by Dan Simmons
So for each refusal, Commander Hickey had been forced to mete out a punishment for the recalcitrant surgeon. There had been three such punishments, so Goodsir was certainly having trouble walking now that they’d been forced ashore again.
Cornelius Hickey believed in luck — his own luck — and he’d always been a lucky man, but when luck failed him, he was always prepared to make his own.
In this case, when they’d come around the huge cape at the southwest corner of King William Land — sailing when they could, rowing hard when the leads grew narrow so close in to shore — and saw the solid pack ice ahead, Hickey had ordered the ship ashore and they’d reloaded the pinnace onto the sledge.
He didn’t need to remind the men about how lucky they were. While Crozier’s men were almost certainly dead or dying back there at Rescue Camp — or dying on the ice pack in the strait south of it — Hickey’s Chosen Few had made it more than two thirds, and possibly as much as three quarters, of the way back to Terror Camp and all the supplies cached there.
Hickey had decided that a leader of his stature — the reigning King of the Franklin Expedition — should not be forced to man-haul. The men were certainly being fed well thanks to him (and thanks only to him) and should have no complaints about illness or lack of energy, so for this final part of the voyage he had decided to sit in the stern of the pinnace atop the sledge and to allow his dozen surviving subjects, excluding only the limping Goodsir, to pull him across the ice, gravel, and snow as they rounded the north curve of the cape.
For the last few days, Magnus Manson had ridden in the pinnace with him, and not simply because everyone now understood that Magnus was the king’s consort as well as Grand Inquisitor and Executioner. Poor Magnus was having stomach pains again.
The primary reason that Goodsir was limping but still alive was that Cornelius Hickey had a deep fear of disease and contagion. The other men’s illnesses back at Rescue Camp and before — the bleeding scurvy especially — had disgusted and terrified the caulker’s mate. He needed a doctor along to attend to him, even though he had not yet shown the slightest sign of illness that so plagued such lesser men.
Hickey’s sledge team — Morfin, Orren, Brown, Dunn, Gibson, Smith, Best, Jerry, Work, Seeley, and Strickland — had also shown no signs of advancing scurvy now that their diet consisted of fresh or almost-fresh meat once again.
Only Goodsir was looking and acting sick, and that was because the fool insisted on eating only the last few ship’s biscuits and water. Hickey knew that he would soon have to step in and insist that the surgeon partake of a healthier antiscorbutic diet — the fleshy parts such as thigh, calf, and fore- and upper arm were the best — so that Goodsir did not die on them because of his own perverse stubbornness. A doctor, after all, should know better. Stale ship’s biscuits and water might sustain a rat if nothing else were available, but it was not a diet for men.
To make sure that Goodsir stayed alive, Hickey had long ago relieved the surgeon of all the medicines in his kit, watching over them himself and allowing Goodsir to dole them out to Magnus or others only under careful supervision. He also made sure that the surgeon had no access to knives, and when they were out at sea, he always had one of his men assigned to watch to make sure Goodsir did not throw himself overboard.
So far, the surgeon had shown no indications of choosing self-murder.
Magnus’s stomachache was now severe enough not only to keep the giant riding in the sledge-raised pinnace with Hickey during the day, but to keep him awake some nights. Hickey had never known his friend to have trouble sleeping.
The two tiny bullet wounds were the cause, of course, and Hickey forced Goodsir to attend to them daily now. The surgeon insisted that the wounds were superficial and that any infection had not spread. He showed both Hickey and the innocently peering Magnus — holding up his shirttails to peek with alarm at his own belly — how the flesh around the stomach was still pink and healthy.
“Then why the pain?” Hickey insisted.
“It’s like any bruise — especially a deep-muscle bruise,” said the surgeon. “It may continue to hurt for weeks. But it’s not serious, much less life-threatening.”
“Can you remove the balls?” asked Hickey.
“Cornelius,” whined Magnus. “I don’t want my balls removed.”
“I mean the bullets, darling,” said Hickey, petting the giant’s huge forearm. “The little bullets that are in your belly.”
“Perhaps,” said Goodsir. “But it would be better if I did not try. At least while we are on the march. The operation would require cutting through muscle that has already largely healed. Mr. Manson might have to lie down for several days of recovery … and there would always be the serious risk of sepsis. If we were to decide to remove the bullets, I would feel much more comfortable doing so at Terror Camp or when we are back at the ship. So the patient could recover in bed for several days or longer.”
“I don’t want my tummy to hurt,” rumbled Magnus.
“No, of course you don’t,” said Hickey, rubbing his partner’s huge chest and shoulders. “Give him some morphine, Goodsir.”
The surgeon nodded and meted out a bit of the painkiller into a spoon.
Magnus always enjoyed his spoonfuls of morphine and would sit in the bow of the pinnace and smile sweetly for an hour or more before falling asleep after getting his doses.
So on this Friday, the eighth day of September, all was right with King Hickey’s world. His eleven dray animals — Morfin, Orren, Brown, Dunn, Gibson, Smith, Best, Jerry, Work, Seeley, and Strickland — were well and free of disease and pulling hard each day. Magnus was happy most of the time — he enjoyed riding in the bow like an officer and looking back at the countryside they’d just crossed — and there was enough morphine and laudanum in the bottles to hold out until they reached Terror Camp or Terror herself. Goodsir was alive and limping along with the caravan and attending to the king and his consort. The weather was good, although growing colder, and there was absolutely no sign of the creature that had preyed on them in previous months.
Even with their vigorous diet, they had enough Aylmore and Thompson food stores left to provide stew over the next few days — they had found that human fat burned as fuel much as did whale blubber, although less efficiently and for shorter periods. Hickey had plans for a lottery after that if they needed one more sacrifice before they reached Terror Camp.
They could go on shorter rations, of course, but Cornelius Hickey knew that a short-straw lottery would instill terror into the hearts of his eleven already-compliant dray animals and reaffirm who was king of this expedition. Hickey was always a light sleeper but now slept with one eye open and his hand on the percussion-cap pistol, but one last public sacrifice — presumably with Magnus then having to dole out the fourth public punishment for noncompliance to Goodsir — should break any last hidden will to resist that might be left in his dray beasts’ treacherous hearts.
Meanwhile, this Friday was beautiful, with temperatures in the pleasant twenties and a blue sky growing bluer to the north along their line of travel. The heavy boat sat high on the sledge while the wooden runners scratched and hissed as they slid across ice and gravel. In the bow, Magnus, recently dosed, was smiling, holding his belly with both hands and humming a soft tune.
It was less than thirty miles to Terror Camp and John Irving’s grave near Victory Point, they all knew, and less than half that to Lieutenant Le Vesconte’s grave along the coast. With the men strong, they were covering two to three miles each day and would probably do better if their diet improved again.
To that end, Hickey had just torn a blank page out of one of the multiple Bibles that Magnus had insisted upon gathering up and loading into the pinnace when they left Rescue Camp — never mind that the gentle idiot did not know how to read — and was now tearing that page into eleven equal little strips of paper.
Hickey, of course, would be exempt from the coming lottery, as would Magnus and the God-da
mned surgeon. But tonight, when they stopped to brew up tea and the evening stew, Hickey would have each man write his own name or put his sign on one of the slips of paper and all would be ready for the lottery itself. Hickey would have Goodsir look the slips over and publicly confirm that each man had signed his own true name or unique sign.
Then the names would go into the king’s peacoat pocket in preparation for the solemn ceremony to come.
58
GOODSIR
On the SW Cape of King William Island
5 October, 1848
From the personal diary of Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir:
6, 7, or perhaps 8 October, 1848 —
I have taken the Final Draught. It will be a Few Minutes before the Full Effect is Felt. Until it Is, I shall Catch Up on my diary.
These Last Few Days I have been recalling the Details of how young Hodgson confided in me and Whispered to me in the tent Weeks ago on that Last Night before Mr. Hickey shot him.
The Lieutenant whispered, I apologize for Disturbing you, Doctor, but I have to tell Someone I am Sorry.
I whispered back, You are not a Papist, Lieutenant Hodgson. And I am Not your Confessor. Go to Sleep and let me Sleep.
Hodgson Insisted, I apologize again, Doctor. But I have to tell someone how Sorry I am for Betraying the Captain — who was always Good to Me — and for Allowing Mr. Hickey to take you Captive like This. I sincerely Regret it and I am Dreadfully Sorry.
I Lay there Silently, Saying nothing, Giving the boy nothing.
Ever Since John was killed, persisted Hodgson. I mean, Lieutenant Irving, my Dear Friend from Gunnery School, I have been Convinced that Caulker’s Mate Hickey committed the Murder and I have been Terrified of Him.
Why would You Throw in Your Lot with Mr. Hickey if you thought him a Monster? I whispered in the Dark.
I was … Afraid. I wanted to be on His Side because he was so Terrible, whispered Hodgson. And then the Boy began to Weep.
I said, Shame on you.
But I put my Arm around the Boy and patted his Back while he Wept until he fell Asleep.
The Next Morning, Mr. Hickey assembled Everyone and had Magnus Manson force Lieutenant Hodgson to kneel before Him while the Caulker’s Mate brandished his Pistol and Announced how He — Mr. Hickey — would Brook no Shirking, explaining again How the Good Men Amongst Us would eat and live while the Shirkers would Die.
Then he set the long-barreled Weapon to the base of George Hodgson’s skull and Blew his Brains out onto the Gravel.
I have to say that the Boy was Brave at his end. He showed no Fear at all that Morning. His last words before the Pistol’s Explosive Discharge were, You can go to Hell.
I only wish that my End would be so Brave. But I know now for a Certainty that it Will Not.
Mr. Hickey’s Theatricals were not at an End with the Death of Lt. Hodgson, nor when Magnus Manson stripped the Boy Naked and left his Corpse Lying there in front of the Assembly.
The Sight made my Chest hurt. Speaking as a Man of Medicine, poor Hodgson was Thinner than I would have Thought Possible with any Recently Living Human Being. His Arms were mere Sheaths of Skin along Bones. His Ribs and Pelvis pressed Outward so Fiercely against the Skin that they threatened to Burst Through. And everywhere, the Boy’s flesh was Mottled with Bruises.
Nonetheless, Mr. Hickey called me Forward, handed me a Pair of Shears, and insisted that I Begin Dissecting the Lieutenant in front of the Assembled Men.
I demurred.
Mr. Hickey, his voice Pleasant, asked Again.
I demurred Again.
Mr. Hickey then commanded Mr. Manson to take the Shears from me and to Strip me as Naked as the Corpse at our Feet.
Once I was Without Clothing, Mr. Hickey paced back and forth in front of the men and Pointed to my Naked Features. Mr. Manson stood nearby holding the Shears.
There ain’t no Room for Shirkers in our Band of Brothers — said Mr. Hickey. And while we need this Surgeon — for I do Plan to Take care of your Dear Men’s health, every Man Jack of you — he must be Punished when he Refuses to Serve our Common Good. Twice he Has Refused this Morning. We shall Remove Two Unessential Appendages as a Sign of Our Displeasure.
And with that, Mr. Hickey Proceeded to prod at Different Parts of my Anatomy with the Pistol Barrel — my Fingers, my Nose, my Penis, my Testicles, my Ears.
Then he Raised my Hand.
A Surgeon needs ’is Fingers if he’s going to be any Use to us — he announced Theatrically and Laughed. We’ll save those for Last.
Most of the Men Laughed.
He don’t need his Pizzle nor Bollocks, though, said Mr. Hickey, prodding at the Aforementioned Parts with his Very Cold Pistol Barrel.
The Men Laughed again. The Anticipation, I think, was very high.
But today we is Merciful, said Mr. Hickey. He then ordered Mr. Manson to lop off Two of my Toes.
Which two, Cornelius? asked the large Idiot.
You choose, Magnus, said our Master of Ceremonies.
The Assembled Men laughed yet Again. I could Sense their Disappointment that something so Banal as Mere Toes were being Removed, yet I could also Tell that they enjoyed seeing Magnus Manson as the Master of My Phalangeal Fate. It was not their Fault. The Average Seaman Turned out Here had no Formal Education Whatsoever and Disliked anyone who did.
Mr. Manson Chose my Two Big Toes.
The Audience laughed and applauded.
The Shears were Applied quickly and Mr. Manson’s great Strength worked to my Advantage in the Procedure.
There was more Laughter — and great Interest — as my Medical Kit was brought and everyone watched as I Tied Off necessary Arteries, Stemmed the Bleeding as Best I could — all the while feeling rather Faint — and applied Preliminary Dressings to the Wounds.
Mr. Manson was directed to Carry me back to my Tent; his Ministrations were as Gentle as a Mother’s to a sick Child.
That was also the Day when Mr. Hickey thought to Relieve me of My more Efficacious Medicinal Bottles. But before that Morning, I had Already Poured the Majority of the Morphine, Opium, Laudanum, Dover’s Powders, poisonous mercury Calomel, and Mandragora into a single Opaque and Innocent-Looking Bottle marked Sugar of Lead and hidden that somewhere Other than my Medical Kit. I had then used water to bring the Visible Levels of Morphine, Opium, and Laudanum up to previous Heights.
The Irony here is that each time I Dose Mr. Manson for his “Tummy Aches,” he is receiving more than Eight Parts water to Two Small Parts morphine. The Giant does not seem to notice the Loss of Efficacy, however, which once again reminds me of the Importance of Belief in the entire Medical process.
Since that Day of Lt. Hodgson’s Demise, I have Demurred again to the Sum of Eight more Toes, One Ear, and my Foreskin.
The Last Operation created so much Mirth among the Assembled Men, despite the fresh Corpses lying in front of them, that one would have Thought that the Circus had come to Perform for them.
I know why Mr. Hickey has never made Good on his repeated Threats to relieve me of my Male Member or Testicles. The Caulker’s Mate has seen enough Shipboard injuries to know that Bleeding from such Wounds often cannot be Stopped — especially when the Surgeon is the one bleeding and Quite Apt to be unconscious or suffering from Shock when the Operation must Necessarily be Performed — and Mr. Hickey does not want me dead.
Walking has been very Difficult since my Seventh through Tenth toes have been Removed. I had never truly Understood how Essential our Digits are for Balance. And the Pain, of course, over the past Month, has not been Insignificant.
I think I would be Committing the Sin of Pride — not to mention that of Lying — if I said Here that I had not considered Drinking from my hidden bottle of Morphine, Opium, and Laudanum (and other materia medica) all mixed into the hidden bottle I have Thought of for so many Weeks as my Final Draught.
But I never took the Bottle out of hiding.
Not until this Hour.
I Confess I had
thought the Effect would be more Rapid than it is Proving.
I can no Longer feel my Feet — which is a Blessing — and my Legs have just gone Numb up to the Patella. But at this Rate, it will be another Ten Minutes or More before the Potion reaches and Stills my Heart and other Vital Organs.
I have just Drunk more of the Final Draught. I suspect I was a Coward for not Drinking it all down At Once to begin with.
I confess here — for Purely Scientific Purposes should someone someday discover this Diary — that the Mixture is not only Quite Potent but Quite Intoxicating. If anyone else here were alive this dark, stormy Afternoon — except for Mr. Hickey and possibly Mr. Manson up in their Throne Pinnace — they should see my Last Moments spent with Bobbing Head and Drunkard’s Grin.
But I do not Recommend that this Experiment be Repeated for anything but the most Dire of Medicinal Purposes.
And this leads to a true Confession.
For the First and Only Time in my Medical Career and Life, I have not Served a Patient to the Utmost of my Ability.
I speak, of course, in regards to poor Mr. Magnus Manson.
My Initial Diagnosis of the twin Gunshot Wounds was a Lie. The Bullets were small of caliber, it is True, but the Tiny Pistol must have packed a Great Charge of Powder, for both Projectiles had — it was Obvious from my first Inspection — penetrated the Idiot Giant’s skin, flesh, muscle layer, and stomach lining.
From my first Consultation, I had known that the Bullets were in Mr. Manson’s Belly, Spleen, Liver, or some other Vital Organ, and that his Survival Depended upon Exploratory and then Removal Surgery.
I Lied.
If there is a Hell — in which I no longer Believe, since this Earth and some of the People in it are Hell enough for any Universe — I would be and should be Cast Down to the Worst Bolgia of the Lowest Circle.
I Don’t Care.
I should say here — my Chest is now Cold and my Figners … fInGErS are also growing Cold.
When the Storm STRk about one Monf ago, I thank’d Gd.