Killigrew and the North-West Passage

by Jonathan Lunn

  Killigrew stood up and handed the private the rifle. ‘Be on your guard, Phillips,’ he said sardonically. ‘Ågård says the polar bear is close. He “feels” it.’

  Phillips grinned. ‘I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for it, sir.’ He checked the rifle and huddled down next to Jenkins.

  ‘Dinner will soon be ready, Ågård. Coming?’

  ‘Ask the cook to keep a share warm for me, sir. I think I’ll stay out here a while longer.’

  Killigrew shrugged and set off back towards the long, low shape of the Venturer, now hidden by the thick, swirling mist that came down from the north. As the coverts were swallowed up by the fog behind him, the observatory loomed out of the murk, a light shining behind the door, and beyond it the long, low shape of the snow-cocooned Venturer with lights glimmering behind the frost-rimed portholes. Commander Pettifer’s voice drifted from his cabin on the starboard side. They let him out once a day for two hours each morning, while two men were appointed to watch over him with muskets, but the rest of the time he was secured in his cabin.

  ‘“Behold, he cometh with clouds”!’ Pettifer recited now, his booming voice scarcely muffled by the thick snow heaped against the Venturer’s side. ‘“And every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him: and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him. Even so, Amen. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the Almighty”.’

  The huskies – all locked in their kennels on board the Venturer, so they would not frighten the bear off – started to bark frenziedly, presumably upset by the deranged tone of Pettifer’s ravings. The captain’s continual ranting was starting to get Killigrew down as well. He wondered what sort of an effect it was having on the rest of the crew. Morale had risen briefly since he had assumed command, but he did not fool himself that was permanent. Even he could not alter the main cause of the crew’s discontent, the lack of sunshine and the increasingly cold weather.

  Killigrew knocked on the door of the observatory. ‘Come in!’ called Strachan.

  After two hours on the ice, it felt swelteringly hot inside the observatory and Killigrew quickly removed his sealskin cap, unwound his comforter and unbuttoned his greatcoat. Strachan was reading the ship’s log while Able Seaman McLellan kept an eye on his experiments for him. Killigrew was pleased to see a couple of muskets propped up in one corner, just in case.

  ‘McLellan, would you be so good as to go aboard the Venturer and ask Private Walsh to see what he can do to keep the captain quiet? He may gag him, if necessary, but no violence.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Orcadian stood up and put on his muffler and greatcoat.

  ‘And then see if you can get those dogs to pipe down. They’ll scare our friend Bruin away from the trap.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ McLellan turned up his collar and went out, closing the door behind him.

  Strachan glanced up at Killigrew. ‘You look awful. When did you last get any sleep?’

  ‘I had a good long snooze yesterday afternoon,’ Killigrew said absently.

  ‘A good snooze isn’t enough, Killigrew. You need eight hours. You’re pushing yourself too hard. I know you like to think you’ve got reserves of strength above and beyond the rest of us but – damn it! – you’re only human. And these aren’t normal conditions. You need all the strength you can get just to make it through the winter. We all do.’

  Killigrew grunted non-committally. ‘Mind if I help myself?’ he asked, indicating the bottle of Scotch on top of the stove.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  In spite of its storing place, the cold Scotch was thick and oily. Killigrew knocked it back before it froze in the mug.

  ‘No luck catching Bruin so far?’ asked Strachan.

  ‘Not yet. I think I’ll call it off for today. Visibility’s dropping out there. Soon Osborne and the others won’t be able to see their hands in front of their faces.’ He indicated the log Strachan was poring over. ‘Interesting reading?’

  ‘In a way. It’s queer: even the ramblings of a madman have their own kind of twisted, perverted logic.’

  Killigrew put down his mug. ‘I’m going back aboard the Venturer for dinner. Coming?’

  ‘In a minute. I’ve just got a couple of pages to go.’

  The lieutenant replaced his cap and went out again, buttoning his coat. The fog had thickened more rapidly than he had expected and even the Venturer – less than seventy yards from the door of the observatory – was hidden, with only a slight paleness in the surrounding opacity revealing the presence of lights. He cursed. As soon as he got back on board, he would have Unstead pipe Bähr and the marines back to the ship. It was too dangerous to be out in this weather with a polar bear on the prowl.

  Pettifer was still ranting and the huskies still barked, both more frenziedly than ever now. Killigrew watched his footing as he ascended the gangplank, saw McLellan’s footprints in the film of light snow that had fallen earlier that afternoon, and beneath those…

  ‘Christ!’

  He went up the gangplank as fast as he could, his boots slipping and sliding on the ice, gauntlets scrabbling awkwardly for purchase on the lifeline. At the top of the gangplank he saw blood seeping out from under the wadding tilt awning, lots of blood, black against white in the dim light, quickly thickening and freezing.

  He tore open the fastenings at the opening, parted the flaps and came face to face with the bear.

  Chapter 17

  The Hunt

  Killigrew had seen polar bears before, at the zoological gardens in Regent’s Park. At the time, they had struck him as big, powerful creatures, albeit rather cuddly with all their shaggy cream-coloured fur. Compared to this monster they looked scrawny.

  There was nothing cuddly about Bruin. His chops were smeared with blood and from the expression on his snarling face he did not like to be interrupted in the middle of a meal. The meal was what was left of McLellan, his bloody face still recognisable at one end of the gory mess.

  Killigrew stood frozen stock-still, mesmerised by the beast’s feral gaze. Then the bear reared up on its hind legs with a roar. Its ears brushed the awning, about eleven and a half feet above. O’Houlihan had been exaggerating when he said the bear was twelve feet long, but not by much: it had to weigh at least nine-tenths of a ton.

  It lunged.

  Killigrew stepped back instinctively through the opening and raised his hands in a futile, instinctive gesture to protect his head. He felt the deck shake beneath his feet as those massive paws smashed down, felt the beast’s rank breath in his face, and then it smashed into him. He was tossed aside, the rope of the gangplank’s handrail biting into his buttocks. The world spun around him. White, black, a shaggy hind-quarter, the wind chill on his face, and then something smashed against his head and lights exploded inside his skull. Not quite in the same instant, but so close as to make it impossible to tell whether it came before or after, something else smashed against his body.

  He was lying on the ice. That meant he was a sitting duck. He remembered his first fight to the death, a skirmish on the deck of a Barbary corsair off the coast of North Africa – sun, sand, did such things really exist or had he imagined them? Curved swords flashing in the mêlée, shouts and screams, blood everywhere, something crashing against his skull and his legs buckling, face down on the deck, feet trampling him, then Jory Spargo’s strong hands lifting him up, get up, get up!

  Killigrew stood up. At once his legs gave way beneath him and he sank to his hands and knees. His head swam and a darkness sought to overwhelm him. He fought it off. You can’t faint now… Where am I, what’s going on? Danger… polar bear… Christ, a big bastard… Where is it now, where, where?

  He looked around woozily. It was impossible to tell where the Arctic fog ended and the mist behind his eyes began. No bear… shouts, shots, light falling over him from behind, voices making no sense.

  ‘There’s someone down there!’

  D
own where?

  ‘He’s moving, he’s still alive!’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Can’t tell.’

  Footsteps, thump thump thump thump. Killigrew’s elbows buckled beneath him and snow burst under the peak of his cap, stinging his cheek. Strong hands lifting him. Good old Jory.

  ‘It’s Mr Killigrew!’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there! Get him to the sick-berth. Where the hell’s the pill-roller?’

  Faces, footsteps, more faces, surrounding him, concern in their eyes. He knew the faces but he could not think where from.

  ‘You oh-kay, sir?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ His own voice came from ten thousand miles away, all the way back in England. Good old England. Hands holding him, gently leading him up the gangplank. No, he didn’t want to go up there, but there were too many to resist and he felt too weak. Then the dim oil-lanterns slung beneath the awning dazzled him and he averted his eyes only to see the mangled remains of McLellan, ribs white against the crimson of torn flesh.

  ‘Don’t look, sir. You can’t do anything more for him.’

  Able Seaman Erlend McLellan. Dead. But you’re still alive. Why? Because the bear had already sated its appetite, it wasn’t interested in you, it only wanted to get away and you stood in its path. But supposing it had not been sated, supposing it had attacked you? That could be you lying down there with your entrails ripped out.

  Killigrew pictured himself lying there. His stomach lurched and his knees gave way again, but the men surrounding him caught him. They helped him down to the sick-berth, sat him in a chair, and Strachan crouched before him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Killigrew nodded and then winced at the pain that lanced up his neck and into his skull.

  ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

  Killigrew saw six, but he was not fooled. ‘Three.’

  ‘Good. All right, Ågård, help me get his coat off. The rest of you get out of here, give the man some room to breathe.’ Ågård took off Killigrew’s coat and Strachan explored the back of his head with tentative fingers.

  ‘Ouch!’ said Killigrew.

  ‘Hmm. Well, there’s a lump on the back of your head so large I’ve half a mind to stick a Union Flag in it and claim it for Queen Victoria as a new-found continent. But I don’t think your skull’s fractured. What happened?’

  ‘Had a bit of a tussle with our pal Bruin. Must’ve fallen off the gangplank and cracked my head on the ice.’

  ‘You were fortunate.’

  ‘More fortunate than poor McLellan. I sent him to his death, Strachan. You were there. I sent him to his death.’

  * * *

  ‘Where the devil do you think you’re going?’ Strachan demanded furiously the next morning.

  ‘To kill the bear.’ Killigrew descended the gangplank to where Boatswain’s Mate Unstead was trying to harness six of the dogs to one of the dog sledges – and making a proper pig’s ear of it, by the look of things. As well as the smaller dog sledge, they were taking one of the larger sledges, which would be hauled by Killigrew, Bähr, Bombardier Osborne and Privates Jenkins, Phillips and Walsh. They had loaded up the two sledges the previous evening with everything they would need for the hunt: guns – including the makeshift bomb-gun – ammunition, food supplies, a portable cooking stove, and a tent.

  ‘You’re in no condition to go anywhere, let alone go chasing bears across the Arctic,’ protested Strachan.

  Killigrew shook his head. It still throbbed dully, but he had taken a powder and the pain was less intense than it had been when he had woken up a couple of hours earlier. ‘I did a lot of thinking last night. It’s time to carry the fight to the enemy.’

  ‘Fight him on his own turf, you mean?’

  Killigrew smiled wanly. ‘Wherever we fight him, it’ll be on his own turf. But it’s time the hunter became the hunted.’

  ‘At least wait a couple of days, until you’re feeling better.’

  ‘I’m feeling better now,’ lied Killigrew. ‘And so far the weather’s been with us.’ He shone the beam of a bull’s-eye to where the bear’s tracks still stood out in the snow, showing there had been no snowfall during the night – not that there was much difference between night and day, now that the sun had finally sunk beneath the horizon for the last time that year. ‘We have to go now, while the tracks are still there to be followed.’

  ‘Then stay behind and let someone else go in your place.’

  ‘Not my style.’

  ‘Assistant surgeon’s orders, Killigrew.’

  ‘Sorry, Strachan. You may be the medical officer, but I’m the acting commander. This is something only I can do. With a little help from Bähr, Unstead and our jollies.’

  ‘Sounds like gammon to me.’ The assistant surgeon grinned lopsidedly. ‘Always got to be the hero, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not much choice in the matter, Strachan. I’ll explain when I get back.’

  ‘If you get back.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said Killigrew. ‘You realise, of course, that in my absence command falls to you?’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Strachan. With me absent, Cavan dead, and Pettifer and Yelverton on the sick list, you’re the next most senior.’

  ‘But I’m just a civilian officer!’

  ‘Nevertheless, you’re next in command. Don’t worry: I wouldn’t drop such a big responsibility in your lap if I didn’t think you were up to it. If you get stuck, you can always ask Yelverton for advice. And don’t be afraid to lean on the petty officers. Ask ’em what they think, and if it makes more sense than anything you’ve been able to come up with, just nod sagely as if you’d known it all along, and were just testing them. They’re not likely to be fooled for an instant, of course, but good form demands one keeps up a pretence of being in command.’

  Strachan smiled thinly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Ursula descended the gangplank, dressed once more in her Inuit clothing. ‘Come to wish us good luck, Frau Weiss?’ Killigrew asked her.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

  He barely stopped himself from laughing out loud. ‘You, ma’am?’

  ‘You need someone to drive the sledge now that Terregannoeuck’s gone and McLellan is dead,’ she pointed out reasonably.

  ‘Unstead can drive the sledge,’ said Killigrew. ‘Isn’t that right, Unstead?’

  The boatswain’s mate did not hear him: one of the huskies had run around his ankles, and now he was struggling to disentangle himself from the traces.

  Ursula arched an eyebrow sceptically.

  ‘He’ll get the hang of it soon enough,’ Killigrew said defensively.

  Behind him there was a thud as Unstead fell over.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s too dangerous for a woman where we’re going.’

  ‘You think I’ll be any safer on board the Venturer, after what happened to McLellan yesterday? Besides, I can use a musket as well as any man.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, ma’am…’

  She turned to Phillips and indicated his rifled musket. ‘May I?’

  The marine glanced at Killigrew. ‘Go on, let her have it,’ sighed Killigrew.

  Ursula took the musket, raised it to her shoulder, and took aim at one of the iron pylons supporting the boundary rope, about fifty yards away in poor light. She fired. The bullet struck sparks from the pylon in the gloom, and the rope jumped as the pylon was knocked away at an angle. Impressed, Phillips let out a low whistle.

  ‘Belay that, Phillips,’ said Killigrew.

  Unstead was yelling now as the huskies leaped all over him, thinking it was some kind of game.

  ‘I know the Arctic better than you or any of the men going with you,’ Ursula pointed out. ‘You need me, Herr Killigrew.’

  He glanced down, and then looked up at her with his hands on his hips. ‘Are you sure you know how to drive a team of dogs?’

  ‘Watch me.’


  ‘It isn’t going to be easy, you know. We’re going to have to move fast. We can only carry enough supplies to last the six of us for two weeks; so if we don’t catch the bear after one week, we’ll have to turn back. You’ll be sharing a tent with us, living on a pound and a half of salt pork and pemmican per day, cold, wet, unable to get dry for day after day…’

  ‘I am familiar with the conditions in the Arctic. I want to see that bear killed every bit as much as you, Herr Killigrew. Herr Ziegler was a friend of mine. Besides, if you should fail, then sooner or later the bear will come back here for the rest of us.’

  He sighed. ‘Stand down, Unstead.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me. You’re staying behind.’

  The boatswain’s mate did not seem to be disappointed at being taken off the expedition; if anything, his expression was one of relief.

  ‘Good God, man!’ exploded Bähr, who was checking his hunting rifle and making sure his ammunition had been properly stowed on the sledge. ‘You’re not seriously going to let her come with us?’

  ‘You heard her,’ said Killigrew. ‘She knows the Arctic better than any of us; and she’s the only one who can drive the dog sledge.’

  ‘But… damn it all, she’s a woman!’

  ‘I’m well aware of the fact. But we need her; more than we need you, perhaps. If you don’t like it, you can stay behind and Molineaux can go in your place: he’s every bit as good a shot as you are.’

  Grumbling, Bähr acceded. As much as he disapproved of taking a woman on an expedition like this, it was clear that having a chance to be the one to kill the bear meant more to him.

  ‘Good luck, sir,’ said Latimer, and grinned. ‘My money’s on you killing the bear rather than vice versa.’

  ‘What sort of odds did you get?’

  ‘Good ones, sir.’

  ‘From whose point of view, Latimer? Ours or yours?’

  The clerk flushed, but did not answer.

  Finally Molineaux brought Killigrew his Norwegian snow-shoes and push-poles. ‘Wish you’d let me come with you, sir.’