Sobbing with pain and exhaustion, Killigrew crawled across into the corner to examine his foot. Miraculously, the bone was not broken, but there was a nasty puncture mark where one of the bear’s incisors had pierced the flesh. He took out a handkerchief and used it to bind the wound as best he could. ‘Any sign of the others?’
Kracht looked across to the shore of the lake, and shook his head. Killigrew stood up. The bear was trotting back and forth between the two watch-towers, growling with frustration.
‘We’re safe for now,’ he told Kracht. ‘Even Bruin can’t climb up here. All we’ve got to do is wait for the others to arrive.’
‘Unless Bruin has already killed them.’ Kracht glanced at the other watch-tower, and his face fell. ‘Oh, no!’
‘What?’ Killigrew turned to see for himself.
Bruin had settled at the base of Ursula’s watch-tower and was chewing at one of the legs supporting the shelter.
‘It can’t possibly chew through that support…’
The wood snapped with a splinter. The bear spat out a mouthful of wood chips, and crossed to the next leg. Ursula clung to one of the stanchions supporting the roof of her shelter, and looked across pleadingly to Killigrew and Kracht. The lieutenant racked his brains, but could not think of anything.
‘There must be something we can do!’ moaned Kracht.
Killigrew shook his head. The bear would chew through the legs of the watch-tower until it collapsed, and when it had finished feasting on Ursula it would come for the two men in the other tower. And there was not a damned thing they could do about it.
‘Damn it to hell!’ Killigrew started to climb down the ladder to the ground.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To finish this business! ’
Taking his clasp-knife from his pocket, he limped across the stockade. Bruin was too busy chewing through the leg on the watch-tower to notice his approach. ‘Here! here, you big bastard!’ he sobbed hoarsely. ‘Fight me! Let’s finish it!’
The bear turned, saw Killigrew, left off chewing the leg, and charged. Killigrew turned and ran, hobbling on his wounded ankle. He had almost made it to the foot of the watch-tower when the bear caught him, swiping at him with a paw. The claws tore through his coat, the clothes underneath, the flesh of his shoulder, slamming him against the side of the voyageurs’ quarters. He managed to crawl through the open door before the bear seized him in its jaws. It tried to follow him, but once again its broad haunches would not let it through. Killigrew backed into one corner, only inches from the bear’s swiping paws, and his foot knocked against a pot of paint with a brush in it. He snatched up the pot and tried to dash it into the bear’s eyes, but the paint was solid, either frozen or dried up, the paintbrush embedded in it. He threw the pot. It bounced off the bear’s skull and the beast retreated, shaking its head muzzily.
Killigrew looked around for a weapon. He took a saw from the toolbox, glanced at it and threw it away. Then he picked out a hammer. If he could just get close enough, perhaps…
Then he saw the bottle of turps. Oil of turpentine, to be precise, also known as… camphene.
He crossed to the door. The bear had gone back to chewing on the legs of Ursula’s tower: the structure looked as though it was going to collapse at any moment. Killigrew snatched up the bottle of turps and limped across to the main hall. He took one of the mugs off the stove, tipped out the dead spider inside, and poured turps into it until it was one-fifth full. Then he took the bottle of rubbing alcohol and topped up the mixture, stirring it with a finger.
He took down the oil-lamp from the ceiling and poured the burning fluid into the reservoir. It was a delicate operation, he was not sure there would be enough in the mug as it was, without spilling any.
A crash sounded outside and he glanced up to see that Ursula’s tower had collapsed, pitching her into the snow. She rolled over and picked herself up, much to Killigrew’s relief, but the bear lumbered towards her. There was no time for her to make it to Kracht’s tower. She retreated into a corner of the palisade. The bear swiped at her with its claws, but the angle was too tight for it to reach her. It tried to sink its fangs into her waist. Sobbing in terror, she kicked at the bear, caught it on the snout and knocked its head away. It roared in annoyance.
Killigrew replaced the stopper on the lamp’s reservoir and scrabbled for the matches he had dropped earlier, when he had lit the grenade. He struck one, and applied it to the lamp’s twin wicks. It took a few seconds for the wicks to soak up the burning fluid, but when they did they burned with a bright, clear flame.
Ursula screamed in terrible agony. Sick with fear for her, he picked up the lamp and crossed to the door. The bear had seized one of her legs between its powerful jaws. She beat at its head with her tiny fists, but it would not let go.
There was no chance for her to get out of the way: he could only hope the bulk of the bear’s body would protect her. If he didn’t act now, she was dead.
Killigrew flung the lamp with all his might. ‘Put this in your pipe, and smoke it!’
The lamp smashed against the ground at the bear’s feet and sprayed it with flaming burning fluid.
Its fur caught fire at once. Roaring in agony, the bear let go of Ursula’s leg and ran out of the stockade, trailing flames and smoke.
Killigrew hobbled across to where Ursula lay. ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded, but her leg was a mess. He helped her to her feet and the two of them limped to the gateway.
Its roars now high-pitched and pitiful – more like a whimper – the bear rolled over and over in the snow, trying to put out the flames, but the burning fluid would not be extinguished. It writhed about, its screams disturbingly human, and Killigrew suddenly felt a pang of pity for the beast.
Kracht joined Killigrew and Ursula at the gateway. The bear lay still now, but the low moans issuing from its lips told them it was still alive as the flames now consumed the blubber of its fat body.
Killigrew limped back to the voyageurs’ quarters, fetched the hammer, and made his way out of the stockade. ‘Be careful!’ Ursula urged him, as he approached the bear.
The acrid stench of burning fur and flesh filled the air. As Killigrew approached the dying beast, he saw that this bear would never kill anyone again. Its dark eyes looked at him pleadingly, as if he could put a stop to the terrible agony it suffered.
Tears spilled down his cheeks, tears of relief mixed with pity. Now he no longer had cause to fear it, he was able to view the animal dispassionately and recognise it for what it was: a magnificent beast, ideally formed to live in the harsh environment of the Arctic, skilful and clever enough to run rings around the crew of one of Her Majesty’s exploring ships for the best part of eight months. In a way, it had only been defending itself, for they were the ones who had invaded its territory and wantonly slaughtered its kind. He had killed many men in the course of his duties – pirates and slavers – and when he acted in self-defence he lost no sleep over it. He could claim self-defence today, but had he not been foolish enough to come on this expedition, perhaps there would have been no need for him to kill it.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured to the bear, ‘for allowing us to slay you.’
A spasm of pain shot through his torn right shoulder as he raised the hammer – he could feel his own hot blood seeping through his clothes – and he brought it down against the bear’s skull with all his might.
It was over.
He turned away, wiping tears from his face with his sleeve as he walked a few paces away, and told himself it was the smoke that made him cry so. He slumped to the snow, feeling ashamed.
On the shore of the lake, Varrow, Endicott and Orsini emerged from the trees. The three of them stumbled across to where Killigrew lay a few yards from the bear’s burning carcass.
‘Dio mio!’ exclaimed the steward. ‘Is that…?’
‘Aye,’ said Varrow. ‘Supper!’
* * *
Jog… jog… jog…
jog.
It was like being on horseback. Strachan remembered going for a ride in the hills of Hong Kong. Funny thing to remember. He wondered where he was. Not Hong Kong, he was certain of that. Hong Kong was hot and humid, but he was cold. His shoulders ached, his arms felt like they were being slowly torn from their sockets, but the jogging motion was strangely comforting. Perhaps his nanny had jogged him to sleep when he had been a bairn.
He opened his eyes and found himself gazing into a black ear hole. Molineaux’s ear hole. With all due respect to the seaman, it was not the prettiest sight he had ever woken up to. He tried to move his hands, but his wrists were tied together with what felt like strips of fur.
‘Molineaux?’
‘Back with us, are you, sir?’ Molineaux was carrying Strachan piggy-back fashion.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Said I’d carry you the rest of the way if I had to.’ Molineaux tried to sound cheerful, but there was no disguising the strain in his voice. ‘I made Mr Killigrew a promise, remember? I’ve already let him down by leaving Qualtrough behind: I don’t intend to do the same with you. I know he’d never let me down like that; I don’t know how I’d ever look him in the eye again.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Molineaux. You’ll never make it. Leave me, for any favour!’
‘I’ll make it, sir. Reckon I’ve already covered five miles today. I’ve picked up the others’ trail; we should be there soon. Now, you don’t mind if I save my breath, do you?’
They jogged on. The pace slowed. Molineaux was weakening. ‘Don’t be a fool, man!’ groaned Strachan. ‘You’ll kill yourself!’
‘I can do it, sir. I’m an Englishman. I can do anything.’ Molineaux fell silent again. He was staggering now. ‘Talk to me, sir,’ he gasped.
‘About what?’
‘About anything. Tell me about ortho-whatsit.’
‘Orthogenesis?’
‘Yur… you mentioned it in one of your lectures last year. Linnaeus and his great chain of being, Lamarck’s theory, about how all animals are related to a common ancestor.’
‘So you do pay attention in my lectures, then?’
‘’Course I do, sir. You never know, one day I might learn something useful!’ Molineaux was silent for a few paces, struggling to catch his breath while he plodded along. ‘Tell me… about… how it is… that one kind of animal… can change… into another.’
‘Well, no one understands the precise nature of the mechanism. Lamarck suggested that the natural environment influenced the nature of the changing species. Thanks to the work of Mr Lyall and other geologists, we know that the natural environment has undergone constant change over the aeons. Perhaps the species on our planet have changed in some way to adapt to changes in their natural environment.’
‘It’s a… harsh world… sir. Got to be… fit… to survive in it.’
‘Indeed one must, Molineaux.’ The petty officer’s words triggered a spark inside Strachan’s weakened brain. He grasped for it, but it was like chasing a will-o’-the-wisp through a foggy night. He shook his head. No good trying to recall it… Best not to think about it, and it would come back to him in time.
He smiled sadly. ‘I’ve learned one thing on this expedition, Molineaux.’
‘What would… that be… sir?’
‘I’m poorly adapted to the Arctic environment.’
‘Aren’t we all? Look up ahead, sir: smoke. Reckon we’re about there.’
Molineaux pressed on with renewed energy and ten minutes later he kicked open the door to the main hall at Fort Hope.
The sight that greeted them appalled Strachan. The others lay about, too ill even to get up: Latimer, Varrow, Riggs, Orsini, Kracht, Endicott and Hughes. Their bearded, blistered, smoke-blackened faces had the haggard look of men who had given up hope. Ursula, ashen-faced, had her leg bound up with bloody strips of bear-fur. Just ten of them in total, out of the thirty-seven who had been on board the Venturer when it had sailed from Beechey Island.
Only Varrow seemed to have strength enough to stand and he did so at once, creating enough space for Molineaux to lay Strachan down. ‘Mr Strachan! And Molineaux! We’d given you up for dead. Where’s Qualtrough?’
‘He didn’t make it,’ Molineaux said curtly.
‘What about Butterwick and Fischbein? We sent them back to meet you. Did they not find you?’
Molineaux exchanged glances with Strachan. They had discussed how much of the details of their adventure they should reveal and decided to tell all to Killigrew, let him make his mind up about the matter. For now he evaded the question. ‘Where’s Mr Killigrew?’
‘Dead,’ said Hughes.
‘Mr Killigrew’s gone for help,’ said Endicott.
‘Help? Where from?’
‘Fort Chipewyan, I suppose.’
Latimer nodded. ‘Another three hundred miles away.’
‘He’ll never make it,’ said Riggs. ‘He could barely walk when he left.’
‘He’ll make it,’ said Molineaux. The idea of Killigrew failing in anything he set his mind to was just unacceptable. ‘Any chance of some vittles? I’ve about had my fill of tripe de roche.’
‘There’s no food,’ said Latimer.
‘What?’
‘When we got here, the place was empty. The only reason we’re alive now is because the bear turned up and Killigrew managed to kill it. The last of the bear-meat ran out two days ago. We’ve been living off its bone-marrow since then.’
Molineaux stared at him as the full gravity of the situation dawned on him. Then he set his jaw. ‘You think if a man can kill a bear like that, three hundred miles of open country is going to be a problem to him?’
‘You bloody fool!’ Hughes yelled hoarsely. ‘He’ll never make it! He just went out to die! Don’t you see? It’s over! We’re all going to die!’
Molineaux seized the Welshman by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Now you hold on to yourself, Red. Mr Killigrew will manage something, you’ll see. He got us this far, didn’t he?’
‘Your faith in Mr Killigrew is touching, Molineaux,’ said Latimer. ‘But I fear Hughes has grasped the nub of the situation.’
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Varrow said suddenly. Molineaux glanced at the engineer and saw he was peering out through a crack in one of the shutters.
‘What is it, Mr V?’
‘You’d better come and take a squint at this.’
Molineaux joined him at the window. Beyond the gates of the stockade he could see three copper-skinned figures bundled in furs flitting across the snow towards them in the gloom of the gathering dusk. ‘Christ! As if we didn’t have enough to worry about!’
‘What is it?’ asked Latimer.
‘Savages, sir,’ said Varrow.
‘Oh, God!’ moaned the clerk. ‘We’re going to be scalped, I know it! That’s what Indians do to people; I read it in a book. They cut their scalps off as trophies!’
‘Well, we’ll just have to defend ourselves, that’s all,’ said Molineaux.
‘What with? There’s no ammunition left…’
Molineaux took out his Bowie knife. As he moved to the door his legs almost buckled under him. He knew he was in no condition to fight three savages with nothing but a Bowie knife, but he was damned if he would give up his scalp without a fight.
The door was jerked open and the three Native Americans stood there, their angular faces terrifyingly impassive. Molineaux moved quickly to block their entrance. One of them caught his wrist in a vice-like grip and effortlessly disarmed him. Then the three of them pushed past him into the cabin and took bundles from their backs. Molineaux watched helplessly as they set about the men on the floor, giving them… food!
‘Hey, you!’ protested Molineaux. ‘Speakee English?’
One of them looked at him, and then reached inside his furs and pulled out a scrap of paper torn from a notebook. He thrust it into Molineaux’s hand.
‘What is it?’ Latimer asked through a mouthful of pemmican.
<
br /> ‘It’s a letter,’ Molineaux said in wonder. ‘From Mr Killigrew.’
‘Killigrew! What does he say?’
‘“Dear all, Hope this letter finds you well. I stumbled into a hunting party of Yellowknife Indians, they are a little rough, but splendid fellows once you get to know them. None of them speaks any English, but by using signs I think I have made them understand your predicament and even as I write they seem to be bundling up some food to bring to you. Treat them courteously…” – Christ, hope it’s not too late for a fresh start – “as they have not much food themselves. I am certain there is no need to tell you to eat everything they bring you! Hope to see you soon, yours et cetera, Lt Christopher I. Killigrew, RN…”’
Epilogue
August 1853
Killigrew stared at his reflection in the tarnished mirror that the Hudson’s Bay Company factor at Fort Chipewyan had loaned him, and hardly recognised himself. A little over a year since he had set sail from England with the rest of Sir Edward Belcher’s squadron, a young lieutenant of seven-and-twenty, full of hopes and dreams with what seemed like his whole career ahead of him. The face that stared back at him was that of a decrepit old man of twenty-eight going on eighty, his once-smooth brow creased with worry lines, eyes shrunk deep in his emaciated face. But as dreadful as he looked now, he remembered how sick his companions had looked when the Indians had brought them into their camp, and how much they had improved since.
They had spent a month with the Indians, rebuilding their strength, having their injuries tended. Strachan had sniffed at the primitive and superstitious techniques they had used to tend Killigrew’s shoulder, arm and ankle, Ursula’s leg, even the stump of his own foot; but there was no denying they had all healed.
After that the Indians had brought them here in easy stages: across the frozen Great Slave Lake – Ursula and Strachan dragged on travois – and then up the Slave River by canoe to Fort Chipewyan on the shores of Lake Athabasca, where the factor had been first astonished by the wild appearance of the ten men and one woman who had walked out of the wilderness, and then grovellingly apologetic, blaming the head office in London, the Indians, the French-Canadian voyageurs – indeed, anyone but himself – when Killigrew had mentioned the absence of any food at Fort Hope.
Killigrew and the North-West Passage Page 53