Beyond the trays of cress, they came to where several casks were stacked. Orsini had brought a lantern and he passed it to Killigrew so the lieutenant could take a closer look. ‘No more whale oil,’ he explained. ‘This is what I find.’
Killigrew studied the lettering painted on the side of the casks: ‘Orr’s Patent Burning Fluid’.
‘Ah!’ he said, seeing the problem at once. ‘Mr Latimer!’ he called down the hold. ‘Could you come here a moment, please?’
‘Coming!’
‘So’s Christmas! Chop chop, Mr Latimer.’
The clerk put down his watering can and, followed by Kracht, made his way to where Killigrew stood with Orsini.
‘What’s this?’ Killigrew asked him, indicating the casks.
‘Burning fluid,’ Latimer said proudly.
‘And why do we have burning fluid on board, Mr Latimer?’
‘I thought I’d save the British taxpayer some money. It’s much cheaper than whale-oil, and it burns brighter, too.’
‘Yes, and all at once! Don’t you read the newspapers, Latimer?’
‘Only the Sporting Chronicle. Why?’
‘Because if you took a proper newspaper, you would know what happens when you put burning fluid in a whale-oil lamp. There’s scarcely a month goes by without some little moppet burning to death because mama thought she could save money by putting burning fluid in her lamps, not realising you need special lamps for burning fluid.’
‘How much did you pay for these, mein Herr?’ asked Kracht.
‘I’d have to check the receipts,’ admitted Latimer. ‘But it was much cheaper than whale-oil, I know that much.’
‘It is cheaper still if you mix your own. It is just four parts ethanol to one part camphene.’
‘And you can burn that safely in whale-oil lamps?’ Killigrew asked the blacksmith testily.
‘I would not recommend it, mein Herr.’
‘Is there no more whale-oil on board?’ Killigrew asked Orsini.
‘Only what’s left in the lamps, signores.’
‘I don’t suppose we have enough candles on board to last us through the winter?’ asked Killigrew.
‘I doubt it,’ said Latimer.
‘Capital!’ Killigrew said wryly. ‘As if going for weeks on end without sunlight wasn’t going to be depressing enough, now we’ve got to go without lights too!’
‘I could adapt the lamps to take burning fluid, mein Herr.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course! It is simple enough. All I would have to do is cut the wick tubes off the bottoms of the burners and fix them to the top, make them taper, and then make caps to put over the tubes.’
‘And they’d be safe?’
‘Safe enough, as long as everyone remembers to put them out with the caps, instead of blowing on them.’
‘Orsini here puts out the lamps. Think you could remember that, Orsini?’
‘If the alternative is being doused with blazing burning fluid?’ The steward grinned. ‘I think I can remember that, signore.’
‘Better get to work then, Kracht. Mr Varrow will give you whatever you need from his workshop.’
‘Jawohl, mein Herr.’ The blacksmith hurried up the companion ladder.
Latimer grinned. ‘Problem solved, then?’
‘Don’t push your luck, Latimer. If it wasn’t for Kracht’s knowhow…’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Get back to your cress. And try not to mess that up!’
Latimer beat a hasty retreat. Killigrew made his way back to the lower deck where he found Yelverton looking agitated in the corridor outside the wardroom. ‘There you are!’ said the master. ‘Pettifer’s declared the chart-room out of bounds.’
‘The chart-room’s always been out of bounds.’
‘To the hands, maybe. But to the officers? To me, damn it! The master!’
Killigrew blinked. ‘You must be mistaken.’ He knew that for Yelverton to be mistaken was unthinkable, but not as unthinkable as a captain declaring the chart-room out of bounds to the master. Pettifer might as well declare the engine-room out of bounds to the engineer.
The lieutenant approached the door to the chart-room. On duty outside the door to Pettifer’s quarters, Private Phillips stretched out an arm to block his path to the chart-room door. ‘I’m sorry, sir. You can’t go in there. Cap’n’s orders.’
‘It’s all right, Phillips. Mr Yelverton and I just want to consult one of the charts.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but the cap’n gave me strict orders. No one but him’s to go in the chart-room.’
‘In that case, Phillips, I’d like to see the captain.’
‘Cap’n’s not to be disturbed, sir.’
‘I’m giving you new orders, Phillips. Stand aside. I demand to see the captain.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t let you in.’
Killigrew was strongly tempted to snatch the musket from Phillips and force him aside; but there was too great a risk the gun might go off and injure someone, and Phillips was only obeying orders. ‘Commander Pettifer!’ he called. ‘This is Killigrew, sir! I’d like to talk to you!’
On the other side of the door, Horatia started to bark, but no sound indicated Pettifer was stirring.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Phillips was squirming with embarrassment. ‘But I’ll have to ask you not to shout like that. The cap’n’s—’
‘Not to be disturbed, yes, I heard you the first time.’
‘Come on, Killigrew,’ said Yelverton. ‘We’re wasting our time here.’
‘He can’t stay in there for ever,’ said Killigrew. ‘I’ll have a word with him after divisions tomorrow.’
* * *
From the restless way the crew paraded on the upper deck in their mustering rig, it was obvious they knew something was amiss. Killigrew glanced at his fob watch: five to nine. However erratic Pettifer’s behaviour might be otherwise, he was always on the quarterdeck in time for divisions; yet this morning he was ten minutes late.
Yelverton caught Killigrew’s eye and arched an eyebrow.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Bähr. ‘Is Commander Pettifer all right?’
‘I wish I knew,’ muttered Killigrew.
‘Well?’ asked Yelverton.
‘We’ll give him another five minutes.’
The minutes ticked by. The hands started to talk amongst themselves – doubtless speculating on Pettifer’s non-appearance – until Thwaites bellowed for them to pipe down.
At nine o’clock Private Walsh rang the ship’s bell twice. Killigrew made up his mind. ‘Mr Latimer!’
‘Sir?’
‘Come here.’ Killigrew retreated to the taffrail, and Latimer followed him. ‘Be so good as to inform the captain that it is now two bells in the forenoon watch, and the ship’s company is mustered for divisions, awaiting his pleasure.’
Latimer turned beetroot. ‘Me, sir?’
‘Yes, you, sir.’
The clerk swallowed, and descended the after hatch.
‘When was the last time anyone actually saw the Old Man?’ asked Yelverton.
‘I saw him yesterday when we inspected the lower deck,’ murmured Killigrew, exchanging glances with Strachan, Bähr and Ziegler. ‘Has anyone seen him since then?’
Blank faces met his. ‘What about Orsini?’ he asked. ‘Orsini!’
The steward left his place amongst the men drawn up on deck to approach the officers. The splint had come off his right arm the previous day, but now the muscles were withered and he flexed the elbow constantly, trying to get the stiffness out of it. ‘Signore?’
‘You took Commander Pettifer his breakfast this morning, Orsini?’
‘Yes, signore.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Of course.’
‘How did he seem to you?’
‘“Seem”, signore?’
‘Did he look well, ill, was he dressed, in his nightshirt, had he shaved?’
Orsini squinted into the middle distance as he tr
ied to picture the scene in his mind’s eye. He shook his head slowly. ‘No, signore. Now that I think, I did not see him at all.’
‘Then how do you know he was there?’
‘I heard him, moving around in the cabin. The door was closed, but he was in there. Private Jenkins, he let me in. I carry the breakfast in, but there is no sign of the comandante. I call out: “Signore?”, and I hear the comandante’s voice from the cabin. He say: “Put it on the table.” I put it on the table, and go.’
‘All right, Orsini, thank you. Back to your division.’
‘Yes, signore.’
Latimer re-emerged from the after hatch. ‘I knocked on his door, sir,’ he told Killigrew. ‘He wouldn’t answer.’
‘Do we even know he’s still in there?’ wondered Yelverton.
‘All right, wait here.’ Killigrew made his way below deck. This time there was no one on guard outside the door to Pettifer’s quarters; all five of the marines were up on deck for divisions. Killigrew knocked on the door. ‘Sir?’
No reply.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ Killigrew tried the handle, but the door was bolted on the other side. His patience grew short. ‘Sir, if you don’t answer me, you’ll leave me no choice but to assume command of this vessel. Is that what you want me to do, sir?’
All was as silent as the grave on the other side of the door. Even Horatia was uncharacteristically quiet; for ail Killigrew knew, Pettifer might be dead. He might have hanged himself, or slit his wrists: it was not unknown for the dreary, oppressive Arctic wastes to drive a man to such despair, but usually mørkesyke – Arctic madness – did not kick in before the dead of the long Arctic night had set in. On the other hand, Pettifer had been under a great deal of strain since they had become separated from the rest of the squadron. Sooner or later, any man would crack under such circumstances.
Yet Killigrew knew instinctively that Pettifer was still alive in there, quietly listening to every word he said. If Horatia was trapped in there with the corpse of her master, surely she would howl fit to wake the dead? Unless, his mind turned, Pettifer had killed her too before taking his own life. One way to find out was to kick down the cabin door. But Killigrew knew he was treading on thin ice there: the Admiralty took a dim view of an officer who broke into his captain’s quarters. Better not to take any precipitate action before he had had a chance to discuss the situation with the other officers.
He made his way up on deck. ‘Commander Pettifer is unwell,’ he announced to the crew. ‘I’ll be conducting divisions today.’
A hubbub of consternation ran through the men assembled on the upper deck. ‘Pipe down!’ roared Thwaites.
‘How do you know the Old Man’s unwell?’ Strachan demanded in a low voice, as if piqued that someone without any sort of medical qualification was trying to determine his authority. ‘Did you see him?’
‘Meeting in the observatory after divisions,’ Killigrew told him softly.
‘A meeting!’ exclaimed Yelverton. ‘The last refuge of a man incapable of taking responsibility for anything.’
Killigrew rounded on him furiously. ‘Whatever I do decide to do,’ he hissed, ‘it has to be done with the full backing of every officer on board. Because if the worst comes to the worst and I have to relieve Commander Pettifer of command, that will be my only chance of escaping dismissal and disgrace when the inevitable court martial follows. And even then it’s a very slim chance. So before I do anything, we’ll have a meeting of the officers in the observatory after divisions.’
‘And what will the rest of the crew think when they see us converging on the observatory? They’ll know something’s wrong.’
‘They already know something’s wrong. If they don’t see someone doing something about it, they’re going to—’
‘Pettifer’s birthday,’ said Strachan.
‘What?’
‘It’s Pettifer’s birthday on Friday.’
‘Friday?’ echoed Killigrew. ‘The fifteenth of October?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘That’s the same date as my birthday.’
‘Birth-date of great men,’ remarked Yelverton.
‘If you say so,’ Strachan said dismissively. ‘If we tell the hands that we’re arranging a surprise for him…’
‘Good idea,’ said Killigrew. ‘I’ll tell Hughes, warn him to keep it under his hat. It’ll be all over the ship within an hour.’ He glanced across to where the other officers – the clerk and the two engineers – stood on the other side of the quarterdeck. ‘Tell Latimer and Varrow, but for Christ’s sake be discreet.’
As Killigrew read the crew the Articles of War, he was careful to stand a couple of feet to the right of where Pettifer usually stood, as if reluctant to be seen usurping the captain’s authority. ‘I have only one announcement,’ he concluded. ‘For the duration of the captain’s illness, everything will continue as usual on board, with myself or Mr Yelverton attending to the captain’s duties, until further notice. Dismissed! Bosun?’
Thwaites marched briskly across to where Killigrew stood. ‘Sir?’
‘The usual drill: keep them jog-trotting around the upper deck until ten, then marching round “Rotten Row” until noon, while the mess cooks bring in the stores. I’ll be in the observatory with the other officers if you need me.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
As Killigrew turned to the entry port, he almost bumped into Hughes. ‘Oh, hullo, Hughes. Didn’t see you there.’
‘Meeting in the observatory, sir?’
Killigrew lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘It’s the captain’s birthday next Friday. The other officers and myself want to arrange something special for him, but we’re not sure what. Keep it to yourself, though: it’s going to be a surprise.’
Hughes tapped the side of his nose. ‘You can rely on me, sir. The very soul of discretion, so I am.’
The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I know you are, Hughes. That’s why I’m counting on you.’
Killigrew bundled up in his warmest clothes and made his way out on to the ice. Yelverton, Strachan, Latimer, and Yarrow were already waiting by the time he entered the observatory.
There seemed little point in beating around the bush. ‘I’ve called you all here to discuss a rather awkward matter, I’m afraid. One hardly knows where to begin…’
‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Latimer. ‘I think we all know what this is about.’ He glanced around at his fellow officers, and they nodded gravely.
Killigrew was relieved that he did not have to spell it out for him. If they saw for themselves what was wrong, then surely they could not refuse to back him up? ‘If any of you have any thoughts…?’
‘I’ve a notion or two, sir.’
‘You, Latimer?’ Killigrew asked in surprise. ‘Go on.’
‘I thought perhaps a masquerade ball. We can make all sorts of exciting costumes, and we can get Armitage to bake him a cake—’
‘You great gowk!’ said Varrow. ‘He’s not talking about the captain’s birthday. He’s talking about the fact that the captain’s got a screw loose!’
‘He has?’
‘He’s ignored his orders,’ said Yelverton. ‘He’s imperilled the safety of this ship and her crew by ignoring the advice of his ice quartermasters. He’s put the men on a starvation diet for no apparent reason. He locked himself in his quarters and refuses to come out. He’s declared the chart-room off limits to everyone; even me, the master! He had Smith and Smith given three dozen lashes for stealing two canisters of dog food—’
‘It was hashed venison,’ Latimer pointed out.
‘I don’t care if it was a canister of bloody ambrosia!’ said Yelverton, and turned pleadingly to Killigrew. ‘He’ll kill us all if you let him. He’s obsessed with finding the North-West Passage, and now that we can’t make it in a single season, he’s blaming everyone but himself for his failure to achieve the impossible. We can’t go on like this. Three men dead already! At
this rate, there won’t be anyone left alive by the time the ice thaws in spring. If it thaws.’
‘What do you want me to do, Yelverton?’ demanded Killigrew. ‘Relieve the captain? Take command myself? There’s a word for that: mutiny—’
There was a knock on the door. Everyone started guiltily. Killigrew put a hand in the pocket of his greatcoat to grasp the butt of the pepperbox that nestled there. ‘Who is it?’
‘Herr Ziegler and Herr Doktor Bähr,’ Ziegler called back. ‘May we come in?’
‘We’re a little busy at the moment, Herr Ziegler.’
‘That’s what we wanted to talk to you about.’ The door opened and Ziegler and Bähr entered.
‘Clandestine meeting, gentlemen?’ asked Bähr, closing the door behind him.
‘We have certain matters to discuss,’ Yelverton said curtly.
‘I’ll say you have,’ agreed the doctor.
‘This isn’t our ship,’ acknowledged Ziegler. ‘It isn’t even our navy. But I think we’ve a right to know what’s going on. We didn’t ask to be dragged this far into the Arctic.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘They’re right. This concerns all of us, naval officers and civilians. Gentlemen, we were discussing what to do about Commander Pettifer’s erratic behaviour.’
‘Can you not just relieve him of command?’ asked Ziegler.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that.’
‘The devil it isn’t!’ said Yelverton. ‘As his lieutenant, you have a responsibility. Not only to him, but also to the men under your command. To all of us, damn you! Are you just going to turn a blind eye to his behaviour?’
‘And on what grounds am I to relieve the captain of his command?’ demanded Killigrew.
Yelverton rolled his eyes in derision and disbelief. ‘Tell him, Strachan. Tell him the Old Man’s insane.’
Strachan pursed his lips. ‘Define “insane”.’
‘Not acting rationally. A danger to himself and the men who serve under his command.’
‘I’ve yet to meet a naval captain who wasn’t a danger to himself and the men under his command.’ Strachan smiled sadly. ‘As for “not acting rationally”, I fear I’d be uncertain of my ground there. Walking on thin ice, as it were, no pun intended. Would you like me to define “not acting rationally”? Two hundred and fifty-two men piling into six ships bound for the most inhospitable region on earth, to search for a hundred and twenty-nine men who’ve already vanished in similar circumstances, searching for a strait that may or may not exist. If I were a physician with a comfortable country practice, I think I could reasonably make a case for having the whole lot of us certified insane. As it is, I’m an assistant surgeon in the Royal Navy. There are other considerations to take into account. It’s not unknown for men who acted every bit as strangely as Pettifer’s acting now to make a full recovery. Supposing I certify him insane, and on the way back to England he recovers? Much good my certification will do, with Pettifer speaking with perfect lucidity at our court martial!’
Killigrew and the North-West Passage Page 26