm. You’ll have a bruise to be proud of in a day or so.”
I looked at my shoulder, which Stanley had uncovered. A livid, deep-red mark spread over the joint and was already working its way down my arm. “What happened?” I asked.
“It seems you met one of the great white bears that inhabit these regions. Lucky for you that you weren’t alone.” Stanley nodded to the sick-bay door.
With an effort, I turned my head to see Davy leaning against the door jamb. “What happened?” I repeated.
“Was out hunting for some fresh meat, Georgie boy,” Davy said casually. “Come down this gully and saw your bear. Took a shot. Missed the head, but hit the shoulder, looks like. There were blood splashes on the snow.”
“You saved my life once more, Davy,” I said. “Thank you.”
Davy shrugged. “Bear got away afore I could reload,” he went on, ignoring my thanks. “Pity. Could’ve used some of that fresh meat.” With a wink, he turned and disappeared along the deck.
Chapter 7: New Year
Beechey Island, 1846
We began 1846 full of hope and celebrated with a ball on the frozen ocean. A large rectangle of ice, cleared and smoothed and surrounded by a low wall, defined the “ballroom.” The crew stood around the wall, which was decorated with various fluttering flags and along which oil torches blazed to dispel the dark. At one end of the ballroom, Sir John sat imperiously on a magnificent ice-carved throne beneath a sign that read Hope for the New Year. At the other end, Sinclair, who had taught Davy and me how to work on the rigging, laboured to force a wailing tune from a set of bagpipes. Beside him, a seaman pounded enthusiastically on a set of makeshift drums.
In the centre of the rectangle, Mr. Fitzjames was dancing with Lieutenant Fairholme. They were ridiculous, cumbersome figures, wearing such bulky protection against the bitter cold and stumbling about like two mythical beasts locked in combat. Mr. Fairholme wore a crudely stitched green ball gown over his clothing. Much to the amusement of all, both the officers were having considerable difficulty deciding who should lead.
The marine, William Braine, stood beside me. We had become friends since I’d told him Father’s story of the Billy Ruffian at Trafalgar.
“This is a strange world and no mistake,” Braine commented as he busied himself with his clay pipe. “Are you glad you signed on for this adventure?”
“Of course I am,” I replied. “I have seen wonders I could not even dream about before — ice tens of feet thick, moving, creaking and growling like a living creature; and dancing lights at midnight swirling across the sky and bright enough to read by.”
William nodded as he lit his pipe. He drew long on it and was overcome by violent coughing.
“Are you sick?” I asked as the fit subsided.
“No more than I’ve been for many a year,” William replied, wiping his eyes. “My lungs’ve always been weak, since I was a child. I had hopes that the cold up here might do them good, but it seems not.”
I considered suggesting that the foul-smelling tobacco he stuffed in the pipe that eternally stuck out from his lips didn’t help his cough, but it would have done no good. Pipes were universal among the crew, and the air below decks permanently thick with smoke.
“Take care,” I said, “or you’ll end up like John Hartnell, trapped in Surgeon Stanley’s sick bay for weeks, and getting no better, they say.”
“Aye,” William agreed, “though I hear Torrington on Terror’s worse.” Braine tapped the contents of his pipe out on his boot. “Word is that he’s sinking and he’ll not see many more days, let alone home. Idiot.”
“Idiot? Surely it’s not his fault that he has fallen sick.”
“The word from my mates over there is that he has the consumption and was coughing blood long before he ever went to sick bay. Must have known he was bringing sickness aboard when he signed on.”
“Surgeon Peddie will do the best he can,” I said, not wanting to believe we were about to lose one of our party.
“I daresay.” William shrugged and stamped his feet on the ice. “Sometimes I think none of us were meant to come to this harsh land.”
“But we have overcome the harshness with our inventions,” I said.
“So our choices are to sit and sweat in a stinking ship’s hold or freeze to death out in the darkness. I’d rather there was a war to fight. Then at least I could do what I was trained to do.
“But pay no attention to my griping. It’s just the boredom and this eternal darkness that’s getting to me — same as everyone else. Boredom’s the worst thing you can inflict on a soldier or a sailor. Most would rather be wounded in battle than sit with nothing to do for months on end. I can’t wait for the sun to come back so I can talk my way onto one of those exploring parties. It’s brutal hauling those sleds, but I’ve never feared hard work. At least we have beer tonight, and I think I’ll get me some before it freezes.”
William headed off towards a group of men clustered around a fire on the ice, where quartermaster John Downing was tapping a large beer barrel and filling the men’s cups.
“It’s good to see the high and mighty officers making fools of themselves,” said a voice beside me.
I turned to see that Davy had joined me. “Surely this is better than lying stinking in your hammock?” I rejoined.
“Well, the beer’s good and I had a laugh at those idiots cavorting about out there.” Davy’s voice sounded scornful and mean.
“That’s not fair,” I said, more loudly than I had intended. The thought that Mr. Fitzjames and Mr. Fairholme looked silly had crossed my mind, but I didn’t like Davy saying it, or the way he said it. “The officers have worked hard to keep boredom at bay, and boredom will cause trouble,” I said, remembering what William had told me. “If you don’t like this, there is to be a theatrical performance later this month.”
“A theatrical performance,” Davy scoffed. I smelled rum on his breath. “More excuses to dress up in stupid clothing. There’s more theatre on the streets of Whitechapel than any of these upperclass gentlemen could ever imagine. Their lives are boredom. What work do the officers ever do? Who smoothed the ice for this? We did, the common sailors. We do everything. All the officers do is sit around, drink wine and discuss the fancy lives they’ll lead when they return home rich and famous, while we wait on them hand and foot. Look at that idiot Fairholme dressed like a street woman and cavorting with your favourite officer.”
“You’re being too harsh,” I said, my anger rising even more because I had also thought it funny that Mr. Fairholme had looked like a street woman. “Mr. Fitzjames has always treated me well and he works hard on the magnetic readings.”
“Magnetic readings are about as much use as that book learning you’re so fond of,” Davy shot back. “I thought you had some sense, Georgie, but you’ve been taken in by a few kind words fro
m an officer. Fitzjames and the others ain’t about to care for the likes of you and me. They’d leave us to freeze in an instant if it’d help them. You’ve a lot to learn about the world. The only good thing the officers have done so far is open a cask of beer for the sailors, and I aim to make sure I get my share.”
He moved past me and pushed his way though the crowd to the beer barrel. I was debating whether to follow him to continue our argument, but my anger vanished when I saw Surgeon Peddie approaching from Terror. A cold sense of foreboding, which had nothing to do with the thermometer, swept over me as he walked rapidly up to Sir John and whispered in his ear.
Several sailors also noticed Peddie’s arrival and some men stopped their cavorting and watched. As attention focused on Sir John, Sinclair’s bagpipes wailed into silence and the drums ceased. Sir John looked about for a moment and then stood. “I would have wished to keep the news I have just heard,” he said. “But I see that it must intrude on our celebrations. Surgeon Peddie informs me that John Torrington, Leading Stoker aboard HMS Terror, passed on to a better world not a half hour past.”
Sir John paused as a murmur ran through the crowd. “It is unfortunate,” he continued, “that one so young should have succumbed to illness so early in our noble venture, but it is God’s will. I am informed that Torrington’s lungs have long been weak. He should not have concealed this fact when he signed up. Nevertheless, we shall bury him with due ceremony and his grave shall remain here as an eternal memorial to the sacrifice that is the cost of our noble endeavours. Meanwhile, we must look forward to the glory we have yet to achieve.”
As soon as Sir John sat back down, a babble of voices broke out across the ice. All optimism seemed to vanish.
I moved to the beer barrel, where Davy and the old sailor, Bill, were talking.
“It be a bad omen,” Bill said. “A death so early on.”
“Two deaths,” Davy added.
“What do you mean, two?” I asked.
“I reckon John Hartnell will not be long joining Torrington in the ground,” Davy said, looking at me.
“Bad omen,” Bill repeated. “No good’ll come of this, you mark my words.”
“That’s nonsense,” I blurted out, annoyed by his miserable tone. “Torrington should never have come on the expedition. He had weak lungs and kept it secret. Surgeon Peddie did all he could, feeding him the best canned food and giving him the best care. It’s stupid to say that Torrington’s death is an omen — it has nothing to do with the expedition’s success.”
Bill coughed and spat onto the ice. “Aye, that’s as may be,” he said, “but there’s many a man aboard these ships with lungs no better than Torrington and Hartnell. Are they all to die afore we get home?” Muttering “Bad omen,” he moved away.
A memory of William Braine’s violent cough flashed through my mind, but I pushed it away. “It’s nonsense,” I repeated, hoping that Davy would agree with me. Instead he simply laughed, and turned back to the beer barrel.
Three days later we buried John Torrington in the frozen ground of Beechey Island. We returned to the ship to find that John Hartnell was dead.
Chapter 8: The First Winter
Beechey Island, Early 1846
Despite us being secure, warm and well-fed in our sheltered bay at Beechey Island, the mood remained low after Torrington’s and Hartnell’s deaths. Parry and Ross had spent years in this land without a casualty. We had lost two men in our first winter. Part of the problem was the boredom, which gave everyone too much time to dwell on how far we were from help should anything go wrong.
I had never imagined that having nothing to do could be such a crushing burden. The minutes dragged like hours, the hours like days and the days like months. Men became listless and stood at the rail staring at the horizon, as if willing the sun to return and break the eternal darkness that blanketed us. Without any distinction between day and night, it was possible to imagine that time had stopped and that we were locked in some magical, never-changing limbo of ice and snow.
The officers did their best, running classes in everything from reading and writing to navigation and history. Mr. Fitzjames organized a series of talks by the officers on their adventures. He himself addressed us a number of times on his experiences in the recent war in China. He was a very entertaining speaker, even including episodes from an epic poem he had written about the Chinese war. I attended everything I could, but many, like Bill, preferred to find solace in gambling, grumbling and drinking. During one performance of Macbeth, which the entire crew was obliged to attend, Bill became so loud as a consequence of drink that he had to be removed and held in irons until sober.
Davy began spending more and more time with Bill and the others while I found solace with Neptune, spending many pleasant hours huddled beside him on the deck, sharing my joys and fears, shivering and wishing I could be as unaffected by the cold as he was. He was the perfect audience, listening endlessly as long as I kept scratching him behind his ears.
Neptune was not the only animal on board. Jacko was a small monkey that had been brought aboard as the crew’s mascot. He was dressed in a tiny suit of sailor’s clothes and allowed free run of the deck and rigging. Many thought him an amusing distraction and applauded his wild antics. In truth, Jacko was more of a pest, stealing anything that caught his fancy and disappearing up to the highest yard with it.
“One day that beast’ll be found with its neck broke,” Bill said after Jacko had stolen his pipe and broken it by dropping it from the mast.
In March, Bill, Davy and I were sent below the main deck among the stores to check on Bill’s rat traps. In the warm vessel with plenty of food on hand, the rats had bred quickly and become quite a problem. They were everywhere, scuttling across the decking, gnawing their way through any supplies not secured in cans or solid casks. They were large, fearless and dangerous. I had been woken several times by the feel of tiny, sharp feet running over me in the night. One man had even wakened after falling asleep on the deck to find a rat busily gnawing on his finger.
“That Jacko’s a damn nuisance,” Bill grumbled.
“It were just a clay pipe,” Davy said to him. “You got others.”
Bill hauled a barrel of flour aside to uncover one of his traps. A black rat looked up at us, held by a thin wire around its neck. It must have struggled to escape, as the fur around the wire was caked with dried blood. Bill lifted his club and brought it down twice on the rat’s head. “There’s too many of them to deal with by traps,” he said as Davy untangled the rat’s corpse from the wire. “We need to poison ’em.”
“How can we do that?” I asked. “We can’t spread poison amongst the food.” I didn’t enjoy helping Bill with rat catching, but he had been assigned the task after his drunken display during the play, and Davy and I had been ordered to help him.
“Arsenic and sulphur’s the way, ain’t that right, Bill?” Davy said. He enjoyed these expeditions much more than I did, and I had been surprised several times at how much he knew about rat catching.
“That’s the way,” Bill agreed. “Burn buckets of arsenic and sulphur through the ship. The fumes’ll get the rats, but they don’t taint the food. Won’t get all the rats, mind, but it’ll keep them down for a while. Trouble is, you can’t eat them if they’re poisoned.”
“Eat them,” I asked.
Davy laughed and swung the rat’s bloodstained carcass by its tail. “Not a lot of meat on them and they’re tough enough, but you boil a few of them in a stew kettle and they ain’t too bad.”
“I’ve eaten worse,” Bill said, and I shuddered at the thought of what might be worse than boiled rat. He looked up from resetting his trap and saw my look of disgust. “After another year of salt pork and mouldy biscuits, I reckon even you’ll find a bit of fresh rat a delicacy.”
The following day, the weather being the mildest for some time, the entire crew not occupied at either the magnetic camp or the onshore building were assembled on the ice as Bill
and a couple of others set buckets of arsenic and sulphur alight between decks. While we shivered, grey smoke issued from the ship. Even at some distance, the acrid smell caught the backs of many throats. I wondered how anything on board could survive.
After the buckets burned out, Davy and I were part of the crew ordered to remove the dead rats. Most had run out onto the open deck to try to escape, and so the bodies were easy to pick up. There were soon almost two hundred carcasses laid out beside the ship.
I was down amongst the stores with Davy and Bill, searching for the last few hidden bodies. It was unpleasant work, with the choking smell of the poison lingering in the air, but there was worse. I pulled aside a barrel and saw what I assumed was another rat carcass. I wasn’t concentrating — otherwise I would have seen the dark blue material. I reached down and pulled up Jacko’s limp form. His long limbs dangled oddly and his tiny face was distorted into such an expression of horror and agony that I dropped the body, stepped back and gasped.
“What you found there?” Bill asked.
“It’s Jacko,” I managed to reply.
“Serves him right,” Bill said. “Probably planning some mischief and didn’t get out in time. Won’t be many misses him.”
I looked up in time to catch Bill winking at Davy.
“It’s just a monkey,” Davy said when he saw my expression.
Yes, Jacko was just a monkey, but I left the hold convinced that his death hadn’t been an accident.No one, not even a monkey, deserved that end.
After the Jacko incident, I tried to avoid Bill and Davy, but it was impossible in the narrow confines of the ship. Anyway, I had to admit that I missed Davy’s stories. I knew now of my friend’s dark side, and we no longer had the easy relationship of our early days together in Woolwich, but I still envied his confidence and devil-may-care attitude. His stories of hair-raising escapes and a life of petty theft on the London streets, always just one step ahead of the Peelers, fascinated me and went some way to relieving the winter boredom.
