by Dan Simmons
And start tomorrow, 26th, for Back’s Fish River.
44
GOODSIR
Lat. 69° ?′ ?″ N., Long. 98° ?′ ?″ W.
Comfort Cove, 6 June, 1848
From the private diary of Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir:
Tuesday, 6 June — Captain Fitzjames has finally died. It is a Blessing.
Unlike the others who have died in the last Six Weeks since we first started Hauling the Boats south (a Living Hell of a vocation from which even the Ships’ Only Surviving Surgeon is not exempted), the Captain, in my opinion, did not perish from the Scurvy.
He had Scurvy, there is no Doubt of that. I just Completed the postmortem examination of that Good Man and the Bruises and Bleeding Gums and Blackened Lips all told the story. But I think Scurvy was not the Killer.
Captain Fitzjames’s last three days were spent here, about 80 Miles south of Terror Camp, on a frozen point on a windswept bay where the bulk of King William Land curves sharply to the West. For the first time in Six Weeks, we have unpacked All the Tents — including the large ones — and used some Coal from the few sacks we brought along and the Iron Whaleboat Stove one crew has man-hauled so far. Almost all of our meals the past six weeks have been eaten cold or only Partially Heated over the tiny spirit stoves. For the last two nights we have had hot food — never enough, a third of the rations we need for the incredibly Strenuous Work we are Doing, but warm nonetheless. For Two Mornings we have wakened in the same place. The men are calling this place Comfort Cove.
Mostly we stopped to allow Captain Fitzjames to Die in Peace. But there was no Peace for the captain in his last days.
Poor Lieutenant Le Vesconte had evidenced some of the same Symptoms of Captain Fitzjames’s last days. Lieutenant Le Vesconte died suddenly on our 13th Day on this terrible Voyage South — only 18 Miles from Terror Camp if I remember correctly, and on the same day that Marine Private Pilkington expired — but the Symptoms of Scurvy had been more Advanced in both the lieutenant and the private and their Final Agonies less excruciatingly drawn out.
I confess that I hadn’t remembered that Lieutenant Le Vesconte’s first name had been Harry. Our intercourse had always been quite Friendly but also quite Formal, and on the Muster Rolls I recalled his name had been listed as H. T. D. Le Vesconte. It bothers me now that I must have heard the Other Officers call him Harry from time to time — perhaps a hundred times — but I had always been too busy or preoccupied to notice. It was only after Lieutenant Le Vesconte’s death that I paid attention to the other Men using his Christian name.
Private Pilkington’s Christian name was William.
I remember that day in early May after Le Vesconte’s and Private Pilkington’s brief joint burial service, one of the men suggested that we name the small spur of land where they were buried “Le Vesconte Point,” but Captain Crozier vetoed that idea, saying that if we named every place where one of us might end up buried after the dead person there, we’d run out of land before we ran out of names.
This Befuddled the men and I Confess that it Befuddled me as well. It must have been an Attempt at Humour, but it shocked me. It shocked the men into Silence as well.
Perhaps that was Captain Crozier’s Purpose. It did put a stop to the men offering to name Natural Features after their Dead Officers.
Captain Fitzjames had shown a General Weakening for some weeks — even before we left Terror Camp — but Four Days ago he seemed to have been Struck Down by something more Sudden in its attack and far more Agonizing in its effects.
The Captain had been suffering Problems with his Stomach and Bowels for some weeks, but suddenly, on the Second of June, Fitzjames collapsed. Our protocol on the March is not to stop for sick men but rather to place them in one of the larger Boats and pull them along with the other Supplies and dead weight. Captain Crozier made sure that Captain Fitzjames was made as comfortable as possible in his own Whaleboat.
Since we are doing this Long March South in relays — working for Hours on End to pull 5 of the 10 Heavy Boats as little as a few hundred Yards across the terrible gravel and Snow, always trying to stay on the Land when possible rather than be forced to deal with Pack Ice and Pressure Ridges, sometimes covering less than a Mile in a Day on the resisting gravel and ice — I make it my practice to stay with the sickest men while the Man-hauling Teams go back for the other 5 Boats. Often Mr. Diggle and Mr. Wall, gamely preparing to cook Warm Meals for almost a hundred Starving Men on their little spirit stoves, and a few men with muskets to guard against the Thing on the Ice or Esquimaux are my only companions for those hours.
Other than the Sick and Dying.
Captain Fitzjames’s nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea were terrible. Unrelenting. The Cramps curled him into a Fetal Position and made this strong and Brave man cry aloud.
On the Second Day, he tried to rejoin his team man-hauling his whaleboat — even the Officers pull from time to time — but soon he Collapsed yet again. This time the vomiting and cramps were Nonstop. When the Whaleboat was left on the Ice that afternoon as the able-bodied Men went back to man-haul forward the 5 Boats left behind on the First Haul, Captain Fitzjames confessed to me that his Vision was terribly blurred and that he was frequently seeing Double.
I asked him if he had been Wearing the Wire Goggles we use to block the sun. The men Hate them because they Obscure vision so terribly, and the Goggles tend to induce their own headaches. Captain Fitzjames admitted that he had Not been wearing them but pointed out that the day had been quite Cloudy. None of the other men were wearing them either. At that point our Conversation stopped as he was seized with diarrhea and vomiting yet again.
Late that night, in the Holland Tent where I was Attending him, Fitzjames gasped to me that he was having trouble swallowing and that his Mouth was constantly Dry. Soon he showed trouble Breathing and was no longer able to speak. By sunrise, a Paralysis had moved down his upper Arms to the point where he could no longer lift them or use his hands to Write messages to me.
Captain Crozier called a Halt that day — the first such full day’s stop we had enjoyed since leaving Terror Camp almost six weeks earlier. All of the tents were pitched. The larger Sick Bay Tent was finally unpacked from Crozier’s own Whaleboat — it took almost Three Hours to set it up in the wind and cold (and the men are much more Sluggish about such things these days) — and for the first time in almost a month and a half, all the Sick were made comfortable in one place.
Mr. Hoar, Captain Fitzjames’s long-suffering steward, had died on the Second Day of our March. (We had made less than a Mile that first Terrible day of Man-hauling, and the stack of Coal, Stoves, and other goods was still Horribly but Plainly Visible behind us at Terror Camp that first night. It was as if we had Achieved Nothing after twelve hours of Deadly Labour. Those first days — it took us Seven Days to cross the narrow iced Inlet south of Terror Camp and travel only Six Miles — almost destroyed our Morale and Will to go on.)
Marine Private Heather, who had lost a portion of his Brain months before, finally allowed his Body to Die on our Fourth Day out. His surviving fellow Marines played a bagpipe over his shallow, hastily dug grave that evening.
And so it went with the other Sick dying rapidly, but then there came a Long Period after the twin deaths of Lieutenant Le Vesconte and Private Pilkington at the end of the Second Week in which no one died. The men Convinced themselves that the truly Ill had died off and only the Strong remained.
Captain Fitzjames’s sudden collapse reminded us that we were all growing Weaker. There were no longer any truly Strong among us. Except perhaps for the Giant, Magnus Manson, who lumbers along Imperturbably and who never seems to lose weight or energy.
To treat Captain Fitzjames’s constant vomiting, I administered doses of asafetida, a gum resin used to control spasms. It helped very little. He was not able to Keep Down either solid food or liquids. I gave him limewater to settle his stomach, but it also did no good.
For his difficulty swallowing, I
administered Syrup of Squills — a sliced herb set in tannin solution that is an Excellent Expectorant. Usually effective, it seemed to do little to lubricate the dying man’s Throat.
As Captain Fitzjames lost the Use and Control of first his Arms and then his Legs, I tried Peruvian Wine of Coca — a powerful admixture of wine and cocaine — as well as solutions of hartshorn, a Medicine made from ground-up antlers of red deer which stinks strongly of ammonia, as well as Solution of Camphor. These Solutions, at Half the Dosage I gave to the captain, often Arrest and even Reverse paralysis.
They did not help. The Paralysis spread to all of Captain Fitzjames’s extremities. He continued Vomiting and being Doubled Up by Cramps long after he could no longer speak or gesture.
But at least this Deadening of his Vocal Apparatus relieved the men of the Burden of hearing their Erebus Captain scream in pain. But I saw his convulsions and his mouth Open in silent screams that Long Last Day.
This morning, on the Fourth and Final Day of Captain Fitzjames’s Agony, his lungs began to shut down as the paralysis reached his respiratory muscles. He Laboured all day to breathe. Lloyd and I — sometimes abetted by Captain Crozier, who spent many hours with his Friend at the End — would set Fitzjames in a Sitting Position or Hold Him Upright or actually Walk the paralyzed man around the Tent, dragging his Limp Stockinged Feet across the Ice-and-Gravel floor, in a vain attempt to help his failing lungs Continue to work.
In desperation, I forced Tincture of Lobelia, a whiskey-coloured solution of Indian tobacco that was almost pure nicotine, down Captain Fitzjames’s throat, massaging it down his paralyzed gullet with my bare fingers. It was like feeding a dying Baby Bird. Tincture of Lobelia was the best respiratory stimulant left in my depleted Surgeon’s apothecary, a Stimulant that Dr. Peddie had sworn by. It would raise Jesus from the dead a day early, Peddie used to blaspheme when in his cups.
It did no good whatsoever.
It must be Remembered that I am a mere Surgeon, not a Physician. My training was in Anatomy; my expertise is in Surgery. Physicians prescribe; Surgeons saw. But I am doing my Best with the supplies my Dead Colleagues left to me.
The most Terrible thing about Captain James Fitzjames’s last hours was that he was Fully Alert through all of this — the vomiting and Cramps, the Loss of his Voice and ability to Swallow, the Creeping Paralysis, and the Final Terrible Hours of his lungs failing. I could see the panic and Terror in his eyes. His Mind was Fully Alive. His Body was Dying around him. He could do Nothing about this Living Torture except to Plead with me through his Eyes. I was impotent to help.
At times I wanted to Administer a lethal dose of pure Coca just to put an End to his Suffering, but my Hippocratic Oath and Christian belief did not allow that.
I went outside and Wept instead, making sure that none of the Officers or Men could see me.
Captain Fitzjames died at 8 minutes after 3:00 p.m. this afternoon, Tuesday the Sixth Day of June, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Forty-Eight.
His shallow grave had already been Dug. The Covering Rocks had been Gathered and Stacked. All of the Men who could stand and dress themselves turned out for the Service. Many of those who had served under Captain Fitzjames the past three years wept. Even though it was warm today — five to ten degrees above Freezing — a cold wind Came Up out of the Relentless Northwest and froze many Tears to beards or cheeks or comforters.
The few Marines left in our Expedition fired a volley into the Air.
Up the hill from the Grave, a Ptarmigan took to the air and flew out toward the Pack Ice.
A great Moan went up from the men. Not for Captain Fitzjames, but for the loss of the Ptarmigan for the evening’s stew. By the time the Marines reloaded their Muskets, the bird was a hundred yards away and far out of Range. (And none of these Marines ever could have hit a bird on the wing at one hundred yards even when they were Well and Warm.)
Later — just a half hour ago — Captain Crozier looked in on the Sick Bay Tent and beckoned me outside into the Cold.
Was it Scurvy that killed Captain Fitzjames? was his only question to me.
I admitted that I did not think it was. It had been something more Deadly.
Captain Fitzjames thought that the steward serving him and the other officers since Hoar’s death was poisoning him, whispered the captain. Is this possible?
Bridgens? I said too Loudly. I was deeply shocked. I had always liked the Bookish old Steward.
Crozier shook his head. Richard Aylmore has been serving the Erebus officers the last two weeks, he said. Could it have been poison, Dr. Goodsir?
I hesitated. To say yes would certainly mean Aylmore would be shot at sunrise. The Gunroom Steward was the man who had been Given fifty Lashes in January for his Improvident participation in the Grand Venetian Carnivale. Aylmore was also a Friend and Frequent Confidant of Terror’s Diminutive and sometimes Devious caulker’s mate. Aylmore, we all knew, harboured a small and resentful Soul.
It could well have been poison, I told Crozier not half an hour ago. But not necessarily a Deliberately Administered poison.
What does that mean? demanded Crozier. Our remaining captain looked so weary tonight that his white Skin actually glowed in the starlight.
I said, I mean that the Officers have been eating the Largest Portions of the last of the Goldner’s Canned Foods that we have brought along. There sometimes is an Unexplained but Deadly paralytic poison in foods that have gone bad. No one understands it. Perhaps it is some microscopic Animalcule we cannot Perceive with our Lenses.
Crozier whispered, Wouldn’t we have smelled it if the canned foods had gone putrid?
I shook my head and grasped the captain’s greatcoat sleeve to press home my point. No. That is the Terror of this Poison that Paralyzes first the voice and then the entire body. It cannot be Seen or Tested For. It is as invisible as Death itself.
Crozier thought for a long moment. I’ll order everyone to go off the canned foods for three weeks, he said at last. The last of the rotten salted beef and poor biscuits will have to do us for a while. We’ll eat it Cold.
The Men and officers will not be happy about this, I whispered. The canned soups and vegetables are as close as Anything comes to a Hot Meal on the March. They may become Mutinous at such Further Deprivation under such Harsh Conditions.
Crozier smiled then. It was a strangely chilling sight. Then I will not have everyone go off the canned foods, he hissed. Gunroom Steward Aylmore will continue eating it — out of the same cans he served James Fitzjames from. A good night to you, Dr. Goodsir.
I came back into the Sick Bay Tent then, attended to the sleeping sick men, and crawled into my Sleeping Bag with my mahogany Portable Writing Desk on my Knees.
My handwriting is so Difficult to read on the Page because I have been Shaking. And not just from the Cold.
Every time I believe I Know one of these men or Officers, I find that I am wrong. A Million years of Man’s Medicinal Progress will never reveal the secret Condition and sealed Compartments of the Human Soul.
We leave before Dawn tomorrow. I suspect there will be no more stops such as the luxury of the last Two Days at Comfort Cove.
45
BLANKY
Lat. unknown, Long. unknown
18 June, 1848
When Tom Blanky’s third and final leg snapped off, he knew it meant the end.
His first new leg had been wondrous to behold. Shaped and whittled by Mr. Honey, Terror’s capable carpenter, it had been carved out of a single piece of solid English oak. It was a work of art and Blanky enjoyed showing it off. The ice master had peg-legged his way around the ship like a good-humoured pirate, but when Blanky had to go out onto the ice, he attached to the bottom of the peg a perfectly shaped wooden foot that snapped into a socket. The foot had a myriad of nails and screws on the bottom — better for traction on the ice than the hobnails in the men’s winter boots — and the one-legged man, while not able to man-haul, had been more than able to
keep up during their transfer to Terror Camp from the abandoned ship and then in the long haul south and now east.
No longer.
His first leg had broken off just below the knee nineteen days after they’d abandoned Terror Camp, not long after they’d buried poor Pilkington and Harry Le Vesconte.
That day, Tom Blanky and Mr. Honey, who’d been excused from man-hauling, both had ridden in a pinnace strapped to a sledge pulled by twenty straining other men while the carpenter carved a new leg and foot for the ice master from wood taken from a spare spar.
Blanky had never been sure whether or not to wear his foot when hobbling along with the procession of boats and sweating, swearing men. When they actually ventured out onto the sea ice — as they had the first days crossing the frozen inlet south of Terror Camp and again at Seal Bay and once more at the broad bay just north of the point where they’d buried Le Vesconte — the screwed and cleated foot worked wonders on the ice. But most of their march south and then west along and around the large cape and now back east again was made on land.
As the snow and ice on the rocks began to melt, and it was melting quickly this summer that was so much warmer than their lost summer of 1847, Tom Blanky’s wooden ovoid of a foot would slide off slick rocks or be pulled off in ice crevices or would snap at the socket with every inopportune twist.
When out on the ice, Blanky tried to show his solidarity with his mates by hiking back and forth with the man-haulers, making both trips alongside the straining, sweating men, carrying small items when he could, occasionally volunteering to slip into the harness of an exhausted man. But everyone knew he could not pull his own weight with the hauling.
By the sixth week and forty-seven miles out, at Comfort Cove where poor Captain Fitzjames had died so hard, Blanky was on his third leg — a poorer, weaker substitute than the second one had been — and he tried manfully to hobble along on his peg through the rocks, streams, and standing water, although he no longer went back for the afternoon’s hated second haul.