Killigrew and the North-West Passage

by Jonathan Lunn

  Two weeks later he cut their rations again, to eight-upon-two. They ate one meal a day: a sliver of pemmican, a ship’s biscuit, a couple of one-ounce squares of chocolate, and a mug of weak, tepid tea fortified with a spoonful of sugar, and a tablespoon of rum on Saturdays.

  Days merged into weeks, weeks into months. They threw away their boots, put on their spares, and started to wear those out too. They crossed a wide, frozen lake where a recent fall of rain had melted the surface into a honeycomb of razor-sharp ridges, which slashed through boots and the feet beneath, men and dogs alike leaving a trail of blood in their wake. Bellies tight, limbs like lead, every step of the way meant more pain.

  One step equals eighteen inches, Killigrew told himself. Two steps one yard. One thousand, seven hundred and sixty yards in a mile. Only four hundred miles to go now, halfway there. How many steps is that? One million, four hundred and eight thousand. Another step. Now only one million, four hundred and seven thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine to go. One million, four hundred and seven thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight. You can do it, you’re eating up the miles now. Just keep plodding on, one foot in front of the other, left, right, left, right, oh Jesus, how much more of this? Doesn’t this landscape ever end? What the hell was God thinking of when he made this benighted land? So cold, and so hungry, where’s all the wildlife that Terregannoeuck promised us? Can’t keep this up, not for another four hundred miles, damn it, haven’t we suffered enough?

  What’s the point? Every step hurts, every step, on and on, damn the monotony, what’s the point? You’ll never make it, why make the suffering worse? Less painful just to lie down and die right here. There are worse ways of dying than just falling asleep in the snow.

  Come on, man, get a grip on yourself. You’re Kit Killigrew, you never give up.

  But I’ve never been in a situation as hopeless as this before.

  You’re going to give up now? Look at the others. They can do it, so can you. You’re a British officer, you’re in command, it’s up to you to set the example.

  Why? Why should I be responsible for them?

  Because that’s what you signed up for when you accepted the Queen’s commission. Now come on, get a grip. Just keep moving, it’s not that difficult, one foot in front of the other…

  A body thudded against the snow behind him. He turned, saw Latimer lying down in imminent danger of being run over by the sledge, and quickly called a halt.

  ‘Has he fainted?’ asked Strachan.

  Killigrew rolled Latimer on his back. The young man was conscious, but his cheeks were streaked with tears. ‘What’s up, lad?’

  ‘It’s no good, sir. I can’t go on.’

  ‘Yes, you can. We’re all tired, Latimer. We all have sore feet and aching bones. We’re all weary. But we must go on.’

  ‘It’s no good, I can’t.’

  ‘You’re a British officer. You don’t know the meaning of the word “can’t”.’

  ‘Just leave me here, all right? I just need to rest for a few minutes and catch my breath.’

  Killigrew knew that if they left him behind they would never see him again. ‘No can do, Latimer. Come on, man, on your feet, damn you! Get up! That’s an order, Latimer!’

  ‘It’s no good, sir. It’s hopeless!’

  ‘There’s still breath in our bodies, isn’t there? Then there’s hope. We’ve just got to keep moving. Remember New Year’s Eve, when we were all exhausted and we realised that all we’d covered was thirty-eight miles in six days? Well, we’ve got fewer than four hundred to cover now. That’s four hundred behind us. Did you ever think we’d get this far back then?’

  Latimer shook his head.

  ‘No. But we did it, didn’t we? Well, if we can cover four hundred miles, can’t we cover another four hundred? Just an eensy, teensy four hundred miles?’

  Latimer managed a weak smile. They both knew it was not as simple as that. Their bodies ravaged by malnutrition, scurvy and frostbite, every mile seemed like a hundred now.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Killigrew. ‘If you can smile, you can walk another four hundred miles. That’s nothing after what we’ve come through together, a stroll in the park. It’s ground, Latimer, that’s all it is. And we can conquer it just by putting one foot in front of the other.’

  The clerk tried to get up. Killigrew took his arm and helped him to his feet.

  ‘That’s it, lad. You can do it.’

  They took up the strain. The sledge behind them slithered and ground over the ice. More miles, mile after mile after mile. What if Latimer was right? What if it was hopeless? Of course it was hopeless. Even on half-rations, they did not have enough food left to last them a fortnight. Well, so what? What could they do? Lie down and die? At least this way they would die trying; that had to be better than just lying down in the snow and giving up.

  They waded through snow lying a foot thick on the ground, frequently stumbling on the loose stones concealed beneath. Where the snow covered marshes, their feet would break through the thin covering of ice and they would sink in up to their knees. Pettifer, of all people, was a tower of strength. Half-rations seemed to have no effect on his energy. He led the way, hauling mightily, tirelessly, sometimes singing shanties to set the pace, at other times muttering darkly to himself, but never once suggesting they should give up.

  They ran out of spirits of wine and threw away the portable stoves as good for nothing, an unnecessary encumbrance. Soon afterwards they saw their first trees in eleven months: curious, stunted things, dwarf firs, few and far between but plentiful enough for a camp-fire. The food stocks ran so low it became easier to abandon the last of the sledges – no one was referring to it as ‘Hope’ now – and stuff the supplies that remained into their knapsacks. Endicott and Hughes carried a tent each, Molineaux the poles and ropes for them.

  Then, with another 236 miles still to go, the last of the victuals were gone. ‘Now what are we gannin’ to eat?’ asked Butterwick, who had been concerned enough about where his next meal was coming from even before they had set out on this desperate trek.

  Killigrew glanced towards the huskies.

  ‘Oh, no!’ protested Strachan.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Killigrew. ‘Sorry, Strachan: it’s them or us.’

  Qualtrough sighed. ‘I’ll do it,’ he offered. ‘Which is the weakest?’ he asked Ursula.

  She shook her head, unwilling to have any part of it. Qualtrough used his own judgement and separated one dog out from the rest, leading it behind a snow hummock with an ice-axe in one hand. The dog did not even get a chance to yelp before it died.

  They were all reluctant to take the first bite, but after subsisting on pemmican for weeks a taste of fresh meat reminded them all – as if they could ever forget – just how hungry they were.

  The first dog kept the sixteen of them going a couple more days.

  When they ate the second, there were only three huskies left, not enough to pull the dog sledge. From there on, Yelverton had to walk with the rest of them. Only 170 miles left to go; a fraction of what they had faced when they started out.

  After they killed the final husky there was nothing for it but to tighten their belts for a couple of days. But it was April now, spring – such as it was – returning to the tundra and with it came a miracle: a herd of migrating reindeer. They shot enough of the beasts to last them another week, expending four times as much ammunition as it would have taken healthy men whose hands would not have trembled so much just to hold their muskets up. Ammunition was running low; they could not afford to be so prodigious with their bullets and cartridges. But they could not afford to let the reindeer go past. They skinned the animals, feasted on the flesh and wrapped the hides around their feet in place of the tatters that had been their boots.

  It took them two weeks to cover the next eighty-two miles. Two weeks of stumbling in a daze, too hungry and exhausted to think straight. They ate the last of the reindeer meat, trudged onwards for two more days in
hope of finding another herd. A flock of ptarmigan flew overhead and they blazed away with their muskets. Two birds fell to the earth: hardly enough for a mouthful each and the taste left them feeling even hungrier than before.

  The next night they dined a little more substantially, a couple of mouthfuls of fresh meat each. Molineaux crouched by Pettifer to spoon-feed the commander: no one wanted to untie his wrists. ‘Mmm, good!’ Pettifer said enthusiastically. ‘I thought we killed the last of the huskies three weeks ago?’

  The others exchanged nervous glances. Pettifer narrowed his eyes suspiciously: insane he might be, but he was still intelligent enough to know that something was going on.

  ‘Where’s Horatia?’

  The dachshund had followed them for 720 miles, trotting along in the little woollen coat Pettifer’s wife had knitted for her, eating her share of the rations without contributing to helping them in their journey as the huskies had. As the men became more and more broken by cold, exhaustion and malnutrition, Horatia seemed to have a limitless supply of energy, running off on her own sometimes, or nipping at the heels of the men pulling the sledges until they kicked her away. Now she was noticeable by her absence.

  Someone had to tell Pettifer: sooner or later he was going to guess anyway. Better it be broken to him gently.

  It had been Killigrew’s decision. ‘She gave her life so that we might live,’ he explained.

  Pettifer stared at him, his jaw slowing as it worked up and down, chewing the mouthful of fresh meat Molineaux had just spooned between his lips. Then he spat it out – straight in Molineaux’s eyes – and butted the petty officer on the bridge of the nose. As Molineaux fell, Pettifer was on his feet in an instant and charged across to where Killigrew sat.

  The lieutenant barely had time to rise to his feet. Then, his hands still bound before him, Pettifer managed to get his massive fists around Killigrew’s neck and the two of them went down in the snow.

  In spite of his bound hands, the commander was still able to bring all of his bulk to bear, and Killigrew, weakened by the arduous trek, was hard-pressed to defend himself. Their limited rations did not seem to have robbed Pettifer of his strength – or if they had, his insane rage gave him new energy. He fought like a wild thing, clawing at Killigrew’s eyes, trying to sink his teeth into the lieutenant’s neck but only getting a mouthful of his woollen comforter.

  Kracht was the first to reach them, bringing the stock of a musket down against the back of Pettifer’s head: once, twice, three times. Only after the third blow did Pettifer’s eyes roll up in his skull and he slumped. Endicott and Hughes pulled his body off Killigrew and Strachan hurried across.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Killigrew nodded, feeling shaken by the savagery of Pettifer’s attack. ‘Molineaux?’

  The boatswain’s mate was gingerly fingering the bridge of his nose, opening and squeezing his eyes shut as if he was having difficulty focusing. There was blood all over his upper lip and chin. ‘I’ll be all right, sir. Just a bit dazed, that’s all. Sorry about that – I should’ve seen it coming.’

  ‘So should I,’ admitted Killigrew. The cold was numbing his brain, robbing him of his ability to think things through properly. ‘No harm done.’

  Strachan crouched over Pettifer.

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Killigrew, trying not to sound too hopeful. The rational part of him wished the commander no ill will – it was not his fault he was insane, he was not responsible for his actions – but it was difficult to summon much sympathy for a man who had just tried to kill him, and come too close for comfort. Besides, sooner or later Killigrew knew that he was going to have to face a court martial if he ever got back to England, and if Pettifer recovered his senses or was even lucid long enough to give evidence, the lieutenant knew that he would be lucky if being dismissed the service was the worst thing they did to him.

  But now was not the time to worry about what would happen when they got back to England: it would be nothing short of a miracle if they made it as far as Fort Hope.

  ‘He’ll live,’ announced Strachan.

  ‘From now on we’ll keep his hands tied behind his back, I think.’

  Pettifer stirred, opened his eyes and glared at Killigrew with insane rage in them. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  The lieutenant shrugged, almost indifferent to the threat in his weariness. ‘Perhaps you’ve already killed us all.’

  * * *

  Sixty-seven miles to go. The only edible thing they could find was tripe de roche, the lichen that had sustained Franklin’s party on his first overland expedition. They scraped it from the rocks and boiled it. It was bitterly foul and it gave them bellyaches, but at least the action of chewing and swallowing fooled them into thinking they might not die of starvation.

  In spite of the tripe de roche, scurvy began to take its toll on them. Livid red blotches and brown and purple skin haemorrhages appeared all over their bodies. Their legs swelled up to twice their size and excruciating pain stabbed at their joints with every step. The insides of their mouths became bubbled with lesions; the gums reddened and receded: soon they would turn black and their teeth would fall out.

  The returning sun, which took the edge off the wind as it spent more and more time above the horizon each passing day, brought with it new tortures: sunburn and snow blindness. Reflected off the whiteness all around them, the sun burned their faces, the insides of their nostrils and mouths, even the undersides of their eyelids. Even with their snow-goggles on, the dull ache in their eyes grew in intensity until it felt as though they had grit in them. Their vision became tinged pink, then blood red, until their eyes watered so much they could barely see at all. Strachan treated their eyes with glycerine and Killigrew decided that from then on they would travel at night and sleep by day. By now they were all so exhausted and malnourished it was all they could manage to cover five miles a day.

  Killigrew knew they were all dying.

  One foot in front of the other. Just keep going. Think of all that lovely food waiting for you at Fort Hope.

  * * *

  Old age had killed the musk-ox, or some disease perhaps. It looked as if it had been dead for some time: weeks, months, perhaps even years. Doubtless the cold had helped to preserve it, but the cold could not protect it from the attentions of the sand flies that buzzed over it in a cloud, or the evidence that scavenger birds had picked over it. And shortly after its death, its own body heat had allowed some decomposition: the putrid stench of decay was overpowering.

  ‘We have to do it,’ mumbled Strachan. A mumble was all any of them could manage, when they felt they had the breath left in their bodies to be squandered on speech.

  Killigrew nodded. ‘Perhaps if we cook it—’

  ‘Eat that?’ gasped Varrow. ‘It’s putrid, man! One nibble at that would kill an elephant with food poisoning!’

  ‘We have to risk it,’ said Killigrew. ‘Apart from tripe de roche, it’s the only food we’ve seen in a fortnight. It could be the last meat we’ll see between here and Fort Hope.’

  ‘We might see another herd of reindeer tomorrow!’

  ‘We might not. We can’t take that chance. We’ll be dead in another week.’ Killigrew turned to Endicott and Hughes. ‘Gather up some firewood.’ Over the past forty miles the trees had become thicker and larger and finding fuel for their camp-fires had ceased to be a problem.

  Molineaux licked scabby lips. ‘I’ll make a stew,’ he decided.

  Strachan – the least squeamish of them – undertook the task of butchering the carcass. Even he gagged at the stench. He cut off the least rancid parts of the meat and Molineaux boiled them up in a pannikin, adding tripe de roche for seasoning. Stomachs growled while he allowed it to simmer for a long, long time, hunger battling with revulsion. At last mess tins were filled, handed out. Killigrew stared at the contents of his. It smelled all right, but that had to be balanced against the knowledge of where it had come from. He glanced at
the others. Most of them also hesitated. Even Molineaux, dubious about his own skill in turning a putrid musk-ox into a feast, was clearly having second thoughts. Only Butterwick tucked in at once, eating as heartily as if it were his favourite, salmagundi served up on the mess deck of the Venturer.

  ‘How is it?’ Varrow asked him.

  ‘Good,’ Butterwick mumbled enthusiastically, speaking with his mouth full, trying to spoon in another mouthful before he had swallowed the first.

  Molineaux eased a tiny nibble into his mouth, then another. Strachan tried it, and did not retch.

  Gagging, Killigrew took a deep breath, and spooned it into his mouth. Sancho Panza had been right: hunger was the best sauce in the world. The stew tasted better than the finest game served at Rules.

  Everyone had seconds.

  * * *

  The meat gave them the strength to go on. They were still weakened, their bodies ravaged by malnutrition, and it took them two days to cover the next nine miles, but those were nine miles behind them now and suddenly they had only fifty-four miles to go.

  And that was when they came to the river. A river where no river was marked on the map. Fifty feet wide and swollen by the melt waters of the spring thaw. Back in England, Killigrew could have swum it without a second thought. But that had been a thousand years ago when he had been a young man, not the decrepit, starved octogenarian who gazed at those ice-cold, fast-flowing waters and felt only despair.