Killigrew and the North-West Passage

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘Damn it, Strachan!’ Yelverton exclaimed in exasperation.

  ‘What do you want me to do, sir? Certify Pettifer insane so that Killigrew can relieve him of command?’

  ‘Would you?’

  Strachan hesitated, torn between the desire to say what he knew Yelverton and the others wanted to hear, and his own professional, scientific rationalism. ‘No. I’ve seen nothing that satisfies me that Commander Pettifer is non compos mentis. I’ll acknowledge there has been a marked alteration in his behaviour in the past couple of weeks. An alteration that gives me, a medical man, pause for thought. But nothing to convince me his behaviour has deteriorated to the extent where I’d be prepared to diagnose him insane.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ offered Bähr. ‘If you want my considered medical opinion, your captain is as mad as a hatter.’

  Killigrew smiled. ‘Thank you for the offer, Doctor. But I’m afraid your opinion won’t cut much ice at my court martial. I’m not denying you’re better qualified than Mr Strachan here – no offence, Strachan—’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘But I’m afraid you, Doctor, are a foreigner. Worse than that, you’re a civilian. Nothing personal, but that’s how the Admiralty will view it. Besides, all of this is academic: there is no procedure in Queen’s Regulations for a lieutenant to relieve his own captain of command, with or without a medical officer having certified the captain insane.’

  ‘What if he was badly injured?’ asked Bähr. ‘Rendered unconscious? Physically incapable of command. You could do it then, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Of course. But mentally incapable? That’s a different kettle of fish.’

  ‘We’d all back you up.’ The doctor turned to Strachan. ‘Wouldn’t we? Sane or insane, there must come a point at which a captain’s behaviour threatens the safety of his ship and crew.’

  Killigrew shook his head. ‘If Commander Pettifer accused me of mutiny, it would not matter if every man-jack on board the Venturer backed up my side of the story. The captain is always right. He’s second only to God. And in this godless place, he is God.’

  Strachan grinned humourlessly. ‘A mad God. That would explain a great deal. At times like this, my atheism is a great comfort to me.’

  Ziegler glared at him. ‘This is hardly the time for your blasphemy, Herr Strachan. If we’re going to get out of this alive, it will be thanks to the grace of God.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, that is!’ spat Strachan. ‘So what are we going to do? Sit around doing nothing, hoping that God will save us?’

  ‘We must have faith, Herr Strachan.’

  ‘Faith! I lost my faith a long time ago, Herr Ziegler. Where was God when my mother died? Where was God when the Carl Gustaf was nipped, or Dawton died, or the Old Man had Able Seaman Smith flogged to death, or that polar bear tore poor Mr Cavan limb from limb?’

  ‘The Good Lord moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, Herr Strachan.’

  ‘Quem di diligunt adolescens moritur,’ said Killigrew, adding for the benefit of those who did not speak Latin: ‘“Whom the Gods love die young.” But Strachan’s got a point. My creed has always been that the Good Lord helps those who help themselves.’

  ‘Then stop playing the noble Dane and take charge of the situation, damn your eyes!’ exploded Yelverton. ‘Before anyone else gets killed—’ He broke off and hurriedly reached for his handkerchief as a coughing fit seized him. He clamped it over his mouth as the spasms shook him, and tears came to his eyes.

  He straightened with an apologetic smile and was about to thrust his handkerchief into his pocket when Killigrew caught him by the wrist. The two of them struggled, but Yelverton must have realised that the game was up for he finally allowed Killigrew to see the handkerchief.

  The lieutenant looked up from the handkerchief at the master. Yelverton looked back at him with pleading in his eyes.

  ‘Mr Strachan! Would you be so good as to escort Mr Yelverton to the sick-berth for a thorough medical examination? I believe he is not feeling A1 at present.’ Killigrew showed him the handkerchief, the white linen stained with dark blood.

  Chapter 13

  Rogue Male

  ‘Pulmonary tuberculosis,’ Strachan told Killigrew in the privacy of his cabin. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.’

  Killigrew pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb in a vain attempt to stave off the headache he felt coming on. ‘You didn’t see it because Yelverton didn’t want you to see it. He didn’t want any of us to see it.’ He opened his eyes and looked up at Strachan. ‘He knew, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, he denies it, of course, but when you practise medicine in the navy you soon learn to tell when someone’s lying.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do for him?’

  ‘Not a great deal. He needs rest – lots of it – clean air, of course… he’ll get plenty of that in these parts… but it’s at an advanced stage. There’s no cure that I know of.’

  ‘How long has he got?’

  ‘You want an exact date? Three years, three months, who can say? I’ve read about cases of men and women with consumption living to a ripe old age; more often they just get progressively worse and then…’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘I most strongly advise he be relieved of duty.’

  The two of them made their way to the sick-berth, where they found Yelverton still lacing up his half-boots. He saw Killigrew and smiled thinly. He suddenly looked older, as if he had suffered some defeat. He might have known how ill he was, but perhaps this was the first time his sickness had been diagnosed by a medical man, forcing him to face up to the reality. ‘Strachan’s told you the news, I take it?’

  Killigrew nodded.

  ‘So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.’ Yelverton gestured at Strachan. ‘Or apothecary-patient confidentiality.’

  ‘Strachan would be remiss in his duty if he knew you were gravely ill and he kept it from me. What the devil were you thinking of?’ Killigrew hissed angrily. ‘You should be in a hospital, not acting as master on board a ship bound for the Arctic!’

  ‘Spend the rest of my life wheezing and coughing myself into an early grave in a hospital?’ Yelverton shook his head sadly. ‘Have you ever looked death in the face, Killigrew?’

  ‘We have a nodding acquaintance.’

  ‘I look him in the face. Every morning I wake up and I look in the mirror to shave and that’s when I look death in the face. Every morning. And I have to ask myself, should I shave off my bristles? Or just slit my throat? But life’s a precious thing. You don’t realise how precious until you find it’s been ordained that you should be allocated less than your fair share. Every day… every minute, every second of every day… you become grateful for the fact that you’re still alive. Can you even begin to imagine that, Killigrew? To know what it’s like to stand on the quarterdeck watching the sand running through the glasses in the belfry and to think: That’s my life slipping away? How would you want to spend that time? Rotting away in a hospital? Or on the quarterdeck of a ship, where you know you belong?’

  ‘Somewhere where there’s less chance of passing on my complaint to other, more healthy people, I hope,’ Killigrew said unsympathetically. ‘Just how infectious is consumption, Strachan?’

  The assistant surgeon shrugged. ‘As with most medical opinion, that’s hotly debated.’

  ‘Then we’ll assume the worst. From now on Yelverton will avoid contact with other members of the crew, wash his own handkerchiefs and empty his own chamber pot.’ Killigrew glanced at the master, and was glad to see that Yelverton did not appear inclined to argue. ‘Furthermore, from now on he is to be relieved of all duties.’ He turned to Strachan. ‘Could you leave us a moment, please?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  As soon as the assistant surgeon had gone, Killigrew turned back to Yelverton. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

  The master nodded.

  ‘It’s not every man that can choose where he dies,’ mused Kill
igrew. ‘Did you think the clean air of the Arctic would prolong your life?’

  ‘I’d rather live two days in the Arctic than one in the smoke of London. What about you, Killigrew? You can be pretty careless of your own life.’

  ‘Isn’t every man who goes to sea?’

  ‘You take more risks than most.’

  Killigrew grinned. ‘Blame my upbringing. I was raised on romantic tales of swashbuckling and heroism. Lor’! Don’t I wish that all I had to worry about now was slaves or pirates: something that can be dealt with cleanly with a cutlass or a pistol.’

  ‘Romantic? Or gothic? I used to be like you once back in the days of Algiers and Navarino. I spent so much time wanting to die a romantic death I forgot to care about how I lived. But I saw so many people killed by yellow fever when we were with the West Africa Squadron… that’s why I got married.’ He grimaced. ‘I never thought we’d have a family, though. At my time of life! Coming back to England after our cruise in the Far East and the South Seas to find the house full of screaming two-year-old triplets… it wasn’t what I’d planned. You know how to make God laugh, don’t you? Tell him your plans. Well, I’d just about accepted the idea of settling down and raising a family when I discovered I had this… this condition…’ Yelverton gestured helplessly. ‘I didn’t want Babs and the kids watching me die by degrees. Then you turned up at our door with an offer of a berth on an Arctic expedition. It was the answer to my prayers.’

  ‘If I’d known—’

  ‘I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you. A word of advice, Killigrew: there’s nothing romantic about death. If you make it back to England, make sure you enjoy life.’

  ‘Flare up, man. We’ll make it back to England, every one of us. Strachan tells me you could still have years of life left in you. Shouldn’t you be trying to make the most of them with your family, instead of coming to a dead world like the Arctic?’

  ‘There was another reason. I suppose you’ll think me an old fool, but…’

  Killigrew shrugged, inviting him to continue.

  ‘I wanted to see the aurora borealis.’

  * * *

  Ursula was crossing the deck to the entry port when she heard Ziegler call out behind her. ‘Frau Weiss!’

  She turned and saw him emerging from the after hatch. Like her, he was bundled up in his warmest clothes. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘For a walk. I need to stretch my legs. I’ve been cooped up on this ship for too long.’ She was used to spending months at a time at sea, but at least on a whaler the scenery was always changing, and in the two weeks since the two Smiths had been flogged – one fatally – and Cavan had been killed, the atmosphere on board the Venturer had grown increasingly sour.

  ‘You’re not going out alone, are you?’ Ziegler asked jovially. ‘Not with the polar bear that killed poor Herr Cavan still out there somewhere?’

  Ursula smiled. ‘If what Herr Strachan says about polar bears being wanderers is true, then the bear that killed Herr Cavan will be long gone by now. Besides, it is broad daylight: if there are any bears out there, they will not be able to sneak up on me in the snow and the dark and surprise me, as Herr Cavan was doubtless surprised.’

  ‘Surprise or no surprise, you do not want to run into a polar bear without one of these.’ Ziegler indicated the shotgun he carried slung over one shoulder.

  ‘If you wish to accompany me, Herr Ziegler, simply say so. But do not pretend I need your protection. I have been to the Arctic far more times than you, and I think I have a clearer idea of the dangers than you.’

  They stepped out from under the awning, tying the flaps behind them. It was mid-October, the temperature markedly colder than it had been two weeks ago, but there were still a good eight hours of daylight each day, and while the sun was above the horizon it seemed to keep away the worst bite of the Arctic winds. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the snow-covered ice glittered beneath the bright sun, giving the scenery a magical aspect.

  Ziegler and Ursula picked their way carefully down to the ice, where the day’s mess cooks were moving barrels and crates of victuals from the cache on the ice into the ship. The rest of the crew were marching round and round the hull on the ice, as they did every morning from ten until noon. It might have grown tedious, but they were allowed to yam with one another as they marched, and those of them who smoked puffed away at clay pipes or cigars, depending on their rank and pockets.

  ‘Don’t go too far!’ Molineaux called after them as they passed the ropes that marked the boundary of the camp. Ziegler raised an arm in acknowledgement, and then he and Ursula set out across the ice.

  ‘Damned Englishmen!’ spat Ziegler, once they were out of earshot.

  ‘Herr Ziegler! What makes you say that?’

  ‘I don’t like the way they look at you.’

  ‘I am a woman,’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘I would like to be flattered, but I am the only woman any of them has seen since they sailed from the Whalefish Islands four months ago. Can you blame them for looking? Where is the harm, if all they do is look?’

  ‘But looks can lead to other things…’

  ‘That is a terrible thing to say! There is not one of them who has not treated me with the utmost respect and deference from the moment I stepped on board.’

  ‘Except for that madman Pettifer, Ursula. May I call you Ursula? After all we’ve been through together…’

  ‘I would feel more comfortable with “Frau Weiss”.’

  ‘Does Herr Killigrew address you as “Frau Weiss” when you are alone?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘Herr Ziegler! Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘You know perfectly well! I’ve seen the way you look at him over the dinner table; yes, and the way you return those glances! ’

  ‘It is good manners to look someone in the eye when they address you.’ She smiled. ‘Even when they are so impertinent as to make unwelcome advances such as, “Can I offer you some more parsnips, Frau Weiss?”!’ She looked at him. ‘Why, Herr Ziegler! Could it be that you are jealous? You are being foolish. Herr Killigrew is very charming, but his callow charms hold no interest for me.’

  They walked on in silence until they were half a mile from the ship, at the foot of a pressure ridge that rose forty feet above the level of the ice field. But the jumbled lumps of ice presented no obstacle, and Ursula scrambled up them as nimbly as a mountain goat, revelling in the physical exertion after so many weeks of being cooped up on board ship.

  ‘Ursula! What are you doing?’ Ziegler called up after her. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Up!’ she called. She reached the top, and looked out across the landscape beyond: another ice field, studded with bergy bits and stretching away to a second pressure ridge perhaps two miles off. Below her, snow had drifted against the other side of the ridge and frozen solid, producing a smooth, icy slide down to the bottom. She waited until Ziegler, climbing up after her, had almost caught her, and then slid down the other side with a whoop of delight. That was one of the reasons she loved the Arctic so much, apart from its natural beauty. Back in Hamburg, the thought of what one’s neighbours might think was always a moderating influence; here in the snowy wastes, one’s neighbours might be a thousand miles away. She felt she could act as outrageously as she wanted; it was supremely liberating.

  Ziegler followed her down by the same route, stumbling at the bottom and rolling on his side with a curse. She hurried forward to help him up, but he knocked her hand away with a gesture of irritation: in the three years they had known one another, she had noticed that he did not like to have a woman fussing over him, as if he could not take care of himself.

  He stood up, and gazed up at the smooth ice ridge above them. ‘Wonderful!’ he said bitterly. ‘Now how do we get back?’

  ‘Who knows? Let’s have an adventure! Damn it, Herr Ziegler, doesn’t it bore you to always know exactly what’s going to happen next?’

  ‘I find it reassuring.’

  ‘The Eng
lish would call you a “stick in the mud”. Is that not a wonderful expression? It means someone very stuffy and boring.’

  ‘Is that how Killigrew describes me?’

  ‘Will you stop harping on about Killigrew? He means nothing to me. As a matter of fact, it was Herr Latimer who taught me that expression. He was using it with reference to Herr Strachan. Look, there’s a way up this side of the ridge over there, if it will make you feel better.’ She set off walking along the foot of the ridge to where a bergy bit, embedded in the ice-field, was close enough to the ridge to have sheltered it from aeons of gusting wind and snow, so that the jumbled blocks of ice remained exposed and climbable.

  ‘Damn you, Ursula! Sometimes I don’t know whether to kiss you or slap you.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Herr Weiss used to say to me.’

  ‘Don’t say that! Don’t ever compare me to him.’

  ‘Why not? I think you have a lot in common with him. I did love him once, you know. In a way.’

  He ran to catch up with her, and caught her by the hand. ‘Ursula, do you think…? Could you ever…?’

  She pulled her hand away from his. ‘Please, Herr Ziegler! Dietrich! Don’t say it!’