Killigrew and the North-West Passage

by Jonathan Lunn

‘Jawohl, mein Herr.’

  Killigrew stepped out of the stockade and looked around for the others. There was still no sign of them, and judging it was about five minutes since he had fired the first shot, he discharged the musket into the air.

  He checked inside the voyageurs’ quarters: more cots and blankets, another stove, a box of tools, a half-empty cask of nails, some pots of paint, brushes, a bottle of turpentine and a pot of glue.

  He made his way across to the storehouse. The door was open now, so he supposed Ursula had got in without difficulty. He laid the musket against the side of the building, brushed snow from the first pile of logs and was about to pick one up – he did not think he had the strength to carry more than one at a time – when he heard sobbing from inside.

  He crossed to the door and looked inside. Ursula was sprawled on the dirt floor, weeping.

  The storehouse was empty.

  Chapter 25

  Hand-to-Paw Combat

  Strachan examined his wounded foot by the campfire Molineaux had built. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ asked Molineaux, wrinkling his nose at the stench.

  The assistant surgeon nodded. He was too weary to feel any emotion about it. ‘Gangrene. That foot is going to have to come off.’

  ‘If that’s the way it’s got to be, that’s the way it’s got to be.’ Molineaux checked that the musket was unloaded and put it so that the barrel was in the fire.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Strachan.

  ‘The only thing I can use to cauterise the stump,’ said Molineaux.

  ‘Forget it. How far do you think I’m going to get on one leg? Save yourself, Molineaux. You can make it from here without me to slow you down.’

  ‘Now there’s no need for that kind of talk, sir. It’s only six more miles or so, I reckon. You’ll make it, if I have to carry you on my back every step of the way.’ He waited until the barrel of the musket glowed red-hot and then tied a tourniquet around Strachan’s ankle.

  ‘You do that well,’ said Strachan, astonished by how calm he felt.

  ‘Seen you do it enough times, sir.’ Molineaux picked up the axe. ‘Ready?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’ Strachan laid a hand on Molineaux’s arm to stay the blow. ‘There’s a kind of poetic justice to this, if you think about it, isn’t there?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I mean, I’ve amputated enough limbs in my time. Now I’m getting a taste of my own medicine. Literally.’

  ‘Close your eyes, sir. Best not to look.’

  Strachan squeezed his eyes shut and heard the thunk of the ice axe. ‘Don’t waste your strength with a practice swing, just get on with it,’ he groaned.

  ‘That wasn’t a practice blow, sir,’ said Molineaux, and Strachan heard a sizzling sound. ‘It’s done.’

  The smell of charred meat reached Strachan’s nostrils and he opened his eyes to see his own dismembered foot lying in the snow: a part of him, but no longer part of him.

  He fainted.

  * * *

  Killigrew sank to his knees. He felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach by a mule. All his hopes had been pinned on this, on Fort Hope, and they had made it so far only to find that it was a false hope. The cupboard was well and truly bare.

  The next nearest outpost of civilisation was Fort Chipewyan, almost another three hundred miles to the south.

  At length he crawled across to where Ursula lay sobbing and gently put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You know, when we get back to London I’m going to have some harsh words to say about the board of directors of the Hudson’s Bay Company concerning this.’

  Ursula managed to chuckle through her tears in spite of everything, although Killigrew could tell her heart was not in it. ‘This is it, isn’t it? We’re going to die here, aren’t we?’

  Killigrew said nothing, because to say anything other than a simple ‘yes’ would have been an outright lie.

  He slowly pushed himself to his feet, took Ursula by the arm and pulled her up after him. ‘Come on,’ he said. He was not looking forward to telling Kracht – and the others when they arrived – about the empty storehouse, but it had to be done.

  They were halfway across the compound when they heard sounds of a struggle from inside the log cabin. There was a loud crash – someone falling against the stove – and the door to the cabin opened. Pettifer stood there, his wrists untied, a revolver in either hand.

  Under the circumstances, the logical thing to do would have been to stand still and allow Pettifer to blow their brains out: a far merciful death than the one by slow starvation that must inevitably follow. But human instinct does not understand mercy; only survival.

  Killigrew and Ursula ducked behind the storehouse as Pettifer raised one of the revolvers and fired. A bullet soughed past Killigrew’s ear, and then another bit into one of the logs that formed the walls of the storehouse as the two of them ducked behind cover.

  They stumbled round the back of the storehouse and Ursula peeped over the logs stacked against the wall. Another shot sounded and she cried out. Killigrew hauled her back, thinking she had been hit, but all that had happened was that splinters from one of the logs had been driven into her cheek by a bullet.

  The two of them sat against the wall of the storehouse, gasping for breath. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. On the other side of the storehouse, Pettifer started singing to himself in a melancholy voice:

  ‘The words that she uttered went straight through my heart,

  I sobbed, I sighed, and straight did depart;

  With a tear on my eyelid as big as a bean,

  Bidding goodbye to Polly and Paddington Green…’

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are!’ he added jovially.

  Killigrew looked about in desperation. About ten yards of open ground lay between them and the back of the main hall. ‘Think you can make it to the gate?’ he asked Ursula in a whisper.

  She nodded. ‘What about you?’

  Killigrew grimaced. ‘It’s me he’s after. I’ll try and draw his fire, you run to the others. They must be close by now.’

  Ursula nodded tearfully, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Killigrew. ‘On the count of three… one… two… three!’

  The two of them burst from cover, Killigrew running in one direction, Ursula in the other. More shots echoed in the compound. Killigrew was aware of the captain’s bulk outside the storehouse but could not tell which direction he was shooting in.

  His emaciated legs feeling wobbly, Killigrew stumbled behind the main building. He wondered if Ursula had made it to the gate. The important thing to do was to keep Pettifer from pursuing her. ‘Commander Pettifer?’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Are you there?’

  Pettifer replied by singing:

  ‘She was as beautiful as a butterfly

  And as proud as a queen

  Was pretty little Polly Perkins

  Of Paddington Green.’

  Killigrew peered cautiously round the far side of the main building. Seeing no sign of Pettifer, he crossed back and peered behind the back wall in case the lunatic was trying to creep up on him. No sign of him there either. Killigrew crept round to one of the windows of the cabin and peered through the crack between the shutters. Only Kracht was in there, slumped against the stove, a livid purple bruise rising on his temple. There was no way of telling if he was dead or alive.

  Pettifer resumed singing, and Killigrew whirled.

  ‘In six months she married – the hard-hearted girl –

  But it was not a viscount, and it was not an earl,

  It was not a baronet, but a shade or two wuss,

  It was a bow-legged conductor of a twopenny ’bus.’

  The voice echoed eerily about the compound, one moment strangely distant, the next so close Killigrew whirled in alarm, expecting to see Pettifer right behind him. Was the deranged captain inside the stockade, or had he followed Ursula out?

  Killigrew crossed to where he had left
the musket propped up against the wall of the storehouse. Much good it would do him, unloaded, but if he could get close enough to Pettifer perhaps he could use it as a club.

  But first he had to find him.

  He crossed to the gate and peered out across the clearing. There was no sign of Pettifer, no sign of Ursula, no sign of anyone. What the devil was going on? Surely the others must have been drawn by the shooting by now?

  He heard a creak behind him and turned in time to see Pettifer emerge from the storehouse. One of the revolvers blazed, and a stinging pain in Killigrew’s upper arm made him drop the musket with a cry. He slumped to the ground and tried to crawl away, his blood dripping on to the snow.

  Pettifer advanced, singing, punctuating each line with a shot from one of the revolvers. Each shot missed, but landed close enough to let Killigrew know the captain was toying with him now.

  ‘She was as beautiful as a butterfly

  And as proud as a queen

  Was pretty little Polly Perkins

  Of Paddington Green.’

  Killigrew had reached one of the corners of the stockade now. With nowhere left to go, he rolled painfully on to his back and found Pettifer standing over him. The captain levelled the revolver in his right hand at Killigrew’s forehead. The lieutenant squeezed his eyes shut as Pettifer squeezed the trigger.

  The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Killigrew opened his eyes. If he had had any strength left, he would have lunged for Pettifer now, but what he saw behind the commander sapped the last of his reserves.

  Pettifer was oblivious to anything behind him. ‘All gone!’ he said, like a child. He tossed aside the revolver in his right hand and took his time transferring the other from his left. He took aim once more. ‘It is written in the Good Book that the legions of righteousness must triumph over the workings of the evil one in the final chapter. So let it be. Amen.’

  Killigrew finally found his tongue. ‘You’ve got a bear behind—’

  ‘Eh?’

  The polar bear reared up on its hind legs with a roar. Pettifer began to turn and in the next instant his head bounced off the palisade, slashed clean from his body by the bear’s powerful claws. The bear sank its teeth into Pettifer’s thigh and shook his decapitated body like a dog playing with a rag doll.

  Killigrew forced himself on to his feet and reached for where the loaded revolver had fallen in the snow, less than a foot from where the bear was occupied in ripping Pettifer’s body to bloody shreds. The bear sharply swung its head round in his direction with a threatening growl. Killigrew quickly backed away without the revolver, hoping the bear would return to its feast. It did not, but steadily advanced on him.

  He turned and ran. The very ground seemed to shake beneath the bear’s massive paws as it lumbered in pursuit. Killigrew stumbled through the open door of the log cabin and slammed it behind him. Seconds later it was splintered by a blow from the bear, one of the planks flying across the room to clip the lieutenant on the temple. Dazed, he staggered back against the rear wall of the cabin, sank to the floor next to Kracht and waited to die.

  The bear’s head and forequarters came through the door, flecks of blood on its lips and jagged teeth. Its breath stank of rancid meat. Then it stopped. Its hips were too broad to pass through the narrow door. It roared in frustration, and pushed, but it could not get through.

  Fighting for breath, Killigrew pushed himself to his feet and took out his clasp-knife: better than nothing in a fight against another man, but against a bear…?

  The whole cabin seemed to shudder as the beast strained against the doorposts. Killigrew opened the blade of the knife and advanced cautiously. He jabbed at one of the bear’s eyes, but the bear was fast and almost caught his hand in its jaws as it snapped at him. Killigrew jerked his hand back, and thrust again. Another jerk of the bear’s head preserved its eye, but this time Killigrew got close enough to score a line of blood across the beast’s snout. The bear roared and retreated.

  Killigrew stayed inside the cabin, wondering what to do. He could still hear the bear snuffling about outside, although he could not see it through the open door.

  ‘Herr Killigrew?’

  The lieutenant turned, saw Kracht had regained consciousness and was rummaging about inside his knapsack. He pulled out his homemade grenade. ‘Try this,’ he said, and tossed it at the lieutenant. Killigrew caught it and tucked it under one arm while he took out the matches he had found and struck one. He applied it to the fuse and it spluttered into life.

  And then the bear’s head lunged through the window, its jaws snapping at Killigrew. He jumped aside, sprawled on the floor, the grenade rolling from his hand, the fuse sputtering. He swore, crawled across, retrieved it and threw it at the window. It bounced off the bear’s haunches and dropped to the ground. Killigrew could hear the fuse fizz, see smoke rising between the bear’s legs. The bear lowered its head to sniff at the grenade, then looked at Killigrew again and snarled. Then it moved away from the window.

  The grenade exploded against the side of the log cabin with a flat crack.

  Killigrew picked himself up and edged cautiously towards the window once more: no sign of the bear, just a small crater in the snow surrounded by the jagged pieces of brass that had been thrown in all directions.

  ‘Did you get it?’ asked Kracht.

  Killigrew shook his head and edged closer to the door. He peered across the compound to where the loaded revolver lay. It was only fifteen feet away: if he could just…

  The bear’s head lunged through the door once more, its bloody snout smashing against Killigrew’s wounded arm but at the same time saving his life as it knocked him clear of the bear’s snapping jaws. It started to claw at the wood around the door, tearing at the logs, shredding them, smashing them. The whole cabin shuddered under the impact. As it fought to widen the opening, Killigrew realised it would only be a few more seconds before it succeeded.

  ‘Out the window, quick!’ he yelled at Kracht. ‘Make for one of the watch-towers!’

  The blacksmith nodded, tore open the shutters and climbed out.

  With one final effort, the bear knocked a couple of logs free and squeezed through.

  Killigrew was too terrified to listen to the protests of exhausted, emaciated limbs. He flung himself through the window, rolling in the snow outside.

  His whole body was an ocean of pain. He wanted to lie there and die, let the bear come and finish this nightmare. Get up, get up! Jory Spargo’s voice. Killigrew forced himself up on to his knees. There was Kracht, climbing up the ladder to one of the watch-towers; and there was the bear, squeezing itself out of the main hall once more and blocking Killigrew’s path. The only other refuges were the voyageurs’ quarters and the storehouse, but the bear could smash its way into those just as easily as it had broken into the main hall.

  He ran around the back of the cabin and jumped up at the low eaves. A fit and healthy Killigrew could have done it without even thinking about it, but that had been a thousand miles away, a million lifetimes ago. He barely managed to get his arms on the shingles, his legs dangling over the eaves, flailing wildly within reach of the bear’s jaws. His fingers clawed at the snow-covered roof and the rags on his feet scrabbled against the logs below. Somehow he managed to pull himself up towards the apex of the roof.

  The bear jumped effortlessly up after him.

  Killigrew backed towards the far end of the roof. The bear advanced, putting one paw in front of the other, as surefooted as a cat, its head lowered aggressively, teeth bared in a snarl.

  Killigrew ran out of roof. There was a drop of about twelve feet to the ground, and even if he managed to jump down without breaking a leg then the bear would be on him in an instant. He took out the clasp-knife once more and slashed its nose. The bear fixed him in its gaze, inviting him to drop his guard just for one split second.

  ‘Kit!’ Ursula’s voice, God bless her. ‘I’m here, Kit!’

  ‘There’s a revolver do
wn there somewhere! Use it, girl!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Down there, somewhere! ’ Killigrew dared not take his eyes off the bear to give Ursula directions.

  ‘Got it!’ Killigrew heard the click, click of a hammer falling on spent percussion caps. ‘It’s empty!’

  ‘The other one!’

  The bear snapped at Killigrew’s hand, but he managed to pull it clear in time and stabbed the bear in a nostril. The bear howled, backed off a couple of feet, and then started to inch forwards, head lowered.

  Five shots sounded in quick succession, five wounds blossomed in the bear’s left side. It let out a roar of fury and at once leaped down from the roof, turning its attention on Ursula. The five bullets in it did not even seem to slow it. Ursula threw the empty revolver at its head and ran for the other watch-tower. The bear lumbered after her. She scrambled nimbly up the ladder. It leaped up after her, but she pulled into the shelter at the top only inches ahead of its snapping jaws.

  Killigrew slid down the roof of the main hall, pitched forward on his face in the snow and dropped the knife. He wasted precious seconds scrabbling for it.

  The bear was standing on its hind legs, looking up at the watch-tower where Ursula had taken refuge. The shelter was about twenty feet off the ground, too high up for the bear to reach, and it could not climb up. With a snarl of frustration, it dropped back to the ground, looked around, and saw Killigrew.

  He picked himself up and ran to the watch-tower where Kracht watched anxiously. He reached the ladder, hauled himself up the rungs, and had almost reached the shelter when something clamped itself over his foot.

  The pain was excruciating. He glanced down and saw that the bear had seized him by the ankle in its jaws. He wrapped his arms around the ladder as the bear tried to pull him down, clinging on for dear life.

  Kracht scraped some snow off the roof of the shelter, moulded it into a ball, and flung it at the bear’s head. It exploded in the bear’s eyes, and the beast was startled enough to let go of Killigrew’s ankle. Kracht hauled him up through the entrance to the shelter.