Killigrew and the North-West Passage

by Jonathan Lunn

  As he followed the boatswain’s mate back across to the Venturer, Killigrew thought he knew what it was about. Pettifer had not forgotten his earlier threat to have his lieutenant put under arrest for failing to report the shooting of the polar bear. It was difficult to see what the captain could do to him, apart from confine him to his cabin under guard. As grim as their incarceration in ice was, being confined to his cabin in such circumstances would be even grimmer. But he knew it would not be for too long: it was not immodesty so much as common sense that told him Pettifer could not run the ship for long with his one and only lieutenant confined to his cabin.

  Except that when Private Walsh ushered Killigrew into Pettifer’s day-room, it immediately became apparent this had nothing to do with him: Able Seamen Jacko Smith and Johnno Smith stood to attention before the table, flanked on either side by Thwaites and Molineaux, while Orsini hovered in the background. Pettifer glared at them with contempt and fed titbits to Horatia, who sat curled in his lap, while Latimer sat next to him with some papers on the table before him.

  ‘You’re just in time, Killigrew,’ Pettifer said without taking his eyes off the two able seamen. ‘Smith and Smith were caught red-handed stealing food from my storeroom; furthermore, they have both admitted their culpability.’

  ‘Culpability?’ protested Johnno, alarmed. ‘I never said nothing about doing any culpability!’

  ‘He means you’ve admitted that you did it,’ explained Killigrew.

  ‘Oh. That. Aye.’

  ‘Have you got anything to say for yourself?’ asked Pettifer.

  ‘We was hungry, sir.’

  ‘That’s no excuse, said Pettifer. ‘All the men are hungry. But only you chose to steal food.’

  ‘Aye, all the men,’ spat Jacko. ‘What about the officers? They’re not on six-upon-four, I’ll bet.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, we’ve been on six-upon-four just as long as you have, Smith,’ Killigrew informed him. It had been his suggestion that they show solidarity with the rest of the crew in this matter.

  ‘Not that bloody dog, though, sir,’ said Jacko. ‘I’ll bet that bloody dog isn’t on six-upon-four!’

  ‘Horatia’s just a dog, Smith,’ said Killigrew. ‘She didn’t volunteer for this expedition; unlike you. And I hardly see what Horatia’s food has got to do with this matter.’

  ‘It was the dog’s food they stole,’ explained Latimer.

  ‘A fact which makes their crime all the more contemptible,’ snorted Pettifer. ‘Stealing food from a poor, defenceless animal! You should both be ashamed of yourselves! I see no need for any leniency in this matter. You’ll both receive thirty-six lashes.’

  ‘May I see the warrants?’ asked Killigrew.

  Latimer had evidently made out two warrants for corporal punishment, one for each of them. ‘Either one will do,’ Pettifer told the clerk. ‘The details are the same in both; even the name of the culprit!’

  Killigrew glanced at the warrant Latimer handed him.

  Whereas it has been represented to me by Steward Vincenzo Orsini that on Friday 1st October, Able Seaman John Smith (7 months) did steal provisions from the captain’s stores valued at four shillings, and having duly investigated the manner by inquiry and having heard the evidence of Clerk Nicodemus Latimer and Steward Vincenzo Orsini in support of the charge, as also what the Prisoner had to offer in his defence, I consider the charge to be substantiated against him, and this being the 1st complaint made against him, I therefore adjudge him to receive 36 lashes, according to the custom of the Service, on Saturday 2nd October, or as soon afterwards as circumstances will admit without inconvenience to the Service.

  Given under my hand, on board Her Majesty’s Ship Venturer at two o’clock the 1st day of October 1852. Cmdr Orson Pettifer, Commanding Officer

  ‘Everything in accordance with Her Majesty’s regulations, as I’m sure even you will agree, Mr Killigrew?’ remarked Pettifer.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The lieutenant handed the warrant back to Latimer, who looked ashen-faced. Clearly the full implications of the document was not lost on the clerk: it was probably the first time he had ever copied out such a document; floggings were so few and far between nowadays, it would probably be the first one he had ever watched. Even Killigrew had not witnessed a flogging for over six years.

  ‘Dismissed!’ Pettifer told Smith and Smith. ‘Take them away, Mr Thwaites!’

  The two prisoners were marched out of the captain’s day-room by Thwaites and Molineaux. Orsini followed them out, evidently glad to get out of there. The steward was not the talkative sort and it was difficult to tell what he was thinking, but Killigrew was willing to bet that had Orsini known where it would lead, he would never have reported the theft of the provisions in the first place.

  ‘Might I speak with you in camera, sir?’ asked Killigrew.

  ‘Leave us,’ Pettifer told Latimer. The clerk gathered up his writing things and hurried out, every bit as glad to leave as Orsini had been. ‘Well?’ Pettifer asked Killigrew when the door had closed behind him.

  ‘With all due respect, sir, don’t you think thirty-six lashes is a little harsh for stealing dog food?’

  Pettifer turned puce. ‘Are you questioning my orders, Mr Killigrew?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s just that—’

  ‘Stealing is stealing, and I will not tolerate it aboard my ship! And I will not tolerate officers who question my orders and plot to undermine my authority.’

  ‘I’m not trying to undermine your authority, sir—’

  ‘Be quiet, damn your eyes! You think I don’t know about you, Mr Killigrew? About how you’ve deliberately thwarted my attempts to sail through the North-West Passage in a single season? I can’t prove it – yet. But I will. By God, I’ll see you court-martialled and dismissed the service! I’m disappointed in you, Killigrew. The others – I might have expected nothing less than their treachery. But I thought I could trust you. Instead it turns out that I’ve been harbouring a viper in my bosom. Get out! Get out of my sight at once!’

  Stunned though he was by Pettifer’s accusation of sabotage, Killigrew had sense enough to know when to stand and fight and when to withdraw gracefully. The sheer nonsense of the accusation infuriated him, and it was only by keeping a tight rein on his all-too-volatile temper and telling himself that the captain was under a lot of strain that he kept his composure.

  He made his way into the wardroom and crossed straight to the sideboard, where he poured himself a generous measure of Irish whiskey and knocked it back in one.

  ‘It that always your response to a crisis?’

  Killigrew whirled guiltily and saw Ursula sitting on the couch, behind the door, a novel in her lap. ‘It depends on the crisis,’ he told her, pouring himself a second measure, but sipping this one. ‘What’s the book?’ he asked her.

  ‘The Whale, by Herman Melville.’

  ‘The fellow who wrote Typee and Omoo?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘What’s it about? Apart from a whale, obviously.’

  ‘A captain who’s so obsessed with achieving an impossible goal that he drives his ship to destruction.’

  * * *

  ‘Reckon I know what attracted them bears here yesterday,’ said O’Houlihan, as the hands on the lower deck dressed in their mustering rig for divisions the following morning. He winked at Hughes, and jerked his head at Endicott, who was preening himself with the aid of a tarnished hand-held looking-glass. ‘Reckon they was after Seth.’ Sensing a leg-pull was imminent, Endicott did not even bother to turn. ‘Don’t talk daft, Mick. There’s thirty-six of us on this ship. Why the hell would they pick on me?’

  ‘Why, revenge, to be sure!’

  ‘Revenge? What are you talking about, you chucklehead? What have I ever done to them?’

  ‘What about all that bear’s grease you plaster on your hair? How many bears have died over the years to keep your locks tidy?’

  Hughes joined in the joke. ‘Reckon there must be enough bear’s grease in your locker
to account for half a dozen bears,’ he said, indicating the open seat locker where Endicott had stockpiled enough bottles of the ursine unguent to last him three years; and considering how thickly he applied the stuff, it was hardly surprising there was little room left in the locker for anything else.

  ‘Oh, aye?’ sneered Endicott. ‘How would they know?’

  ‘Bears have a powerful strong sense of smell, Seth,’ said O’Houlihan. ‘Reckon they can sniff it on you.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Hughes. ‘You want to watch yourself, Seth. One of these days the wind’s going to be blowing in the wrong direction, and the next thing you know every bear on the polar ice is going to recognise Uncle Bruin’s scent, and they’re going to come looking for him. And what they’ll find is you.’

  ‘Gammon!’ snorted Endicott. ‘I’m not falling for that humbug.’

  * * *

  ‘What the devil is that?’ Pettifer demanded when he came up on deck for divisions.

  ‘It’s a polar bear bladder, sir,’ explained Killigrew.

  ‘And why is it hanging over the quarterdeck?’

  ‘Some kind of Esquimau joss, sir. Terregannoeuck says that for five days after you kill a sow, you must act as if her tatkoq – that’s her soul, sir – were a guest in your home. You hang up needles and brushes and women’s things like that, which the sow’s tatkoq can use in polar bear heaven, and after five days the bear’s soul leaves with the spirits of the ornaments. Then, when she gets to polar bear heaven, she’ll tell the spirits of unborn polar bears that Petty Officer Molineaux is a worthy hunter to be killed by…’ He realised that Pettifer was staring at him as if kipper trees were growing out of his ears. ‘I didn’t see any harm in it, sir. It’s supposed to be good luck, and you know how superstitious sailors are.’

  ‘Sailors’ superstitions I can put up with, Mr Killigrew, but I will not tolerate heathen superstition. It’s unhygienic. Have it taken down at once, sir!’

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, man! At once!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Endicott!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Remove the bladder.’

  ‘Terregannoeuck’s not going to like it, sir,’ Endicott said dubiously.

  ‘That’s Terregannoeuck’s problem. Do as the captain says.’

  The offending item removed, the captain inspected the men paraded before him. Where previously Pettifer had turned a blind eye to all but the scruffiest seaman – leaving Killigrew, who was himself quite relaxed about such things, to reprimand any slovenly reprobates in private later – today he was looking for faults. By the time he had finished, the boatswain had taken enough names to cover a whole page of his notebook.

  ‘I notice several of the men have started to grow beards, Mr Killigrew,’ Pettifer said when he returned to the quarterdeck.

  ‘It’s standard practice to let the men grow beards on Arctic service, sir. It reduces the risk of frostbite.’

  ‘That may be good enough for other ships, Mr Killigrew, but I will not tolerate it on the Venturer! From now on I want all men clean-shaven, hoist in? I cannot abide facial hair. This is the navy, not the damned army!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  After Pettifer had read out the Articles of War, he ordered that they proceed to the punishment of Smith and Smith, reading out the charge, conviction and sentence. Any hopes for a remittance of their sentence were dashed: it remained at thirty-six lashes. The whole crew was drawn up on the quarterdeck to witness the administration of the punishment, including Terregannoeuck, Sørensen and the Germans rescued from the ice. Only Ursula was excused: a flogging was hardly a fit sight for the eyes of a lady. Hardly a fit sight for anyone’s eyes, Killigrew thought to himself. But Admiralty regulations demanded that the whole ship’s company, officers and ratings alike, witness such punishments.

  The two culprits were ordered to strip to the waist, the flesh of their backs covered in goose pimples and mottled blue in the chill autumn air. Johnno Smith was first up. A kerchief was tied around his neck, and he was bound hand and foot to a trap ribbing, spread-eagled.

  Mate Cavan shuffled over to where Killigrew stood. ‘You’re not going to let him do this, are you?’ he whispered.

  ‘The captain’s well within his rights, Mr Cavan,’ Killigrew replied out of the corner of his mouth. ‘By their own admission, they stole food. There isn’t an admiral in the navy who’d question his right to punish them.’

  ‘But the men are starving!’

  ‘I know, Mr Cavan, I know. But none of the others have stolen food.’

  ‘Yet,’ muttered Yelverton.

  Thwaites brought the bag that contained the cat-o’-nine-tails up on deck; and not just an ordinary cat-o’-nine-tails, but the thieves’ cat at that, with its larger, crueller knots. The bag was dyed crimson so it would not show the blood. Ordinarily, floggings were delivered by the boatswain’s mates, each of them delivering a dozen lashes before passing the cat on to the next man, so there was no danger of any lashes being deprived of their full force by a weary arm. But there were only two boatswain’s mates in the Venturer’s skeleton crew, Unstead and Molineaux, so the boatswain himself had been pressed into service to deliver the first dozen as a matter of expediency. Some boatswains would have objected, but not Thwaites: he was too much of a sadist.

  Private Phillips played a dram roll and Thwaites delivered the first lash. Johnno’s muscles quivered visibly, and half a dozen red welts were scored across his back. While he stopped himself from crying out, his whole body shuddered in agony.

  ‘One!’ announced Phillips.

  Thwaites lashed again.

  ‘Two!’

  And again.

  ‘Three!’

  At the seventh lash, Johnno cried out. Killigrew saw Molineaux flinch at each lash, and remembered that the petty officer had once received a flogging himself.

  After the first dozen lashes, Thwaites handed the cat to Unstead, who did not look happy to receive it.

  ‘Make ’em good ’uns, Unstead,’ growled Pettifer, glowering from the quarterdeck. ‘For every lash I think you’re holding back, I’ll have you given two!’

  By now Johnno’s back was a dull red mass. Unstead murmured something in Johnno’s ear, and the seaman nodded.

  ‘He’ll never make the full three dozen,’ muttered Strachan.

  Killigrew forced himself to watch. It had revolted him when he had seen his first flogging, at the tender age of thirteen; it revolted him not one whit less now. Not for the first time, he swore to himself that when he had command of his own ship, no flogging would stain the deck with blood.

  At the eighteenth lash the skin broke and blood began to trickle down Johnno’s back. By the time Molineaux’s turn to take over with the cat came, Johnno had fainted. Pettifer called for the punishment to stop. ‘Douse that man with sea water, Hughes!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Hughes’ tone was truculent, but he had no choice but to obey. He disappeared from under the awning with a pail, descending the gangplank to the ice to fill the pail at the fire hole. He returned and dashed the icy water across Johnno’s back. Coughing and spluttering, the seaman was revived enough for the flogging to continue.

  ‘Proceed, Molineaux,’ ordered Pettifer.

  ‘I’d rather not, if it’s all the same with you, sir.’

  ‘It is not all the same with me, Molineaux!’

  The petty officer was heading for a flogging himself, and that would not stop Johnno from getting his remaining twelve lashes, either. ‘Damn your eyes, Molineaux!’ snapped Killigrew, redirecting the anger he felt towards Pettifer at the petty officer. ‘Do as you’re damned well ordered!’

  Molineaux looked hurt. Scowling at Killigrew and Pettifer, he took the cat-o’-nine-tails from Unstead. ‘God forgive me,’ he muttered, and lashed away.

  By the time Johnno had been given all thirty-six lashes, his whole back,, from the nape to the small, was like a lump of bloody meat. He slumped in his bonds.

/>   ‘And where do you think you’re going, Mr Strachan?’ Pettifer demanded when the assistant surgeon started forward.

  ‘To have Smith removed to the sick-berth so that his back can be treated, sir.’

  ‘Stay right where you are, mister! Smith will remain on deck until the other Smith has received his punishment.’

  ‘Sir, if I don’t treat Smith’s back quickly—’

  ‘Are you defying me, Mr Strachan?’

  The assistant surgeon hung his head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I should think not. Have the other Smith lashed up now, Bosun.’

  Jacko was bigger and younger than Johnno, but he lacked his older namesake’s fortitude, and after biting back his cries for the first three lashes, he let out a howl of agony. As he screamed, the huskies on the lower deck took up the refrain, howling piteously in sympathy.

  ‘Shut those damned dogs up!’ snarled Pettifer.

  McLellan went below to quiet the huskies – evidently grateful not to have to witness any more of the brutality – but the dogs went on howling.

  So did Jacko. As soon as the punishment was over, Strachan ran forward and helped Unstead and Molineaux untie him. ‘Get him in the sick-berth, quick, before he freezes to death! And the other one too, untie him…’

  Molineaux started to untie one of Johnno’s wrists but then paused, and felt for a pulse in his neck. He lifted an eyelid and saw only white. ‘No hurry with this one.’

  Strachan carried out his own examination and concurred with Molineaux’s diagnosis. ‘He’s dead, sir.’

  Chapter 11

  Blood and Ice

  ‘How do you bury a man at sea in the Arctic, anyhow?’ McLellan wondered as he stood on sentry duty that night.

  ‘Dig a hole in the ice and drop him through,’ Endicott said facetiously. He was part of the anchor watch, along with Molineaux, McLellan and Private Walsh; since there was not actually anything for them to do at that time of night, the four of them were huddled around the after hatch. As officer of the watch, Yelverton paced back and forth on the quarterdeck in an effort to keep warm, but he was too far away to hear the seamen talking.