“God-damn it!” shouted Crozier. “You’ve seen arctic mirages before. Belay that sniveling and cursing or you’ll be man-hauling that God-damn sledge by yourselves and I’ll be sitting on it with one boot up each of your arses. Get on your feet, by God! You’re men, not weak sisters. Fucking act like it!”
The two seamen got to their feet and clumsily brushed off ice crystals and snow. Crozier couldn’t immediately identify them by their slops and Welsh wigs and he did not want to.
The line of sledges started up again with much grunting but no cursing. Everyone knew that the high pressure ridge ahead of them, carved out as it had been by countless previous trips in the past weeks, was still going to be a Christ-fucking cob. They would have to lift and wrestle the heavy sledges up at least fifteen feet of steep incline between the perilous sixty-foot ice cliffs on either side. The threat of tumbling ice boulders would be very real then.
“It’s as if there’s some dark God who wants to torment us,” Thomas Blanky said almost cheerily. The ice master had no pulling duties and was still stumping alongside Crozier.
The captain did not respond to this, and after a minute Blanky fell back to stump along beside one of the outriding Marines.
Crozier called for one of the extra men to take his place in harness — something they had rehearsed doing without stopping the forward motion of the sledges — and when the extra hand took over, he stepped aside out of the ruts and checked his watch. They had been pulling about five hours. Looking behind, Crozier saw that the real Terror had been out of sight for some time, at least five miles and several low pressure ridges behind them. The mirage image had been a final offering from some evil arctic god that seemed intent on tormenting them all.
Still leader of this ill-fated expedition, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier realized for the first time that he was no longer captain of a ship in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy Discovery Service. That part of his life — and being a seaman and Naval officer had been his life since he was a boy — was over forever. After being responsible for losing so many men and both his ships, he knew the Admiralty would never give him another command. In terms of his long Naval career, Crozier knew, he was now a dead man walking.
They were still two hard days of man-hauling away from Terror Camp. Crozier fixed his gaze on the tall pressure ridge ahead and trudged forward.
33
GOODSIR
Lat. 69° 37′ 42″ N., Long. 98° 41′ W.
22 April, 1848
From the private diary of Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir:
22 April, 1848 —
I have been four Days at this place we are calling Terror Camp. I believe it lives up to its name.
Captain Fitzjames is in Charge of sixty men here, including Myself.
I confess that when I first sledged within sight of the place last week, the first Image that came to mind was something out of Homer’s Iliad. The camp is set along the edge of a wide Inlet about two Miles south of a cairn raised almost two Decades ago at Victory Point by James Clark Ross. It is somewhat more Sheltered from the Wind and Snow blowing off the ice pack here.
Perhaps scenes from the Iliad were evoked by the 18 long boats pulled up in a row by the edge of the sea ice — 4 boats lying on their sides in the gravel, the other 14 Boats tied upright on Sledges.
Behind the Boats are 20 tents, ranging in Size from the small Holland tents of the Design we used almost a Year Ago when I accompanied the late Lieutenant Gore to Victory Point — each Holland tent is large enough for six men to sleep in, three per bag in the 5-foot-wide Wolfskin Blanket-Robe sleeping bags — to the somewhat larger tents made by the sailmaker, Murray, including tents meant for Captain Fitzjames and Captain Crozier and their personal stewards, and the largest two tents, each roughly the size of the Great Cabins on Erebus and Terror, one serving as Sick Bay, the other as the Seamen’s Mess Tent. There are other mess tents for warrant officers, petty officers, and the officers and their Civilian Counterparts, such as Engineer Thompson and Myself.
Or perhaps the Iliad was evoked because when one approaches Terror Camp at Night — and all of the Sledging Parties coming from HMS Terror to the Camp arrived after dark on their Third Day — one is first struck by the number of bonfires and campfires. There is no wood to burn, of course, except for some spare Oak brought from the crushed Erebus precisely for that Purpose, but many of the Last Remaining sacks of Coal had been ferried across the ice from the Ships over the past month, and many of these coal Fires were burning when I first saw Terror Camp. Some were in Fire Rings made from rocks; some were in four of the tall Braziers salvaged from the Carnivale Fire.
The effect was flames and light, added to by the occasional torch and lantern.
After spending several days in Terror Camp, I have decided that the place more resembles a Pirate Encampment than any camp of Akilleus, Odysseus, Agamemnon, and the other Homeric Heroes. The Men’s clothes are ragged, frayed, and many times repaired. Most are Ill or Limping or both. Their faces are Pale under sometimes Thick beards. Their eyes stare out of Sunken Sockets.
They swagger or stagger around with their Boat Knives dangling from crude belts set around their outer Slops in clanking Sheaths made from cut-down Bayonet Scabbards. It was Captain Crozier’s idea, as were the Goggles improvised from Wire Mesh that the men wear on sunny days to safeguard them from Sun blindness. The overall effect is one of a ragtag group of Ruffians.
And most now show signs of Scurvy.
I have been very busy in the Sick Bay Tent. The sledge teams had spent the Extra Energy to haul a Dozen Cots with them across the ice and over the Frightful Pressure Ridges (plus two more cots for their Captains’ tents), but at the moment I have 20 men in Sick Bay, so 8 are on Blanket Pallets set onto the cold ground itself. Three oil lamps provide us with Illumination during the long nights.
Most of the men sleeping in the Sick Bay have collapsed from Scurvy, but not all. Sergeant Heather is back in my care, complete with the gold sovereign Dr. Peddie had screwed into his skull to replace the bone Dashed Out with some of his brains by the Thing from the Ice. The Marines have been taking care of Heather for months and planned to continue to do so here at Terror Camp — the Sergeant was transported here on his Own Little Sled designed by Mr. Honey — but a possible Chill during the three days and nights of the Crossing has brought on a Pneumonia. This time, I do not expect the Marine Sergeant, who has been a disturbing Miracle of Survival, to Survive much longer.
Also here is David Leys, whom his crewmates call Davey. His catatonic condition has not changed in Months, but after the Crossing this week — he came Across with my group — he has not been able to keep down even the Thinnest Gruel or water. Today is Saturday. I do not expect Leys to be alive by this time Wednesday.
Due to the Great Exertion of hauling the boats and so much Matériel from the Ship to the Island — over pressure ridges I had Trouble climbing even when not in man-hauling harness — there were the usual complement of bruises and Broken Bones for me to deal with. These included one serious compound fracture of seaman Bill Shanks’s arm. I have kept the man here after setting the bones for fear of sepsis. (The flesh and skin were punctured by sharp bone fragments in two places.)
But Scurvy remains the Primary Killer lurking in this tent.
Mr. Hoar, Captain Fitzjames’s Personal Steward, may well be the first Man to Die of it Here. He is no longer Conscious for much of the day. As with Leys and Heather, he had to be man-hauled across the 25 Miles separating our doomed Ship from this Terror Camp.
Edmund Hoar is an early but Typical example of the progression of this disease. The Captain’s Steward is a Young Man — he will turn 27 in a little more than two weeks, on May 9. If he survives that long.
For a Steward, Hoar is a large man — six feet tall — and to all appearances to Chief Surgeon Stanley and myself, he was in fine health when the Expedition sailed. He was quick, smart, alert, energetic in his Duties, and unusually athletic for a steward. During the running and
man-hauling Games held so frequently on the ice at Beechey Island in the winter of 1845–46, Hoar was frequently a winner and leader of his various teams.
He has had slight symptoms of the Scurvy since last autumn — the weariness, lassitude, increasingly frequent Confusion — but the disease became most Pronounced after the Debacle of the Venetian Carnivale. He continued serving Captain Fitzjames sixteen hours a day and more into February, but finally his health broke down.
The first Symptom to make itself known with Mr. Hoar is what the men in the fo’c’sle are calling the Crown of Thorns.
Blood began weeping from Edmund Hoar’s hair. And not just from the hair on his head. First his Caps and then his Undershirts and then his Underthings became stained with Blood each day.
I have observed this carefully, and the blood on the Scalp does come from the follicles themselves. Some of the Seamen attempted to avoid this Early Symptom by shaving their heads, but of course that does no good. With Welsh wigs, caps, scarves, and now pillows being soaked with blood by the Majority of the men, the sailors and officers have begun wearing Towels under their headgear and laying their head on them at night.
This does not, of course, Alleviate the Embarrassment and Discomfort of bleeding from all Points that have body hair.
Hemorrhages began appearing under Steward Hoar’s skin in January. Although the Outside Games were a distant Memory by then and Mr. Hoar’s duties rarely took him far from the Ship or into Great Physical Exertion, the slightest Bump or Bruise would show on his Body as a massive red-and-blue blotch. It would not heal. A Scratch from peeling potatoes or carving Beef would stay open and continue to bleed for weeks.
By late January, Mr. Hoar’s legs had swollen to Twice their Normal Size. He had to borrow filthy Trousers from larger crewmen just to stay dressed while serving his captain. He could not sleep because of the ever-increasing Pain in his Joints. By early March, any movement at all was Agony for Edmund Hoar.
All through March, Hoar insisted that he could not stay in Erebus’s Sick Bay — that he had to return to his berth and to serving and caring for Captain Fitzjames. His blond hair was constantly soaked with caked blood. His swollen arms, legs, and face began to look like pasty Dough. Every day that I tested his skin, it had Lost more Elasticity; by the week before Erebus was crushed, I could push deep into Edmund Hoar’s flesh and the dimple would stay there permanently, the new Bruise spreading and spilling into a patchwork of earlier Hemorrhages.
By mid-April, Hoar’s entire body had become a Bloated, Misshapened mass. His face and hands were Yellow from jaundice. His eyes were a Bright Yellow, made all the more shocking due to the bleeding from his eyebrows.
Despite my assistant’s and my own efforts to turn and move the patient several times a Day, by the day we carried him from the dying Erebus, Hoar was covered with bedsores that had become brownish-purple ulcers that never ceased Suppurating. His face, especially on either side of his Nose and Mouth, was also ulcerated, constantly oozing Pus and Blood.
Pus from a Scurvy victim has an extraordinarily foul stench.
By the day we moved Mr. Hoar to Terror Camp, he had lost all but two of his teeth. And this was a man who — on Christmas Day — had boasted the healthiest smile of any young man on the Expedition.
Hoar’s gums have blackened and receded. He is conscious only a few hours each day and is in Terrible Pain during every second of that time. When we open his mouth to feed him, the Stench is close to unbearable. Since we cannot wash Towels, we have lined his Cot with sailcloth which is now Black with Blood. His frozen and filthy clothing is also Brittle with dried Blood and Crusted Pus.
As terrible as his Appearance and Suffering are, the more Terrible Fact is that Edmund Hoar may linger on like this — getting Worse each Day — for more Weeks or even Months. Scurvy is an Insidious killer. It Tortures for a long time before it grants its victim a final peace. By the time one dies of Scurvy, one’s closest Relative often will not be able to recognize the Sufferer and not enough of the Sufferer’s mind will be left to recognize the relative.
But that is not a problem here. With the Exception of brothers serving together on this Expedition — and Thomas Hartnell lost his older brother on Beechey Island — there are no relatives who will ever come out here on the ice or onto this Terrible Island of wind, snow, ice, lightning, and fog. There is no one to identify us when we fall, much less Bury us.
Twelve of the men in the Sick Bay are dying of Scurvy, and more than Two thirds of the 105 survivors, including myself, have one or more symptoms of it.
We will be out of the lemon juice — our most successful antiscorbutic, although its Efficacy has been Declining steadily the past year — in less than a week. The only Defense I will have then is Vinegar. A week ago — in the Stores Tent on the ice outside HMS Terror — I personally presided over the decanting of our remaining volumes of Vinegar from casks to be proportioned out into 18 Smaller Kegs — one for each boat that had been sledged to Terror Camp.
The men hate Vinegar. Unlike the lemon juice, whose Tartness can be somewhat disguised with dollops of Sugar Water or even Rum, Vinegar tastes like poison to men whose palates have already been damaged by the Scurvy growing in their systems.
Officers who have dined more on Goldner’s Canned Foods than the seamen have — they ate their beloved (although rancid) Salted Pork and Beef until those casks were empty — appear to be more prone to coming down with the advanced symptoms of Scurvy than the regular sailors.
This confirms Dr. McDonald’s theory that there is some vital Element lacking — or some Poison present — in the purely canned meats and vegetables and soups as opposed to spoiled but once-fresh victuals. If there was some miraculous way I could discover that Element — poison or life-saver — I would not only have a good Chance of saving these men, possibly even Mr. Hoar, but would run an excellent Chance of being Knighted when we are rescued or reach safe harbour by ourselves.
But there is no way to do it, given our current Conditions and my lack of any Scientific Apparatus. The best I can do is insist that the men eat any fresh meat that our hunters shoot and bring in — even the Blubber and sweetmeats, I feel, against all logic, may strengthen us against Scurvy.
But our hunters have found no living things to shoot. And the ice is too thick to chop through for fishing.
Last night Captain Fitzjames stopped by as he does at the beginning and end of each of his long, long Days, and after he had his usual Rounds of the sleeping men, asking me the Changes in Condition of each, I was Forward enough to ask him the question I had been wondering about for so many weeks now.
Captain, I said, I understand if you are too busy to answer this or if you prefer not to, since it is a Lubber’s question, there is no doubt of it, but I’ve been wondering for some time — why 18 Boats?
We seem to have brought Every Boat from Erebus and Terror, yet we have only 105 men.
Captain Fitzjames said, Come outside with me if you will, Dr. Goodsir.
I told Henry Lloyd, my Weary Assistant, to watch over the men, and followed Captain Fitzjames outside. I had noticed in the Sick Bay Tent that his Beard, which I had thought was coming in Red, was actually mostly Grey, only rimmed in dried Blood.
The captain had brought an extra Lantern from the Sick Bay and he led the way with it down to the graveled Beach.
There was no Wine-Dark Sea lapping at the Shingle of this Beach, of course. Instead, the heap of coastal Tall Bergs that formed a Barrier between us and the Ice Pack still lined the Shore.
Captain Fitzjames raised his lantern along the long line of boats. What do you see, Doctor? he asked.
Boats, I ventured, feeling every Inch the Lubber I had accused myself of being.
Can you tell the difference between them, Dr. Goodsir?
I looked more carefully in the lantern light.
These first four are not on Sledges, I said. I had been quick to notice that even the first night I was here. I had no idea why this was the ca
se, when Mr. Honey had gone to such Care to make special Sledges for all the Rest. It seemed like Rank Carelessness to me.
Aye, you are correct, said Captain Fitzjames. These Four are our Whaleboats from Erebus and Terror. Thirty feet long. Lighter than the Others. Very strong. Six oars each. Double-ended like canoes … d’ye see now?
I did now. I had never noticed that the whaleboats seemed to have two bows, like a canoe.
If we had ten whaleboats, continued the Captain, everything would have been perfect.
Why is that? I asked.
They’re strong, Doctor. Very strong. And light, as I said. And we could pile Supplies in them and drag them across the Ice without having had the need to build Sledges as we did for the Others. If we find Open Water, we could launch them straight from the ice.
I shook my head. Knowing that Captain Fitzjames would think me a Total Fool as soon as I asked the question — I asked it anyway: But why can the whaleboats be dragged on the ice when the others cannot, Captain?
Captain Fitzjames’s voice showed no impatience when he said, Do you see the rudder, Doctor?
I looked at each end, but I did not. I confessed that to the captain.
Exactly, he said. Whaleboats have a Shallow Keel and no fixed Rudder. An oarsman at the stern steers her.
Is that good? I asked.
It is if you want a light, tough boat with a shallow Keel and no tender Rudder to be broken off when you’re dragging her, said Captain Fitzjames. Perfect for man-hauling across the ice, even though she’s 30 Feet long and can carry up to a Dozen Men with room for Supplies.
I nodded as if I understood. I almost did — but I was very tired.
Do you see her mast, Doctor?
Again I looked. Again I failed to find that which had been requested of me to find. I admitted as much.