Graves of Ice

by John Wilson

  I looked after him, shocked at the violence in his tone.

  Bill chuckled quietly. “Best not to annoy yer young friend,” he advised. “He don’t take kindly to being called names.”

  I stumbled away. Someone made a comment I couldn’t hear, but the men laughed and I knew it was directed at me. I went in search of Neptune to tell him my worries.

  In the succeeding days, I worked even harder at avoiding Davy, but it was impossible. Oddly, when next I bumped into him, he was his usual cheery self. “Think nothing of it, Georgie boy,” he said. “Too much salt pork makes me miserable.” It was as if he had completely forgotten laughing at me and then threatening me with his knife.

  As the days passed, and the return of our explorers neared — the conquerors of the Northwest Passage as we already thought of them — excitement rose. The weather remained fair and we assumed that they must be making good time. In spare moments, some of the sailors would wander to the rail and gaze off in the direction that Mr. Gore and Mr. Little would appear from. Everyone wanted to be the first to spot them.

  On June 11 I was standing at the rail with Neptune as his tail thumped happily on the deck, when Mr. Fitzjames appeared beside me. “Any sign of our warriors returning?” he asked.

  “Not yet, sir, but it cannot be long now. The weather has not been unduly harsh, so they should have made good time.”

  “Indeed they should, but the weather is not the only handicap. Who knows what they may have encountered to slow them. We are, after all, in unknown lands.”

  “But it will no longer be unknown when Mr. Gore returns,” I said. “Will we make Bering’s Strait by summer’s end?”

  Mr. Fitzjames smiled. “A year past you asked me a similar question.”

  “And you did not answer me,” I ventured to remind him.

  “I do not like predicting the future. It is too easy for life to make a fool of you. But yes, I am optimistic that as soon as this damnable ice releases us, we shall make good progress westward. Are you still game to accompany me on my adventure across Russia?”

  “I am looking forward to it,” I said. “Are you eager to see your family once more?”

  “Such as it is,” Mr. Fitzjames said. He looked at me thoughtfully for a minute. “You are lucky to have two loving parents and sisters and brothers.”

  “Your parents are no longer alive?”

  “My father died the year before we sailed. As for my mother, I cannot say.”

  Mr. Fitzjames must have noticed my puzzled expression. “It is not so complicated, young George. My father was a well-known figure — you would recognize his name were I to say it — but his wife is not my mother.”

  He nodded and smiled at my gradually dawning realization. “Born out of wedlock,” he said lightly. “Such a scandal. I was fostered out and the story that I had been orphaned was put about to explain things. Not that I should complain. My new family were as good as any man could ask for. Still and all, I sometimes wonder what a true family is like.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Do not be. There have been difficult times, and I must take care who I tell as I rise through the Navy’s ranks. Those in power are happy to believe that I was orphaned by the fever when I was a lad of seven. Look where I am now, an exalted captain on a famous expedition, and when I return across Russia and arrive in England before the ships, I shall be even more famous. Perhaps then, no one will care who my parents were.” Mr. Fitzjames laughed. “How odd this place makes us,” he added. “I have spent my life hiding my parentage, and here I am blurting it to you. Still, I doubt you will find many to tell my secret in this land.”

  We were interrupted by a commotion behind us. We turned to see Sir John standing on the deck outside his cabin. He had remained unwell and mostly confined to his cabin after Mr. Gore and the others left.

  My first reaction was joy that he must be feeling better, but he didn’t look well. He had lost a lot of weight and his uniform jacket, unbuttoned despite the cold, hung loosely on his frame. He was hatless, his cheeks appeared sunken, and there was a pale, waxy sheen to his skin.

  As we watched, Sir John took two uncertain steps. Mr. Fitzjames moved forward. Sir John stretched his right arm out, seeking something to steady himself. A puzzled expression crossed his face, as if he were having trouble focussing. Every man on deck fell silent and stared.

  “Are you feeling better, sir?” Mr. Fitzjames asked.

  Sir John turned his face towards us, his frown deepening. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. Mr. Fitzjames was reaching out to help his commander when Sir John exhaled loudly and collapsed onto the deck as if his bones had turned to water. Neptune barked loudly and several sailors, myself included, rushed forward and carried our leader back into his cabin and laid him on his bunk. His eyes flickered open and his breathing came in shallow, rasping gasps.

  Surgeon Stanley bustled in and ordered us all to leave. Two hours later, Captain Crozier arrived from Terror and he and Mr. Fitzjames announced to the assembled ships’ companies that Sir John Franklin was dead.

  We buried our leader with much ceremony on a high rise inland from the Cape Felix camp. It was as if the heart had been torn from our expedition. Even Bill and Davy could find nothing cynical to say. Captain Crozier, our new commander, and Mr. Fitzjames did their best to sound positive and hopeful, but a sense of deep foreboding settled over us all. As if in sympathy, the sky darkened steadily as we plodded back to the ships. By midnight we were in the grip of the worst blizzard we had ever experienced. We settled in to wait it out, increasingly worried about the exploration parties and the men isolated at the Cape Felix magnetic camp.

  Chapter 10: The First Horror

  King William Island, 1847

  The blizzard raged for a full six days, while temperatures fell so far that the mercury in the thermometers solidified, and exposed flesh froze in minutes. It was impossible to step onto the ship’s deck, let alone venture far over the ice. Ice crystals, blown in the teeth of a ferocious gale like shot from a gun, cut frozen skin to shreds. Snow often reduced visibility to less than an arm’s length, buried the poles marking our paths across the ice and built up on the windward side of Erebus’s hull so high that it was possible to step over the rail onto firm drifts. The gale ripped the canvas shelters off the ships’ open decks and snapped Terror’s foremast like a matchstick.

  Waves of pressure, driven by wind and tide, rolled through the ice, thrusting great slabs of it into the air with terrifying screams. One launched itself skyward to the height of our foremast, and only scant yards away. While we huddled in fear that it would crash down upon us, it proved a blessing, remaining stationary and giving Erebus some protection from the incessant gale. Even the reinforced hulls of the ships creaked and groaned in protest. So many seams opened in Terror’s sides that the pumps had to be kept going continually. Preparations were made to abandon the ship.

  As the storm drove on relentlessly, day after day, concern grew for those not on board ships and with inadequate protection against such vicious weather. On the sixth day, the blizzard ceased as suddenly as it had begun and the days turned mild and calm, as if nature had exhausted herself in the fury of the storm and needed rest. A new trail was blazed to Cape Felix, where the magnetic camp was found to be destroyed and the frozen bodies of Lieutenant Fairholme and Mate Edward Couch were discovered nearby, huddled together with the shreds of their canvas tent around them.

  The discovery of their bodies emphasized the dire plight of the sixteen men of the exploration parties. On top of Sir John’s loss, it was almost more than we could bear. Mr. Fitzjames got us busy organizing relief parties to scour King William Island for Gore and Little.

  I petitioned Mr. Fitzjames ceaselessly to allow me to accompany him on one of the searches. Eventually he agreed, I think because I had worked on the sled design with Mr. Gore. Two sleds — one from Erebus and one from Terror — made their way to Cape Felix. We moved down the coast to
Victory Point without finding any sign of our companions, so we established a camp while the sled from Terror returned to the ships to ferry more supplies ashore.

  With a much-lightened sled, Mr. Fitzjames led four of us south at a fast pace. The going was easy as the June weather remained mild. We had 24 hours of daylight, and the flat land had not allowed the recent blizzard to form the snow into deep drifts. We had been travelling for some 10 hours, with only one break for rest and food, when Mr. Fitzjames, who was leading and some distance in front, stopped and shouted at us to throw off our harnesses, leave the sled and hurry forward.

  We came upon a tragic scene. Six ragged, skeletal figures staggered towards us. It was an image from a nightmare, only made more unbelievable by occurring in bright sunshine.

  Lieutenant Little led the pitiful group. He collapsed weeping into Mr. Fitzjames’s arms. The rest of us rushed forward to help the others. All were in the last extremity of exhaustion. Their faces were blackened by frostbite and dirt; they hardly had the strength to stand. One man was so snow-blind from the glare of the sun on the white land that he had to be helped along by a companion.

  We slowly made our way back to the sled, where we lit our crude stove and warmed some water for weak tea. Mr. Fitzjames ordered the wooden box sides from the sled to be broken up to build a fair-sized fire. The warmth and the sight of the flickering orange flames, combined with the lukewarm tea, biscuits and the simple knowledge of being rescued, enlivened the men remarkably. Haltingly, Mr. Little told their terrible story.

  “The journey down the east coast went well,” he began in a cracked voice that we all had to lean closer to hear. “It was hard work, but the weather was fine and we made good time. We managed to map the coast — proving that King William Island is indeed an island, distinctly separated from Boothia.” A frown creased Mr. Little’s forehead and he looked around in confusion. “I marked it on the chart,” he said.

  “Remember, sir,” one of the men added. I recognized him as the marine, Joseph Healey — William Braine’s friend. He was one of Mr. Gore’s party. “We had to abandon the charts in the blizzard.”

  “Oh, yes,” Little nodded, although he seemed rather uncertain, “so we did. A shame, because we mapped the coast.”

  “Yes, mapping is important,” Mr. Fitzjames said gently. “Did you meet up with Mr. Gore at Cape Herschel then?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Mr. Little appeared encouraged and sipped his tea through cracked and blistered lips. “Mr. Gore’s party awaited us at Cape Herschel. That was on …” Again the puzzled frown.

  “The eleventh of June,” Healey offered. He seemed the fittest of all.

  “We celebrated,” Mr. Little went on. “Mr. Gore had completed the Northwest Passage — forged the last link between Ross’s Victory Point and Simpson and Dease’s Cape Herschel. Mr. Gore will be famous.”

  Mr. Little’s news should have had us cheering wildly — our great goal was achieved. But at such a frightful cost. And then the date struck me. How strange that the Passage had been completed on the very day of Sir John’s death.

  Eventually Mr. Little continued. “We were all tired from our exertions, and food was short. Mr. Des Voeux was injured.”

  “He slipped while hauling and a sled runner crushed his leg, sir.” Healey filled in Mr. Little’s silence. “Two days before we reached Cape Herschel. That’s why we were still there when Mr. Little arrived. Mr. Des Voeux’s leg was broke bad.”

  “Very bad,” Mr. Little mumbled. “We moved as much of the supplies as we could onto our sled and strapped Mr. Des Voeux onto the other one. Mr. Gore was to take four men and travel fast with the light sled to get our injured companion back to the ships as fast as possible. We were to follow with the heavier load and the extra two men.”

  “Then the storm hit.” Healey spoke when Mr. Little once more stopped talking. “We set up camp. It was crowded and we had scarce food, but we were more worried about Mr. Gore’s party. They didn’t have much with them. On the third day, the storm appeared to ease, so Mr. Hornby took three men and went to find Mr. Gore. I’m afraid we’ve not seen him since.”

  “But we found Mr. Gore,” Mr. Little said distantly. “Dead though. All dead.”

  He drifted into silence once more and Healey took up the story. “They must have kept travelling in the blizzard,” Healey said. “Not much choice, I suppose. The men were all together on a ridge, still harnessed to the sled, with Mr. Des Voeux on top. Frozen.”

  We all sat silently, staring at the flames before us. It was a tragedy we could barely comprehend. What should have been an inspiring triumph was a disaster that had cost the lives of ten men.

  “If you are recovered enough,” Mr. Fitzjames said eventually, “we must head back to the ships. I shall send out a party to bring in Mr. Gore and the others and to search for Mr. Hornby.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Little said. “I must report all to Sir John.”

  “Mr. Crozier is in command now,” Mr. Fitzjames told him. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Sir John died on the day before the blizzard set in.”

  The men stared in silence. Even after what they had gone through, the news of Sir John’s death was still powerful enough to shock them.

  “How … How can we go on?” Mr. Little asked.

  “Mr. Crozier will lead us,” Mr. Fitzjames answered. “We shall take the ships through the Northwest Passage for Sir John.”

  The others nodded, but I did not see much conviction.

  We reached the ships two days later and told our tragic tale. Mr. Gore and his companions’ bodies were recovered. Mr. Hornby and his men were never found. In but a short while, we had gone from a successful expedition full of hope, to a leaderless, sadly depleted crew. The land that we had been exploring with such enthusiasm had become a cruel enemy, seemingly bent on our destruction.

  Four days after we returned, Mr. Little sank into delirium, raving about home and talking to our dead companions as if they stood beside him. The following night he died.

  Chapter 11: Visitors

  King William Island, 1847

  Neptune’s wild barking from deck brought most of us to the ship’s rail. It was August and one of the few days when the incessant fog that had surrounded us all year had lifted. The ice still held us firm, creaking and groaning all around, and we were worried that if it did not release us soon we would be facing another winter in this place, a prospect we dreaded.

  The dark figures out on the ice were already getting near the ship by the time I arrived on deck and tried to calm Neptune. I counted nine in the party: four men, one of whom was of great age; three women; and two children. Neptune must have been upset by their small pack of skinny, noisy dogs that dragged a sled laden with furs and slabs of seal meat. Each man was dressed in animal hides, roughly sewn into long coats and loose leggings. Mr. Fitzjames went out onto the ice to meet them as they slowed and hesitated some distance away. After the presentation of gifts, all was smiles and our new companions swarmed aboard.

  Mr. Crozier, who spoke some of the local language, arrived from Terror. We were all amazed to discover that our visitors knew of him from his journey to Prince Regent Inlet with Commander Parry many years before. They called Mr. Crozier Aglooka. He informed us that that was because he had exchanged names with a boy who was now called Crozar. Apparently this was a common habit among the people of this land.

  The leader of the party was called Oonalee. He had had considerable contact with Europeans, so Mr. Crozier and Mr. Fitzjames took him in to the Great Cabin to pore over charts and drawings. The rest of the party remained on deck, where they soon attempted to steal anything that was not nailed down. They seemed to regard this as a great game and many of our crew entered into the spirit of it, but not all.

  “Thieving savages,” Davy muttered as he watched the antics.

  I resisted the temptation to remind him of his own past life and simply remarked, “The people in this land have few of the luxuries we take for granted. A nail t
hat they can turn into a fish hook or a spear point is a valuable item to them, and what is it to us?”

  Davy grunted and changed the subject. “They stink,” he said, “wearing animal skins all smeared with grease and fat.”

  “I wonder whether they think the same of us,” I said, remembering the foul smell of sweat, filth and burning candles and oil lamps on the lower deck. “When did you last wash either yourself or your clothes?”

  “That’s different,” Davy said, without explaining how. “They’re savages.”

  “That may be, but they do live their entire lives in this land. I agree they would not do well in the streets of London, but perhaps had Mr. Gore and the others had these foul-smelling animal skins and dogs to draw their sleds this past spring, more of them might be alive now. Mr. Crozier thinks learning their language and ways important.”

  “Mr. Crozier and your other officer friends may go native if they wish. I shall hold with good old English ways.”

  Davy turned and stalked off. He didn’t get far. He had recently taken to carrying his thin-bladed knife — the one he’d slid between Jim’s ribs — tucked into his belt. Now, as he pushed through the throng on the deck, one of the natives slipped the knife out of Davy’s belt and turned away.

  “Hey!” Davy shouted. “Give that back, you filthy savage.”

  The man ignored the shouted command and made for the ship’s side. Davy leaped after him, grabbing his loose coat as he made to climb over the rail. The pair fell to the deck and began struggling. Amidst much shouting and cursing, others, egged on by old Bill, joined the fray.

  The scuffle was mostly noise and shoving, although Davy was swinging wild punches. The melee was threatening to degenerate into something much more serious when a musket shot froze everyone in place. Mr. Crozier and Mr. Fitzjames appeared from the cabin. Joseph Healey stood beside them, a smoking musket in his hand.