The Terror

by Dan Simmons

  “Me cut ’em up?” cried Golding. “You told me that’s why we were grabbin’ Goodsir, Cornelius. He was s’posed to do all the cutting up, not me.”

  “Goodsir will do the carving in the future, Bobby,” said Hickey. “Tonight you have to do it. We can’t trust Dr. Goodsir yet … not until we get him back with our people and many miles away from here. You be a good boy and go get the doctor and tie him up to a serac, tight, use your best knots, and tell Magnus to bring the carcasses over here where you can carve ’em. And get blades from Goodsir’s kit and the big knives and carpenter’s saw I brung that are over in the bag.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Golding. “But I’d rather search.” He trudged back out of the serac field.

  “The captain must have left half his blood between where you shot him and here, Cornelius,” said Aylmore. “If he didn’t go into the water, he can’t hide anywhere here without leaving a trail.”

  “That is precisely correct, Dickie my dear,” said Hickey with a strange smile. “If he’s not in the water he might crawl, but he cannot stop losing blood with wounds like that. We are going to search until we are sure he ain’t under the water nor curled up somewhere here in the seracs where he crawled and hid and bled himself to death. You start over there on the south side of the polynya, I’ll look to the north. We’ll go clockwise. If you see any wee sign, even a drop of blood, even a scuff in the snow, shout and stop. I’ll join you. And be careful. We don’t want the dying fucker jumping out of the shadows and grabbing one of our guns now, do we?”

  Aylmore looked surprised and alarmed. “Do you really think he could be strong enough to do that? With three bullets and all those shotgun pellets in him, I mean? Without his coat, he’d freeze to death in a few minutes anyway. It’s getting much colder and the wind’s getting stronger. Do you really think he’s lying in wait for us, Cornelius?”

  Hickey smiled and nodded toward the black pool. “No. I think he’s dead and drowned and down there. But we’re going to make fuckin’ sure. We’re not leaving here until we’re sure, even if we got to search until the God-poxed sun comes up.”

  In the end, they searched for three hours under the light of the rising and then descending moon. There were no signs at all near the polynya nor amid the seracs nor on the open ice fields beyond the seracs in all directions nor on the high pressure ridges to the north and south and east: no blood trails, no footprints, no drag marks.

  It took Robert Golding the full three hours to hack John Lane and William Goddard into the size pieces that Hickey had asked for, and even then the boy made a dreadful mess of it. Ribs, heads, hands, feet, and sections of spinal cord lay around him on all sides as if there had been an explosion in an abattoir. And young Golding himself was so covered with blood that he looked like a player in a minstrel show by the time Hickey and the others got back. Aylmore, Thompson, and even Magnus Manson were taken aback by their young apprentice’s appearance, but Hickey laughed long and hard.

  The gunnysacks and burlap bags were filled with meat wrapped in oilcloths they’d brought. Yet still the bags leaked.

  They untied Goodsir, who was shaking from the cold or shock.

  “Time to go, Surgeon,” said Hickey. “The other chaps are waiting ten miles west of here on the ice to welcome you home.”

  Goodsir said, “Mr. Des Voeux and the others will come after you.”

  “No,” said Cornelius Hickey, his voice showing his absolute certainty, “they won’t. Not with them knowing that now we got at least three shotguns and a pistol. And that’s if they ever find out we was here, which I think they won’t.” To Golding, he said, “Give our new crewmate a sack of meat to carry, Bobby.”

  When Goodsir refused to accept the bulging sack from Golding, Magnus Manson knocked him down, almost breaking the surgeon’s ribs. On the fourth attempt to hand him the dripping bag, after two more serious cuffings, the surgeon took it.

  “Let’s go,” said Hickey. “We’re done here.”

  54

  DES VOEUX

  Rescue Camp

  19 August, 1848

  First Mate Charles Des Voeux could not restrain himself from grinning as he and his eight men returned to Rescue Camp on the morning of Saturday, 19 August. For a change, he had nothing but good news to deliver to his captain and the men.

  The ice pack had opened to floes and navigable leads only four miles out, and Des Voeux and his men had spent another day following the leads south until the strait became open water all the way to the Adelaide Peninsula and almost certainly to the inlet to Back River farther east around that peninsula. Des Voeux had seen the low hills of the Adelaide Peninsula less than twelve open-water miles away from an iceberg they’d climbed at their farthest-south extension of the ice pack. They could go no farther without a boat, which had made First Mate Des Voeux grin broadly then and which made him grin again now.

  Everyone could leave Rescue Camp. Everyone there now had a chance at survival.

  Almost better news to bring home was the fact that they had spent two days shooting seals on the floes at the edge of the new open sea out there on the strait. For two days and nights, Des Voeux and his men had gorged themselves on seal meat and blubber, their bodies craving the fat so much that even though the rich food made then sick — after weeks of only ship’s biscuit and slivers of old salt pork — vomiting just made them hungrier, and they laughed and began gorging again almost immediately.

  Each of his eight men was dragging a carcass of a seal behind him now as they followed the bamboo wands across the last mile of coastal ice to the camp. The forty-six men in Rescue Camp would eat well tonight, as would again the eight triumphant explorers.

  All in all, Des Voeux thought as they came up the shingle past the boats, hallooing and hurrahing to get the camp’s attention, other than the young squirt Golding turning back on his own that first day because of a belly ache, it had been almost a perfect expedition. For the first time in months — in years — Captain Crozier and the others would have news to celebrate.

  They were all going home. If they left today, the healthy among them man-hauling the ill in the boats only the four miles on the winding trail through pressure ridges that Des Voeux had carefully charted, they would be afloat within three or four days, to the mouth of Back’s Great Fish River within the week. And it was probable that the opening leads had advanced even closer to shore by now!

  Filthy, ragged, slumped creatures emerged from their tents and left their desultory camp chores to come out to stare at Des Voeux’s party.

  The cheering of Des Voeux’s men — Fat Alex Wilson, Francis Pocock, Josephus Greater, George Cann, Robert Johns, Thomas Tadman, Thomas McConvey, and William Mark — died as they looked at the dour, immobile, haunted-eyed faces of the men facing them. The men from the camp could see the seals being dragged, but they seemed to have no reaction.

  Mates Couch and Thomas came out of their tents and down the shingle to stand in front of the line of Rescue Camp spectres.

  “Did someone die?” asked Charles Frederick Des Voeux.

  Second Mate Edward Couch, First Mate Robert Thomas, First Mate Charles Des Voeux, Erebus Captain of the Hold Joseph Andrews, and Terror Captain of the Maintop Thomas Farr were crowded into the oversized tent that had been used as Dr. Goodsir’s hospital. The amputees, Des Voeux had learned, had either died in the four days he was gone or been moved back to smaller tents shared with the other sick men.

  These five in this tent this morning were the last officers with any command authority left alive — or at least at Rescue Camp and well enough to walk — from the entire John Franklin Expedition. They had just enough tobacco left for four of the five — Farr did not smoke — to have their pipes going. The interior of the tent was filled with blue smoke.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t the thing from the ice that committed the carnage you found out there?” asked Des Voeux.

  Couch shook his head. “We thought that might be the case at first — in fact, that w
as our assumption — but the bones and heads and remaining pieces of flesh we found… .” He stopped and bit down hard on the stem of pipe.

  “Had knife marks on them,” finished Robert Thomas. “Lane and Goddard were butchered by a human being.”

  “Not a human being,” said Thomas Farr. “But some vile thing in the shape of a man.”

  “Hickey,” said Des Voeux.

  The others nodded.

  “We have to go after him and the murderers with him,” said Des Voeux.

  No one spoke for a moment. Then Robert Thomas said, “Why?”

  “To bring them to justice.”

  Four of the five men looked at one another. “They have three shotguns now,” said Couch. “And almost certainly the captain’s percussion-cap pistol.”

  “We have more men … guns … powder, shot, cartridges,” said Des Voeux.

  “Aye,” said Thomas Farr. “And how many of them would die in a battle with Hickey and his fifteen cannibals? Thomas Johnson ne’er came back, y’know. His job was just to track Hickey’s band, make sure they was leaving like they said they was.”

  “I can’t believe this,” said Des Voeux, removing his pipe and tamping at the bowl. “What about Captain Crozier and Dr. Goodsir? Are you just going to abandon them? Leave them to Cornelius Hickey’s whims?”

  “The captain ain’t alive,” said Captain of the Hold Andrews. “Hickey wouldn’t have no reason to keep Crozier alive … unless it was to torture and torment him.”

  “All the more reason to send a rescue party after them,” insisted Des Voeux.

  The others did not respond for a moment. The blue smoke swirled around them. Thomas Farr untied the tent door and opened it wider to let some air in and smoke out.

  “It’s been almost two days since whatever happened out on the ice happened,” said Edward Couch. “It would be several more days before any party we sent could find and fight Hickey’s group, even if they could find them. All the devil has to do is travel farther out on the ice or inland to throw us off. The wind obscures tracks in hours … even sledge tracks. Do you really think Francis Crozier, if he’s alive now — which I doubt — would be alive or in any shape to be rescued in five days or a week?”

  Des Voeux chewed the stem of his pipe. “Dr. Goodsir, then. We need the surgeon. Logic dictates that Hickey would keep him alive. Goodsir may be the reason Hickey and his accomplices came back.”

  Robert Thomas shook his head. “Cornelius Hickey may need Dr. Goodsir for his own infernal purposes, but we don’t any longer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that most of our good surgeon’s potions and instruments were left behind — he brought only his portable medical kit,” said Farr. “And Thomas Hartnell, who’s been his assistant, knows which potions to administer and how much and for what.”

  “What about actual surgery?” asked Des Voeux.

  Couch smiled sadly. “Lad, do you really think that anyone who needs actual surgery from this point on in our travels is likely to survive, no matter what?”

  Des Voeux did not answer.

  “And what if Hickey and his men ain’t goin’ nowhere?” asked Andrews. “And never planned to? He come back to kill the captain, grab Goodsir, and take poor John Lane and Bill Goddard and carve ’em up like animals. He sees all of us as livestock. What if he’s just waiting out there beyond the next rise, waiting to attack the whole camp?”

  “You’re turning the caulker’s mate into a bogeyman,” said Des Voeux.

  “He done that to his self already,” said Andrews. “But not a bogeyman, the Devil. The actual Devil. Him and his tame monster, Magnus Manson. They sold their souls — God-damn them — and received some dark power for it. Mark my words.”

  “You’d think that one real monster would be enough for any arctic expedition,” said Robert Thomas.

  No one laughed.

  “It’s all one real monster,” Edward Couch said at last. “And not a new one to our race.”

  “So what are you all suggesting?” Des Voeux asked after another spell of silence. “That we run from a five-foot-tall demon caulker’s mate and just head south with the boats tomorrow?”

  “Me, I’m saying we leave today,” said Joseph Andrews. “As soon as we load the boats with the few things we’re takin’. Man-haul through the night. With luck, there’ll be enough moonlight to guide by when she rises. If not, we use some of the lantern fuel we kept back. You said yourself, Charles, that the wands is still out there markin’ the way. They won’t be after the first real storm blows through.”

  Couch shook his head. “Des Voeux’s men are tired. Our people are totally demoralized. Let’s have a feast tonight — eat every one of those eight seals you brought in, Charles — then leave tomorrow morning. We’ll all have more of a sense of hope after a big meal, some cooking and light using the seal oil, and a good night’s sleep.”

  “But with men on watch tonight,” said Andrews.

  “Oh, aye,” said Couch. “I’ll stand watch myself. I’m not that hungry anyway.”

  “There’s the question of command,” said Thomas Farr, looking from face to face in the dim light filtering through the canvas.

  Several of the men sighed.

  “Charles is in overall command,” said First Mate Robert Thomas. “Sir John himself promoted him as first mate of the flagship when Graham Gore got killed, so he’s senior officer.”

  “But you were first mate on Terror, Robert,” Farr said to Thomas. “You have seniority.”

  Thomas shook his head adamantly. “Erebus was the command ship. When Gore was alive, it was understood that he had overall expedition command above mine. Charles’s got Gore’s job now. He’s in charge. I don’t mind. Mr. Des Voeux is a better leader than me, and we’re going to need leadership.”

  “I can’t believe that Captain Crozier’s gone,” said Andrews.

  Four of the five men smoked harder. No one spoke. They could hear men outside talking about the seals, someone laughing, and — beyond that — the cracking and rifle fire of ice breaking.

  “Technically,” said Thomas Farr, “Lieutenant George Henry Hodgson is in charge of the expedition now.”

  “Oh, fuck Lieutenant George Henry Hodgson up the arse with a hot poker,” said Joseph Andrews. “If the little weasel were to come crawlin’ back now, I’d strangle ’im with me own hands and piss on his corpse.”

  “I doubt very much if Lieutenant Hodgson is still alive,” Des Voeux said softly. “It’s decided then that I’m in overall command of the expedition now, with Robert second in command, Edward as third?”

  “Aye,” said the other four men in the tent.

  “Then understand that I’m going to keep conferring with the four of you as we have to make decisions,” said Des Voeux. “I’ve always wanted to be captain of my own ship … but not this fucking way. I’m going to need your help.”

  Everyone nodded behind their screen of pipe smoke.

  “I have one question before we go out and tell the men to start preparing for the feast today and departure tomorrow,” said Couch.

  Des Voeux, who was bareheaded in the heat of the tent, raised his eyebrows.

  “What about the sick men? Hartnell tells me that there are six who can’t walk, even if their lives depended on it. Too far gone in scurvy. Take Jopson, the captain’s steward, for instance. Mr. Helpman and our engineer, Thompson, are dead, but Jopson keeps hanging on. Hartnell says he can’t even lift his head to drink — he has to be helped — but he’s still alive. Do we take him with us?”

  Des Voeux looked at Couch and then at the other three faces for unspoken answers, but they gave him nothing.

  “And if we do take Jopson and the other dying ones,” continued Couch, “what do we take ’em as?”

  Des Voeux did not have to ask what the second mate meant. Do we haul them along as shipmates or as food?

  “If we leave them here,” he said, “they’ll sure as hell be food if Hickey comes back
the way some of you think he will.”

  Couch shook his head. “That isn’t what I’m asking.”

  “I know,” said Des Voeux. He took a deep breath, almost coughing because of the thick pipe smoke. “All right,” he said. “Here is my first decision as new commander of the Franklin Expedition. When we drag the boats to the ice in the morning, any man who can walk to the boats and get into harness — or even into one of the boats — comes with us. If he dies on the way, we’ll decide then whether to haul his body farther. I’ll decide. But tomorrow morning, only those who can walk to the boats will leave Rescue Camp.”

  None of the other men spoke, but several nodded. No one met Des Voeux’s gaze.

  “I’ll tell the men after we eat,” said Des Voeux. “Each of you four choose one reliable man to join you on watch tonight. Edward will set the schedule. Don’t let those men eat themselves into oblivion. We’ll need our wits about us — at least some of us — until we get safely to the open water.”

  All four men nodded at this.

  “All right, go tell your men about the feast,” said Des Voeux. “We’re done here.”

  55

  GOODSIR

  20 August, 1848

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

  Saturday, 20 August, 1848 —

  The Devil, Hickey, seems to have all the Good Fortune so denied to Sir John, Commander Fitzjames, and Captain Crozier for so many Months and Years.

  They do not know that I had Inadvertently put my Diary into my Medical Kit — or, rather, they probably know, since they thoroughly Searched my kit two nights ago after taking me Captive, but they do not Care. I sleep Alone in a tent except for Lieutenant Hodgson, who is as much Captive now as I am, and he does not Mind my scribbling in the dark.

  Part of me still cannot believe the Slaughter of my comrades — Lane, Goddard, and Crozier — and had I not Seen with my own Eyes the Feast of Human Flesh half of Hickey’s party celebrated late Friday night upon our return to this sledge Camp out on the Ice not far from our old River Camp, I still might not Believe in such Barbarism.