‘Form a human chain!’ he ordered Sørensen. ‘From here to the fire hole.’
The harpooner glanced helplessly at the dozen men standing on deck. ‘There aren’t enough of us.’
‘Then get down to the orlop deck and roust out the others!’ They had held fire drills in the first few weeks after their arrival at Horsehead Bay, but the men had forgotten their quarters in their panic and besides, there were so many fewer of them now to tackle the blaze.
Strachan was crouching over the wounded man: Stoker Gargrave. The dead man was Jacko Smith, his head all but torn from its shoulders by one swipe of the bear’s paw. Killigrew glanced around, but no other bodies caught his eye. If the final toll was two dead and one wounded, they could count themselves lucky. ‘Endicott, Hughes – carry Gargrave to the observatory so that Mr Strachan can attend to him properly.’
‘What can I do to help?’ asked Ursula.
‘Ever done any nursing?’
She laughed, without much humour. ‘A woman on board a whaler? Can a duck swim?’
‘Good. Go help Strachan tend to Gargrave in the observatory. Orsini! Search around for other wounded – make sure we didn’t miss anyone.’
The steward nodded and started to check around the upper deck, heedless of the blaze that raged on the forecastle. Ågård seemed to take for ever to get his human chain formed, while the fire continued to spread until the whole of the forecastle was a raging inferno. Finally the hands started to pour up on deck, realising that the ship was imperilled and with it their chances of survival. Then it was a case of too many cooks and everyone milled around uselessly, wanting to help without knowing what to do.
‘Starboard watch form a human chain!’ ordered Killigrew. He had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of the flames fanned by the gusting wind. ‘Messes two and four of the port watch shift the wounded, the rest of you get yourselves out of the way!’
Armitage stumped up on deck, his face blackened by smoke.
‘Sick-berth deck head’s on fire, sir!’
Killigrew turned to Fischbein. ‘Run to the observatory, tell Strachan the sick-berth’s on fire. Tell him to come back and get everything he needs.’
‘Jawohl mein Herr!’
While Fischbein ran to the entry port, Killigrew remained with the men fighting the fire on the forecastle, directing them where to pour each pail of water as it came. The water thrown over the flames every few seconds was having no appreciable effect and Killigrew – who had learned to make contingency plans as soon as contingencies occurred to him – realised he would have to start to think about what to do in the event of the unthinkable happening. If the Venturer burned and left them stranded on the ice there would be nothing left for them to do but shoot themselves to ensure a swift death, so much more preferable to a long, agonising, drawn-out death by exposure and starvation. But he would never give up hope, not while there was breath left in his body and perhaps not even when there was not. They had to do something, to be ready for the worst.
Strachan returned from the observatory. ‘Fischbein said you wanted me?’ he shouted above the roar of the blaze.
‘Get down to the sick-berth and get out anything you may need. Medicines, bandages, surgical equipment—’
‘My notebooks! My photographical paraphernalia…’
‘Forget them! This is life and death, man!’
Strachan stared at him stupidly.
‘Go, man, go!’ roared Killigrew, his angry tone sparking Strachan into action. ‘Give him a hand, Latimer,’ he added to the clerk, who looked dazed and was only getting in the way of everyone else. ‘Go with them, Butterwick,’ Killigrew added to the stoker as the two civilian officers hurried down the fore hatch. If either Strachan or Latimer was overcome by the smoke then Butterwick, used to working in a hot and smoky environment, would be the best person to pull him out.
‘Anything I can do?’ asked Yelverton.
‘Yes! Get the chronometers off the ship. And charts, logs, navigational instruments, anything we need to find our way home that Pettifer hasn’t already destroyed: get them off the ship and put them somewhere safe.’
‘You think it’s that bad?’
‘Just a precaution.’
From the look on Yelverton’s face, the master did not believe a word of it. The lieutenant did not blame him: he did not believe it himself.
Ågård had slashed a hole in the awning so that the empty buckets and pails could be thrown over the side down to where they were refilled at the fire hole. But as the flames advanced up the deck he had to retreat before the heat and cut another rent further away from the blaze, further away from the fire hole: more time wasted in ferrying the empty buckets to the fire hole. As the flames ate away the awning above, great clumps of snow would drop through onto the flames, melting and steaming without seeming to have any effect on the fire.
Butterwick emerged from the main hatch dragging an unconscious Strachan under the armpits. ‘Where’s Latimer?’ demanded Killigrew.
‘Right behind us, sir,’ said Butterwick.
Killigrew glanced down at the hatch. Thick smoke billowed out of it. At least the wind that fanned the flames on the upper deck was keeping it clear of smoke, but below decks it would be a different story entirely and he was not reassured by Butterwick’s words. ‘All right, take him out into the fresh air, revive him and then put him in the observatory with Gargrave.’ Only time would tell whether Strachan would be in the observatory to minister to the wounded stoker or to be a casualty himself.
Killigrew glanced to where the hands tackled the blaze that now reached past the fore hatch. They were doing the best they could, though he feared it would not be enough. But there was nothing he could do to help: Ågård and Molineaux were doing everything they could to direct the fire-fighting operations and needed no help from Killigrew. Feeling like a spare part, he glanced at the smoke that now billowed thickly from the main hatch.
He took a deep breath and descended the companion way.
It was dark on the lower deck, the thick smoke blotting out everything. It stung his eyes and clawed at the back of his throat. He stumbled across the mess deck with his eyes closed, unable to rely on anything but touch and memory. The deck head above was ablaze, but he only knew that from the searing heat as he passed below. He opened his eyes, saw the orange glow through the suffocating smoke that brought tears to his eyes.
‘Latimer! Mr Latimer!’
There was no reply, but the roaring blaze and the crackling of the timbers might have drowned out his words. Not that it mattered: if Latimer was conscious he would have got out of there; nothing could survive for long in that airless space.
The door to the sick-berth was an arch of fire. Killigrew crooked an arm over his brow and dashed through. On the other side he stumbled over something and pitched head-first on the deck.
He looked up. There was more air down there, but what he saw did not instil him with any sense of hope. Everything was ablaze: the deck head, the bulkheads, the drawers and the cots, the timbers of the hull itself. The searing heat blistered his flesh. As he wiped tears from his eyes a burning timber crashed down in a shower of sparks only a few feet from where he lay. Glancing up at the charred, flaming timbers above he saw that the whole deck above him was ready to collapse, and even as he watched it shifted and bulged with an ominous crackle.
He glanced back to see what he had tripped over and saw Latimer lying there, unconscious. Killigrew got up on his hands and knees and crawled back to him. There was no point in trying to revive the lad: the best thing to do was to get him out into the fresh air as quickly as possible; for them both to get out into the fresh air, before they suffocated or were crushed beneath falling timbers.
He managed to get Latimer on his shoulders – the clerk weighed a ton – and pushed himself to his feet. As he re-emerged on to the mess deck he found it as much ablaze as the sick-berth had been. Stumbling under Latimer’s weight, he tried to find a route to the compa
nion way, disorientated by the smoke and flames. Then, with a loud crack, the timbers in front of him fell from the deck head. For one panicky moment he thought his way would be blocked, but the timbers stayed there, suspended about six feet above the deck by something he could not see.
‘This way, min herre!’ Sørensen’s Danish accent. ‘Quickly!’
A gust of wind from somewhere tore a rent in the swirling smoke and revealed the harpooner standing with a blazing beam supported in his hands, the fire quickly blistering and charring his hands.
The fresh air on his face revived Killigrew enough to take the last few steps to the companion way and he dashed under the beam. He heard a crash behind him and turned to see that the beam had finally fallen, smashing a hole through the deck and carrying the blaze into the orlop deck below. Sørensen was gone. No point in going back for him.
Killigrew staggered up the companion way on to the deck where Riggs and Kracht quickly came forward to relieve him of his burden. ‘You all right, sir?’ asked Riggs.
The lieutenant nodded, and then doubled up, retching.
‘Get outside!’ yelled Yelverton. ‘Get some fresh air. There’s nothing you can do here which isn’t already being done.’
‘Warm clothes!’ rasped Killigrew. ‘We’ll need warm clothes, otherwise we’ll freeze to death on the ice!’
‘It’s been taken care of. Go, man, go!’
Killigrew squeezed down the gangplank past the chain of men who passed slopping buckets of water on to the deck. After the searing heat of the fire, the bitter wind outside was so cold it numbed his exposed flesh at once. Every so often a man would be carried down from the Venturer’s upper deck, overcome by smoke inhalation. At least someone had thought to release the huskies from their kennels and now they ran around on the ice, barking at the burning ship as if they could extinguish the flames that way. But they were only getting under everyone’s feet.
‘Terregannoeuck! Tie those damned dogs up, for God’s sake!’
Dazed by the nightmarish scene, Killigrew turned back to stare at the burning ship. The entire front half was ablaze now. Varrow’s squat figure appeared at the top of the gangplank, silhouetted by the flames behind him, and staggered down to where Killigrew stood. ‘The coals in the bunkers are on fire now, sir,’ he reported. ‘We’ll never get it out! It’s reached the after hatch on the orlop deck.’
Killigrew’s stomach lurched as the implication hit him. ‘The spirit room! There’s enough powder in there to blow the ship sky-high! Get Qualtrough, Ibbott and Hughes to help you.’
‘How are we supposed to get to the spirit room if the after hatch is on fire?’ asked Hughes.
‘There’s a scuttle from the wardroom,’ Killigrew reminded him impatiently. How Hughes had even been rated able seaman was a mystery: the fellow seemed to lack any initiative. ‘Take Riggs. Once you’re in the spirit room, cut a hole in the side and take the powder out through the sail roof. A hole in the hull we can repair, if it’s above the waterline.’
‘Through all that extra planking?’ Riggs said dubiously.
Try, damn it! If the whole ship goes up, we’re as good as dead!’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Kracht.
‘No,’ said Killigrew. There was nothing anyone could do to help now. It would have taken a tidal wave to put the fire out. But there was no tidal wave in the offing; even the flurries of snow that descended from the heavens had thinned out. This was why ships never cruised alone through the Arctic. If there were two ships and one burned or was crushed in the ice, at least the crew would have a chance of getting back to civilisation on the other. But Pettifer, madman that he was, had insisted on going ahead without awaiting the rest of Belcher’s squadron.
Pettifer. The light was on in the porthole of his cabin towards the ship’s stern. Perhaps it would serve him right if he died in the blaze, but Killigrew knew it was not his place to make such judgements.
‘Kracht! Help me fetch the captain!’
‘Jawohl, mein Herr.’ The blacksmith followed him round to the stem. As they approached, Killigrew could hear Horatia barking frantically inside; at least there was someone alive in there to save.
‘Give me a bunk up,’ said Killigrew. Kracht stood beneath the gallery window and clasped his hands together before him. Killigrew smashed in one of the panes of glass in the gallery window with the butt of a revolver and then he reached through, opened the window, and climbed into the captain’s day-room. Even here, in the aftermost part of the ship, the insidious smoke had drifted under the door to fill the air with its acrid haze. Horatia barked at him as if it was his fault the ship was on fire. Killigrew scooped up the dachshund – and was bitten on the hand for his pains – and handed Horatia down to Kracht, who received similarly rough treatment from her.
Killigrew crossed the deck quickly and opened the door to the cabin where Pettifer was bound hand and foot on the bunk. He looked up at Killigrew with placid eyes.
‘“Hail and fire mingled with blood,”’ he said, nodding to himself, as if he had foreseen this. ‘“A great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood.”’
‘If I untie you, are you going to behave yourself?’
‘“The third part of the creatures which were in the sea, and had life, died; and the third part of the ships were destroyed.”’
Killigrew sighed and cut through Pettifer’s bonds with his clasp-knife, keeping the revolver on him the whole time. One false move and he would shoot Pettifer dead; but, aside from his ravings, the captain seemed calm enough.
‘“Her plagues shall come in one day: death, and mourning, and famine; and she shall be utterly burned with fire: for strong is the Lord God who judges her!”’
They crossed the deck to the gallery window and Killigrew helped Pettifer climb down to where Kracht waited anxiously. The blacksmith led Pettifer across the ice and Killigrew jumped down from the window to follow them.
‘“Alas, alas, that great city, that was clothed in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and decked with gold, and precious stones, and pearls,”’ said Pettifer. ‘“For in one hour so great riches is come to naught. And every shipmaster and all the sailors stood afar off and cried when they saw the smoke of her burning.”’
‘Tie his hands behind his back,’ Killigrew told Kracht. They had enough problems to cope with, without a homicidal madman on the loose. ‘Get him under cover.’
He turned back to the ship and watched it burn. The whole of the upper deck was ablaze now, the awning long gone, and it was all the men could do to stand around her sides throwing buckets of water at the blaze. Then three figures – Varrow’s stocky shape among them – jumped down from the gallery window, rolled on the ice and picked themselves up at once, sprinting away from the ship as if their lives depended on it. ‘Get back, get back!’ roared Varrow. ‘The fire’s reached the burning fluid. She’s gannin’ to blow!’
‘You heard him!’ yelled Killigrew. ‘Everyone get back!’
They turned and ran to what they judged was a safe distance. When Killigrew stopped and turned back, the ship was a huge beacon of fire in the Arctic night, but there was no sign of any explosion. He wondered if the engineer had misjudged the situation in the spirit room. Perhaps there was still a chance that the ship could be saved. The alternative was unthinkable…
A muffled wumph came from inside the bowels of the ship: that would be Latimer’s cheap but highly volatile burning fluid exploding, spraying blazing liquid in all directions.
‘Dio mio!’ moaned Orsini, and pointed. ‘Look!’ he pointed.
A burning figure appeared at the gallery window. Killigrew watched in horror as the human torch jumped down to the ice and rolled in the snow, trying to extinguish the flames that wreathed his body.
Killigrew broke into a run.
‘Get back, sir!’ yelled Varrow. ‘She’ll go up any moment now!’
The lieutenant unbuttoned his coat and tore it
off as he ran to where the burning man lay immediately below the stem. He threw the coat over the man to smother the flames and then rolled him over and over in the snow until his clothes were extinguished. Then he picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, and started to stagger to where the others waited a short distance from the ship. Ågård came running to meet him, and with the brawny Swede to help him Killigrew made better progress across the ice. They were almost fifty yards from the ship when it exploded.
A hot wall of air slammed into Killigrew’s back, throwing him down on the ice with Ågård and the burned man. A roaring sound filled his ears and he twisted on to his back to see a great ball of fire tear the ship apart from within. The flames roared up to the dark heavens, and then Killigrew had to roll on to his front and protect his head with his arms as pieces of debris rained down on the ice all around them.
When he looked up again, there was nothing left of the Venturer but a charred hole in the ice.
* * *
Killigrew cast his tired eyes over the faces of the eighteen men and one woman who huddled in the observatory with him. None of them had slept much that night, and their faces were lined with exhaustion and worry, their eyes sunk deep in their smoke-blackened faces, but none looked as used-up as Strachan, who had been hard at work all night tending to the injured. Despite the assistant surgeon’s best efforts, Ibbott – the man who had been so badly burned trying to get the gunpowder out of the spirit room before it was too late – had died in the small hours of the morning, and his body had been carried outside to rest with that of Jacko Smith. Considering the pain he must have been in from his burns, it had probably been a mercy.
Killigrew was more worried about the living: he knew that before they reached safety, all of them might find themselves envying those who had died last night.
Strachan’s fob watch – one of the new ‘repeaters’ – chimed the hour. Killigrew checked his own watch: it was six o’clock in the morning. He pushed himself wearily to his feet. ‘All right, let’s get to work,’ he said. ‘Latimer, how are you feeling this morning?’
Killigrew and the North-West Passage Page 42