by John Wilson
“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Crozier demanded. “These people are our guests.”
The crowd of sailors looked sheepish and slowly dispersed.
“That one stole my knife,” Davy growled, pointing at the man he had attacked. He had retrieved his blade and stood holding it in front of him.
Mr. Crozier came forward. “These people live a harsh life in this land,” he said. “A good knife blade is more valuable to them than a chest of gold would be to us. It is a sign of their peacefulness that they do not attempt to murder us in our sleep for our treasures. Now, you will exchange that knife for whatever this man feels is a fair price in seal meat.”
“I will not,” Davy said, holding the knife more threateningly.
“You will address a senior officer as sir,” Mr. Crozier ordered calmly, “and you shall arrange a fair exchange with good grace, or I shall have you tied to the rigging and flogged. Do you understand?”
For a moment I wondered if Davy was about to do something stupid, but he merely grunted, “Aye. Aye, Sir,” and dropped the knife to the deck.
“With good grace,” Mr. Crozier repeated.
With an obvious effort, Davy retrieved the knife and offered it to the man who had attempted the theft. Mr. Crozier said something in the local language and the man nodded. He accepted the knife, retrieved a large, frozen hunk of seal meat and offered it to Davy. Davy took the meat and, without a word, turned and stalked across the deck. I think I was the only person who saw him drop the meat over the far rail.
Although the incident was smoothed over, our visitors insisted on leaving, despite Mr. Crozier’s entreaties to stay and eat with us. They did not return.
“Would Mr. Crozier really have had Davy flogged?” I asked Mr. Fitjzames as I served him supper in his cabin.
“Undoubtedly.”
“But I’ve heard the sailors talk of flogging. It sounds barbaric. I’ve heard a man’s back can be stripped until his ribs are exposed. Men die of a flogging.”
Mr. Fitzjames put down his pen and looked up at me. “Indeed it is barbaric, but many argue that it is necessary for discipline. We serve on a privileged ship, but think on this — there are near eight hundred men on a seventy-four–gun man-of-war, and many are from the gutters of the great port cities. The life on board during a long voyage, especially during war, is so brutal and dangerous that the captain must maintain discipline by having punishments that are worse than the sailors’ daily life. Hence flogging before the assembled ship’s company.”
“But you said Erebus is a privileged ship and we are not at war,” I pointed out.
“True enough, but we are not safe back in Woolwich either.”
“And we might be facing another winter,” I added, beginning to see where Mr. Fitzjames was going.
“Exactly. There have been too many deaths already. Spirits are low, and by next spring, if we have no luck hunting, we shall be short on food, thanks to the spoiled cans we lost. More seriously, we shall be perilously low on lemon juice.”
“Scurvy?”
“A possibility, yes, and since the locals do not appear to suffer from scurvy, we can assume that there is something in their diet that prevents it. It may come down to our very lives depending upon good relations with the local inhabitants.”
I had worried about several of the things Mr. Fitzjames talked about, but to have him state the situation so bluntly was shocking.
“But there are more than a hundred of us, sir,” I said. “How can a few small bands of the locals possibly supply enough food, even if they are willing to help?”
Mr. Fitzjames’s normally cheery face looked suddenly careworn and grim. “They can’t,” he said so quietly that I could barely hear him. “If the ice does not release us next summer, very few of us will be going home.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The greatest, best-prepared Arctic expedition in history, reduced to a few starving bands of men begging raw seal meat from the locals. It was impossible.
Mr. Fitzjames took a deep breath and his smile returned. “But listen to me croak on. You have found me downcast, George. Pay no attention to my griping. We have had bad luck, but the hunting will be good and the ice will release us next summer. You and I shall have our adventure across Russia, mark my words.”
Chapter 12: Hope Rekindled
King William Island, 1848
That winter of 1847–1848 cast a long, dark shadow over me and everyone else. The sailors grumbled and complained, but what could anyone do? It was a cold, seemingly endless night, and we went about our tasks mechanically. It was as if we were surrounded by the wraiths of those who had already died. I often felt that, were I to glance over my shoulder, I would see Mr. Gore or William standing watching me.
We were trapped and dying, officers as well as men. By March of 1848, only 105 of our original complement of 129 were still alive, and the dreaded scurvy was running rampant. Mr. Crozier and Mr. Fitzjames talked long and hard in the Great Cabin and devised a desperate plan.
The surviving crews from both ships were gathered on the ice as Commander Crozier outlined his idea. “We shall take what supplies we can from Terror and store them onshore at Victory Point. Terror’s hull was much weakened by the ice last year and, should a lead of open water form beneath her, she will be on the bottom before we can return.”
“Return?” A voice from the huddled mass of sailors shouted.
Mr. Crozier ignored it and continued. “It is early in the season to travel, especially for such a large group as ourselves, but we have no choice. Our food supplies are low, and even with rationing they will not last us all through this summer without supplement. More pressing, the rising cases of scurvy among us make the discovery of fresh food imperative.
“George Back, when he descended the Fish River, wrote of encountering much wildlife to the south of us, and this is confirmed by the journals of Simpson and Dease. We shall travel towards Back’s Fish River, restock there and regain our strength. Then we shall return to the ships and complete our mission.”
Mr. Crozier spoke plainly and in a clear tone, but he did not have Sir John’s ability to inspire us. A murmur of grumbling began to arise from the men around me. Eventually a voice shouted out, “If we come back here we die.” A mumble of agreement rolled through the crowd.
Mr. Fitzjames stepped forward. “Who said that?” There was no response.
“You will not be punished for speaking up,” Mr. Crozier said, “but you must step forward.”
There was a commotion nearby and Bill stepped out from the crowd. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he began. “But some of us feels that we would be better to head for Fury Beach. The ice hereabouts held us tight last year. Another year here and we’ll all be dead.”
Many of the men around me were nodding.
“I understand your concern,” Mr. Crozier said, “and we have discussed that possibility. But even if the supplies Ross abandoned at Fury Beach have not been pillaged by natives or whalers, there is nothing fresh that will stop the spread of scurvy. Besides that, we have a duty to perform and it is still within our means to perform it. We shall return to the ships and sail on.”
Bill looked as if he was about to say more, but Davy stepped forward and said something in his ear. I was close enough to hear, “Now’s not the time.”
“We have much to do,” Mr. Crozier continued. “As you know, the ships’ boats have been built onto sleds. We’ll use them to ferry the supplies ashore. Once that is complete we shall head south.”
The meeting broke up with much mumbled discussion. However, everyone set to with a will, and for several days, lines of sleds ferried supplies over to Victory Point. Every day the hours of daylight increased and the weather held fair. The work of dragging the heavy, laden boats was so brutal that a number of men collapsed and could do nothing other than stumble over the ice to the island camp.
Before I fell into exhausted slumber each night, I wondered how our weakened crews
would manage on the long trek south to Back’s Fish River, especially if the weather deteriorated, as was almost inevitable this early in the year. The good sign was that, with the hard work, the grumbling about Fury Beach ceased. On April 25, all was ready. Mr. Crozier had Lieutenant Irving go to the cairn where Mr. Gore had deposited the brief note the year before. Mr. Fitzjames added a second note of our intentions in the margins, and it was reburied. The following day we set off south.
We dragged three laden boats, each taking twenty of the fittest men to haul and push. The remainder dragged light sleds or stumbled along as best they could. We were fortunate in three ways: the landscape of King William Island was flat, the ground remained frozen and snow covered, and we were blessed with moderate weather, the mercury rising almost to freezing on occasion. Even so, by the time we reached the south shore of the island, eight more men were dead, and so many were suffering from exhaustion that we could only advance one sled at a time before returning for the next. It was with great relief that we established our large camp on the flat shores of a place we named Franklin Bay.
Our camp, spread along a low ridge that curved around the bay, consisted of four small tents for officers, one cook tent, another for the marines, and two large barrack tents for the men, plus a large hospital tent where surgeons Stanley and Peddie cared for the thirty or so sick or injured men. The tents were rough and ready, sewn together from the canvas we had on board, but what storms plagued us were of short duration and nowhere near as fierce as the one that had doomed the exploration parties a year before.
As soon as we were established, Mr. Crozier sent out hunting parties along the shores of the island and across the frozen strait to the mainland. At first they had little luck, but as May wore on, birds began to appear. We all took heart when Oonalee, his family and several other parties arrived and begin trading. Mr. Fitzjames insisted they camp some distance away so as to avoid a repetition of last year’s unfortunate events. If the locals were here, that must mean that game could not be far away. I traded some nails and trinkets for Davy’s knife and returned it to him. I suppose I hoped that my gesture might revive our friendship, but Davy simply accepted it with a grunt.
One morning I woke to a strange sound. It was as if hundreds of people were knocking dry sticks together. As I and my companions in the tent dragged ourselves up into confused wakefulness, a musket shot punctuated the sound. That got us moving and we piled out of the tent to see an unforgettable scene.
It was midnight, but as bright as noon. Oonalee and his companions were running in every direction and our own officers were charging forward with muskets raised. But it was not a conflict between people that was occurring. The landscape behind our tent city was alive. Almost as far as I could see was a solid wave of moving, snorting, coughing life. Steam rose in wraithlike clouds from countless puffing nostrils, and heads tossed back and forth. The noise that had woken me was the sound of thousands of antlers knocking against one another as a vast herd of deer moved over the land.
Some men were firing into the herd to no apparent effect, but Oonalee soon began to get the marines and officers organized. Small groups of Esquimaux ran at the deer, causing a few panicked animals to split off from the main body. These were then dispatched by our muskets. The rest of us were soon pressed into service as butchers.
It was tiring, bloody work, but carried out with smiles and laughter at the incredible bounty we were being offered. Oonalee and the others rushed about with broad grins plastered on their faces. Occasionally, they stopped beside a kill, reached down to rip out a steaming liver, and devoured it with obvious relish, before returning with shouts of laughter to the fray.
The hunt lasted three days, but never at the frantic pace of that first night. We worked hard and gorged ourselves on fresh meat. At last the blood-soaked landscape, like the aftermath of some titanic battle, fell quiet. The deer were gone and the meat stored in frozen pits in the ground. All around, women and children busily scraped the skins and spread them out to dry.
Then our bounty continued. As May turned to June, the birds increased in number. Great flocks of ducks, geese and swans fell to our guns and joined the deer meat in the pits. Eventually, with many expressions of undying friendship on both sides, Oonalee and his companions, their sleds laden with frozen meat and gifts, bade us farewell and headed east along the shore.
Hope was restored and we were happy for the first time in many weeks. Fresh food had defeated the dreaded scurvy, sick men recovered and the hospital tent was near empty. We enjoyed 24 hours of daylight, seemingly limitless supplies of food, and moderate weather. Out in the strait the ice creaked and groaned, and snaking leads of choppy water opened and closed at the whims of wind and tide. It seemed as if, after all we had suffered, we were saved and would soon be on our way through the final stretch of the Passage and heading for home. But like all else in this land, it was a false hope, containing the bitter seeds of our final destruction.
Chapter 13: Mutiny
Franklin Bay, 1848
“Mr. Fitzjames says we will soon be heading back to the ships,” I said to Davy as we sat atop a ridge looking over the moving ice in the strait. Our bounty had improved everyone’s mood and even old Bill had ceased his griping.
Davy took a long time to answer. “Don’t be so sure,” he said softly.
“What do you mean? We can’t stay here.”
“Why not?” Davy asked. He looked at my shocked face and, before I could think of anything to say, went on. “Not over winter, although if any of us’re still in this land come the snow, it won’t make no difference where we are. Some of the boys are thinking we should stay here a while. We have food aplenty and the hunting’s good, and it’ll be better when the deer return. A few more weeks here and we’ll be as fit as fiddles.”
“Then what?”
“Then we head northeast to Fury Beach.”
“But that’s hundreds of miles!” I said.
“Why not? There’s supplies there and a good chance of rescue — better than here anyways.” I opened my mouth to say something, but Davy held up his hand. “And we’ll have the ships’ boats. If no one comes to rescue us, we can sail back out of Lancaster Sound.”
It sounded simple, and I had to admit that I had thought of something similar, but the decision to return to the ships had been made. “Too much can go wrong,” I pointed out. “What if the deer don’t return? We have a lot of meat stored, but how long will it last a hundred hungry men? What if the supplies at Fury Beach have been plundered by natives or whalers? What if a storm catches everyone in the open? What if you arrive too late for whalers or a rescue ship to find you at Fury Beach? The three boats can’t hold everyone.”
“What if. What if. What if.” Anger flashed across Davy’s face. “What if the ice don’t release the ships this year, same as last? Then we’ll all die comfy in our hammocks. If I’m to die, I’d rather die on my feet, struggling to save myself, and there’s many feel the same. We’ve had enough of the officers telling us what to do. That’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”
I wanted to argue that a return to the ships made more sense — that all the signs were that this summer would be milder than last. I wanted to say that we would be safer in the ships and home sooner, but Davy’s anger frightened me. What if others felt as strongly as he did? The decision was already made. How would the crews react? I sat in silence.
“You got to choose, Georgie boy,” Davy said, “between your mates and them fancy officers you seem so fond of.” He stood and headed back to the tents, turning to tell me, “There ain’t much time to think on it.”
I sat for a long time in an agony of indecision. Who was right? Go back to the ships or head for Fury Beach? Mr. Crozier and the other officers had made a decision and Mr. Fitzjames had told me it would be announced this afternoon.
Some hours later Mr. Crozier, Mr. Fitzjames and the other officers stood in a line on the rise above the beach. The rest of us were sp
read out on the flat stony area between them and the strait, where lines of open water twisted through the gleaming ice. A cold wind blew from the north, flapping the canvas of the tents, but the sun was bright in a pale blue sky.
“Our journey down here was hard, but it was the right choice,” Mr. Crozier said. “We have been fortunate with the hunting and the scurvy has been kept at bay. However, if we are to complete our task this year, it is time to return to the ships. We shall travel light, carrying as much food and essential supplies as we can. The rest we will store here.”
Mr. Crozier hesitated, as if he was not comfortable with what he was about to say next. “Surgeon Stanley informs me that about a dozen men are still not fit to travel. He has volunteered to remain here and care for them.” A grumble ran through the crowd around me. No one liked the idea of leaving their mates behind.
“I share your concern.” Mr. Crozier raised his voice above the discontent. “It goes against all I believe in to split the company this way and leave men behind, but I can see no alternative. They have ample food and the weather remains moderate. As soon as the ships are free of the ice, we shall sail south and reunite the two parties before continuing to warmer climes.”
I looked at Mr. Fitzjames. His usual smile was gone and he looked grim. I wondered if he agreed with Mr. Crozier’s decision.
“Speed is of the essence if we are to take maximum advantage of what seems to be a mild summer. Let us get to work.” Mr. Crozier turned away.
“We ain’t going.” A voice rang out from the crowd of sailors beside me. Mr. Crozier turned and scanned the crew. Old Bill stepped forward. “Some of us been talking,” he continued, “and we reckon that staying here to hunt more and then heading north to Fury Beach makes more sense.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Mr. Crozier snapped. “And who might ‘some of us’ be?”
“A good number,” Bill said, but he seemed uncertain.
