The Terror

by Dan Simmons

  A spontaneous cheer went up, followed by the more traditional three hip-hip-hurrahs.

  Peglar steered the boat to the center of the narrow lead — never more than twenty feet across here, sometimes barely room for the shortened oars to find water on both sides — and by the time he glanced back over his shoulder, all the men on the ice were lost in the fog astern.

  The next two hours were dreamlike. Peglar had steered a small boat through floe ice before — it had taken more than a week of poking into berg-ridden harbours and inlets before they’d found the right anchorage for the two ships at Beechey Island two autumns ago, and Peglar had been in command of one of those small boats for days — but that had not felt like this. The lead stayed narrow — never more than thirty feet wide and sometimes so tight they propelled the whaleboat by poling on the ice that scraped the sides rather than by rowing — and the narrow channel of open water would bend left and then right, but never quite so tightly that the boat could not make the turns. Tumbles of pressure-raised ice hid the view to either side and the fog continued to close on them, then open a bit, then close even more tightly. Sounds seemed to be muffled and amplified at the same time and the effect was unsettling; men found themselves whispering when they had to communicate.

  Twice they encountered stretches where floating ice blocked the way or the lead itself was frozen over to the point that most of the men had to clamber out to shove floating ice ahead with pikes or to hack away at the frozen surface with pickaxes. Some of the men stayed on the ice on either side then, pulling at ropes tied to the bow and thwarts or grabbing the gunwales and shoving and pulling the screeching whaleboat through the narrow crevice. Each time the lead then widened enough that the men could clamber back in and shove, paddle, and row their way forward.

  They had been creeping forward this way for almost their full allotment of two hours when suddenly the meandering lead narrowed. Ice scraped both sides, but they used the oars to pole as Peglar stood in the bow, his steering sweep useless. Then suddenly they popped out into what was by far the widest stretch of open water they had seen. As if confirming that all their troubles were behind them, the fog lifted so that they could see hundreds of yards.

  They had either reached true open water or a massive lake in the ice. Sunlight streamed down from a hole in the clouds above and turned the seawater blue. A few low, flat icebergs, one the size of a respectable cricket pitch, floated ahead of them in the azure sea. The icebergs prismed the light and the weary men shielded their eyes from the painful glory of sunlight shimmering on snow, ice, and water.

  The six men at the oars gave a loud, spontaneous cheer.

  “Not yet, men,” said Lieutenant Little. He was peering through his brass telescope, his foot up on the whaleboat’s bow. “We don’t know yet if this goes on … if there’s a way out of this ice lake other than the way we came in. Let’s make sure of that before we turn back.”

  “Oh, it goes on,” shouted the seaman named Berry from his place at the oars. “I feel it in me bones. It’s open water and fair breezes between here and Back’s River, all right. We’ll get the others, open our sails, and be there before supper tomorrow.”

  “I pray you’re right, Alex,” said Lieutenant Little. “But let’s spend some time and sweat to make certain. I want to bring nothing but good news back to the rest of the men.”

  Mr. Reid, their ice master, pointed back at the lead from which they had emerged. “There are a dozen inlets here. We might have trouble finding the real lead when we come back unless we mark it now. Men, bring us back to the opening there. Mr. Peglar, why don’t you take that extra pike and drive it into the snow and ice there at the edge where we can’t miss it on our way back. It’ll give us something to row toward.”

  “Aye,” said Peglar.

  With their return avenue marked, they rowed out into the open water. The large, flat iceberg was only a hundred yards or so from the opening to their inlet, and they rowed close to it on their way toward open water.

  “We could camp on ’aton and have plenty of room left over,” said Henry Sait, one of the Terror seamen at the oars.

  “We don’t want to camp,” said Lieutenant Little from the bow. “We’ve had enough camping for a fucking lifetime. We want to go home.”

  The men cheered and put their backs into it. Peglar at the sweep started a chantey and the men sang along, the first real singing they’d done in months.

  It took them three hours — a full hour beyond the time they should have turned back — but they had to be sure.

  The “open water” was an illusion: a lake in the ice a little more than a mile and a half long and a little more than two thirds of a mile wide. Dozens of apparent “leads” opened from the irregular southern, eastern, and northern ice edges of the lake, but they were all false starts, mere inlets.

  At the southeastern terminus of the lake they tied up to the ice shelf, driving a pickaxe into the six-foot-thick ice and tying on to it, then cutting steps up the side as if it were a wharf; all the men clambered out and looked to the direction they’d hoped the open water continued.

  Solid, flat white. Ice and snow and seracs. And the clouds were coming down again, swirling into a low fog. It was beginning to snow.

  After Lieutenant Little looked in each direction, they boosted the smallest man, Berry, up onto the shoulders of the largest man there, thirty-six-year-old Billy Wentzall, and let Berry look through the glass. He boxed the compass with his search, telling Wentzall when to turn.

  “Not so much as a fookin’ penguin,” he said. It was an old joke, referring to Captain Crozier’s trip to the other pole. No one laughed.

  “Do you see dark sky anywhere?” asked Lieutenant Little. “As one sees over open water? Or the tip of a larger berg?”

  “Nay, sir. And the clouds is comin’ closer.”

  Little nodded. “Let’s head back, boys. Harry, you clamber down into the boat first and steady her, will you?”

  No one said a word in their ninety-minute pull across the lake. The sunlight disappeared and fog blotted away the landscape again, but before long the cricket-pitch berg loomed out of the mist and showed them that they were going the correct direction.

  “We’re almost back to the lead,” called Little from the bow. At times the fog was so thick that Peglar in the stern had trouble seeing the lieutenant. “Mr. Peglar, a little to port, please.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The men at the oars did not even look up. To a man they seemed lost in the misery of their thoughts. Snow was pelting them again, but from the northwest now. At least the men at the oars had their backs to it.

  When the fog did lift a bit, they were less than a hundred feet from the inlet.

  “I see the pike,” Mr. Reid said tonelessly. “A bit to starboard and you have it lined up nicely, Harry.”

  “Something’s wrong,” said Peglar.

  “What do you mean?” called back the lieutenant. Some of the seamen looked up from their oars and frowned at Peglar. With their backs to the bow, they could not see ahead.

  “Do you see that serac or big ice boulder near the pike I left at the mouth of the lead?” said Harry.

  “Yes,” said Lieutenant Little. “So?”

  “It wasn’t there when we came out,” said Peglar.

  “Back oars!” ordered Little, uselessly since the men had already ceased their rowing and were backstroking briskly, but the heavy whaleboat’s momentum continued carrying it toward the ice.

  The ice boulder turned.

  48

  GOODSIR

  King William Land, Lat. Unknown, Long. Unknown

  18 July, 1848

  From the private diary of Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir:

  Tuesday, 18 July, 1848 —

  Nine days ago, when our Captain sent Lieutenant Little and eight Men ahead in a Whaleboat through the Lead in the Ice with orders to Return in 4 Hours, the rest of us Slept the best we could for a Pitiful Remnant of those 4 Hours. We spent more than
2 Hours loading the Sledges onto the Boats and then, taking no Time to unpack Tents, we attempted to sleep in our Reindeer Skin and Blanket bags atop waterproof tarps set down on the Ice next to the Boats themselves. The days of the Midnight Sun were past now in early July and we slept — or Tried to Sleep — through the few Hours of near Darkness. We were very tired.

  After the apportioned 4 Hours were up, First Mate Des Voeux woke the men, but there was no Sign of Lieutenant Little. The Captain allowed most to return to Sleep.

  Two hours later, All were Wakened, and I tried to lend a Hand as best I could — following the orders of Second Mate Couch as the Boats were made ready to Launch. (As a Surgeon, of course, I always have some Fear of injuring my Hands, although it is True that so far on this Voyage they have Suffered every Insult short of Serious Frostbite and Self-Amputation.)

  So it was that 7 Hours after Lieutenant Little, James Reid, Harry Peglar, and the six seamen had set off on their Reconnaissance, 80 of us on the ice prepared our own boats to follow. Due to movement of the Ice and lowering temperatures, the Lead had narrowed somewhat during the few hours of Darkness and few more hours of Sleep, and getting the nine Boats placed properly and launched correctly took some Skill. Eventually all of the boats —the 3 whaleboats with Captain Crozier’s in the lead (Second Mate Couch’s in second position with me aboard it) and then the 4 cutters (commanded, respectively, by Second Mate Robert Thomas, Bosun John Lane, Bosun’s Mate Thomas Johnson, and Second Lieutenant George Hodgson), followed by the two pinnaces under the command of Bosun’s Mate Samuel Brown and First Mate Charles Des Voeux (Des Voeux was third in command of our overall Expedition now behind Captain Crozier and Lieutenant Little and thus assigned the Responsibility of bringing up the rear).

  The weather had grown colder and there was Some light Snow falling, but by and large the Fog had lifted to become a Low-Hanging layer of Clouds moving only a Hundred Feet or so above the ice. While this allowed us to see much farther than in the fog of the previous Day, the effect was oppressive, as if all our Movements were taking place in some strange Ballroom set in a deserted Arctic Mansion with a shattered White Marble Floor underfoot and a Low Grey Ceiling with trompe l’oeil clouds just above us.

  At the moment the 9th and Final Boat was shoved into the water and its Crew clambered in, there was a faint and Sad Attempt at a hurrah from the men since it was the first time that most of these Deep Water Sailors had been afloat in almost 2 Years, but the Cheer died aborning. Concern about Lieutenant Little’s Crew’s Fate was too great to allow for any Sincere hurrahing.

  For the first Hour and a half, the only sounds were the Groaning of the Working Ice around us and the occasional Answering Groans of the Men Working at the oars. But seated near the front of the second boat as I was, sitting on the Thwart behind where Mr. Couch stood at the Bow, knowing that I was Superfluous to all Locomotive Purposes, as much Dead Weight as the poor comotose-but-still-breathing David Leys — whom the men had been hauling in one of the pinnaces without Complaint now for more than 3 Months and whom my new aide, former steward John Bridgens, duly fed and cleansed of his own Filth every Evening in the medical tent we shared as if he was caring for a Beloved but Paralysed Grandfather (ironic since Bridgens was in his early 60’s and comatose Leys was only 40) — my position thus situated allowed me to hear Whispered Conversation between the Men at the Oars.

  Little and the Others must have got themselves Lost, whispered a seaman named Coombs.

  There ain’t no way that Lieutenant Edward Little got himself Lost, shot back Charles Best. He may be Stuck, but not Lost.

  Stuck in what? whispered Robert Ferrier at an adjoining Oar. This Lead’s open Now. It was open Yesterday.

  Maybe Lieutenant Little and Mr. Reid found the way Open Ahead of them all the way to Back’s River and just raised their Sail and went on, whispered Tom McConvey from one Row back. They’re there already is my guess … eating Salmon that jumped into their boat and Trading beads for Blubber with the Natives.

  No one said anything to this unlikely Suggestion. The mention of the Esquimaux had caused Quiet Consternation since the massacre of Lieutenant Irving and 8 of the Savages on 24 April last. I believe that most of the Men, however desperate for Salvation or Rescue from any Source, Feared rather than Hoped for another contact with the local Native People. Revenge, Some natural philosophers suggest and Sailors endorse, is one of the most Universal of human motivations.

  Two and a half hours after leaving our campsite of the Previous Night, Captain Crozier’s whaleboat broke out of the Narrow Lead into an Open Stretch of water. Men in the lead boat and my own boat let out happy shouts. As if left behind to Point the Way, a tall black ship’s pike stood Upright, embedded in the Snow and Ice at the exit from this Lead. The Night’s snow and freezing drizzle had painted the northwest side of the pike White.

  These shouts also died Aborning as our Close Line of Boats pulled out into Open Water.

  The water was Red here.

  On shelves of ice to the Left and the Right of the Lead Opening, crimson streaks of what could only be Blood were smeared on the flat ice and down the Vertical Planes of the ice edges. The Sight sent a Shiver through me and I could see other men reacting with Open Mouths.

  Easy now, men, muttered Mr. Couch from the bow of our Boat. This is just the sign of seals caught by the White Bears; we’ve seen such Seal Gore before in the Summers.

  Captain Crozier in the lead boat was saying Similar Things to his Seamen.

  A minute later we knew that these Crimson signs of Carnage were not the Residue of Seals butchered by White Bears.

  Oh, Christ! exclaimed Coombs at his oar. All the men quit rowing. The Three whaleboats, Four cutters, and Two pinnaces floated into a sort of circle in the choppy red-tinted water.

  The bow of Lieutenant Little’s whaleboat rose vertically from the Sea. Its Name (one of the 5 boat Names not changed after Captain Crozier’s Leviathan sermon in May) — The Lady J. Franklin — was clearly Visible in black Paint. The boat had been Broken Apart about 4 feet Back from the bow so that only this Forward Section — the ragged End of shattered thwarts and splintered Hull just visible beneath the surface of the Dark and Icy Water — floated there.

  The men began Gathering other Flotsam as our 9 remaining Boats fanned out and rowed Slowly forward in a line: an Oar, more bits of Shattered Wood from gunwales and stern, a Steering Sweep, a Welsh wig, a bag that once held cartridges, a mitten, a bit of Waistcoat.

  When Seaman Ferrier used a boat hook to pull in what looked to be a floating bit of Blue Peacoat, he suddenly cried out in Horror and almost dropped the long gaff.

  A man’s body floated there, his Headless Corpse still Garbed in sodden blue Wool, his Arms and Legs hanging down in the black water. The neck was a mere bit of severed Stump. His fingers, perhaps swollen by death and the cold water but looking strangely shortened into broad Stubs, seemed to move in the Currents, rising and falling on the Slight Swell like White Worms wriggling. It was almost as if, Voiceless, the Body was trying to tell us something via Sign Language.

  I helped Ferrier and McConvey pull the Remains aboard. Fish or some Aquatic Predator had been nibbling at the Hands — the fingers were gone to the Second Joint — but the Extreme Cold had delayed the bloating and decomposition Processes.

  Captain Crozier brought his whaleboat around until its bow was touching our side.

  Who is it? muttered a seaman.

  It’s ’arry Peglar, cried another. I recognize the peajacket.

  Harry Peglar didn’t Wear no green Waistcoat, interjected another.

  Sammy Crispe did! exclaimed a 4th Seaman.

  Silence! bellowed Captain Crozier. Dr. Goodsir, be so Good as to turn out our unfortunate Shipmate’s pockets.

  I did so. From the large pocket of the Wet Waistcoat, I pulled an almost-Empty tobacco Pouch tooled in red leather.

  Ah, shite! said Thomas Tadman, sitting next to Robert Ferrier on my Boat. It’s poor Mr. Reid.

&nb
sp; And so it was. All the men then remembered that the Ice Master had been Wearing only his Peacoat and Green Waistcoat the previous evening, and All of Us had seen him refill his Pipe a thousand times from that faded red-leather pouch.

  We looked to Captain Crozier as if he could explain what had Happened to our Shipmates, although in our Souls, we all knew.

  Secure Mr. Reid’s body under that Boat Cover, ordered the Captain. We’ll search the area to see if there are any Survivors. Do not row or drift out of sight or shouting range.

  Once again, the boats fanned out. Mr. Couch brought our boat back to the ice near the Inlet Opening, and we Rowed Slowly along the icy Shelf that rose about 4 Feet above the open water’s Edge. We stopped at each smear of Blood on the surface of the Floe and on the Vertical Face, but there were no more bodies.

  Oh, damn, moaned 30-year-old Francis Pocock from his place at the Sweep in the Stern of our Boat. You can see the bloody grooves of the man’s Fingers and Nails in the Snow. The Thing must’ve dragged him backwards into the Water.

  Batten down your Gob on such Talk! called Mr. Couch. Holding his long pike easily in one hand like a True Whaleboat’s Harpoon, he had one Booted Foot up on the whaleboat’s Bow as he glowered back at the rowers. The men fell silent.

  There were three such Bloody Spots on the ice at this Nor’west End of the Open Water.The third One showed where Someone had been Eaten some 10 Feet back from the Edge of the ice. A few leg bones remained, as did some gnawed Ribs, a Torn Integument that might be Human Skin, and some Strips of Torn Cloth, but no skull or identifiable features.

  Put me on the ice, Mr. Couch, I said, and I shall Examine the Remains.