The Terror

by Dan Simmons

  40

  PEGLAR

  Lat. 69° 37′ 42″ N., Long. 98° 40′ 58″ W.

  25 April, 1848

  When the fog shifted, something that looked like an oversized human brain seemed to be rising out of the frozen ground: grey, convoluted, coiled upon itself, glistening with ice.

  Harry Peglar realized that he was looking at John Irving’s entrails.

  “This is the spot,” Thomas Farr said needlessly.

  Peglar had been somewhat surprised that the captain had ordered him to come along on this trip to the murder site. The captain of the foretop had not been in either party — Irving’s or Hodgson’s — involved in yesterday’s incidents. But then Peglar had looked at the other men chosen to go on this predawn investigatory expedition — First Lieutenant Edward Little, Tom Johnson (Crozier’s bosun’s mate and old crewman from the south polar expedition), Captain of the Maintop Farr who had been here yesterday, Dr. Goodsir, Lieutenant Le Vesconte from Erebus, First Mate Robert Thomas, and a guard of four Marines with weapons — Hopcraft, Healey, and Pilkington under the command of Corporal Pearson.

  Harry Peglar hoped he was not flattering himself to think that, for whatever reason, Captain Crozier had chosen people he trusted for this outing. Malcontents and incompetents had been left behind at Terror Camp; the sea lawyer Hickey heading up a detail to dig Lieutenant Irving’s grave for this afternoon’s burial service.

  Crozier’s party had left camp long before dawn, following the footprints from yesterday and the tracks of the Esquimaux sledge that had borne the body to the camp southeast by lantern light. When the tracks disappeared on the stony ridgelines, they were easily found in the snowy vales beyond. The temperature had risen at least fifty-five degrees during the night, bringing the air up to zero degrees or higher, and a thick fog had rolled in. Harry Peglar, a veteran of weather on most of the earth’s seas and oceans, had no idea how it could be so foggy when there was no unfrozen liquid water within hundreds and hundreds of miles. Perhaps these were low clouds skimming across the surface of the pack ice and colliding with this godforsaken island that rose only a few yards above sea level at its highest point. The sunrise, when it came, was no sunrise at all but only a vague yellow glow in the swirling fog-cloud around them, seeming to come from all directions.

  The dozen men stood in silence at the murder site for a few minutes. There was little to see. John Irving’s cap had blown against a nearby boulder, and Farr retrieved it. There was frozen blood on the frozen stones, the heap of human guts next to that dark stain. A few tatters of ripped clothing.

  “Lieutenant Hodgson, Mr. Farr,” said Crozier, “did you see any sign of the Esquimaux up here when Mr. Hickey led you to this scene?”

  Hodgson seemed confused by the question. Farr said, “Other than their bloody handiwork, no, sir. We approached the ridgeline on our bellies and peered down into the valley using Mr. Hodgson’s glass, and there they were. Still fighting over John’s telescope and other spoils.”

  “Did you see them fight amongst themselves?” snapped Crozier.

  Peglar never remembered seeing his captain — or any captain he had ever served under — look so tired. Crozier’s eyes had visibly sunken in their sockets over the past days and weeks. Crozier’s voice, always a bass bark of command, was now little more than a croak. It looked as if his eyes were ready to bleed.

  Peglar knew something about bleeding these days. He hadn’t told his friend John Bridgens yet, but he was feeling the scurvy badly. His once-proud muscles were atrophying. His flesh was mottled with bruises. He’d lost two teeth in the past ten days. Every time he brushed his remaining teeth, the brush came away red. And every time he squatted to relieve himself, he shat blood.

  “Did I actually see the Esquimaux fighting amongst themselves?” repeated Farr. “Not really, sir. They were jostling and laughing, though. And two of the bucks were tugging at John’s fine brass telescope.”

  Crozier nodded. “Let us go down in the valley, gentlemen.”

  Peglar was shocked by the blood. He’d never seen the site of a land battle before, not even a small skirmish such as this, and while he had prepared himself to see the dead bodies, he’d not imagined how red the spilled blood would be on the snow.

  “Someone’s been here,” said Lieutenant Hodgson.

  “What do you mean?” asked Crozier.

  “Some of the bodies have been moved,” said the young lieutenant, pointing to a man and then to another man and then to an old woman. “And their outer coats — the fur coats, such as Lady Silence wears — and even some of their mittens and boots are gone. So are several of the weapons … harpoons and spears. See, you can see the imprint in the snow where they were lying yesterday. They’re gone.”

  “Souvenirs?” rasped Crozier. “Did our men …”

  “No, sir,” Farr said quickly and firmly. “We threw some baskets and cooking pots and other things off the sled to make room and took that sled up the hill to load Lieutenant Irving’s body. We were all together from then until we reached Terror Camp. No one lagged behind.”

  “Some of those pots and baskets have gone missing as well,” said Hodgson.

  “There seem to be some newer tracks here, but it’s hard to tell since the wind was blowing last night,” said Bosun’s Mate Johnson.

  The captain was going from corpse to corpse, rolling them over when they were facedown. He seemed to be studying each dead man’s face. Peglar noticed that they were not all dead men — one was a boy. One was an old lady whose open mouth — as if frozen by Death into an eternal silent scream — looked like a black pit. There was much blood. One of the natives had received the full force of a shotgun blast at what must have been very short range, perhaps after he had already been hit by musket or rifle fire. The back of his head was gone.

  After inspecting each face as if hoping to find answers there, Crozier stood. The surgeon, Goodsir, who had also been looking carefully at the dead, said something softly into the captain’s ear, pulling down his comforter scarf and the captain’s as well while whispering. Crozier took a step back, looked at Goodsir as if in surprise, but then nodded.

  The surgeon went to one knee by a dead Esquimaux and removed several surgical instruments from his bag, including one very long, curved, and serrated knife that reminded Peglar of the ice saws they used to cut chunks from the iron tanks of frozen water on the hold deck of Terror.

  “Dr. Goodsir needs to examine several of the savages’ stomachs,” Crozier said.

  Peglar imagined that nine others besides himself were wondering why. No one asked the question. The squeamish — including three of the Marines — looked away as the small surgeon tore open fur or animal-skin garments and began sawing on the first corpse’s abdomen. The sound of the saw cutting into hard-frozen flesh reminded Peglar of someone sawing wood.

  “Captain, who do you think might’ve fetched up the weapons and clothing?” asked First Mate Thomas. “One of the two who got away?”

  Crozier nodded distractedly. “Or others from their village, although it’s hard to imagine a village on this godforsaken island. Perhaps these were part of a larger hunting group camped nearby.”

  “This group had so much food with them,” said Lieutenant Le Vesconte. “Imagine how much the main hunting party might have with them. We might be able to feed all one hundred and five of us.”

  Lieutenant Little smiled over his breath-rimed coat collars. “Would you like to be the one to walk into their village or larger hunting party and politely ask them for some food or hunting advice? Now? After this?” Little gestured toward the sprawled, frozen bodies and patches of red on the snow.

  “I think we have to get away from Terror Camp and this island now,” said Second Lieutenant Hodgson. The young man’s voice was quavering. “They’re going to kill us in our sleep. Look what they did to John.” He stopped, visibly abashed.

  Peglar studied the lieutenant. Hodgson showed all the signs of starvation and exhaustion that th
e rest of them did, but not as many signs of scurvy. Peglar wondered if he would become unmanned like this if and when he saw a spectacle similar to what Hodgson had seen less than twenty-four hours earlier.

  “Thomas,” Crozier said softly to his bosun’s mate, “would you be so kind as to go over that next ridge and see if you can see anything? Specifically tracks leading away from here … and if so, how many and what kind?”

  “Aye, sir.” The large mate jogged uphill through deep snow and onto the dark-gravel ridge.

  Peglar found himself watching Goodsir. The surgeon had cut open the greyish pink, distended stomach of the first Esquimaux man and then had gone on to the old woman and next the young boy. It was a terrible thing to watch. In each case, Goodsir — his hands bare — used a smaller surgical instrument to slit the stomach open and lifted out the contents, kneading through the frozen chunks and gobbets as if searching for a prize. Sometimes Goodsir snapped the frozen stomach contents into smaller bits with an audible crack. When he was finished with the first three corpses, Goodsir idly wiped his bare hands in the snow, tugged on his mittens, and whispered in Crozier’s ear again.

  “You can tell everyone,” Crozier said loudly. “I want everyone to hear this.”

  The little surgeon licked his cracked and bleeding lips. “This morning I opened Lieutenant Irving’s stomach …”

  “Why?” shouted Hodgson. “That was one of the few parts of John that the fucking savages did not mutilate! How could you?”

  “Silence!” barked Crozier. Peglar noticed that the captain’s old authoritative voice had returned for that command. Crozier nodded to the surgeon. “Please continue, Dr. Goodsir.”

  “Lieutenant Irving had eaten so much seal meat and blubber that he was literally full,” said the surgeon. “He’d had a larger meal than any of us have had in months. Obviously it came from the Esquimaux’s cache on their sledge. I was curious if the Esquimaux had eaten with him — if the contents of their stomachs would show they also had eaten seal blubber shortly before they died. With these three, it is obvious they did.”

  “They broke bread with him … ate their meat with him … and then killed him as he was leaving?” said First Mate Thomas, obviously confused by this information.

  Peglar was also confused. It made no sense … unless these savages were as mercurial and treacherous in their temperament as some natives he had come across in the South Seas during the five-year voyage of the old Beagle. The foretop captain wished that John Bridgens were here to give his opinion on all this.

  “Gentlemen,” said Crozier, obviously including even the Marines, “I wanted you all to hear this because I may require your knowledge of these facts at some future time, but I don’t want anyone else to hear about it. Not until I say that it should be public knowledge. And I may never do so. If any of you tells anyone else — a single soul, your closest chum, if you so much as mumble this in your sleep — I swear to Christ I’ll find out who disobeyed my order to silence and I’ll leave that man behind on the ice without so much as an empty pan to shit in. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”

  The other men grunted affirmation.

  Thomas Johnson returned then, puffing and wheezing his way down the hill. He paused and looked at the silent clump of men as if to ask what was wrong.

  “What did you see, Mr. Johnson?” Crozier asked briskly.

  “Tracks, Captain,” said the bosun’s mate, “but old ones. Heading southwest. The two who got away yesterday — and whoever came back to the valley to loot the parkas and weapons and pots and such — must have followed that track as they ran. I saw nothing new.”

  “Thank you, Thomas,” said Crozier.

  The fog whirled around them. Somewhere to the east, Peglar heard what sounded like big guns firing in a Naval engagement, but he’d heard that many times out here over the past two summers. It was distant thunder. In April. With the temperature still twenty degrees below freezing, at least.

  “Gentlemen,” said the captain, “we have a burial to attend. Shall we head back?”

  On the long trek back, Harry Peglar mulled over what he had seen — the frozen entrails of an officer he liked, the bodies and still-bright blood in the snow, the missing parkas and weapons and tools, Dr. Goodsir’s ghoulish examinations, Captain Crozier’s odd statement that he might “require your knowledge of these facts at some future time” as if he was preparing them to act as jurors at some future court-martial or court of inquiry.

  Peglar anticipated writing all this down in the commonplace book he had been keeping for so long. And he hoped that he would find the opportunity to talk to John Bridgens after the burial service, before the groups of men from both boats went back to their own tents and mess circles and man-hauling teams. He wanted to hear what his dear wise Bridgens might have to say about all this.

  41

  CROZIER

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

  25 April, 1848

  O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’”

  Lieutenant Irving had been Crozier’s officer, but Captain Fitzjames had a better voice — the lisp had all but disappeared — and a better way with Scripture, so Crozier was grateful that he was doing a majority of the burial-service reading.

  All of the men in Terror Camp had turned out except those on watch, those in sick bay, or those performing essential services such as Lloyd in sick bay and Mr. Diggle and Mr. Wall and their mates labouring over the four whaleboat stoves cooking up some of the Esquimaux’s fish and seal meat for dinner. At least eighty men were at this graveside about a hundred yards from camp, standing like dark wraiths in the still-swirling fog.

  “ ‘The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.’”

  The other surviving officers and two mates were to carry Irving to the grave. There was not enough wood at Terror Camp to make a coffin, but Mr. Honey, the carpenter, had found enough wood to knock together a door-sized pallet on which Irving’s body, now securely sewn into canvas, could be transported on and upon which the body could be lowered into the grave. Although the ropes were set across the grave in proper Naval fashion, as they would be for any land burial, there would not be much lowering to do. Hickey and his men had been unable to dig deeper than three feet — the ground below that level was as hard-frozen as solid stone — so the men had gathered scores of large stones to lay over the body before piling on the frozen topsoil and gravel, then more stones to lay over that. No one had real hopes that it would keep the white bears or the other summer predators out, but the labour was a sign of most of the men’s affection for John Irving.

  Most of the men.

  Crozier glanced over at Hickey, standing next to Magnus Manson and the Erebus gunroom steward who had been flogged after Carnivale, Richard Aylmore. There was a cluster of other malcontents around these men — several of the Terror seamen who had been eager to kill Lady Silence even if it took a mutiny to do so back in January — but, like all the others standing around the pathetic hole in the ground, they had their Welsh wigs and caps off and their comforters pulled up to their noses and ears.

  Crozier’s middle-of-the-night interrogation of Cornelius Hickey in the captain’s command tent had been tense and terse.

  “Good morning to you, Captain. Would you like me to tell you what I told Captain Fitzjames and …”

  “Take off your slops, Mr. Hickey.”

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Aye, sir, but if you want to hear how it was when I saw the savages murderin’ poor Mr. Irving …”

  “It’s Lieutenant Irving, Caulker’s Mate. I heard your story from Captain Fitzjames. Do you have anything to add or retract from it? Anything to amend?”

  �
�Ah … no, sir.”

  “Take those outer slops off. Mittens too.”

  “Aye, sir. There, sir, how’s ’at? Shall I just set ’em over on the …”

  “Drop them on the floor. Jackets off too.”

  “My jackets, sir? It’s bloody cold in here … yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Hickey, why did you volunteer to go search for Lieutenant Irving when he hadn’t yet been gone much more than an hour? No one else was worried about him.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I volunteered it, Captain. My recollection is that Mr. Farr asked me to go look for …”

  “Mr. Farr reported that you asked several times if Lieutenant Irving wasn’t overdue and volunteered to go find him on your own while the others rested after their meal. Why did you do that, Mr. Hickey?”

  “If Mr. Farr says that … well, we must’ve been worried about him, Captain. The lieutenant, I mean.”

  “Why?”

  “May I put my jackets and slops back on, Captain? It’s bloody freezing in …”

  “No. Take off your waistcoat and sweaters. Why were you worried about Lieutenant Irving?”

  “If you’re concerned … that is, thinking I was wounded today, Captain, I wasn’t. The savages never saw me. No wounds on me, sir, I assure you.”

  “Take that sweater off as well. Why were you worried about Lieutenant Irving?”

  “Well, the lads and me … you know, Captain.”

  “No.”

  “We was just concerned, you know, that one of our party was missin’, like. Also, sir, I was cold, sir. We’d been sittin’ around to eat what little cold food we had. I thought that walkin’, following the lieutenant’s tracks to make sure he was all right, would warm me up, sir.”

  “Show me your hands.”

  “Pardon me, Captain?”

  “Your hands.”

  “Aye, sir. Pardon my shaking, sir. I ain’t been warm all day and with all my layers off but this shirt and …”

  “Turn them over. Palms up.”

  “Aye, sir.”