by John Wilson
“A good number,” Mr. Crozier repeated. “Well, if that ‘good number’ remain silent, then there will be no need for a good number of floggings. You” — he stared at Bill — “we shall attend to when we return to the ships.”
Bill appeared to shrink. He looked around at his companions.
The only one to move was Davy. Cursing under his breath, he stepped forward. Instead of addressing Mr. Crozier, he turned to the group of sailors. “You fear flogging?” he shouted. “You’d rather a lingering death of scurvy and starvation? Because that’s what awaits each and every one of us who returns to the ships. You saw the ice last year.” Heads began to nod in agreement.
“Ice cliffs as high as the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral,” Davy went on, “and moving. Pressure that can reduce a ship to matchwood. Ridges that take a dozen fit men hours to climb with the lightest sled. D’you really think that’ll all magically vanish and allow us to go on our merry way?”
He paused. More heads were nodding agreement now.
“That ice river has held our ships imprisoned for two winters and a summer,” he continued. “It ain’t about to let us go. By the time these officers realize that, it’ll be too late. Too late for the men we’re abandoning here and too late for us. The ships’re a death trap. Our fancy coffins is all they are.”
Men were now openly shouting agreement with Davy. Mr. Crozier tried to say something, but no one listened. He spoke to Mr. Fitzjames, who moved over to one side.
Davy didn’t back down. “I’ll not abandon our mates in the sick tent. I aim to join them now, and when they’re fed and fit once more, I’ll lead them to Fury Beach, rescue and home. Who’s with me?”
The shouting swelled.
“Then follow me,” Davy yelled as he moved towards the hospital tent.
Bill and a large group of seamen surged after him. Several others, as if drawn by the weight of the group, followed more hesitantly. Most were able seamen, but I noticed a couple of marines and several petty officers.
In the blink of an eye, the great expedition had fallen apart. The fourteen surviving senior officers stood on the highest point of the ridge. The mutineers, about thirty in number as far as I could tell, clustered sullenly on the high ground around the hospital tent, and the rest of us stood on the beach. A few hovered uncertainly between.
Mr. Fitzjames broke the silence. “Sergeant Bryant, to me.” The marine sergeant from Erebus, plus Corporal Paterson, Healey and the other marines, trotted over to Mr. Fitzjames. All were dressed in full uniform and each carried a musket. In addition to those from Erebus, they were joined by two men from Terror, both of whom were jeered by their companions near the hospital tent.
In what was obviously a planned move, Bryant arranged his men in a line facing Davy and the others. They kept their muskets by their sides, but the move was obviously threatening. Most of the undecided men in the middle scuttled back to where I stood.
The silence was heavy and I could hardly believe what was happening. The only Europeans for hundreds of miles were preparing to fight each other.
“So you’d kill your own men,” Davy cried to Mr. Fitzjames. “That’s all I’d expect from officers.” He spat the last word. “Well then, I for one ain’t afraid.” He threw open his jacket and bared his chest. “Shoot me. It will be a quicker, cleaner end than what you offer us back at the ships.”
Mr. Fitzjames looked at Mr. Crozier, who nodded. “Sergeant Bryant,” Mr. Fitzjames said.
“Make ready,” Bryant ordered. His clear voice swept through the cold air. Everyone stood like statues as the marines lifted their muskets. “Present.” Muskets were brought up to shoulders and aimed. Several men behind Davy shuffled nervously as the sharp sound of the muskets being cocked rang out.
“Don’t worry,” Davy said to the crew nearest him. “There’s but eight of ’em. They’ll get me for sure and maybe a couple more, but there’s thirty of you. Move at the sound of the musket’s crack. You’ll be on ’em afore they can reload.” He looked over at Mr. Fitzjames and the others. “Then it’ll be the officers’ turn.”
I blinked and shook my head, unable to believe what I was seeing and hearing. Was Davy really leading a mutiny? Were the marines prepared to fire on comrades who had been through so much with them? The moment seemed to last for an eternity.
“What is this insanity?” Surgeon Stanley shouted. He did not have the rough appearance of those who had spent lives aboard ship, but he was respected and he had volunteered to stay behind with the sick men. His sudden appearance from the hospital tent into the midst of the mutineers focused everyone’s attention on him. “Would we kill each other in this remote land? Will that get us home faster? We are not savages. We are civilized men. If we cannot resolve this without bloodshed, we are not worthy of this great undertaking, nor do we deserve to ever see home again.”
He moved to the centre of the triangle formed by the three groups of men. His voice wasn’t nearly as loud as Sergeant Bryant’s or Mr. Crozier’s, but everyone was listening. “I propose a compromise.” He looked at Mr. Crozier, who, after a moment’s reflection, nodded for him to continue.
“I am remaining here with the twelve men too sick to travel. I see no reason why that number could not be increased. I could use the assistance both in caring for the sick and in hunting to increase our food cache. I propose that, as long as enough men decide to return to the ships to sail them down here once the ice frees them, then those who wish to stay and work here be allowed to do so.”
“There will have to be an accounting for the events of this day,” Mr. Crozier said.
“Indeed there will,” Surgeon Stanley agreed, “but can it not wait until we are safe on our journey home? Is that not better than blood staining this barren land?” He turned and looked at Davy, who hesitated for a long moment before nodding slowly.
“Very well,” Mr. Crozier said. “Sergeant Bryant, stand your men down. Mr. Fitzjames, organize lists of who will stay and who will return, and begin the packing.”
Everyone let out a sigh of relief before excited conversations broke out everywhere. Several men patted Davy on the back, but he ignored them and wandered off alone. I pushed through the crowd to reach him.
“What have you done?” I asked.
“I have saved some of our lives,” he replied.
“Are you sure?”
Davy spun to face me. “No. I am not sure. Perhaps we’re all doomed. But I am certain that, if all return to the ships, none will survive the coming winter. You saw that ice, Georgie. D’you believe in the depths of your heart that it’ll release the ships to sail happily onward?”
I shrugged. I honestly didn’t know.
“Of course it won’t,” Davy said. “Our only hope is Fury Beach.”
“Would you really have led an attack on the marines and officers if Surgeon Stanley had not intervened?”
“If those men had fired upon us, yes.” Davy gazed out to sea. “I’ve spent my whole life with people telling me what I can’t do — the Beadle in the workhouse, the Peelers on the streets. Mostly I’ve ignored them or done something different, but this time I ain’t got no choice. It’s like that time in the churchyard with Jim. I had to attend to him or he’d have done for you, and you’re the truest friend I’ve ever had. It were either stand up to them officers or die on the ships.”
Davy fell silent and stared at the ground. I was stunned that, after everything we had been through, he still regarded me as a friend. I wondered if I had failed him. Should I have stood by him more?
Before I could say anything, he continued. “I’m glad Stanley spoke up to prevent bloodshed, but that don’t change nothing. Soon as the sick men are fit enough to travel, we’ll head for Fury Beach, regardless of what Stanley says.” He looked up at me, his eyes pleading. “Will you come with us?”
I almost said yes. It would take a miracle for the ice to release us early enough in the summer to escape into the Pacific before we were once more beset, but t
he lure of the ships and their security, false though it might be, was strong. I felt I had let Davy down by not being the friend he thought I was, and the trek to Fury Beach might be the salvation of us all. But I felt a loyalty to Mr. Fitzjames. He had taught me much over the past three years with patience and good nature. But more than that, in telling me of the struggles he had endured and how he had overcome them, he had shown me what was possible.
I needn’t be a clerk in a warehouse in Woolwich. I could be anything I wanted — both Mr. Fitzjames and Davy had shown me that. But what did I want? Mr. Fitzjames had lived a life of hard work and discipline and had achieved much. Davy had fought hardship and adversity to be free, to do what he wanted without restriction. Which road did I want to travel? It was time to decide. It was difficult, but I suspected that deep down inside I had always known the answer.
I shook my head. “I must return to the ships.”
Davy nodded. “You were always in tighter with the officers than me,” he said with a smile. “And who can say which of us is right. I may be, and still end up swinging from a rope. You may sail home free while I starve in this land. I wish you luck, Georgie boy.” Davy held out his hand.
“And I you, Davy.” I took his hand and we shook. In that instant, we were once more the friends who’d sat by the river and told each other stories.
I turned away. “Wait,” Davy said. He pulled his knife from his belt and offered it to me. “You might have use of this.”
“But this is your most treasured possession,” I said.
Davy shrugged. “It saved your life once. Maybe it will again. Now take it,” he ordered with a smile, “else I’ll have to give it to Bill and he’ll only use it to pick his teeth.”
I took the knife. “Thank you,” I said, but Davy had already turned away and stepped over to join Bill.
“Well, Bill,” he said to his old friend, “the die is cast. We’d best make a go of it.”
I headed over to where Mr. Fitzjames was organizing several officers to take names and begin stocking supplies for the journey back to the ships. He saw me coming and beckoned me over. “So your young friend was trying to persuade you to accompany him?” he asked.
“He was, sir,” I answered, “but I shall return to the ships.”
As we walked, Mr. Fitzjames was moving away from the other officers. “George,” he said. “I do not know which path is the right one. If I am honest, I suspect that your friend is correct, and I admire him for saying so, although I can never condone mutiny against authority. I have spoken long with Mr. Crozier and we have covered every possible avenue of escape. He has decided that a return to the ships is our best chance and he is in command. I shall do my utmost to support him as my superior officer.”
I wondered if that would have extended to ordering the marines to open fire on the mutineers. I was glad I hadn’t found out.
“You have done well over the past years,” Mr. Fitzjames continued. “I believe you have a bright future and I will happily support your advancement in the Navy should we both come out of this unscathed. However, should you feel that your chances lie better with your companion at Fury Beach, I will release you from any obligation to me and I will not hold any decision you make against you.”
“Thank you,” I said, overwhelmed by Mr. Fitzjames’s generosity. “I have made my decision. I shall come with you back to the ships.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Fitzjames said, patting me on the shoulder. “I appreciate your decision and pray it is the right one. Now, we have much to do if we are to leave as promptly as Mr. Crozier wishes.”
Chapter 14: Davy
King William Island, 1848
Fifty-five of us set off to return to the ships — thirteen officers, thirty-four sailors and eight marines. We left behind forty-two at Franklin Bay — Goodsir volunteered to stay and help Stanley, so there were two officers, thirty-eight sailors and two marines. In truth, we left forty-three. My last image of leaving Stanley’s camp was of Neptune, sitting outside the tent and watching me toil north. He had a sad look in his eyes, but he had decided to stay with the food. I wondered if he was smarter than me.
We travelled light, but the lack of snow on the ridges forced us to drag our sleds on the sea ice close to shore. It was a struggle, continually slipping and often wading knee-deep for hours through icy water and slush. Surgeon Peddie was kept busy with his knife removing frost-blackened toes.
The Terror was so badly damaged and we were so few that we only manned Erebus. Mr. Crozier took command as we waited for release. The weather was mild and the ice much more active than the previous summer, raising our hopes for liberation. Even fixed in the ice, the ships had drifted south so that Victory Point rather than Cape Felix was now our closest landfall. The active ice encouraged us, but the movement that might release us was also treacherous.
Lieutenant Irving was in a long boat with four sailors, directing the movement of what we could salvage from Terror. The boat was in a narrow lead and the ice on one side was old, thick and piled in vast tilted pressure peaks. With no warning, a deafening roar sounded and the ice lurched sickeningly. A great block fell to the water, catching the stern of Irving’s boat and crushing it. Water and spray surged up, and when it cleared the boat, Mr. Irving and the four sailors were gone. We found only Mr. Irving’s body drifting in the lead, and buried him at Victory Point. Another grave.
Week after week we worked our way south at the mercy of the moving ice and what leads opened for us. As the shores of King William Island became merely a slightly darker line on the horizon, concern mounted over the party left at Franklin Bay. Several attempts were made to make contact, but all were turned back by the treacherous condition of the ice. As August turned to September and the days shortened, we were engulfed in impenetrable fog for days on end. Then the winds from the north returned, blowing the fog away, but bringing snow and cold. Leads closed or froze over and our supply of food dwindled.
We still had barrels of flour for making biscuits, although we had to chop wood from the wreck of Terror to fuel Richard Wall’s stove. We had tea, chocolate and sugar and enough salt pork for a half pound every second day for each man, but the deer meat from Franklin Bay and the lemon juice were gone. By October, scurvy had returned. At the first reappearance of the disease, Mr. Crozier judged that the ice was stable enough to attempt a journey to Franklin Bay and ordered Mr. Fitzjames to undertake it.
“You must let me come,” I insisted as Mr. Fitzjames prepared to leave.
“You will be safer on the ships,” he said, without much enthusiasm. He was sitting in the Great Cabin writing instructions for those who would stay behind. “You know what travel is like under these conditions.”
“I do,” I said, remembering the journey to look for Mr. Gore’s party, “but I think any hardship would be preferable to being trapped here on the ship. Besides, Davy’s at Franklin Bay.”
Mr. Fitzjames laid his quill down and looked up at me. He was not the cheerful, optimistic man I had known at the beginning of the voyage. Like all of us, he had lost weight and his clothes hung from his frame. His eyes were sunken and he had forgotten how to smile. “I would give an arm not to go to Franklin Bay,” he said, his voice quiet.
“But we must try to help them,” I said, shocked at his attitude.
“Indeed we must,” he agreed. “But I awake at night in terror of what we may find there.”
“They will have suffered,” I said, “but the only casualties we have suffered were in an accident.”
“Of course,” he said, making an effort to sound positive, “and you must indeed come with us to help your friend.”
We set off, two sleds hauled by eight men each, one led by Mr. Fitzjames, the other by Mr. Le Vesconte. A third sled accompanied us as far as the shore. Its purpose was to set up a supply cache on the shore before returning to the ship. The journey over the ice to King William Island took three days, much of the travel in darkness. We set up our land camp on the north shore
of the wide peninsula that separated us from Franklin Bay, planning to rest for a few hours before continuing. I was increasingly scared of what we might find at Franklin Bay, but the horror came sooner than I expected.
We were melting snow over our tiny oil stoves when Davy staggered out of the darkness. At first I didn’t recognize the shapeless figure stumbling towards us and thought it was some kind of animal. Even when we exposed his face, it was so blackened by frostbite and dirt that it took a moment to see who it was.
Davy was delirious, his eyes unable to focus and flitting from one of our shadowy forms to another. Despite our desperate questioning, we could get no sense out of him. All that was intelligible was a few disconnected words and the phrase, “They’re after me,” which he repeated over and over, his voice shaking every time.
“We shall continue as planned tomorrow,” Mr. Fitzjames said eventually. “We can get nothing at present from this poor wretch. Place him on the sled and take him back to the ship. God willing, he will recover with a bit of care and warmth.
“Young George,” he added, addressing me. “You will take Able Seaman Strong’s place on the returning sled.”
I was grateful for the chance to accompany Davy back to the ships, but horrified at his condition. And if he was this bad, what were conditions at Franklin Bay like?
Throughout our journey back to Erebus and for two days after, Davy rambled incoherently and drifted in and out of consciousness. Surgeon Peddie removed most of his toes and several fingers that were so frostbitten that they were beginning to rot. Other than that he could do little but keep Davy comfortable and try to force some warm soup down his throat.
I spent most of my time with Davy, who had been placed in one of the officers’ empty cabins, as the sick bay was full. I tried to spoon-feed him soup and tea, replaced his blankets when he threw them off and talked gently to him when he went into one of his frequent fits of panic. At those times he thrashed around, shouting about being chased by ghosts.
