Killigrew and the North-West Passage

by Jonathan Lunn

  He found Molineaux gathering dead wood amongst the trees. When the petty officer heard his shuffling footsteps he whirled, Bowie knife in hand, but he relaxed when he recognised Strachan.

  The assistant surgeon glanced back towards the camp. They were far enough away to talk normally without Butterwick overhearing them. ‘All right, Molineaux. Would you mind telling me what the deuce is going on?’

  ‘I don’t know what wolf meat tastes like, sir, but I’m willing to bet it ain’t pork.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Remember when we were in the South Seas three years back, we met that cove Paddon?’

  ‘The sandalwood trader? Of course. He got you and Killigrew out of a tight spot, didn’t he?’

  Molineaux nodded. ‘On the voyage back to Aneiteium we got talking about the natives over a bottle of whiskey. I asked him how he was able to trade with them without them trying to kill him, and he told me he’d won their trust by attending one of their feasts. They’d just won a battle against a rival tribe, and… well, you know what the natives of Erromango did with their captives.’

  ‘You mean he… he actually consumed human flesh?’

  ‘He weren’t proud of it, sir. Don’t reckon he’d’ve told me at all, if we hadn’t sunk a few drinks between us. He had no choice, see? Otherwise they might just have eaten him for afters.’

  ‘All right, Molineaux. But I hardly see what that’s got to do with—’

  ‘I asked him what it tasted like, sir, and you know what he said?’ Strachan had a sick feeling he already knew the answer, but he merely nodded for the petty officer to continue, the taste of bile in his mouth.

  ‘Like pork, sir. He said it tasted like pork.’

  Even though Strachan had seen it coming, the final confirmation hit him like a kick in the stomach. He doubled up, retching, but there was nothing left undigested in his stomach to bring up, which only made the spasms all the more painful.

  Finally he straightened, wiping tears from his cheeks.

  ‘What are we going to do, Molineaux?’

  ‘We’ve got to get those guns off him.’

  ‘How?’

  Before Molineaux could reply, the sound of a musket shot echoed through the trees.

  * * *

  Molineaux broke into a stumbling run, leaving the crippled assistant surgeon behind as he careered wildly through the trees, feet slipping and sliding in the snow, mindful of the fact that the only weapon he carried, apart from the Bowie knife sheathed in the small of his back, was the ice-axe dangling from his haversack. When he reached the camp site everything was exactly as he had left it, except that now Butterwick was reloading the musket and a large, ugly hole had been smashed through Qualtrough’s forehead.

  Molineaux skidded to a halt, gasping for breath.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He shot hissel,’ said Butterwick, as coolly as if remarking upon the price of bread.

  Molineaux glanced at Qualtrough’s corpse with a shudder. There were no powder burns around the wound, which there should have been if he had shot himself. Not that he believed that for a minute.

  Strachan hobbled into the clearing and came to an abrupt halt when he saw Qualtrough’s corpse. He regarded Molineaux quizzically.

  ‘Qualtrough shot himself,’ the petty officer said carefully.

  Strachan’s eyes searched Molineaux’s face and nodded. He no more believed it than Molineaux did himself.

  Butterwick yawned. ‘Oh, well. Our mam allus used to say every cloud has a silver lining.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Molineaux half expected Butterwick to suggest that they eat Qualtrough next.

  ‘At least now we divven’t have to carry him,’ explained Butterwick.

  Is that why you killed him, you crazy sonuvabitch? wondered Molineaux. Because he was too goddamned heavy?

  No one got any sleep that night. Butterwick insisted on keeping guard all night long and sat by the fire with the musket slung across his back and the shotgun in his lap. Molineaux watched him, waiting for him to let his guard drop long enough to be overpowered, at the same time terrified that if he himself went to sleep the deranged stoker might see to it that he never woke up again.

  The next morning, when they got ready to set off the rest of the way to the patch of tripe de roche, Butterwick went off to relieve himself amongst the trees. He took the shotgun with him, but left the musket. Seeing his chance, Molineaux snatched it up, but then Butterwick returned before he had a chance to formulate a plan of attack with Strachan. Butterwick did not even seem to notice the musket was now slung from Molineaux’s shoulder next to his haversack.

  ‘Coming?’ Molineaux asked him.

  ‘You two gan on ahead,’ said Butterwick. He was toying with the shotgun now, breaking open the breech to check the chambers. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  Molineaux and Strachan exchanged glances and set off, the petty officer walking slowly to match his pace to that of the crippled assistant surgeon, even though he expected Butterwick to shoot them both in the back at any moment.

  But the shots never came.

  As soon as they were out of sight of Butterwick, Strachan nodded to the musket. ‘Good work, Molineaux. Now all we have to do is take that other gun from him.’

  ‘And then what, sir?’

  ‘What do you mean? Without poor Qualtrough to weigh us down, I think we can make it to Fort Hope. We’ll let Mr Killigrew decide what’s to be done with Butterwick. The poor fellow’s clearly lost his mind.’

  ‘It’ll take us several days to make it to Fort Hope, sir, even if we can pick up the trail. That means several nights alone in a camp with Butterwick. What do we do with him? Keep him bound hand and foot?’

  ‘We can take it in turns to stand guard over him…’

  ‘Come on, sir. What if whoever’s on guard falls asleep and leaves us both at Butterwick’s mercy? No disrespect to you, sir, but I’m so tired I couldn’t promise to stay awake and alert.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  ‘Sir, is there any doubt in your mind that Butterwick killed Fischbein? Or that he murdered Qualtrough?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And that he’ll prob’ly kill us next?’

  Strachan hesitated before replying, although there was only one answer he could give. ‘No.’

  ‘Then you know what’s got to be done.’

  Strachan looked distraught. ‘But… what right have we? To make such a decision, I mean?’

  ‘We know we’re making the same decision that twelve good men and true would make back in England. And I’d say the fact we’d be acting in self-defence would give us more right than any jury.’

  Strachan sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. Give me the gun, Molineaux. As the only officer present, it’s only right that I should take full responsibility for this.’

  Molineaux refused to relinquish the musket. ‘I appreciate that, sir, but have you ever killed a man before?’

  ‘Not intentionally.’

  ‘There’s one shot in that musket, sir, and then it has to be reloaded…’

  ‘I realise that, Molineaux.’

  ‘Are you a good shot, sir? Without your eyeglasses? Because if you miss, you won’t have time to reload. Butterwick’s got two shots in the shotgun, and if you miss he’ll be able to take his time…’

  ‘Nonetheless, it’s my responsibility…’

  They heard a sound behind them and turned to see Butterwick striding towards them, trampling over their footprints, the shotgun in his hands.

  Molineaux hesitated. Butterwick was still fifty yards away, but even at that distance the petty officer could see there was murder in his eyes. He unslung the musket and raised the stock to his shoulder. Butterwick still had the shotgun lowered towards the ground in front of him. Molineaux wondered if he had mistaken the stoker’s intention.

  ‘Put the gun down, Jemmy.’

  Butterwick did not seem to have heard him.

  ‘Drop i
t, Jemmy. We know you burked Qualtrough, and prob’ly Ignatz as well. Drop it, or ’swelp me God I’ll croak you where you stand.’

  Butterwick was thirty yards away now, and still advancing purposefully.

  ‘Stop right where you are! I don’t want to kill, but I will if you don’t stop right there and put the shotgun on the ground.’

  Butterwick grinned evilly. ‘Better make sure you kill us, then, ’cause I won’t give you a second chance.’

  ‘God damn it, Jemmy! Do you want me to shoot you? Is that what you want?’

  Butterwick was less than twenty yards away when he brought up the double-barrels of the shotgun. Molineaux could not wait any longer: he already had a bead drawn on Butterwick’s forehead; all he had to do was pull the trigger.

  The hammer snapped against an empty chamber and Butterwick’s grin became even broader. Molineaux realised that the stoker had intended this all along, had left the musket unloaded and allowed him to pick it up so he could later claim he had acted in self-defence. He cursed himself for not having thought to check if the musket was loaded.

  Butterwick halted, fifteen feet away, and took careful aim. Molineaux pushed Strachan to the ground and followed him down as the first barrel boomed. Something stung him in the buttocks. He ripped the ice-axe from its thong and flung it. The axe tumbled over and over through the air. It seemed to take for ever, and all the time Molineaux was staring down the second barrel of the shotgun that gaped like the maw of hell.

  The ice-axe came to an abrupt halt, firmly embedded in Butterwick’s forehead. The stoker blinked at the blood that trickled down from the awful wound, sank to his knees, and fell on his face in the snow, which rapidly turned crimson beneath his head.

  * * *

  Nought miles.

  ‘It should be here,’ said Killigrew, for once at a loss.

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Varrow.

  They gazed about the trees around them. They had left the tundra behind them and here the firs were close-packed, like in any normal forest. The problem was that Fort Hope might be within a quarter of a mile and they would not know about it.

  Ill equipped, they had travelled over 800 miles on foot, dragging three heavily laden sledges for much of the distance. If Killigrew had stopped to think about it when they had first set out, he would never have believed they could have made it; which was why he had been at pains not to think of it, either at the wreck of the Venturer or on any one of the hundreds of miles of inhospitable, frozen wasteland they had crossed. Yet they had done it; in spite of all the odds they had done it, and while Killigrew felt keenly the loss of every man who had died on the way, he was amazed that so many of them – ten now, and he was not yet prepared to give up on Strachan, Qualtrough, Butterwick and Fischbein while they had Molineaux with them – had made it.

  And now their long trek was over they could not find Fort Hope.

  To set out from an uncertain starting point to navigate across uncharted territory with only the stars to guide them was a task that few men other than naval officers would have undertaken without misgivings. Yelverton would have been able to do it within a mile or two under normal circumstances, but Yelverton was dead and Killigrew’s geometry left a great deal to be desired. Besides, a mile or two was not close enough; and what if Yelverton, in his debilitated condition, had made a miscalculation? Killigrew would not have blamed him if he had. But it was quite possible they were a good deal more than a couple of miles from Fort Hope. It was quite possible they were dozens of miles from Fort Hope. If that was the case, then Killigrew knew they would never make it, for they had been ready to drop for a long time now. They had come through so much, they deserved to survive now; they had earned a hearty meal and a good rest. But fate had been cruel to them so far, and might yet have one last trick to play.

  ‘All right,’ he said, no longer making any attempt to sound chirpy. ‘All we have to do is find the lake. Find the lake, and we’ll find the fort. We’ll split up and search in different directions. We know it isn’t behind us, so we’ll split into three teams. Mr Varrow, you take Endicott and Orsini and go west. Mr Latimer, you take Chips and Hughes and go east. Frau Weiss, Commander Pettifer and Kracht will come with me. We’ll meet back here in two hours, unless one of you sees the fort. In that event, let off one shot into the air to signal the rest of us, and another shot five minutes after that, and so on, until we’re all together again.’

  ‘We’re running low on cartridges,’ said Yarrow, his hoarse voice little more than a whisper now. ‘If we divven’t find the fort, we may need every shot for hunting.’

  ‘Then pray we find the fort,’ Killigrew said simply. Because if they did not, they were dead.

  They set off in their appointed directions. Killigrew handed one of his revolvers to the blacksmith and nodded at Pettifer. ‘Keep an eye on the commander, Kracht. Make sure he doesn’t do himself – or anyone else – an injury.’

  ‘Jawohl, mein Herr.’

  The four of them trudged south, the boughs above their heads heavy with snow. Everything was silent but for the crunch of the snow beneath their feet and the strenuous rasp of their breath. They were dying, they had pushed themselves too far too hard, but with salvation perhaps close at hand they could not give up now.

  Then Killigrew thought he heard another sound. He signalled a halt.

  ‘What is it, mein Herr?’ asked Kracht.

  ‘Shh!’

  They listened. Nothing but silence. Not even the birds were singing in the trees, which was odd. Killigrew decided that he must have imagined it and was about to say as much when he heard it again: a distant tap, tap, tap. He had heard that sound somewhere before, although he could not place it, he was sure of one thing, however: it was not a natural sound.

  ‘You heard that?’ he asked Ursula.

  She nodded. ‘It seemed to come from over there.’ She pointed off to their right.

  Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘There it goes again!’

  This time Killigrew had been able to pin down the direction of the strange sound more precisely, although it was possible the wind had thrown him off. They set off in that direction anyway, and after another fifty yards they emerged from the trees on to the banks of a frozen lake, the north-east arm of the Great Slave Lake. A hump in the flat surface of the lake betrayed the presence of a low island, and on the crest of that hump stood a stockade with two low watch-towers at diametrically opposite corners and the roofs of three buildings visible within.

  Fort Hope.

  It was the first man-made structure Killigrew had seen since they had set out on their trek. He wanted to weep with joy. Instead he took his other revolver, aimed it into the ground, and fired.

  The other three were already staggering across the frozen lake. Killigrew tried to break into a run, but he did not have the energy. He stumbled and sank to his knees in the snow, then got up again and forced himself to go on. His goal was in sight. He had never thought he would live to see this, and now he forced himself to enjoy his enforced slowness, relishing the moment. When he reached the shore of the island he forgot his pain, his hunger, his exhaustion, and staggered the last few paces to salvation.

  No one came out to meet them, in spite of the shot. The gate was ajar, which was just as well, because snow had drifted against it and if it had been shut they would never have got it open in their weakened condition, even if a feast fit for the Lord Mayor’s Banquet had awaited them on the other side.

  The four of them stumbled through.

  There were three log cabins within the stockade: the main hall and a windowless building that was probably a storehouse in the centre, and the voyageurs’ quarters up against the palisade. The place was clearly deserted and presumably had been so all winter. That did not matter, so long as the Hudson’s Bay Company had been true to its promise to keep the place stocked with a depot of food in case Franklin and his men, in similar straits, should ever find their way here. There was plenty of firewood stac
ked against the storehouse. As Killigrew and the others stared about the deserted compound, the wind moaned eerily and the tap, tap, tap sounded again close to hand, a halyard banging against a bare flagpole in the breeze.

  ‘No one at home,’ said Killigrew. ‘Ursula, see how much food is in the store. Kracht, you come with me. Bring the captain.’

  As Ursula trudged across to the storehouse, Killigrew tried the door to the main hall. It was stiff, perhaps frozen. Putting his shoulder to it had no effect. He had no more strength.

  He heard Kracht cock the hammer of the musket and turned, but the blacksmith was only levelling it at Pettifer who had moved forwards. Killigrew moved aside and Pettifer threw his shoulder against the door. It gave on the third attempt.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Killigrew said softly.

  They stepped inside. A faint, musty smell of decay filled the place. There were a couple of cots against one wall, a wood-burning stove in one corner with a kettle and a couple of mugs on top of it, and a chest. An oil-lamp hung from the low ceiling: he took it down and shook it: empty. He glanced around, saw some whale-oil bottles on a shelf, and a box of matches. The bottles were all empty, but there were a dozen matches left in the box: that was something, at least. He pocketed the matches and opened the chest. It contained some rough blankets and a few medical supplies: dressings, scissors, some numbered bottles of pills and medicines, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

  He took the stopper out of the bottle of alcohol, sniffed it, and took a swig.

  ‘You know that stuff is for external use only?’ Kracht asked with a grin.

  Killigrew gasped: it was like drinking sulphuric acid, but after feeling so numb for so long it was good to experience sensation again. ‘I’ve tasted worse.’ He proffered it to Kracht, but the blacksmith shook his head.

  Killigrew put the bottle on the shelf and gave his other revolver to Kracht in exchange for the musket. ‘Keep an eye on the captain, Kracht. I’ll bring some firewood in and we’ll see if we can get a fire going in the stove.’