Killigrew and the North-West Passage

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘A miracle, sir,’ Qualtrough told him. ‘Because that’s what it’s going to take to get us out of here.’

  * * *

  Molineaux sat down to dinner on the mess deck and listened to the crackling of the ice outside. In contrast to the oppressive silence of Beechey Island, the pack was a cacophony. The jumbled floes shifted constantly, jostling one another, sometimes cracking, sometimes rising in slabs that slithered upwards to form weird, angular pressure ridges that crisscrossed the pack, separating the fields of ice like hedgerows in the countryside.

  Sometimes the floes screeched eerily as they ground against one another, now like a nighthawk, now like the squealing wheels of a steam train; at other times they boomed like distant artillery as they were snapped by the weight of the floes pressing up behind them. And all that pressure was building up around the Venturer’s hull. The ship responded to the pressure with her own protests, the bolts and fastenings cracking like pistol shots in the cold. To make matters worse, Pettifer’s dachshund responded to the unearthly sounds by adding her own keening howls to the ululating threnody of the wind. It was bad enough in the mess deck, at the opposite end of the ship; Christ only knew how Pettifer could put up with it.

  It was not so bad during the day, when one’s duties distracted from the sound, and the constant hubbub of voices and the clump of footsteps helped to cover it. But at night, as the men lay in their hammocks, Molineaux could hear the ice scratching against the outside of the hull, less than a foot from his head. After what he had seen on the Jan Snekker, it did not take too much imagination to conjure up images of a polar bear scratching its claws on the planks outside, trying to get in. But a polar bear could be shot, he told himself; there was no defence against the ice. He sensed they were alive because the Arctic permitted them to live this long; but it was only a matter of time before the capricious environment changed its mind and crushed them in its icy grip.

  The noise and the tension robbed everyone of sleep, which only made them tenser, and the men quarrelled over the smallest things.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ Corporal Naylor demanded when Able Seaman Johnno Smith, who was mess cook for the day, started to dole out their victuals. On most ships, the marines would have been carefully segregated from the sailors – whom they would have to shoot in the event of a mutiny – and messed separately. But space was at a premium on board an exploring ship, even compared to other naval vessels, and with as small a crew as the Venturer had, it made no sense to waste space for a second mess for the five marines on board.

  ‘Salt pork and split peas,’ said Smith. ‘Same as it always is on Wednesdays.’

  ‘I can see that,’ snapped Naylor. ‘Don’t tell me there’s three-quarters of a pound of pork there, cooked or raw.’

  ‘We’re on six-upon-four until further notice. Cap’n’s orders. In case we get stuck in the ice for longer than we anticipated.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous, isn’t it?’ said Hughes. ‘We need proper full meals inside us in weather like this, not six-upon-four. I’ll bet the bloody officers aren’t on six-upon-four. I’ll bet they’re bloody gorging themselves on beef tongues and rice in the wardroom.’

  ‘They have corned beef on Wednesdays,’ Johnno told them. ‘And Vinny says they’re on reduced rations, the same as the rest of us.’

  ‘Corned beef, huh?’ said Molineaux. ‘I’d rather have salt pork and split peas.’ He would rather have had a full ration too, but that went without saying.

  ‘Easy for them,’ sneered Hughes. They’ve got their private stocks of food from Fortnum and bloody Mason. They won’t go hungry. Their kind never does. Typical! The capitalists exploiting the working class as always.’

  ‘I’d hardly describe you as working class, Red,’ said O’Houlihan, getting a laugh from the other seamen. Hughes was notorious for scrimshanking when there was work to be done.

  ‘Hold on a moment, Mick,’ said Naylor. ‘I’m starting to think Red’s got a point. Cap’n Carney and the others are happy enough to lead us all to our deaths, but if they get a chance to get out of it, you think they won’t leave us behind if they have to?’

  ‘You don’t know them very well if you think they’d do that,’ scoffed Molineaux.

  ‘Oh, no?’ said Naylor. ‘You can trust them if you like, Wes, but I’m with Red here. I trusted Cap’n Carney when he told us that with all the newfangled dooflickers on this ship, there was no way we could get trapped in the ice. Speaking tubes that disintegrate in the cold air. Steam engines that are supposed to be able to drive through the ice. Where’s that got us?’

  ‘Stow it, Naylor,’ said Molineaux. ‘You volunteered for this expedition, same as the rest of us. There were never any guarantees. Anyhow, we’re stuck now, so there’s no point whining about it. We’ve just got to knuckle down and hope that the pack loosens enough for us to break free.’

  ‘And if it don’t loosen? What if we’re stuck here for the rest of our lives, like Franklin and them others?’

  Molineaux stood up. ‘You got any better suggestions, Naylor?’

  The corporal also stood up. ‘Cap’n Carney and those others aren’t going to get us out of this, I know that much.’

  Osborne caught Naylor by the sleeve and tried to pull him back down to his seat. ‘Sit down, Dick. It’s not worth it.’

  Naylor jerked his arm free of Osborne’s grip. ‘You keep out of this, Bernie. You heard Ågård tell the cap’n we shouldn’t enter the ice. Well, the cap’n ignored him and none of the other officers did owt about it, and now we’re stuck. But did they let Ågård out of the lazaretto and apologise to him? Did they hell as like!’

  ‘Ollie spoke out of turn,’ said Molineaux. ‘Same as you’re speaking out of turn now.’

  ‘I’ll speak out of turn when I like, Wes Molineaux. Maybe it’s time we took charge of things.’

  Everyone on the mess deck stopped talking at once. Naylor had just proposed building a tower of Babel.

  ‘That’s mutinous talk,’ Molineaux said softly.

  ‘I’d rather be a live mutineer than a dead lapdog like you!’

  ‘Aye, I’m with you, Corporal!’ said Hughes. ‘We’ll show those capitalist bastards, eh?’

  ‘Shut up, Red,’ said Naylor. ‘This ain’t about your bloody working-class struggle. This is about us living long enough to see old England again. Because we won’t if we leave things to those bastards!’ He gestured angrily towards the officers’ accommodation aft.

  ‘Which bastards are those then, Corporal Naylor?’ Thwaites stepped up beside the marine and laid his cherriculum across his brawny chest. ‘Did I hear thee inciting mutiny?’

  ‘You must’ve misunderstood, Bosun,’ Molineaux said quickly. ‘The corporal didn’t say anything about—’

  ‘Pipe down, Molineaux! I wasn’t speaking to thee! Well, Naylor? What does tha’ say? Perhaps I should take thee down t’ cap’n’s quarters and we’ll let him see what he thinks we should do with a mutinous dog like thee.’

  Naylor refused to back down. ‘Aye, take me to see the cap’n. I’ll tell him what I think. I’ll tell him—’

  They never found out what Naylor was going to tell the captain, because Molineaux chose that moment to drive a fist into the corporal’s jaw. Naylor tripped over the seat-locker behind him and sprawled across a table, scattering mugs and pannikins.

  ‘What did tha’ do that for, Molineaux?’ demanded Thwaites.

  ‘He called my blower a whore, Bosun.’

  ‘Thi’ blower is a whore, Molineaux.’

  ‘Maybe she is, Mr Thwaites. But it ain’t for the likes of him to say so.’

  ‘The cap’n takes a dim view of brawling, Molineaux. I’ve half a mind to take thee before him instead of Naylor here.’ He glanced at the corporal, who had slithered to the floor and was fingering his jaw gingerly. ‘But I reckon he was asking for it. Not for calling thi’ lass a whore, mind thee.’

  The boatswain turned to address the whole mess deck. ‘The next man I hea
r talking of mutiny, I’ll have him strung up from t’ yard-arm, just thee see if I don’t! What started all this? Being put on six-upon-four, I suppose.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Call thissen British tars? Tha’art supposed to be the best, aren’t thee? Tha’s volunteered for discovery service, dreaming of glory and riches, and at t’ first hint of hardship tha’ start to grumble! Tha’ think that things are tough now, tha’s not lived, boys. Tha’ wait until t’ winter sets in, then we’ll be able to separate t’ sheep from t’ goats. British tars in my eye! That’s nowt. Tha’s dung. Tha’s worse’n dung. Thee’d defile dung if thee licked it. Tha’ don’t hear Sørensen or Kracht whingeing, does thee? And them isn’t even British! Buck up th’ ideas sharpish, or I’ll have to give thee all a taste of real hardship! Put that in tha’ pipes, and smoke it!’ He stalked off.

  Naylor glared at Molineaux. ‘Hell of a punch you pack, Wes. I wonder if you can take them as well as you dish them out?’

  ‘Why don’t you try me, Dicky boy?’ Molineaux said softly, his fists clenched by his sides.

  ‘Pack it in, the pair o’ yez!’ said O’Houlihan. ‘Grown men acting like kidgers, so yez are! The bosun’s right; it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better, so we’d better stop grumbling and brace ourselves. And as for you, Dicko, I reckon you can count yourself lucky you didn’t get yourself a flogging. You can thank Wes for that.’

  ‘Aye,’ sneered Naylor. ‘Maybe one day I’ll get a chance to return the favour.’

  * * *

  Killigrew knocked on the door to Strachan’s cabin.

  ‘Come in!’

  It was two bells in the first watch, after ‘ship’s company’s fire and lights out’, and Killigrew expected to find the assistant surgeon in his bunk. But Strachan was at his desk, reading a book by candlelight. ‘Hullo, Killigrew. What can I do for you?’

  The lieutenant slipped inside the cabin and closed the door behind him. He held out one of the ship’s ledgers to Strachan. ‘I’d like you to take a look at this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sørensen’s translation of the log we found on board the Jan Snekker. It makes interesting reading. I’d like your opinion on it. As a zoologist.’

  ‘As a zoologist?’ Intrigued, Strachan opened the ledger and glanced at the first page.

  ‘You can save time and start at the entry for September eighteen-fifty,’ Killigrew told him. ‘But later.’ He kept his voice low, not that there was much point: the groaning of the ship’s timbers as the ice pressed against her sides would have drowned out a chorus. ‘I can’t sleep with the racket that damned dog is making. Is there something you can give me for it?’

  ‘Laudanum, you mean? Are you sure that’s wise, with your history?’

  ‘It’s not for me, it’s for the dog.’

  Strachan blinked. ‘Are you suggesting we drug Horatia?’

  ‘Orsini thinks he can slip something in her food.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Killigrew. I will not be responsible for turning a poor wee animal into an opium addict!’

  ‘It’s the bitch or us, Strachan. It’s driving everyone insane!’

  ‘Even if you could silence Horatia, that wouldn’t silence the ice, would it? And let’s face facts, that’s what’s really getting everyone so worked up, isn’t it? The thought of all that ice out there, pressing against the hull?’ Strachan shook his head. ‘It’s the ice you want to silence, but you can’t, so you want to take it out on the dog. Come in!’ he added, as someone else knocked on the door.

  It was Private Phillips. ‘Mr Killigrew! I’ve been looking for you. It’s Ågård, sir. He’s been taken queer.’

  ‘Taken queer? What the devil do you mean, taken queer?’

  ‘I can hear him in the lazaretto, sir, moaning and groaning. I keep asking him if anything’s the matter, but he won’t answer.’

  ‘I’ll get the keys.’ Killigrew entered the gunroom and knocked on the door to Latimer’s cabin.

  ‘Come in,’ the clerk called wearily. He squinted blearily at Killigrew from his bunk. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Killigrew.’

  ‘Uhn. Have you spoken to Strachan about shutting that damned dog up yet, sir?’

  ‘Just now. He refuses. He doesn’t want the dog to become an opium addict.’

  ‘I forget he was a rotten animal lover. Tell him if he doesn’t get that dog to shut up one way or another, one of us is going to kill it. My money’s on Dr Bähr. And if it’s still alive when we get back to civilisation, I’m going to kidnap the confounded brute and take it to a sporting gentleman of my acquaintance who keeps rats.’

  ‘Horatia isn’t a trained ratter.’

  ‘Exactly!’ There was a dark glint in Latimer’s eyes.

  ‘Have you got the keys to the lazaretto?’

  ‘Shelf.’ Latimer gestured vaguely across the cabin.

  The shelf above the clerk’s desk was cluttered with enough bottles of medicines and pills to rival the dispensary. It was a wonder Latimer did not have any laudanum of his own: he had just about everything else.

  Killigrew found the keys amongst the various medications. ‘Much obliged.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. You can return them in the morning.’ Latimer buried his head under the pillow.

  Killigrew, Strachan and Phillips made their way down to the orlop deck. The marine had not been exaggerating when he said that Ågård had been moaning and groaning: the ice quartermaster sounded like a soul in torment. Killigrew unlocked the door.

  ‘Careful, sir,’ said the marine. ‘It might be a trick. Maybe he’s planning to do a runner.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Phillips. Where’s he going to go? We’re more than a thousand miles from civilisation. No one knows that better than Ågård.’

  He opened the door. The ice quartermaster was rolling about on the floor, writhing spastically, rattling the chains of his irons like Marley’s ghost. His unshaven face was ashen in the light of Phillips’ lantern, bathed in sweat, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed eyelids.

  ‘He’s having a nightmare,’ said Strachan.

  Killigrew crouched over Ågård and gently shook him awake. The ice quartermaster’s eyelids flicked up and he stared wild-eyed at the lieutenant, clenching fistfuls of his frock coat. ‘We’re all going to die!’ he moaned. ‘Don’t you see? We’re all going to die!’

  ‘No one’s going to die, Ågård. Pull yourself together, man! You were having a nightmare, that’s all.’

  The ice quartermaster lowered his gaze and his shoulders heaved as he laughed and cried hysterically at the same time. When he looked up again, he seemed a little calmer. ‘You’ve got to let me out of here, sir! For the love of God, let me out of here!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ågård. The Old Man’s orders…’

  The ice quartermaster seized Killigrew by the throat. ‘Let me out of here now! I don’t want to die down here!’

  Phillips thrust the lantern into Strachan’s hands and moved to help the lieutenant, but by then Killigrew had already pulled Ågård’s hands away, and he motioned for the marine to stay back. There was no sense in making Ågård feel even more claustrophobic by crowding around him.

  ‘All right.’ Killigrew started to unlock Ågård’s irons. ‘Ten minutes on deck. That’s all.’

  ‘Sir, the cap’n’s orders…’ protested Phillips.

  ‘I’ll take full responsibility,’ said Killigrew. ‘Go with him while he gets his coat from his cabin, then take him topsides.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  There was no point in rousing Commander Pettifer from his cabin at such a late hour; Killigrew would tell him what he had done in the morning. He made his way to his own cabin, wrapped up warmly, and then went on deck. Cavan met him at the top of the after hatch.

  ‘Mr Strachan and Private Phillips have brought Ågård up on deck, sir. They say that you—’

  ‘Yes, Cavan, it’s all right,’ Killigrew told them. ‘I gave them permission.’

 
‘Does the Old Man know, sir?’

  ‘It’s after nine, Cavan, and the captain needs his sleep.’ Assuming Pettifer could sleep, with the ice crackling all around the ship and Horatia howling endlessly in the day-room right next to his cabin. How could one small dachshund have so much breath in her lungs? ‘I’ll tell him in the morning.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Killigrew crossed to where Strachan and Phillips flanked Ågård at the bulwark, the ice quartermaster gulping the fresh, sharp air into his lungs like a man saved from drowning. Despite the late hour, it was still no darker than dusk, and in the half-light they could see the jumbled pack that stretched out on all sides of the ship.

  ‘Feel better now?’ Strachan asked Ågård.

  The ice quartermaster smiled wanly. ‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’

  Strachan proffered him a cigarillo. ‘Have one of these. It will help soothe your nerves. You’re claustrophobic?’

  Ågård shook his head and lit the cigarillo from a match Strachan struck for him before replying. ‘Sixteen years ago, when I was specksnyder on a whaler, she was caught in the ice returning through the Middle Pack. The skipper sent me below with three shipmates to bring up some casks of vittles, in case the hull was crushed and we were left stranded on the ice. Well, she was crushed right enough, but a lot sooner than any of us expected. The cover fell over the hatch and the sides were pressed in so hard it got wedged there. We shouted for help, but all we could hear was the thunder of our shipmates’ feet on the deck above us as they scrambled for the upper deck to do a flit. We threw ourselves at the hatch cover, attacked it with our crowbars, but it wouldn’t shift. Then pressure of the ice opened the seams.’

  White-faced in the moonlight, Ågård trembled as he spoke. ‘For nine hours we were trapped in that hold while it slowly filled with ice-cold water. We only had the stub of a candle; it burned away in half an hour and left us in the darkness. All we could do was sit there and wonder how we’d die: by freezing, drowning or crushing.

  ‘Bob Jameson was the first to lose his head. I think we all went a little bit crazy – who wouldn’t? – but Bob just lost his mind, lost it completely, started screaming his head off. First we tried to calm him down, then gave up and concentrated on trying to get that hatch cover up, though we knew it were hopeless. We thought he’d run out of breath sooner or later. But he didn’t. He just went on screaming, on and on, until finally Johnny Harper couldn’t take it any longer. I don’t know how he killed Bob; used his clasp-knife, I s’pose, for he was always handy with it. We could hear Bob gurgling as he died. And then it was just me, Alex and Johnny, trapped in there and one of us a murderer.