The Arctic Fury

by Greer Macallister

  Her face burned with shame. She had failed Stella. She had failed the captain. She pressed her mittened hands together, trying to pray, but her mind was too dizzied with earthly concerns.

  What now? Dear God—and it was a prayer, but not a reassuring one—Dear God, what now?

  Once the captain finished his prayer and rhythmically tapped his forehead, chest, left shoulder, right, he turned back to her. The look on his face was far more complex than anger.

  “The men…they will take this as another bad omen. I cannot say what they might do. Two deaths in such a short time.”

  “Or three.”

  “The woman will not survive?”

  “Her name is Stella,” said Virginia, her voice unsteady, “and we don’t know.”

  “Death comes in threes,” he said grimly. “For them, it might be better.”

  “Worse for her,” said Virginia, almost spitting the words. “Is that all you think of? How it is for them?”

  He grabbed her by both shoulders. She felt the covered tip of his thumb in the hollow in front of her shoulder bone, he grasped her so tightly, and yet she did not believe he would hurt her.

  “You have no idea what I think of,” he said.

  “Then tell me,” she said, not flinching.

  Captain Malcolm let go of her shoulders, but their bodies were still so close together she could smell him, the real him, not the cabin’s stale air. He was salt and musk, dirt and cedar, with a faint undertone of rum.

  He began, “Do you know the story of the man this bay is named for? Hudson?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “I’ll tell you the short version,” he said, his voice clipped. “Henry Hudson, after he discovered this bay, had a disagreement with his crew. So they mutinied, took over the ship, and set him adrift in a shallop to die.”

  “That is…short.”

  “And I’m sure you see my meaning. You seem to think that being in charge of a group means you dictate their actions.”

  “That’s not what I think,” protested Virginia, but he did not stop to listen to what she did think.

  “One never dictates people’s actions. You only guide them. No one person can ever truly be in charge of another.”

  “Are you saying you can’t command your crew not to hurt us?”

  “I’m saying I already have. For all the good it will do.”

  She wanted to pound her fists against the close, close walls. She wanted to roar. She couldn’t. “You’re afraid they won’t listen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t you make them?” She knew she sounded childish but didn’t know what else to say.

  “You’ve met Keane. Do you think I can make him do anything?”

  More gently now, more softly, she said, “But if you fear him, why don’t you relieve him of his position? Punish him, or—there must be something you can do.”

  “He has too many allies,” said the captain, his expression grim. “A dozen of these men have served longer with him than they have with me. When I moved the Doris into Hudson Bay, much of my crew chose to sign on with other whalers instead. I had to take whatever pickings I could get at York Factory, the only big trade depot on the western shore. At the time, it seemed good fortune that Keane could suggest enough men to round out a full crew. And that all twelve were big, strapping men, built for the hardest hauling. Now, of course, I see it differently.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “This is my first voyage with this crew, and one way or another, it will be my last.”

  “And you think that if you take the wrong action, Keane or his allies will mutiny and put you out in a shallop? Make a Hudson of you?”

  “I do,” he said nakedly, and she saw the fear in his eyes. “Or perhaps he won’t even bother with the shallop. Perhaps he’ll just shoot me through the head, claim accident, and do what he wants with you and your women once I’m dead.”

  Virginia stared at him. She hadn’t realized the intensity of his fear, how deep it ran. It was contagious.

  He said, “I’m sure it has not escaped your notice that I am not of English origin.”

  “It has not,” she replied.

  “My father’s family came from free men and women, slaves emancipated after the American Revolution, and my mother’s family was Wampanoag. I own my ship free and clear, and yet if any man wants to take what I have—as Keane might do—he could call my freedom into question.”

  “But he could not succeed,” she said incredulously.

  He answered, “Do you truly believe that, Virginia?”

  The silence hung between them for a long time before she was able to form words, and when she did, she did not think they were the right ones, but she had no others.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

  “As I said—and I know you do not want to hear this—it will be better for you if Stella dies.”

  “I cannot hope for that.”

  “I know.”

  All at once, her fear, like his, roared over her in a wave. “Why did you tell me? Why did you tell me any of this?”

  “You’ve kept secrets from me, things you should have shared. But I understand,” said Captain Malcolm. “I kept my distance for my own reasons. I led you to believe that you could not trust me. I am sorry.”

  “You weren’t wrong. The fault is mine too.”

  “Let us set the question of fault aside. Can you promise to be honest with me?”

  “Yes,” she said, although she feared it was far too late.

  The captain’s gaze met hers, held it, asked a question she did not know how to answer.

  She looked away and told him the one thing she could not tell anyone else aboard, perhaps no one else in the world, at that moment. “I’m afraid.”

  He stepped closer to her then, one step, two.

  “Only fools have no fear,” he said.

  Then she was the one stepping forward, curling her hand around the back of his neck, drawing his face down. He let her move him, bending to her, wordless.

  She pressed her cheek against his and stood, feeling the warmth of his skin on hers, savoring it, the details of his solid presence a moment’s respite from the uncertain world. The high, hard cheekbone. The brush of his eyelashes as he blinked. The edge of his beard rough against her jawline.

  “We are all fools here, I think,” she said quietly. “Only different kinds.”

  He turned his face to press his forehead against her temple, his breath warm on her ear. “I do not think you a fool.”

  She smiled ruefully. “If you knew me better, perhaps you would. But I won’t be around much longer, will I?”

  He lifted his head then, the spell broken, and she let her hand drop from his neck. She took two steps back, then three. When he held her gaze again, the question was no longer in it. He had his answer.

  “God willing,” he said, “we will both find glory in our separate adventures.”

  There was nothing more to say. She had promised honesty, and the honest truth was, after the women disembarked at Repulse Bay, she never expected to see Jacob Malcolm again. Their adventures would be, as he had put it perfectly, separate.

  Moments later, Virginia was back in the narrow, cold hallway, dazed and uncertain.

  Her duty to the women of the expedition was the most important thing. But after that, she desperately needed to calm herself and could think of only one way.

  In gentle, spare terms, she told the women what had happened in the medical cabin and led them in a short prayer. Then, she did not stay. She let them assume she was headed back to check on Stella, but instead, she shouldered her pack and headed in the direction of the galley.

  There was nowhere to be truly alone, but the cook rarely left the galley, so she pressed herself u
p against the galley’s closed door. She could feel the warmth of the stove through the wood and savored it for a long moment.

  She was desperate for reassurance. She hoped that Lady Franklin, across time and miles, could provide it. No one here could, least of all herself. She should have opened the letter in early May, but she was holding it for when she most needed it; she needed it now.

  Virginia broke the wax seal with trembling fingers and raised the letter toward her face in the dim, greasy light of the oil lamp. The thin paper fluttered as she devoured each word hungrily.

  Dear Miss Reeve,

  Two months into your journey now. If you have followed the proper course, this letter should find you passing Darkness Point. A windy, desolate place, they say. An earlier expedition ran aground there, beaching their ship, which was lost, and marooning twenty men. When they were found the next summer by another schooner, six remained.

  Let us hope your luck is of somewhat more durable stock.

  Your luck is, of course, not the only thing that determines whether you succeed. Your spirit and determination play a part. That is why I chose you. I chose the other women who are with you for good reasons as well. I wonder if you might be doubting that at this point, now that you have gotten to know them, now that the veneer of society has long been stripped away. You know these women now, better than anyone else could. I imagine much has been revealed. I am certain each of these women has flaws of which I was not aware.

  I am certain the same is true of you.

  And so, do the best you can. No expedition’s path is completely smooth. You are in rough terrain. If you have veered off course, you are likely in even harsher territory and greater danger. Make good decisions. Use the strengths of your women. That is why they are with you, every last one.

  My husband had more ships, more resources, more men, and yet we do not know his fate or theirs. I look to you to answer that question. I look to you to bring him home. And if you cannot, for whatever reason, I hope you can bring home news of his fate so we can trumpet his successes to the world. The world thirsts to know the truth. I cannot have them thinking he made the mistake made by the expedition beached at Darkness Point. He was not so foolish. He cannot, will not, be remembered in such a way. You will help me show them. You will polish his name to a brilliant shine. I have no doubt in my mind.

  Move ever forward. It is summer now, but winter will come. Do as much as you can until that day.

  Sincere regards,

  J

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Virginia

  Charles Street Jail, Boston

  October 1854

  Today’s food is no better than yesterday’s, but with each day, Virginia finds it more tolerable. Probably because it has become habit. In the North, she became accustomed to flour paste and pemmican, and after that, nothing, then raw meat, then jerked meat, then nothing again. Whatever they call food here is at least halfway worthy of the name and arrives regularly. She never has to wonder whether there will be more.

  She looks up from her gruel when Benson calls nonchalantly, “A visitor for you.”

  Perhaps it will be her counsel, coming to ask questions Virginia will never answer, now that she is certain he’s working against her. She thinks she has figured it out. If the Collins family has arranged for him, she thinks, it all makes far more sense. Not just his indifference and inaction in the courtroom but his probing questions in the privacy of her cell. On the few occasions he bothered speaking to her, he pressed her to tell him what really happened. Was that for her defense? Or to hand over to those who want to destroy her? She does not bother to look up when she hears footsteps. She will never speak a willing word to Clevenger again.

  Then she catches a whiff of rose perfume wafting gently into the frigid stone box of her cell. She hears the unmistakable whisper of silk on silk. How long has it been since she heard that sound? Since the parlor where she met Caprice? That was a lifetime ago, but it was the beginning of all this, and she fears she will not like the end.

  The very thought makes her head feel heavy, but she forces herself to lift it anyway, open her eyes, stare out through the bars. The freckles like scattered stars, the stout body, the long, dexterous fingers. Instant recognition.

  Siobhan, she thinks, her hand rising almost of its own accord to touch the cool metal of the bars between them.

  The girl almost looks like a ghost. Younger, untouched, somehow like an earlier version of the Siobhan that Virginia knew. And she’d never seen Siobhan like this: decorated and adorned, fully feminine, with her hair in precise ringlets that tumble down from an intricate hat Virginia assumes is very much in fashion.

  The purity of her smooth cheeks under the powder can’t be real, it isn’t possible, and so Virginia looks closer.

  The face is Siobhan’s, yet subtly not. And then she realizes who she’s looking at.

  The twins look so much alike, nearly identical. It’s the only way the switch could work. Siobhan attended medical lectures at Harvard College and came north on the expedition. The one who stayed home and busied themselves with social calls and dress fittings, the one whose skin remains creamy and flawless, this is not the Siobhan that Virginia knew.

  “Sean,” she breathes.

  His eyes flash wild at her incautious use of the name.

  She hastens to correct her mistake, takes care in case the guard is listening. “It’s kind of you to come, Miss…?”

  “Perry. Miss Siobhan Perry.”

  “I wish I could be more hospitable, Miss Perry. To offer you a seat. Alas, I haven’t one at the ready.” She gestures around at the bare walls and floor, and Siobhan’s brother, Sean, follows with his eyes.

  “I’ve known worse hardships.”

  “I imagine.” She knows from Siobhan that the true hardship for him is being forced to live as a man when he—or should she say she?—is a woman born into the wrong body. She cannot imagine.

  As if hearing her thoughts, Sean says, “We were sisters. She always knew it, despite what others thought, what the world insisted. Did she tell you that?”

  “She did not put it quite that way, no. But I’m familiar with…your situation.”

  Sean says, “Then you understand why she couldn’t come. It would expose both of us in ways that are…unacceptable.”

  “How is she?” whispers Virginia instead of answering. She doesn’t want to indulge in asking why. Sean didn’t have to come here at all. In an ideal world, yes, Siobhan would sit in the witness box telling her story, the one that would prove Virginia innocent of murder. Siobhan saw everything that happened between Caprice and Virginia on that last day. Her truth, if she shared it, would be the real truth.

  It is sad, recognizes Virginia, that she thinks so fondly of how lovely it would be if her friend were here to testify on her behalf. In a truly ideal world, Virginia would not be on trial for murder in the first place.

  Sean says, “Quite well. Practicing medicine. Hung out a shingle over Woburn way, general practice, establishing an excellent reputation for good care given with good cheer. The family’s exceptionally proud, as you might imagine.”

  She thinks about how to ask her next question. It doesn’t seem like there are any guards or officers close enough to overhear them, but better to be circumspect. “Living under a new name, then?”

  “The name belongs to Dr. Perry now. Its original owner has no need of it.”

  Virginia wonders if Siobhan is truly happy with this arrangement. The switch is not exactly tit for tat. The Perry who is the sister before her, born into the name Sean, can now live as the woman she has always believed herself to be. But the new Sean is a woman too, born Siobhan, who has never wanted to be a man, only to exercise the rights a man has: to get an education, to use one’s talents, to walk in the world without apology or fear. Rights that half the white population takes merrily for gran
ted and most of the other half feels will always lie beyond their constrained feminine reach.

  But her friend is, in many ways, living the life she wanted. Virginia can’t help but smile at that.

  “Does that strike you as odd?” says the new Siobhan.

  “I am not sure how any of this strikes me,” Virginia says truthfully. There is no reason not to be honest; soon she’ll be either free or dead, and either way, she doesn’t want her soul weighed down by any regrets or lies. “Our mutual friend is a truly exceptional person. I am glad to hear of…the doctor’s success.”

  A soft, perfumed hand reaches out toward the bars, and Virginia reaches out in response. Even though this Siobhan is not the one she knows and trusts, her touch will be comfort. When the survivors first came off the ice, they found themselves casually touching one another, almost constantly, for reassurance. It was such a joy to feel skin on skin again instead of only wet fur forever scraping their chilled, half-numb fingertips. So when she sees Siobhan’s hand, her concerned face, Virginia eagerly puts her hand out to be touched. Siobhan’s gloved fingers lie across the back of Virginia’s rougher hand so tenderly.

  Speaking softly, the new Siobhan asks Virginia, “And is there anything I can do for you?”

  What she needs is the other Siobhan, her Siobhan, here. To testify. To save her. But that can’t happen. For the past year, Siobhan Perry has been regularly seen living her modest life in Boston, while her brother, Sean, the family told friends, had elected to take apprenticeship with a doctor in New Orleans to make a particular study of yellow fever. Siobhan Perry cannot now claim to have participated in an all-female expedition to the Arctic when countless witnesses saw her everywhere in Boston from Charlestown to Quincy Market. Both halves of the twins’ charade would fall apart. Catastrophe. And after all that, what if the jury didn’t believe her story of Virginia’s innocence? It isn’t worth it. Even Virginia, whose life is on the line, knows it isn’t.

  Instead of asking for what she really wants, what she needs, Virginia says, “Send the doctor my best if you two speak.”