‘Careful!’ warned Bähr, his shotgun still levelled. ‘It might be playing possum.’
O’Houlihan advanced slowly with the ice-axe raised. Killigrew ran out of patience and grabbed the bear’s right forepaw. The animal was nothing but a dead weight: a bullet had drilled through its skull. Killigrew heaved. ‘Pull him out!’
The Irishman dropped the ice-axe and seized Strachan’s ankles, pulling him clear. Killigrew let go of the dead bear, and the two cubs moved closer, pawing uncertainly at their mother as if they thought she was just sleeping. O’Houlihan brandished the ice-axe at them. ‘Shoo, yer buggers! ’
‘Is he all right?’ Killigrew asked anxiously, as Bähr made a cursory examination of the assistant surgeon.
‘No wounds that I can see. He’s lost consciousness, though.’
‘Concussion?’
‘Fainted, I should say.’
‘Fetch some smelling salts from the sick-berth, Molineaux,’ ordered Killigrew. ‘You’ll find them in a bottle marked “sal ammoniac”.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Bähr said before the petty officer had taken a second step. ‘This should do the trick.’ He scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it in Strachan’s face.
The assistant surgeon spluttered his way back to semi-consciousness.
‘It’s all right, Strachan,’ Killigrew told him, trying to drag him back to the present. ‘You’re all right.’
The assistant surgeon blinked at him. ‘Of course I’m all right! Why shouldn’t I be all right?’ He massaged his ribs through his gauntlets and grimaced. ‘I had the strangest dream. I dreamed I was attacked by an Ursus maritimus…’
With an apologetic expression, Killigrew nodded to the dead bear lying behind Strachan, the two cubs still nuzzling it in spite of O’Houlihan’s efforts to drive them off. Strachan glanced over his shoulder and blanched; Killigrew thought he was going to faint again. But instead the assistant surgeon managed a wan grin.
‘Whew! I know I came to the Arctic to study wildlife, but that’s as close to nature as I care to get.’ He glanced at Bähr, who still held his shotgun. ‘It’s fortunate for me you’re a good shot, doctor. I’m obliged to you.’
Bähr scowled and turned away. ‘Not Dr Bähr, sir,’ explained Private Phillips. ‘Molineaux. He grabbed my musket and brought the bugger down with one shot. Just as it was jumping at you too, sir.’
The petty officer looked embarrassed. ‘You’d’ve done the same for me, sir.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Strachan. ‘But I’d’ve missed.’
Bähr was evidently miffed that the first polar bear they had encountered had been killed by a common petty officer – and a negro at that – instead of himself.
‘Never mind, doctor,’ Killigrew tried to console him. ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of other opportunities for you to bag a bear before the winter’s out.’
The doctor did not smile. He broke open his shotgun, plucked out the spent cartridge, and replaced it with a fresh one.
Terregannoeuck started talking in his own tongue, a droning monologue. Killigrew looked up to see who he was speaking to and realised that he was addressing the carcass of the dead bear.
‘I don’t think it can hear you, Terry,’ O’Houlihan said with a grin.
Terregannoeuck glared at the interruption. ‘We must thank nanuq,’ he explained, ‘for allowing us to slay her.’
‘Thank nanuq for allowing us to slay her,’ echoed Killigrew. Well, if that was the Inuit custom, who was he to mock it? It could do no harm. He turned back to Strachan. ‘Come on, let’s get you back on board the Venturer. I’ll wager you could use a drink.’
‘A stiff one,’ agreed Strachan.
Killigrew turned to the other crew members who had gathered around them. ‘Come on, back to your duties,’ he told them. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to admire Molineaux’s kill later. Divisions in five minutes, everyone.’
They were halfway back to the foot of the Venturer’s gangplank when they heard a shot behind them. Killigrew whirled to see one of the polar bear cubs sprawled in the ice beside its mother’s carcass, its haunches a bloody mess, Bähr standing over it with his shotgun in his hands, one of the muzzles smoking. Finally realising that this was no game, the second cub turned and ran. Bähr levelled his shotgun at the cub’s flanks. Terregannoeuck broke off his private ceremony and tried to stop the doctor, but it was too late: Bähr fired. A crimson splash stained the cub’s ivory-coloured hide, and the cub yelped briefly, sprawled on the ice and lay still.
Terregannoeuck reached Bähr, snatched the shotgun from his hands and drove the stock into the doctor’s jaw. Bähr fell on the ice and glared up at the Inuk, more humiliated than hurt.
Killigrew sprinted back across to the pair of them and grabbed the shotgun from Terregannoeuck. The Inuk made no attempt to resist.
Bähr fingered his jaw. ‘What the devil was that for?’
‘Not good, to kill cubs. No need. Nanuq should be allowed to grow old and have cubs of their own, before they are hunted. It will anger Kokogiaq.’
‘The daddy bear’s like to get pretty waxy about it too,’ Molineaux said with a grin.
‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ said Strachan. ‘Male polar bears have no interest in raising their cubs. The dad… the boar bear is probably long gone. Isn’t that right, Mr Terregannoeuck?’
‘Usually,’ the Inuk said darkly.
‘Usually, my eye! It’s a scientific fact. But Terregannoeuck’s right about one thing. For any favour, why did you have to shoot them, Doctor?’
‘It was the kindest thing to do. How long would they last without a mother?’
‘They’re old enough to at least stand a chance to fend for themselves. What right have we to deny them that?’
Killigrew could see that Strachan and Bähr were going to come to blows if they kept this up. ‘All right, Strachan, calm down. They’re dead now, and it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Now, what about that drink I promised you?’
They left Bähr with Terregannoeuck and Molineaux – Killigrew knew he could trust the petty officer to handle things if the doctor and the Inuk got into a fight – and headed back to the Venturer once more.
‘That was totally unnecessary,’ Strachan muttered under his breath. ‘He only shot those poor wee cubs because he was feeling left out after Molineaux bagged the mother.’
‘You’re not a hunting man, I take it?’
‘Me? Faiks, no! I remember when I was a boy my uncle took me stag hunting one time. Ever been stag hunting? They cut it up, skin it, and give the choicest pieces of what remains to the dogs. Ghastly business. Uncle Andrew made me take part, get my hands all bloody. I just remember thinking I wanted to put it all back together again, make it live. It had looked so magnificent when it was still alive, and suddenly it was just… so much meat.’
‘Is that why you studied medicine?’
‘I wanted to be a veterinary surgeon for a while. Then my mother died…’ He looked wistful, and then shrugged. ‘I decided that if I was going to dedicate my life to making things better, I was as well looking after people as I was animals.’
Killigrew got Strachan settled in the wardroom with a mug of whisky. The lieutenant was glancing at his fob watch – at any moment now they would beat to divisions – when there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in?’
Private Jenkins opened the door and thrust his head through. ‘Cap’n wants to see you, sir,’ he said, looking at Killigrew.
‘Very good, Jenkins.’
As he followed the marine out of the wardroom, it occurred to Killigrew as peculiar that apart from the marines – who would stay at their posts come hell or high water – Pettifer was the only man on board who had not emerged from the ship to investigate the shooting on the ice. Oh, he had known captains who would not have done, showing an aloofness and trusting in their executive officers to keep them informed as soon as possible; but Pettifer was not such an officer. At least, he had not be
en when they had left Beechey Island.
But the captain had changed in the weeks since they had settled into their winter quarters. As if being trapped in the ice were not incarceration enough, Pettifer seemed to have confined himself to his quarters, only emerging to attend divisions each day at a quarter to nine, and to inspect the lower deck afterwards. It could not be good for a man, even a naval captain used to a degree of solitude, to shut himself off from the companionship of his fellows.
The curtains were drawn over the stern window, even though the sun was shining outside, and it was dark in the day-room. What did Pettifer do in there all day, with the lights out?
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘What was all the shooting about?’
‘Strachan was attacked by a polar bear, sir. Fortunately Petty Officer Molineaux was able to bring it down before Strachan was hurt.’
‘And you did not see fit to inform me?’
‘I was going to tell you, sir, but Strachan was shaken up and I thought my first priority was to look after him. I knew I’d be seeing you at divisions at any moment—’
‘Your first priority, Mr Killigrew, is to keep me informed of anything that happens, no matter how trivial it might seem. Damn your eyes! I ought to place you under arrest—’
The boatswain’s mates piped their calls, summoning the crew to divisions. ‘You needn’t think this is the end of the matter, Mr Killigrew,’ growled Pettifer. ‘I’ll decide what’s to be done with you later.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Sir, Mr Strachan is still a little shaken up by his narrow escape. Perhaps he ought to be excused divisions today…’
‘Is he physically injured?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, although I’d like Dr Bähr to examine him properly. The bear landed right on top of him.’
‘Mr Strachan will attend divisions along with everyone else, Mr Killigrew. Dr Bähr can examine him later.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Carry on.’
On his way out of the day-room, Killigrew looked into the wardroom to tell Strachan that he was not getting out of divisions, but the assistant surgeon was not there; he made his way up on deck and found that Strachan had decided for himself that he was fit to attend divisions.
Pettifer came up on deck and inspected the men before reading to them from the Articles of War. Afterwards he toured the lower deck with Killigrew and Strachan while the rest of the crew thundered around the upper deck over their heads. Fortunately, the hands had learned as well as Killigrew that there was no percentage in leaving anything for the captain to find fault with, no matter how trivial: the mess deck was spotless.
At ten o’clock Pettifer retired to his quarters and the ship’s company marched around the outside of the ship for an hour and a half. Only the duty cooks for the day were excused this exercise: the victuals stored on the ice had to be brought on board the ship several days in advance, to give them time to thaw out ready for cooking. At half-past eleven the hands were given the first half of their daily ration of grog to wash down their ration of lemon juice and sugar, while the officers repaired to the wardroom or the gunroom for their first drink of the day.
Dinner was at midday, and in the afternoon work parties were assigned to their chores, while the rest of the hands stayed on board for a ‘make and mend’, carrying out repairs to worn or damaged clothing. Strachan had the dead polar bears dragged into the observatory – the door was just wide enough to get the mother through – so he could dissect them. As much as the assistant surgeon deplored the unnecessary slaughter of wild animals, once he had a fresh carcass on his hands he was too much of a practical scientist to pass up the opportunity for the study of comparative anatomy. Killigrew had some paperwork to complete – even in the Arctic, there was always paperwork – and afterwards entered the wardroom. Ursula and Ziegler were there, speaking in German. Even though they knew Killigrew hardly spoke a word of their language they both fell silent when he entered, and from the way Ziegler blushed bright crimson the lieutenant guessed they had not stopped talking in deference to him.
‘I am going to my cabin,’ Ursula said coldly.
Killigrew stepped aside for her and touched the peak of his cap. ‘Ma’am.’
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Ziegler said when Ursula had closed the door behind her, although Killigrew suspected he was anything but. ‘I wanted a word with you about Kapitän Pettifer…’
‘Shall we take a walk?’ suggested Killigrew.
Ziegler glanced at the thin partition that separated the wardroom from Pettifer’s day-room, and nodded. The two of them put on overcoats, comforters and mittens and made their way out on to the ice. Now that the mess cooks had finished bringing the stores on board, the ice was deserted. Ziegler almost lost his footing on the slippery gangplank, but Killigrew caught him by the arm and preserved his dignity.
‘Perhaps I should explain about that scene you saw when you entered the wardroom just now,’ Ziegler said when they had reached the ice safely.
‘It’s really none of my business.’
Ziegler shook his head. ‘No, I feel you deserve an explanation.’
‘No explanation necessary. You love her a great deal, don’t you?’
The German smiled wanly. ‘Is it that obvious?’
Killigrew took out a cheroot for himself and offered one to his companion. ‘I’ve been in love myself, once.’
Ziegler cupped his hand against the wind so the lieutenant could light his cheroot for him. ‘What happened?’
‘I lost her.’
‘Lost her? You mean, she left you?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ There seemed little point in boring Ziegler with the self-pitying details: how the woman in question had been killed largely as a result of Killigrew’s carelessness; how he had subsequently thrown himself into a succession of doomed love affairs in a futile attempt to forget the one he had truly cared for. ‘Have you told her? Frau Weiss, I mean.’
Ziegler grimaced. ‘Yes. The day after her husband died.’
‘Hmm.’ Killigrew pursed his lips. ‘Your timing might have been better.’
‘I thought I was going to die; that I would never see her again. Besides, it is not as if there was any love lost between them. He used to beat her.’
‘So I understood.’
‘Who told you? Was it her?’ There was a note of jealousy in Ziegler’s voice at the very thought of Ursula confiding in the lieutenant.
‘That hardly matters. The point is, there are certain proprieties a gentleman is expected to observe in these situations. You said you wanted to speak to me about Commander Pettifer. Or was that merely a blind for the discussion of more… personal matters?’
Ziegler shook his head. ‘It has not escaped our attention that Kapitän Pettifer has not been… shall we say, himself? …of late.’
‘The captain’s been under a great deal of strain these past few weeks,’ Killigrew allowed cautiously. ‘We all have our own ways of dealing with these situations.’
‘By shutting oneself in one’s quarters, only coming out a couple of hours a day?’
‘The life of a ship’s captain in the Royal Navy is a lonely one. Shall we go into the observatory, see how Strachan’s getting on with his specimens?’
There was a stove in the observatory, but Strachan had not lit the fire, presumably to allow the cold air to preserve the organs of the bears he was dissecting. If the observatory was not heated, at least it was out of the wind. Killigrew and Ziegler found Bähr helping Strachan with his dissection: evidently the two of them had put their earlier quarrel behind them.
‘Found anything interesting?’ Killigrew asked jocularly.
‘I’ll say!’ agreed Strachan. ‘Look at these paws! See how wide they are. Ideal for walking on thin ice, to spread the bear’s weight; and for use as paddles, if you will, when swimming. A peculiar beast, the Ursus maritimus. Very similar to Ursus arctos in so many points of anatomical congruity, and yet so very
different. It’s almost as if someone had taken the grizzly bear as a blueprint, and then adapted it for life in the Arctic.’
Ziegler smiled. Already he and Strachan had enjoyed many good-natured debates about the existence of God. ‘It amazes me that someone who is as fascinated in the patterns recurring in nature as you are can fail to detect the hand of God at work.’
The assistant surgeon shook his head. ‘Are you familiar with Lamarck’s theory of orthogenesis, Herr Ziegler?’
Ziegler shook his head.
‘The theory is that all life on earth has a drive for perfection that leads all organisms to evolve to higher states on what Linnaeus called the “great chain of being”. If I can only understand the mechanism that leads animals to seek perfection, I cannot help but wonder if I shan’t have the key to the very nature of all life on earth. But I’m not convinced that such a secret can be learned simply by cutting up corpses. To understand animals, we have to study them alive, to study their behaviour. You can dissect the corpse of a criminal, but that won’t help you understand what drove him to become a criminal.’
Killigrew stared at the dead bear. Never mind its similarity to a grizzly bear; stretched out on its back on the sturdy workbench, it looked disturbingly human. The lieutenant had been raised in the Church of England, and until he had met the assistant surgeon it had never occurred to him to question fundamental Christian teachings. But suppose what Strachan said was true? Suppose all animals were somehow related, if you went back far enough? Was man, too, just another animal, rather than made in God’s image? Perhaps there was no God. Perhaps He was the product of wishful thinking, made in Man’s image rather than vice versa. And if that was true, what was the purpose of existence? Was there a purpose, even?
There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ called Strachan.
The door opened, bringing with it a blast of cold air, and Boatswain’s Mate Unstead thrust his head inside, looking at each of them in turn until his eyes lit on Killigrew. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but the cap’n wants you in his day-room.’
‘All right, Unstead.’
Killigrew and the North-West Passage Page 22