‘How often do polar bears feed?’ asked Killigrew.
The assistant surgeon regarded him mournfully. ‘As often as they can.’
Chapter 14
Bruin’s Larder
Strachan returned to the scene of Ziegler’s death as soon as he could fetch a mixing bowl, some water and some gypsum powder from the ship. Killigrew wanted to send him back with Corporal Naylor and his marines, but the assistant surgeon insisted that Ågård, Molineaux and O’Houlihan – suitably armed with rifled muskets – would be protection enough. He was quite pleased with this: it made him look braver than he was, because the truth of the matter was that he had been through several adventures with the three seamen, and he had more faith in them than he did in Naylor and his marines.
‘If you don’t think that Ziegler was killed by the same bear as Cavan, what’s the point of taking a plaster cast, sir?’ asked Ågård.
Strachan had noticed that when there were no other officers around, Ågård, Molineaux and O’Houlihan did not address him with the usual ‘begging your pardon, sir’ formula they might have used if they were speaking out of turn. In a way that rather pleased him: he hated mindless kowtowing, and did not care as long as there was respect. And on those rare occasions when Molineaux’s natural talent for insubordination did reveal itself in a flash of disrespect, Strachan usually had to admit to himself that he had earned it.
‘A plaster cast will prove that the attacks were carried out by two different bears,’ he said confidently. He did not mind explaining his scientific investigations to the hands; in fact, he rather enjoyed it. He was aware that some of his fellow officers thought he could be a bore at times – perhaps they were right – but Ågård, Molineaux and O’Houlihan seemed genuinely interested, and Strachan was never happier than when he was giving one of his Sunday evening lectures to the hands. ‘Besides, just look at the size of these paw-prints! Twelve and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch! I’d say we’re dealing with a specimen of Ursus maritimus of extraordinary size. You know, I almost regret that Dr Bähr wasn’t able to shoot it: stuffed, it would have made a splendid specimen to present to the British Museum. I wonder if we could take one alive? A gift to the Zoological Gardens would be even better…’
‘Don’t even think about it, sir,’ groaned Molineaux. ‘There’s no way I’m sailing back to Britain with a live polar bear on board, even chained! You want my opinion, there’s only one place a polar bear belongs, and that’s in the Arctic.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ acknowledged Strachan.
‘Twelve and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch, you say?’ mused O’Houlihan. ‘That’s big, for a polar bear?’
‘Yes, indeed! Most polar bear prints don’t measure much more than about a foot across at the very largest, and that’s big males.’
‘The prints of the bear that killed Mr Cavan were unusually large, were they not, sir?’
‘Again, twelve and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch.’
‘How many bears do you suppose there are around here with paws measuring twelve and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch, sir?’
‘A good scientist isn’t led into erroneous hypotheses by positing assumptions based on misleading physical evidence.’
‘Come again, sir?’
‘He says you’re jumping to conclusions, Mick,’ explained Molineaux.
‘Is that so?’ O’Houlihan nodded his head sagely. ‘Well, you’re the expert, sir.’
Molineaux looked around. ‘I just don’t understand it,’ he said.
‘What don’t you understand?’ asked Strachan.
‘There’s no cover within a hundred yards. How the hell did the bear get close enough to attack without being seen, and without Ziegler even getting a chance to get one shot off?’
‘Maybe his mind was on other things,’ O’Houlihan said with a wink.
‘Maybe so,’ agreed Molineaux. ‘But you think he’d’ve seen something. I mean, polar bears are big. That she-bear I killed a couple of weeks back was about seven foot long, and Terregannoeuck says he-bears are much bigger.’
Strachan nodded. ‘Nine feet long, usually, although specimens as large as ten feet have been recorded.’
‘They’re white,’ said O’Houlihan. ‘They don’t show up against the snow.’
‘The one I shot wasn’t white,’ said Molineaux. ‘More sort of yellowy. Stood out like a sore thumb against the snow.’
‘Their fur changes colour over the year,’ explained Ågård, who must have seen a few polar bears himself when he was a whaler. ‘It’s yellowy in the summer, but it turns whiter as winter comes on.’
‘Well, this bear can’t have been much whiter than the one I shot two weeks ago,’ said Molineaux. ‘I don’t care if Ziegler was spooning with Jenny Lind, never mind Frau Weiss. How could he not notice a yellow bear nine or ten feet long, weighting four-fifths of a ton, stalking him across the ice?’
Strachan could not answer that question, so he concentrated on mixing up the gypsum cement. Taking a plaster cast from ice was much trickier than working from mud or sand. The water used in the mixture – which had frozen on the walk from the ship – had to be heated up over a portable stove to melt it once more. But the mixture could not be too warm when Strachan poured it into the frame he had constructed around the print, otherwise it would melt the snow before it had a chance to set, and ruin the impression. At the same time, he had to make sure the gypsum cement set rather than simply froze, otherwise the cast would just melt when he got it back on board the Venturer. He had learned from the many mistakes he had made taking a cast of the first bear’s foot, however, and this time got both the consistency and the temperature of the mixture just right when he poured it into the frame.
After the three seamen had shovelled what was left of Ziegler into a sack for burial the next day, O’Houlihan brewed some tea on the stove while they waited for the cast to set, and they munched some ship’s biscuits. In spite of the cold, Strachan was grateful to be away from the Venturer, where the atmosphere had grown unbearable since Pettifer’s behaviour had become increasingly erratic. Things had been relatively quiet on board over the week since Pettifer had confined himself to his cabin, and they had settled into a routine: monotonous, in a way, but Strachan liked some order in his life.
The three ratings kept glancing around them fearfully, as if they expected the polar bear to return. ‘You needn’t worry,’ Strachan told them. ‘The bear that attacked Ziegler won’t be hungry again so soon.’
‘Yur, well, if it was two different bears that attacked Mr Cavan and Herr Ziegler, maybe the bear that killed Cavan is getting peckish by now,’ Molineaux pointed out.
Strachan considered the point, and then looked down at the cast, mentally trying to will it to set faster.
It was half-past four before the cast was ready to be removed, twilight at that time of year. By the time they got back to the Venturer, dusk had settled over the landscape and Strachan was glad to be back on board, Pettifer or no Pettifer. He took the cast to the sick-berth, where he found Frau Weiss lying in one of the cots, ashen-faced, trembling and wide-eyed.
‘How is she?’ he asked Fischbein.
His arm fully healed now, the young half-deck boy had been appointed sick-berth attendant, amongst other duties. He sat in the chair next to Ursula’s cot, reading one of Strachan’s books: Hawkins’ The Book of Great Sea Dragons, lavishly illustrated with artists’ impressions of marine dinosaurs; rather fantastic interpretations, in Strachan’s opinion, but he kept it around the sick-berth for the benefit of the seamen who wanted something to occupy them but found reading an up-hill struggle.
‘All right, I think, mein Herr,’ said Fischbein. His English had improved dramatically in the four months since he had come on board the Venturer. ‘She’s not hurt, just shocked. Dr Bähr gave her some laudanum and a cup of camomile tea.’
Strachan grunted; unlike most medical men, he did not regard laudanum as a universal panacea. He crouched by Ursula’s cot and
looked into her eyes. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Still a little shaken,’ she admitted.
‘That’s not to be wondered at. It must have been terrifying. You’re a lucky lassie.’
‘It was schrecklich – dreadful,’ she admitted. ‘It just appeared out of nowhere. Ziegler was standing less than two feet away when it pounced on him from behind, forced him down on to the ice. I could hear his bones cracking…’ She shuddered. ‘And then it put its jaws over his head, and closed them. His skull cracked like an egg… I just got up and ran. I should have helped him somehow, but I just got up and ran.’ She turned away.
‘Hush, now! What could you have done? If you’d lingered, the bear might well have killed you as well. You did the only sensible thing. Once the bear pounced, Ziegler was as good as dead. It doesn’t sound to me as if he suffered much.’
She shook her head. ‘You did not see it. So much blood…’
‘Well, it’s over now and the bear’s probably long gone. You get some rest. Everything will seem so much better in the morning, I promise you.’
There was a knock on the door. Not wanting Frau Weiss to be disturbed any more than necessary, Strachan crossed to the door and opened it a crack to see Killigrew and Bähr standing there. ‘You’ve got the second plaster cast?’ asked Bähr.
‘Probably best if we don’t discuss this in front of Frau Weiss,’ murmured Strachan.
‘The wardroom?’ suggested Killigrew.
Strachan nodded. ‘Give me a hand with the casts, would you, Killigrew? They’re not heavy, but they’re big.’ He found his magnifying glass, tucked it in the pocket of his frock-coat, and fetched the two casts, handing one to the lieutenant so he could close the sick-berth door behind him. The two of them carried the casts down to the wardroom, where Bähr waited with Yelverton, Latimer and Varrow.
‘Mind the mahogany!’ Latimer said anxiously as Killigrew and Strachan put the casts down on the table.
‘Bugger the mahogany!’ Bähr retorted as Strachan took out his magnifying glass and scrutinised first one, then the other cast.
‘Oh!’ the assistant surgeon exclaimed in disappointment.
‘Well?’ Bähr demanded impatiently. ‘Are they the same, or aren’t they?’
‘I’d like a second opinion, if you’d be so good, Doctor.’ Strachan handed him the magnifying glass.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Bähr, after a few moments’ study. He looked up at Strachan, who nodded soberly.
‘They’re the same,’ they chorused.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Latimer.
Killigrew took a deep breath. ‘It means that all bets are off: this polar bear doesn’t play according to Hoyle.’
* * *
…They are at constant enmity with the Walrus, or Morse: the last, by reason of its vast tusks, has generally the superiority; but frequently both the combatants perish in the conflict.
They are frequently seen in Greenland, in lat. 76, in great droves; where, allured by the scent of the flesh of seals, they will surround the habitations of the natives, and attempt to break in; but are soon driven away by the smell of burnt feathers…
In his cabin, Killigrew looked up from the ship’s copy of Thomas Pennant’s Arctic Zoology and rubbed his eyes wearily. All very interesting, but hardly helpful. The idea of trying to capture a walrus to use as a guard dog he dismissed out of hand: even if they had seen a walrus since they had entered Peel Sound, the idea was impractical. As for burning feathers, well… there were plenty of feathers on board in the officers’ pillows, but not enough to burn twenty-four hours a day until the bear returned. Given the rapidity with which the bear struck, keeping feathers handy until the bear returned and then trying to burn them upwind from the bear to drive it off seemed impractical.
Normally he bowed to Strachan in all matters of zoology, but the assistant surgeon’s insistence that humans were not polar bears’ natural food was little reassurance after what had happened to Cavan and Ziegler. Twice the bear had killed now; the second attack was all the more worrying because it indicated that this bear had tasted human flesh and decided it liked it enough to come back for more. A third visit seemed inevitable.
In the week since Ziegler’s death, Killigrew had instituted some basic precautions with the intention of preventing any further deaths from polar bear attacks. From now on, no one was to go beyond the perimeter rope without his permission, and even then in company and well armed. Guards armed with rifles were to keep a sharp lookout for bears throughout the hours of daylight, especially when the mess cooks were bringing supplies aboard the ship from the depot on the ice. And no one – repeat, no one – was to leave the ship itself during the hours of darkness, or when deteriorating weather meant that visibility was poor.
It was difficult to see what else they could do. Even so, Killigrew felt a vague sense of unease. The sooner the bear made a third attempt and was dealt with, the happier he would be.
There was a knock at the cabin door. ‘Come in?’
It was Private Jenkins. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. I’ve got orders from the cap’n to search your cabin.’
Killigrew blinked. ‘To search my cabin? What for?’
‘Any papers, journals, charts, that sort of thing, sir.’ Jenkins squirmed with embarrassment: a seasoned marine, he must have known that this went beyond irregular. ‘I don’t think it’s anything personal, sir. We’ve been given orders to search all the officers’ cabins…’
Killigrew leaped to his feet, squeezed past Jenkins and out through the wardroom. On the other side of the passageway beyond, Private Walsh was ransacking Yelverton’s cabin.
Corporal Naylor was on duty outside Pettifer’s quarters. ‘Stand aside, Naylor.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The corporal grinned. It was obvious that, unlike Jenkins, Naylor was enjoying this immensely. ‘I’ve orders that no one is to disturb the cap’n.’
‘I’m giving you new orders, Corporal. Stand aside, damn your eyes!’
‘Begging your pardon, sir –’ Naylor had developed the knack of speaking respectfully, while contempt oozed from every pore, to a fine art – ‘but Cap’n Pettifer’s a commander, and you’re only a lieutenant, which means his orders take precedence over yours.’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Naylor. Get out of my way at once!’
‘I’ve orders not to let anyone past, using force if necessary.’
‘I’m warning you, I’ll have you court-martialled for this.’
‘For what?’ sneered Naylor. ‘Obeying orders?’
Killigrew snatched his musket and rammed it back against Naylor’s throat, pinning him to the door. ‘This nonsense has gone quite far enough, Corporal. Trifle with me and you won’t live to see a court martial, hoist in?’ He pulled Naylor away from the door, swung him around and threw him to the deck. Still holding the musket, he kicked open the door to Pettifer’s quarters.
The day-room was unlit, the curtain drawn over the stern window, the blinds pulled beneath the skylight – which looked up only to the covered upper deck now anyway. Horatia came scampering out of the darkness to sink her teeth into Killigrew’s ankle. He gave her a kick, just hard enough to send her running back to her basket, whimpering.
‘What the devil’s the meaning of this?’ Pettifer called from the darkness.
Killigrew slung the musket from his shoulder. Even in his anger, he knew better than to give the impression he was threatening the commander with a loaded firearm. ‘You tell me, sir. What’s the meaning of your ordering the marines to search all our cabins?’
‘It’s perfectly simple: they’re looking for evidence.’
‘Evidence? Evidence of what?’
‘Disloyalty. Do you take me for a fool, Killigrew?’
‘I’m beginning to.’
‘You think I don’t know that you and the others have been conspiring against me behind my back? You think I don’t know about your secret meetings in the observatory? You’re all in on it, aren’t you? Varrow d
eliberately ignored my orders to stop her so we ran aground at the Whalefish Islands; Latimer falsified the records of the amount of coal that we brought on board so that we ran low. He could only have done so with your compliance!’
‘What are you talking about, sir? With all due respect, the only reason we ran aground at the Whalefish Islands is because of your inexperience at conning a steam-powered ship. You were officer of the watch: what happened was your responsibility. And if we’re running low on coal, it’s because you used up so much in your hurry to beat the rest of the squadron to the North Water. You knew, didn’t you? You knew we were ahead of Belcher and the others, but you let the rest of us think that we’d fallen behind, and that your hurry was to catch them up. What happened when you went ashore at Lievely, sir? What did the governor really tell you? That the rest of the squadron had headed around the east side of the island? So you ordered us to sail around the west side, so that we’d be ahead of them. It’s not Sir Edward who wants the glory of discovering the North-West Passage all for himself; it’s you. And you don’t care how many of us die to win you that honour. Well, it’s over. From now on I’m assuming command of this vessel.’
Pettifer leaned forward in his chair so that the parallelogram of light from the door fell across his face. He looked awful: his cheeks unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and sunk deep within his skull. ‘It’s over, all right. Over for you, Mr Killigrew. You’ve condemned yourself out of your own mouth. Corporal Naylor!’
The corporal, who had been hovering outside the door with Private Jenkins, Phillips and Walsh to see how things panned out, now stepped into the day-room. ‘Sah?’
‘You will place Mr Killigrew under arrest, Naylor,’ ordered Pettifer. ‘The charge is mutiny. Restrain him and place him in the lazaretto in irons.’
‘Don’t listen to him!’ Killigrew told the marines. ‘You heard him: he’s paranoid! He deliberately disobeyed Sir Edward’s orders.’
Killigrew and the North-West Passage Page 29