Outside, the dogs started to bark even more frenziedly; presumably excited by the fresh meat Osborne and Jenkins were giving them. Then, one by one, they fell silent: they had better manners than to bark with their mouths full.
Killigrew rolled on to his side to go to sleep, and found Ursula’s face barely inches from his own. He smiled reassuringly at her, and she surreptitiously felt for his gloved hand, clasping it tightly.
The dogs were all silent now: the only sounds were the wind outside, their own rasping breath, and Phillips’ teeth chattering. Killigrew braced himself for the blast of cold wind that would follow Osborne and Jenkins back into the tent.
It never came.
A nasty feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach. He crawled out of his chrysalis bag and reached for his shotgun and bull’s-eye once more. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ursula.
‘I’ll just go see what’s taking Osborne and Jenkins so long.’
He crawled out of the tent, pausing to flash the bull’s-eye beam through the snow before lacing the tent flaps behind him. There was no sign of the two marines. Surely the damned fools had not wandered off and got lost? It would not be difficult in this blizzard…
He walked over to where the huskies lay and his stomach lurched when he saw their mangled, bloody corpses.
He levelled the shotgun and flashed the beam of the bull’s-eye around. Still no sign of the marines. ‘Osborne! Jenkins!’
No reply. He retreated to the tent and crouched by the entrance, still flashing his light through the snow. ‘Dr Bähr? Could you come out here and take a look at this?’
‘What is it?’
‘You’d best come and see for yourself. And bring your rifle.’
Killigrew heard Bähr grumbling in German. He still kept an eye open before him, his back to the tent. The doctor emerged, clutching his hunting rifle. ‘Well? What is it?’
The lieutenant indicated the dogs. Bähr crawled out of the tent and Killigrew fastened the flaps behind him while the doctor went across to examine them.
‘Oh!’
Killigrew followed him across, flashing the beam of his bull’s-eye all around as he did so.
‘That’s rum,’ said Bähr.
‘What?’
‘They’ve been torn apart, and yet… as far as I can see, there’s no flesh missing. Whoever – whatever killed them, it hasn’t… um… feasted. Where are Osborne and Jenkins?’
Killigrew flashed the bull’s-eye beam on to the snow until he found tracks: paw-prints, a bloodstained furrow, and footprints following them.
‘The bear must’ve grabbed one of them, and then the other went after them.’
Killigrew started to follow the tracks, but Bähr grabbed him by the arm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘One of them might still be alive.’
‘Don’t be a fool, man! You’ll just get yourself killed like them.’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘I came out here to kill that bear; I’m not going to give up now that I know it’s close—’
A scream sounded above the howling wind. The sound – unmistakably human – sent a shudder of horror down Killigrew’s spine. He broke into a run, following the tracks. Bähr followed him after a momentary hesitation. The two of them stumbled through the whirling snowflakes, clutching their guns. The screams were not far off when they stopped abruptly.
They found Jenkins a few yards further on, his skull crushed, his stomach ripped open and one leg chewed to tatters. The blood-stained snow on the ground was kicked up in all directions – by footprints and paw-prints – and in the limited visibility it was impossible to tell which way the bear had gone.
‘Where’s Bruin?’ asked Bähr.
‘We must have frightened him off! Besides, perhaps Osborne’s still alive.’
‘We’ll spread out!’
‘No! We stick together, and stick close. If we get separated, Bruin will just pick us off separately—’
A bestial roar sounded – close by, too close for comfort. Killigrew whirled, bringing up the shotgun, but in the beam of his bull’s-eye he could see only dancing snowflakes, getting thicker with each passing moment. Then another roar sounded, even closer this time. He whirled again – with the wind howling about his ears, it was impossible to tell which direction the sound came from.
‘He’s here!’ he screamed at Bähr. ‘Bruin’s right here!’
The lieutenant was almost hysterical with terror, his guts squirming and his mouth dry. He was no stranger to fear, but that was a fear he could cope with: fear of things like pirates and slavers, things he could fight by conventional means. This was a wild animal; it did not fight as men fought, and it seemed possessed of a supernatural cunning. A product of the Age of Reason, Killigrew knew that was nonsense, but against his rational mind was weighed the evidence of his own eyes. They could not defeat this bear; it was vain of them even to attempt.
Bähr grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him vigorously. ‘For God’s sake, Lieutenant! Get a grip on yourself. It’s just a wild animal! Now come on, and look sharp. These buggers can move fast when they want to. Give me the bull’s-eye.’
Bähr lit their way and soon found the bear’s tracks again. After meandering for a few hundred yards, they led to a bloody corpse in the snow. ‘Osborne?’ asked Bähr.
Killigrew shook his head. ‘Jenkins.’ He recognised the insignia on the private’s uniform. ‘Bruin’s leading us in circles.’
‘He must’ve doubled back on himself.’
The two of them stared at one another.
‘Ursula!’ gasped Killigrew. Clutching his shotgun, he started to run back in the direction he thought the tent lay, but Bähr caught him by the arm.
‘You go back and make sure the others are all right. I’m staying out here until I know that bear is dead.’
‘On your own?’
‘Trust me! I’ve been hunting big game since you were a gleam in your father’s eye. Go on, go! Ursula might be in danger. Here, take the bull’s-eye.’
Killigrew wanted to argue, but there was no time. He took the lantern from the doctor and sprinted off through the swirling snow.
* * *
Bähr watched the light of the bull’s-eye dance away through the snow until it was barely visible, and then started to follow with his hunting rifle cradled in his arms. That’s it, you bugger, he thought. Run – and let Bruin see your light and come to investigate. The doctor had read that polar bears were insatiably curious. It was a fact he intended to use against this one. The bear had had the element of surprise on its side in all its attacks so far. This way, Bähr hoped, he would turn the tables and get the drop on the bear.
A pity he had to use the young officer as live bait, but it had to be done. With any luck, when the bear made an appearance and charged, Bähr would be able to shoot it before it reached the lieutenant. And if not – well, he would certainly kill it afterwards. Better to sacrifice one than for them all to die.
But Killigrew made it to the tent without incident. Bähr took shelter behind a hummock of snow and settled down to wait. When the bear came, it would head straight for the tent and the doctor would have a clear shot at it. He did not mind the cold and snow; he could wait for hours, if need be, without stirring a muscle. He had come to the Arctic to bag a bear, and this was his chance. A far superior specimen to the two cubs he had killed a couple of months ago. And what a tale to tell visitors to his home when he showed them the trophies in his library! It would be the centrepiece of his collection.
He heard a roar off to his left, bloodcurdling in its savagery. But Bähr was not frightened. Roar all you like, my beauty. A bullet in the brain will silence you soon enough.
Another roar, closer this time. Bähr glanced in that direction and glimpsed a pale shape moving through the swirling blizzard, away from him. Grinning, he started to crawl through the snow after it. What do you want to be, Bruin? Mounted on the wall, or a hearthrug?
He found the bear’s tracks and fo
llowed them over a ridge into a shallow gully. Sensing he was close to his quarry, he quickened his pace, his eyes searching the blizzard. A specimen like this would be wasted if it were wall-mounted or reduced to a hearthrug. He wondered if he could drag the whole carcase back to the Venturer and stuff it and mount it himself, in a realistic and frightening pose. It would look splendid in a corner of the library in his house in Hannover.
He stopped. He should have caught the bear by now; something was wrong. A tiny niggle of doubt stirred at the back of his mind, a faint frisson of fear. Could it be he had underestimated his quarry?
A snuffling sound directly behind him made the hairs prickle on the back of his neck and his blood ran cold. He started to turn.
His last words in the mortal realm were spoken with an almost fatalistic calmness:
‘Ach, Scheiße—’
* * *
Killigrew thrust his head inside the tent and was relieved to see Ursula watching over Phillips, just as he had left them. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Where are Dr Bähr, and Jenkins and Osborne?’
Killigrew fastened the laces of the tent flap behind him. ‘They’re still out there, somewhere.’ It was true enough: no point in worrying her now by telling her about Jenkins’ death. ‘Bähr thinks he can kill the bear; I was worried it might have turned back and come for you.’
She shook her head. ‘I have seen nothing.’
A long, growling howl sounded, full of bestial rage and savagery. He looked up with a fearful shudder and levelled his shotgun at the mouth of the tent, before realising that the howl had been some distance off.
The next growl was much closer. It made Killigrew jump, and Ursula clutched at him fearfully.
The wind battered against the sides of the tent. The roaring and howling of the wind sounded like the bear; or perhaps the bear sounded like the roaring of the wind.
Even as the breath billowed from his mouth in clouds of condensation, Killigrew could feel the sweat dripping from under his arms.
Then the wind stopped as abruptly as if someone had closed a door. Killigrew could hear Phillips’ teeth chattering, Ursula’s frightened panting, his own breath issuing raggedly through his clenched teeth, and his heart thudding.
‘What’s happening?’ moaned Ursula.
‘I don’t know.’ Killigrew took her by the hand and dragged her towards the mouth of the tent. ‘But I know this much – we’ll be a lot safer outside the tent than inside.’ He reached for the laces fastening the tent flap when five long claws lacerated the holland fabric.
Killigrew leaped back, pushing Ursula back behind him. He expected the bear to burst inside, but then all was still again.
Long seconds ticked by. The back of his hand stung, and when he was able to drag his eyes away from the mouth of the tent and look down he saw that his gauntlet had been slashed, the blood weeping from a scratch in the hand beneath.
He heard a snuffling outside, and promptly blasted in that direction with the shotgun, blowing a hole through the fabric of the tent. Gun smoke mingled with their misty breath in the tent, and was torn apart where the wind blew flakes of snow through the hole.
An outraged howl came from outside. Killigrew blasted at it, tearing a second hole in the tent. Then all was silent once more.
‘Did you get it?’ asked Ursula.
Killigrew reached into his pocket for some fresh shells for his shotgun, only to remember that all the spare ammunition was on the large sledge; besides, it was probably useless after its soaking earlier. He edged carefully towards the second of the two holes he had blasted, the fabric still smouldering at the edges, and peered out, squinting through the swirling snow. There was no sign of the bear. Perhaps he had wounded it; perhaps it had crawled off to die somewhere. But there was no sign of any blood.
That was when the bear lunged through the front of the tent.
Killigrew barely had time to push Ursula one way before he threw himself the other as the bear charged between them. He rolled to his right seconds before a massive, clawed paw came down where his head had been. The guy ropes snapped and the whole tent was whipped away from over their heads.
He stood up and blinked, blinded by the snow that was driven in his face. The tent was flapping away through the night like some huge winged spirit, the small sledge caught up in its guy ropes bumping along behind it. Killigrew saw Phillips sprawled in the open, half out of his chrysalis bag, and when he crouched over him to examine him saw that the marine’s throat had been ripped open.
He heard a scream, looked up and saw Ursula dashing off into the night, the bear loping after her. Killigrew snatched up one of the boarding pikes they had used as a tent pole, but cut down to four and a half feet in length, its steel head long since removed, it was about as effective a weapon against 2,000 pounds of polar bear as a feather duster.
He started to run after the bear, but it quickly became apparent that the bear would reach Ursula long before Killigrew caught up with either of them. ‘Leave her alone, you goddamned son of a bitch!’
As the bear bore down on Ursula, its paws only a couple of feet behind her heels, Killigrew saw its muscles tense, ready for a final pounce.
And then Ursula disappeared.
Too late Killigrew realised that she had unwittingly fled in the direction of the crevasse. In her panic, she had failed to see it until it was too late.
‘No!’
The bear skidded to a halt at the lip of the crevasse. Hearing Killigrew’s anguished scream, it turned and drew its dark lips back to reveal its long fangs.
Killigrew stopped and brandished the tent pole.
The bear advanced slowly, taking its time, knowing that it had eliminated all of its enemies except one. If it relished this moment, there was no telling from the expression on its face: a feral snarl, twisted in an animalistic hatred that went beyond a savage need for food. Perhaps when the bear had attacked its first human, it had done so out of hunger, but there was no need to kill Killigrew for food with the bodies of Jenkins, Bähr and Phillips in the vicinity. The bloodlust was on the beast now, and it would not rest until it had been sated.
It advanced with its head lowered, its dark eyes boring into Killigrew’s skull. As the lieutenant backed away, it reared up, towering over him. As it descended towards him, Killigrew swung at its wedge-shaped head with the tent-pole. The bear caught the stick between its teeth and tore it from the lieutenant’s grip.
Killigrew turned and ran.
The bear charged after him. He did not need to glance over his shoulder to know this, did not dare to: the ice seemed to shudder beneath his feet with each thud of the bear’s steps. Killigrew saw the crevasse up ahead; some of the haversacks from the small sledge were scattered on the far side where the tent had deposited them as it was whipped away into the night by the howling gale. And one of those haversacks, he remembered, had his pepperboxes in them.
If he could have redoubled his efforts he would have done, but with the bear literally breathing down his neck he was running flat out as it was. He measured the remaining steps towards the lip of the crevasse.
Only ten feet wide, he told himself. Jumping over a sandpit, ten feet was nothing. Jumping over a yawning, bottomless abyss, however…
As he launched himself from the lip of the crevasse, his foot – the snow compacted against the soles negating the effect of the crampons – slipped.
He sailed out into space with his heart in his mouth, clawing at the wind with his hands. At first he thought he might make it – the other side was hurtling towards him – and then he was dropping, down, down, into the abyss…
The far side slammed against his chest, driving the breath from his lungs. His eyes filled with tears as he tried to claw at the surface of the lake, his feet scrabbling for purchase at the wall of ice below him and sliding over frictionless ice in a futile search for a foothold.
A few yards to his right, the bear sauntered up to the edge of the crevas
se and leaped over with almost delicate ease. It began to circle around to where Killigrew clung to the lip.
A haversack lay in the snow only a few feet from where he hung on for dear life, one of the straps less than two feet away. Killigrew reached for it, and his fingers came up less than an inch short.
The bear was closing in now. If ever a bear looked confident, this one did. With a supreme effort, Killigrew lunged for the strap, straining his muscles. His fingers hooked themselves over the strap and then he slipped. He dropped down a foot, and his arm was almost torn from his socket as the fingers of his left hand caught on the lip. He tucked his head in as the haversack dropped on him, bouncing on his shoulder and then falling to dangle by its strap in his right hand. The sudden jerk almost pulled the grip of his other hand free.
Sobbing for breath, Killigrew dangled there. Somehow he managed to draw up the haversack until he could balance it on his left shoulder.
Above him, he could hear the bear snuffling as it approached. ‘Come on, you bastard,’ he mumbled, working the buckles of the haversack with his right hand and his teeth. ‘Kit’s got a little surprise for you…’
The bear appeared immediately above him, peering down at him curiously. Then it seemed to remember it was looking at an enemy, and it drew back its lips in a snarl.
The buckle came free, the contents of the bag spilling out all over Killigrew: boxes of ammunition, signal rockets, pepperboxes, all tumbling down into the darkness below. He let go of the haversack and clutched frantically at one of the pistols as it fell, even managed to brush it with his fingertips, and then it was gone.
His heart sank to the bottom of the abyss with the pepperboxes.
He remembered Osborne’s screams as the bear tore him to shreds. Better to plunge to his death than to die like that. But he could not relinquish his life like that by letting go with his left hand: no matter how desperate the situation, he was not ready to give up and die.
Killigrew and the North-West Passage Page 38