The Terror

by Dan Simmons

  The next man, a shorter one, was named Tuluqag. Tikerqat tugged the man’s parka hood back, pointed to his black hair, and made flapping noises with his hand, miming a bird flying.

  “Tuluqag,” repeated Irving, nodding politely toward the man as he chewed. He wondered if the word meant “Raven.”

  The fourth man thumped himself on the chest, grunted, “Amaruq,” and threw back his head and howled.

  “Amaruq,” repeated Irving and nodded. “Wolf,” he said aloud.

  The fifth hunter was named Mamarut and acted out some pantomime involving waving his arms and dancing. Irving repeated the name and nodded but had no idea what the name might mean.

  The sixth hunter, a younger man of very serious demeanor, was introduced by Tikerqat as Ituksuk. This man stared at Irving with deep black eyes and said and acted out nothing. Irving nodded politely and chewed his blubber.

  The older man with the headband and the pouch was introduced by Tikerqat as Asiajuk, but the man neither blinked nor showed recognition of the introduction. It was obvious he did not like or trust Third Lieutenant John Irving.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Asiajuk,” said Irving.

  “Afatkuq,” Tikerqat said softly, nodding slightly in the direction of the unsmiling older man in the headband.

  Some sort of medicine man? wondered Irving. As long as Asiajuk’s hostility remained only on the level of silent suspicion, the lieutenant thought that things would be all right.

  The old man at the sled was introduced as Kringmuluardjuk to the young lieutenant. Tikerqat pointed to the still-snarling dogs, brought his hands together in some sort of diminutive gesture, and laughed.

  Then Irving’s laughing interlocutor pointed to the shy boy, who appeared to be about ten or eleven years old, pointed to his own chest again, and said, “Irniq,” followed by “Qajorânguaq.”

  Irving guessed that Irniq might mean “son” or “brother.” Probably the former, he thought. Or perhaps the boy’s name was Irniq and Qajorânguaq meant son or brother. The lieutenant nodded respectfully, just as he had with the older hunters.

  Tikerqat shoved the old woman forward. Her name appeared to be Nauja, and Tikerqat again made a bird-flying motion. Irving repeated the name as best he could — there was a certain glottal sound that the Esquimaux made that he could not approximate — and nodded respectfully. He wondered if Nauja was an arctic tern, a seagull, or something more exotic.

  The old woman giggled and stuffed more blubber in her mouth.

  Tikerqat put his arm around the young woman, not much more than a girl really, and said, “Qaumaniq.” Then the hunter grinned broadly and said, “Amooq! ”

  The girl wriggled in his grasp while smiling, and all the men except the possible medicine man laughed loudly.

  “Amooq? ” said Irving, and the laughter rose in volume. Tuluqag and Amaruq spit out blubber they were laughing so hard.

  “Qaumaniq … amooq!” said Tikerqat and made a two-handed, open-fingered grabbing gesture in front of his own chest that was universal. But to make sure he got the point across, the hunter grabbed his wriggling woman — Irving had to think she was his wife — and quickly lifted her short, dark parka top.

  The girl was naked under the animal skin, and her breasts were, indeed, very large … very large indeed for a woman so young.

  John Irving felt himself blush from his blond hairline down to his chest. He lowered his gaze to the blubber he was still chewing. At that moment he would have laid fifty quid that Amooq was the Esquimaux language equivalent of “Big Tits.”

  The men around him howled with laughter. The Qimmiq — the wolflike sled dogs around the wooden kamatik — howled and leapt against their tethers. The old man behind the sled, Kringmuluardjuk, actually fell onto the snow and ice he was laughing so hard.

  Suddenly Amaruq — Wolf? — who had been playing with the telescope, pointed to the bare ridge from which Irving had descended into the valley and snapped what sounded like “Takuva-a … kabloona qukiuttina! ”

  The group fell silent immediately.

  The wolfish dogs began barking wildly.

  Irving stood from where he had been crouching and shielded his eyes from the sun. He did not want to ask for the telescope back. There was the quickest motion of a human form in greatcoat silhouetted against the top of the ridge.

  Wonderful! thought Irving. All through the blubber feast and introductions, he’d been trying to decide how to get Tikerqat and the others to come back to Terror Camp with him. He’d been afraid that he would not be able to communicate well enough with just his hands and motions to persuade the eight Esquimaux males and two women and their dogs and sled to make the three-hour trip back to the coast with him, so he’d been trying to think of a way to get just Tikerqat to come along with him.

  It was certain that the lieutenant could not just let these natives hike back to wherever they had come from. Captain Crozier would be at the camp tomorrow, and Irving knew from several conversations with the captain that contact with the local peoples was precisely what the tired and beleaguered captain most hoped might happen. The northern tribes, what Ross called northern highland tribes, are rarely warlike, Crozier had told his third lieutenant one night. If we come across a village of theirs on our way south, they may feed us well enough to get us provisioned properly for the long upstream haul to Great Slave Lake. At the very least, they could show us how to live off the land.

  And now Thomas Farr and the others had come looking for him, following his footprints through the snow to this valley. The figure on the ridgeline had gone back over the ridge and out of sight — out of shock at seeing ten strangers in the valley or concern that he might frighten them? — but Irving had caught a glimpse of the greatcoat blowing in silhouette and the Welsh wig and comforter and knew that one of his problems had been solved.

  If he could not persuade Tikerqat and the others to come back with them — and old Asiajuk the shaman might be a problem convincing — Irving and a few of his party would stay with the Esquimaux here in the valley, convince them to stay there with conversation and other presents from some of the other men’s packs, while he sent the fastest seamen running back to the coast to bring Captain Fitzjames and many more men to this place.

  I can’t let them get away. These Esquimaux could be the answer to our problems. They may be our salvation.

  Irving felt his heart pounding against his ribs.

  “It’s all right,” he said to Tikerqat and the others, speaking in the calmest and most confident tones he could summon. “It’s just my friends. A few friends. Good men. They won’t harm you. We only have one rifle with us, and we won’t bring that down here. It’s all right. Just friends of mine whom you will enjoy meeting.”

  Irving knew that they couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but he kept talking, using the same soft, reassuring voice he would have used at his family’s stables in Bristol to calm a skittish colt.

  Several of the hunters had pulled their spears or harpoons from the snow and were holding them casually, but Amaruq, Tulugaq, Taliriktug, Ituksuk, the boy Qajorânguaq, the old man Kringmuluardjuk, and even the scowling shaman Asiajuk were looking to Tikerqat for guidance. The two women quit chewing blubber and quietly found their place behind the line of men.

  Tikerqat looked at Irving. The Esquimaux’s eyes were suddenly very dark and very alien-looking to the young lieutenant. The man seemed to be waiting for some explanation. “Khat-seet? ” he said softly.

  Irving showed open palms in a calming gesture and smiled as easily as he could. “Just friends,” he said, matching the softness of Tikerqat’s tone. “A few friends.”

  The lieutenant glanced up at the ridgeline. It was still empty against the blue sky. He was afraid that whoever had come looking for him had been alarmed by the congregation in the valley and might be headed back. Irving was not sure how long he could wait here … how long he could keep Tikerqat and his people calm before they took flight.

  He too
k a deep breath and realized that he would have to go after the man up there, call him back, tell him what had happened and send him to bring back Farr and the others as quickly as possible. Irving couldn’t wait.

  “Please stay here,” said Irving. He set his leather valise in the snow near Tikerqat in an attempt to show that he was coming right back. “Please wait. I shan’t be a moment. I won’t even get out of your sight. Please stay.” He realized that he was gesturing with his hands as if asking the Esquimaux to sit, the way he would talk to a dog.

  Tikerqat did not sit, nor did he reply, but he remained where he was standing while Irving backed away slowly.

  “I’ll be right back,” called the lieutenant. He turned and jogged quickly up the steep scree and ice, onto the dark gravel at the top of the ridgeline.

  Barely able to breath with the tension, he turned back at the top and looked down.

  The ten figures, barking dogs, and sled were exactly where he had left them.

  Irving waved, made gestures to show that he would be right back, and hurried over the ridge, ready to shout at any retreating sailor.

  Twenty feet down the northeast side of the ridge, Irving saw something that made him stop in his tracks.

  A tiny man was dancing naked except for his boots around a tall heap of discarded clothing on a boulder.

  Leprechaun, thought Irving, remembering some of Captain Crozier’s tales. The image made no sense to the third lieutenant. It had been a day of strange sightings.

  He stepped closer and saw that it was no leprechaun dancing but rather the caulker’s mate. The man was humming some sailor’s ditty as he danced and pirouetted. Irving could not help noticing the grub-white paleness of the little man’s skin, how his ribs pushed out so visibly, the goose bumps everywhere rising on his flesh, the fact that he was circumcised, and how absurd the pale white buttocks were when he pirouetted.

  Walking up to him, shaking his head in disbelief, not in the mood to laugh but his heart still pounding with the excitement of finding Tikerqat and the others, Irving said, “Mr. Hickey. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  The caulker’s mate quit pirouetting. He raised one bony finger to his lips as if to shush the lieutenant. Then he bowed and showed Irving his arse as he bent over his pile of coats and clothing on the boulder.

  The man’s gone mad, thought Irving. I can’t let Tikerqat and the others see him like this. He wondered if he could slap some sense into the little man and still use him as a messenger to bring Farr and the others here quickly. Irving had a few sheets of paper and a stub of graphite with which he could write a note, but they were in his valise down in the valley.

  “See here, Mr. Hickey … ,” he began sternly.

  The caulker’s mate swung up and around so quickly with his arm fully extended that for a second or two Irving thought he was resuming his dance.

  But there had been a sharp boat knife in that extended hand.

  Irving felt a sudden sharp pain in his throat. He started to speak again, found that he couldn’t, raised both hands to his throat, and looked down.

  Blood was cascading over Irving’s hands and down onto his chest, dripping onto his boots.

  Hickey swung the blade again in a wide, vicious arc.

  This blow severed the lieutenant’s windpipe. He fell to his knees and raised his right arm, pointing at Hickey through vision that had suddenly been narrowed by a dark tunnel. John Irving was too surprised even to feel anger.

  Hickey took a step closer, still naked, all sharp knees and thin thighs and tendons, crouching now like some pale, bony gnome. But Irving had fallen to his side on the cold gravel, vomited an impossible amount of blood, and was dead before Cornelius Hickey ripped away the lieutenant’s clothing and began wielding the knife in earnest.

  38

  CROZIER

  Lat. 69° 37′ 42″ N., Long. 98° 41′ W.

  25 April, 1848

  His men collapsed into tents and slept the sleep of the dead as soon as they reached Terror Camp, but Crozier did not sleep at all the night of 24 April.

  First he went to a special medical tent that had been erected so that Dr. Goodsir could do the postmortem and prepare the body for burial. Lieutenant Irving’s corpse, white and frozen after its long voyage back to camp on the savages’ requisitioned sledge, did not look quite human. Besides the gaping wound on the throat — so deep that it exposed the white vertebrae of his spine from the front and made the head yaw back as if on a loose hinge — the young man had been emasculated and disemboweled.

  Goodsir was still awake and working on the body when Crozier came into the tent. The surgeon was inspecting several organs removed from the corpse, poking at them with some sharp instrument. He glanced up and gave Crozier a strange, thoughtful, almost guilty look. Neither man said anything for a long moment as the captain stood over the body. Finally Crozier brushed back a strand of blond hair that had fallen over John Irving’s forehead. The lock had been almost touching Irving’s open, clouded but still staring blue eyes.

  “Have his body ready for burial at noon tomorrow,” said Crozier.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Crozier went to his tent, where Fitzjames was waiting.

  When Crozier’s steward, the 30-year-old Thomas Jopson, had supervised the loading and transport of “the captain’s tent” to Terror Camp some weeks ago, Crozier had been furious to learn that Jopson had not only had a double-sized tent sewn for the purpose — the captain had anticipated just a regular brown Holland tent — but had also had the men haul an oversized cot and several solid oak and mahogany chairs from the Great Room, as well as an ornate desk that had belonged to Sir John.

  Now Crozier was glad for the furniture. He arranged the heavy desk between the tent entrance and the private bunking area with the two chairs behind the desk and none in front. The lantern hanging from the tall tent’s peak harshly illuminated the empty space in front of the desk while leaving the area for Fitzjames and Crozier in semidarkness. The space had the feel of a court-martial room.

  That’s exactly what Francis Crozier wanted.

  “You should go to bed, Captain Crozier,” said Fitzjames.

  Crozier looked at the younger captain. He did not look young any longer. Fitzjames looked like a walking corpse — pale to the point of his skin becoming transparent, bearded with whiskers and dried blood from leaking follicles, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Crozier had not looked at himself in a mirror for several days and had avoided the one hanging at the rear of this tent of his, but he hoped to Christ he did not look as bad as the former wunderkind of the Royal Navy, Commander James Fitzjames.

  “You need some sleep yourself, James,” said Crozier. “I can interrogate these men myself.”

  Fitzjames shook his head tiredly. “I questioned them, of course,” he said, his voice a dead monotone, “but haven’t visited the site or really interrogated them. I knew you would want to.”

  Crozier nodded. “I want to be at the site by first light.”

  “It’s about two hours’ brisk walk to the southwest,” said Fitzjames.

  Crozier nodded again.

  Fitzjames pulled his cap off and combed back his long, greasy hair with dirty fingers. They had used the boat stoves that had been transported here to melt water for drinking and just enough to shave by should an officer want to shave, but there was none left for bathing. Fitzjames smiled. “Caulker’s Mate Hickey asked if he could sleep until it was his time to report.”

  “Caulker’s Mate Hickey can fucking well stay awake like the rest of us,” said Crozier.

  Fitzjames said softly, “That’s more or less what I told him. I put him on guard duty. The cold should keep him awake.”

  “Or kill him,” said Crozier. His tone suggested that this would not be the worst turn of events. In a loud voice, shouting to Private Daly who stood guard at the tent’s door, Crozier said, “Send in Sergeant Tozer.”

  Somehow the large, stupid Marine managed to stay beefy ev
en when all the men were starving on one-third rations. He stood at attention, minus his musket, as Crozier conducted the interrogation.

  “What was your impression of today’s events, Sergeant?”

  “Very pretty, sir.”

  “Pretty?” Crozier remembered the condition of Third Lieutenant Irving’s throat and body as he lay in the postmortem tent immediately behind Crozier’s own tent.

  “Aye, sir. The attack, sir. Went off like clockwork. Like clockwork. We come walking down that big hill, sir, muskets and rifles and shotguns lowered as if we had no harsh feelings in the world, sir, and them savages watched us come. We opened fire at less than twenty yards and raised pure holy Cain amongst their motley God-be-damned ranks, sir, that I can tell you. Raised pure holy Cain.”

  “Were they in ranks, Sergeant?”

  “Well, no, Captain, not as you might say on a Bible, sir. More like standing around like the savages they was, sir.”

  “And your opening salvos cut them down?”

  “Oh, aye, sir. Even the shotguns at that range. It was a sight to behold, sir.”

  “Like shooting fish in a rain barrel?”

  “Aye, sir,” said Sergeant Tozer with a huge grin on his red face.

  “Did they put up any resistance, Sergeant?”

  “Resistance, sir? Not really. Not any you might speak of, sir.”

  “Yet they were armed with knives and spears and harpoons.”

  “Oh, aye, sir. A couple of the godless savages threw their harpoons and one got a spear off, but them what flung them was already wounded and it done them no good but a little nick in the leg of young Sammy Crispe, who took his shotgun and blew the savage who nicked him straight to Hell, sir. Straight to Hell.”

  “Yet two of the Esquimaux got away,” said Crozier.

  Tozer frowned. “Aye, sir. I apologize about that. They was a lot of confusion, sir. And two of ’em who went down got up when we was shooting those pox-besotted dogs, sir.”

  “Why did you shoot their dogs, Sergeant?” It was Fitzjames who asked this question.