by John Wilson
On the second day, Davy calmed down and fell into a deep sleep. I was worried that he was dying, but he looked relaxed and I drifted into an exhausted sleep beside him.
“Georgie boy.”
I woke to Davy sitting up in his bunk and prodding me with his bandaged hands. “Where am I?”
“Aboard Erebus,” I replied. “Two days past, we found you wandering and brought you here. How are you feeling?”
Davy ignored my question. He was still horribly pale and his eyes tended to drift away from me as he spoke, but he was more aware of his surroundings than he’d been since we found him. “Have you been to the camp?”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
“Mr. Fitzjames is leading a party there now to help.”
“No! No! No! He must not.” Davy became suddenly very agitated.
“It’s all right,” I said, trying to soothe him. “He will help whoever’s there.”
Davy stared at me for a long moment. His eyes were wide and his whole body tense, his bandaged hands held out in front of him. Then, suddenly, he relaxed. His shoulders sagged and his arms fell by his sides. He began to cry in great shuddering sobs. I put my arm round his shoulders and held him until he quietened. Snuffling loudly, he drew away from me, wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and sucked in a long breath. “There’s something I have to tell you, Georgie,” he said.
“There’s no rush,” I said. “Rest and wait until Mr. Fitzjames gets back.”
Davy shook his head. “I shall never rest again, and I don’t know how much time is left. I do not wish to go to the grave carrying the secrets I keep in here.” He waved a bandaged hand at his head. “I thought that on the streets of London I’d seen the depths a human being could sink to. I were wrong. Listen to me. I must tell it all. Else I’ll have no peace in this world or the next one.”
“I’ll listen,” I promised.
“Thank you,” he said. “I hope you will not regret that promise.”
“At first we was fine at the camp. The food were plentiful, the weather mild and the sick recovering.” Davy’s eyes were focused on some distant scene and he spoke in a soft monotone, as if he were simply reciting something rather than telling a story.
I felt, with a shiver, as if I were listening to a ghost from a Gothic tale.
“The deer never came back, but there was plenty of birds. We killed one of them white bears, even bigger’n the one that scared you. D’you remember?” he asked.
“I do. You saved my life.”
“D’you still thank me for that? Anyways, we stayed longer’n we should, but some was beginning to sicken with vomiting, pains in the head, fevers and stumbling. Stanley were at a loss and could do nothing other than treat what symptoms he could.
“We argued as to whether we should leave the sick. Some, led by Bill, took what food remained, and left one night for Fury Beach. Don’t know what became of them. The sickness spread and we still hesitated — couldn’t abandon our comrades, I reckon. Even those not sick did nothing. It was as if they’d died already, but were still walking around. Then the cold came and the sick started to die.
“Fourteen of us — the fittest — decided to drag a boat back north, and find you. We took little enough — some biscuits and chocolate — the fresh food were all gone, the animals long vanished and scurvy were back amongst us.
“The weather, exhaustion and sickness stopped us. I don’t know how long we huddled in the boat, but it were long days of darkness and horror. Those that died, we pushed out into the snow, all the while wondering who’d be next.”
Davy fell silent. His gaze remained distant and I could think of nothing that might encourage him to continue. I waited patiently, certain that the climax of his tale was coming.
Eventually his eyes flicked round to stare at me. They were wild. He pawed at me ineffectually with the bandaged stumps of his hands. “I’m going to Hell,” he said.
I tried to argue with him, but he shook his head, took a deep breath and continued. “Only two of us, me and Johnny, were left alive. I said we should march out to search for the ships. Better to die on the ice than linger in the boat. But we were too weak. We needed to eat to build our strength.”
Once more Davy fell silent. His brow furrowed, his eyes widened and his breath came harsh through clenched teeth.
“You did the right thing,” I offered.
“Hah!” Davy shouted. “The right thing! What can you, a pampered officer’s pet, know of the right thing, or of what Johnny and I talked of and decided upon in that horror boat surrounded by the bodies of our comrades? We gorged, but not on chocolate and biscuits.”
As the realization of what Davy had done dawned on me, I felt my eyes go wide.
He nodded. “It were too much for Johnny. He thought the sick men from the camp were coming to seek revenge for their comrades. He sat in the prow of the boat with a loaded musket beside him, ready to defend himself against the shadows he imagined were after him. He even brought one of the dead men into the stern of the boat so he could keep an eye on him. Talking did no good. Johnny just waved the musket at me. I left then, walking north, searching for a place to die, I reckon, but I stumbled upon your camp instead. Why do I still live? Does God require me to confess my sins before I die? Well, I done that. The burden is yours now.”
The fire faded in Davy’s eyes and he fell back on the bunk, his breathing ragged, his face grey.
I went to find Surgeon Peddie, but when we returned, Davy — my friend, my enemy, my companion — was dead.
Chapter 15: Escape
Boothia Felix, 1849
Mr. Fitzjames and Mr. Le Vesconte returned from Franklin Bay, where they had found no one alive. Surgeon Stanley lay frozen amidst the bodies of the sick beneath the collapsed hospital tent. They also found evidence of the horror Davy spoke about. On the return journey, they came upon the boat. The dead lay about, with Johnny’s shrivelled corpse still in the prow, a musket across his knees.
That dreadful winter on the ship was a sad roll call of deaths. Mr. Crozier was one of the first. I think he had given up all hope long ago. Mr. Fitzjames, who was now the leader of our sad expedition, gave me Crozier’s skin clothing. We had neither the strength nor the will to give him a fitting funeral on land, and so dug a grave in the thick ice.
Healey died soon after, as did Sinclair and our engineer, John Gregory, who had had little to do since we had run out of coal for his steam engine. They were followed by Osmer, who died mouthing the lists of the long-gone supplies we had brought on board.
More deaths followed week by harrowing week. We laid the bodies on the ice — a halo of death around the ship — as we drifted inexorably south. I think none would have survived had Oonalee not arrived in the spring with a sled laden with seal meat.
As soon as the season permitted, Mr. Fitzjames led the twenty or so survivors east. We passed the Franklin Bay camp on the ice, but did not visit. As we travelled we came upon the sad remnants of the men who had tried to escape Franklin Bay. Most had fallen in their tracks. We found Bill alone on a ridge and Mr. Goodsir in a crude grave with a few rocks covering him.
Beside a group of small islands, we came upon one of the ship’s boats. It was undamaged, and as the strait was open, eight of our party determined to sail south and try to ascend Back’s Fish River. Mr. Fitzjames tried to convince them it was futile, but he did not stop them when they left. The remainder of us moved on, our party diminishing by the day until, by the time we reached the eastern shore of Boothia Felix, only Mr. Fitzjames and I remained.
We headed north as best we could until, a week ago, we arrived here. It was a good place to camp. A nearby stream gave us fresh water; an overhang gave us shelter for our crude lean-to and a hill from which we could take turns watching for rescue. We had intended to stay only a day or two before moving on, but we found it impossible to motivate ourselves to undertake even the simple task of collecting our meagre belongings and setting off. We lay in
the lean-to or struggled up the hill to sit and stare listlessly at the empty horizon.
All we had for food was the disgusting bitter lichen that I scraped off the rocks and soaked in water from the stream. I remembered from the stories in the book of Sir John’s first expedition that there was some nutrition in this, but it helped very little and gave us both severe stomach cramps.
One day I forced myself to take our musket and go in search of game. I had little hope of finding anything — we had seen nothing for days — but Mr. Fitzjames was weakening fast and I found it hard to sit and helplessly watch my friend sink lower.
It took me all morning to travel what I guessed was about a mile from our camp. My stomach had been cramping painfully, so I sat by the shore, watching the waves roll in and hoping that the dark clouds building to the west didn’t mean snow. As always, the grey horizon was empty, but there seemed to be more patches of white ice on the water than yesterday. Any whaling captain or rescue vessel that still lingered in these waters at this time of year ran the very real risk of being trapped here over winter. They would all be hurrying home.
Maybe one would be slow. I lowered my gaze to the ground before me. The rocks swam in and out of focus. I concentrated, but could not bring them sharp. It didn’t matter. The past was still sharp in my mind’s eye and that was where I wanted to be.
I thought of home — happy times with my brothers, Father’s stories, Mother’s Sunday dinner — but I couldn’t hold on to anything. Random images of happiness and horror flitted through my mind.
Perhaps I would have sat there forever, sinking ever deeper into the past, had I not gradually become aware of a figure standing a few paces away. When I lifted my head to look at the Esquimaux man, I thought at first that it was Oonalee, come to rescue us one more time, but this man was a stranger. He was short, dressed in the long skin coat and leggings of his people. His hood was back, revealing greased black hair and a broad grin on his round face. I looked around, but he was alone.
The man stared at Davy’s knife in my belt. He pointed at it and then himself. He wanted to trade, but what for? I lifted my hand to my mouth and made eating motions. The man nodded. I handed over the knife. He reached into his coat and pulled out a filthy piece of seal meat and offered it. I took the meat. The man nodded again.
I looked at the meat in my hand. I took a bite. Another. As if by magic, the meat was gone and my stomach was calm. Guilt swept over me. I’d never even considered saving some for Mr. Fitzjames. Perhaps I could bargain for some more. Perhaps I could persuade this stranger to take us to his camp. I looked up, but the landscape was empty. The Esquimaux had vanished as if he had never existed. If I had not been able to still taste the meat and feel the seal grease smearing my face and hands, I would have thought his visit was nothing more than one of my vivid dreams. I did not tell Mr. Fitzjames of the meeting.
Chapter 16: The Last Friend
Boothia Felix, 1849
The day after my meeting with the Esquimaux man, I awoke from a vivid dream of a steaming plate of roast beef, gravy, potatoes and carrots. I could still smell the rich meat, and the bread pudding and custard in the bowl beside it, waiting for me to finish the main course. My mouth filled with saliva and my stomach growled in protest. Tears of frustration made tracks down my cheeks. “I cannot go on,” I whispered. “What is the point?”
“The point is hope,” Mr. Fitzjames said. “Without that we are nothing. We must keep going as long as we have the strength to place one foot before the other. Every step is an action, a tiny hope that, if we can put enough of them together, might save our lives. Do not give up now, George.”
Mr. Fitzjames dragged himself painfully out of our crude lean-to. He lifted his telescope to scan the horizon, as he had done every morning since we had reached the east coast of Boothia Felix. He tried to remain cheerful and hide his condition, but I could see how bad he was. His legs were swollen and he could no longer even climb our low hill.
Not that I was in much better condition. The piece of seal meat and some lichen was all I had eaten in days. My stomach cramped and I dreamed of food, yet I was not hungry. The sumptuous banquets I imagined were all in my head. It was as if my mind had decided to stand aside and dispassionately watch as my body consumed itself. I looked at the bones of my joints pushing through my skin like rocks beneath a thin cloth, and wondered vaguely who these strange limbs belonged to.
I crawled out of the lean-to and joined Mr. Fitzjames. He was right; we had to continue. The water rolled in to the beach and slapped mournfully against the rocks, cold, grey and restless. I scanned the shore as Mr. Fitzjames scanned the horizon. That’s when I saw it, something long and curved that wasn’t a rock. It was old and stained the same colour as the rocks, which was why I hadn’t noticed it before. At first I thought it was just an old whale rib, but as I bent to look more closely, I realized it was something else — a barrel stave. In my dazed state, it took me a moment to understand the immense value of what I had discovered. It was a piece of wood. There were other staves scattered along the shoreline — the remains of a cache, or supplies that had washed ashore from some earlier expedition.
“Look,” I croaked triumphantly, “we can have a fire.”
When I got no response, I turned to see Mr. Fitzjames lying on the shore, his telescope beside him. I forgot the staves and stumbled over to him. He was barely conscious, his eyes wandering, yet focusing on nothing. I shook him but got no response. I shoved my hands under his shoulders and dragged him back to our shelter. He weighed next to nothing, yet the effort forced me to stop every couple of steps and I collapsed into a fit of violent coughing more than once.
I made Mr. Fitzjames as comfortable as I could on our blankets and lay beside him to recover my strength. “You must get better,” I mumbled, desperately trying to fight off the dread loneliness that would engulf me if he died.
Eventually I felt recovered enough to collect the barrel staves for a fire. I had gathered the last of them and was wondering whether I should build a fire or wait until evening, when I spotted the deer. It was a mere 100 yards away on the other side of the stream. It was a young one and shouldn’t have been here this late in the season. Perhaps it was a straggler, or sick. Whatever the reason for its presence, it stood completely still, watching me.
Slowly, and without taking my eyes off the deer, I dropped to my knees and reached out for the musket lying by the lean-to. I dragged it towards me, then reached into my satchel for a cartridge and percussion cap. I swung my musket round, pulled back the hammer and inserted the cap. Still holding the deer’s eye, I bit the end off the cartridge and pushed it into the musket barrel. My hands shook so much that I banged the ramrod against the barrel as I withdrew it and a shiver ran down the deer’s flanks at the sound.
“Please don’t run away,” I whispered to myself as I gently pushed the cartridge until it was set down the barrel. I swung the musket up, cocked the hammer and aimed. The end of the barrel was waving around wildly. The deer was at the limit of my weapon’s accuracy. I forced myself to breathe slowly — in … out, in … out. The barrel steadied. I squeezed the trigger. My ears rang and the deer vanished behind a cloud of smoke.
Incredibly, when the smoke cleared, the deer was still standing there, watching me. In a panic, I grabbed for another cartridge. The satchel spilled and the percussion caps disappeared into the moss covering the ground. I was on the edge of weeping with frustration — so much food, so close. I was about to begin tearing the moss apart, when the deer sank to its knees. It lifted its head to the sky and snorted once before gently lying on its side.
“I got it,” I yelled triumphantly to Mr. Fitzjames. I dropped the musket and, with an energy I hadn’t known I possessed, splashed across the stream and headed for the fallen deer in a staggering run. I reached it just in time to see its wide eyes glaze over in death. “Thank you,” I said.
I reached to my belt for Davy’s knife — nothing. I’d exchanged it for the piece of
seal meat. I cursed and looked around until I found a sharp, frost-shattered stone. It was hard work, but I eventually sliced the deer’s belly open. Steaming in the cold air, the intestines spilled out onto the ground. I lifted the large, warm, red-brown liver, hesitated only a moment, and bit off a mouthful of the raw meat as I had seen the Esquimaux do on the hunt. It tasted strong and slightly metallic, but it slid down my throat easily.
After four or five mouthfuls, I forced myself to stop. If I gorged, my stomach would rebel and I would end up even weaker than before. Clutching the liver to my chest, like some great treasure, I splashed back across the stream to Mr. Fitzjames. I bit off small pieces and fed them to him. He chewed automatically and swallowed. After four or five mouthfuls, his eyes closed and he fell into a quiet sleep.
While Mr. Fitzjames slept, I worked as best I could on the deer’s carcass, stopping every so often to eat more liver and drink the icy water from the stream. At last I had managed to tear off five or six ragged chunks of meat that I stuffed into the satchel and transported back to our camp. I now had no doubt about when to build a fire. I piled the precious wood outside the entrance to the lean-to. Very carefully, I pared off a pile of shavings from one of the staves and broke what was left into small pieces, which I piled beside some dry moss and lichen inside a circle of small stones. By the time I was done, there were still a couple of hours of daylight left.
It took me more time to strike enough sparks off my flint to start some of the moss smouldering. Blowing on it gently rewarded me with a few tiny, tentative flames, enough for some of the wood shavings to catch. I nursed my precious fire until I had a respectable blaze, then stared in awe at the magical flames.
I reached out my hands as close as I dared. It was the first time I’d felt real warmth in many long weeks. I took the pieces of meat and placed them around the fire. The sound of the meat sizzling and spitting was wonderful. How could such a simple thing make me so ridiculously happy?
