Killigrew hung the looking-glass from a nail on the wall and tried to glance over his shoulder at the bear’s claw-marks on his back: they were healing nicely, although the scars would be a permanent reminder of his Arctic adventure, as if he would ever need one; more likely he would spend the rest of his days trying to put the nightmare behind him.
Now he was eating properly his health was returning gradually, although it would be many months – if not years – before he or any of the other survivors were fully recovered from their ordeal. Indeed, it was such a miracle that any of them had made it, everything that had happened since he had reached the Indians’ camp seemed unreal. He expected to wake up and find himself back in the Arctic Circle, somewhere between Horsehead Bay and Chantry Inlet, with the bulk of their journey still to be completed and the bear alive, out there somewhere, waiting for a chance to pick them off one by one.
But they were well enough to travel now. Killigrew was in no hurry: he had already sent off a dispatch to the Admiralty, telling them what had happened. Tomorrow they would set out with a party of voyageurs for the York Factory on the coast of Hudson Bay – a journey of another 750 miles overland, but with plenty of food now, the weather more clement, game plentiful. With any luck there would be a ship to take them home, and Hudson Strait would still be ice-free; they might see England again before the autumn was out.
He finished shaving, splashed water on his face and dressed, emerging from the log cabin into the wide compound of Fort Chipewyan. Unlike Fort Hope, this place was all hustle and bustle: traders, fur-trappers, voyageurs and Indians. A far-flung outpost on the furthermost reaches of the British Empire, but after Killigrew’s long sojourn in the wilderness it seemed like a metropolis.
He saw Ursula come through the gates, still using a crutch to support her injured leg, but dressed in European clothing now. He waved to her, and she saw him and waved back with a smile.
And that was when the polar bear came through the gate behind her.
Everyone scattered, everyone except Ursula. She seemed oblivious to the panic. Killigrew fought to get to her before the bear did, but the tide of fleeing people held him back. He shouted a warning, but no sound would come.
The bear reached her. She turned, tried to beat at it with her crutch. Killigrew was still a hundred yards away. The bear swiped at her, its long claws tearing through her gown, shredding her stomach, eviscerating her. Killigrew saw her entrails spill out, blood red on the compacted snow of the compound, and let out a howl of animal despair…
‘Lieutenant Killigrew?’
Hands shaking him. He opened his eyes, blinked up at the flag lieutenant standing over him.
‘Are you all right, Lieutenant?’
It took Killigrew a moment to adjust to his surroundings: a chair in the waiting room at the Admiralty. The flag lieutenant immaculate in his dress uniform. Dust motes dancing in the warm summer sunshine. The clop of horses’ hoofs and the rattle of carriages and hansoms on Whitehall. The bellow of a sergeant-major drilling troopers on the parade ground outside Horse Guards. The whistle of a steam boat plying the Thames in the distance.
He rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I’m fine. It was just a nightmare, that’s all.’
The flag lieutenant regarded him with a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘If you’re ready, Sir James will see you now.’
Killigrew straightened his full-dress uniform, adjusted his cocked hat on his head, and was ushered into a high-ceiling office with rococo furniture and paintings of famous admirals on the walls: Cochrane, Hornblower, Nelson. He remembered that Nelson had once taken part in an Arctic expedition as a midshipman, and wondered if the great admiral had been troubled by nightmares afterwards.
There were two men seated behind the table at the far side of the room. Killigrew recognised one – plump, elderly, balding, Mr Pickwick in naval uniform – as Rear Admiral Sir Francis ‘Windy’ Beaufort, the head of the navy’s Hydrographic Department. The other man, in civilian clothing, could only be the Right Honourable Sir James Graham, First Lord of the Admiralty.
The flag lieutenant closed the door behind him. Killigrew limped across the room, half-boots clacking on the polished floor, stood to attention before the table and saluted.
To his astonishment, both Sir James and Admiral Beaufort rose from their seats and came around the table to shake him vigorously by the hand. ‘Lieutenant Killigrew!’ exclaimed the First Lord. ‘Heard a good deal about you. Congratulations, young man. You’re a hero!’
‘I am?’
‘The press certainly seem to think so. Leading ten men and a woman eleven hundred miles across the most inhospitable terrain to safety, against all the odds? Remarkable achievement, sir, remarkable achievement!’
‘I don’t know where they got the story from, sir – certainly neither I nor any of my men, or Frau Weiss or Herr Kracht, have spoken to anyone from the press.’
‘I briefed Mr Delany of The Times when I received your dispatch from Fort Chipewyan. Of course I did not let him have the full story – I thought it only proper that the hero himself should tell his own story to the press – just enough to satisfy the public’s demand for knowledge.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘I doubt I’ll be seen as a hero when the full facts of the story get out, sir.’
Sir James exchanged glances with Beaufort. ‘That’s exactly what we want to talk to you about today,’ said the First Lord. ‘But where are my manners?’ he gestured to the chair in front of the table. ‘Sit down, sit down! You must be exhausted.’
Killigrew took off his cocked hat, tucked it under one arm, and sat down stiffly.
Graham opened the cigar box on the table. ‘Cheroot? Rear Admiral Napier tells me you prefer Trincomalee tobacco.’ Sir James crossed to the sideboard and poured brandy from a decanter, returning to thrust the glass into Killigrew’s hand. ‘Have a drink. You look as if you could do with one.’
Killigrew thought this must be another dream: the First Lord of the Admiralty and the Navy’s Hydrographer-in-Chief waiting on him hand and foot, plying him with cheroots and brandy. Eighteen months ago he would have declined politely, not wanting to give the impression that he was a hard-drinking smoker – it was not in Killigrew’s nature to be toady, but these men could make or break his career, after all, and there was no shortage of men who disapproved of such vices – but now he did not give a damn about any of them. He was just glad to be alive. Besides, if this was just a dream, he could tell the pair of them to jump into the Thames; but he restrained himself, out of politeness; besides, there was the off-chance that this was really happening. So he accepted the light that Graham struck him for the cheroot, sipped his brandy, and waited to see what they would say next.
Graham and Beaufort resumed their seats behind the table. ‘Now, you understand, there will have to be a court martial concerning the loss of Her Majesty’s exploring ship Venturer?’ asked Beaufort. ‘That’s unavoidable.’
‘Purely a formality,’ Graham said hurriedly. ‘I’m confident that the court martial will show both Lieutenant Killigrew and Commander Pettifer – and indeed the service as a whole – in the best possible light.’
‘I wish I could say that was likely to happen, sir. But when the subject of Commander Pettifer’s insanity comes up—’
Graham grimaced. ‘Ah, yes. Commander Pettifer’s insanity.’
‘Alleged insanity,’ Beaufort corrected him.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ agreed Graham. ‘Alleged insanity. Very good, Sir Francis.’ The First Lord turned back to Killigrew. ‘In your dispatch you mentioned something about a letter that Mr Strachan wrote for you, recommending that you relieve the captain of command. You brought it with you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Killigrew took out the letter and passed it across the table.
Graham picked up the letter, perused it thoughtfully – Killigrew saw his eyes scan the lines twice – and then struck a match. He dropped the burning letter into the large crystal ashtray.
Killi
grew felt as though he had been gut-punched. The only evidence he had that he had been right to relieve Pettifer of command… No, damn it. Strachan was still alive, he could still testify. So would every one of the survivors.
‘There will be no mention of Commander Pettifer’s insanity… alleged insanity… at the court martial,’ Graham said firmly.
‘But then how am I to justify my actions in relieving him of command, sir?’
‘There will be no mention of the fact that you mutinied.’
Finally Killigrew understood. ‘You’re asking me to lie, sir?’
‘“Lie” is a very ugly word, Lieutenant,” said Graham. ‘We’re merely suggesting that certain facts be… omitted. After all, Commander Pettifer left a widow. I see no reason why his name should be dragged in the mud unnecessarily.’
‘Then there’s the good of the service to be considered,’ said Beaufort.
‘As you’re probably aware, everyone’s up in arms about this business with Russia invading the Danubian principalities,’ said Graham. ‘The possibility that it may come to war cannot be ruled out. In the event of a war, the navy will be of vital importance in keeping the Russian fleet bottled up in the Baltic, and we cannot rely on the press gang to bring the fleet back to a wartime footing. Even if I were in favour of the reintroduction of the press gang – and I most certainly am not – Parliament would never accept it. So we’ll have to rely on volunteers. And men aren’t going to be willing to come forward if they think they’re going to be put under the command of… ahem… reckless lunatics who’ll throw their lives away in pursuit of vainglory.’
‘So we need to make sure that whatever story comes out at the court martial, it’s one that inspires men to want to belong to the finest navy in the world,’ said Beaufort. ‘And you do believe that the Royal Navy is, always has been, and always will be the finest in the world, don’t you, Lieutenant?’
‘I’d like to think so, sir. But the finest navy in the world isn’t necessarily perfect.’
‘We’ll see to it that the prosecuting counsel doesn’t ask you any, shall we say, awkward questions?’ said Graham. ‘And of course we’ll rely on your discretion in not reporting any extraneous, unpleasant details to the press.’
‘Play your cards right, Lieutenant, and there might even be a promotion to commander for you in this,’ said Beaufort.
‘And if I refuse?’
Graham’s face hardened. ‘Then the Admiralty will need a scapegoat, Lieutenant. A living one, so you can forget all about blaming it on Commander Pettifer.’
‘I’m willing to take that chance.’
‘For what? For the truth? Suppose the whole story did come out. You’d be court-martialled for mutiny. At best dismissed the service, at worst… you could be shot. Cui bono, Mr Killigrew? Who benefits?’
‘The men whose lives are spared when the Royal Navy is forced to abandon its programme of Arctic exploration.’
‘There will be no more expeditions to the Arctic, once Sir Edward returns with the rest of the squadron,’ said Graham. ‘Not for a while, at any rate. If this trouble in the Balkans cannot be controlled, I’ve a feeling the navy will have more pressing matters to attend to. But your squadron was sent out under the orders of my predecessor.’ Graham smiled nastily. ‘It is no skin off my nose if you seek to embarrass him.’
‘You’ve got a promising career as a naval officer ahead of you,’ said Beaufort. ‘Don’t throw it away over a point of principle.’
‘What do you say?’ asked Graham.
‘I need some time to think about it, sir.’
‘Of course,’ said Beaufort. ‘You can have all the time you need.’
‘As long as you let us know your decision by the end of the week,’ added Graham. ‘The court martial is set for next Monday, and we need to brief the prosecuting counsel. Thank you for your time, Lieutenant. I await your decision with interest.’
Killigrew rose to his feet, saluted, crossed to the door and hesitated before opening it. He turned back to the two men at the table.
‘Even if I were to agree to such a whitewash, I cannot guarantee that any of the other men who survived will not speak to the press about some of the more embarrassing aspects of our voyage.’
‘Then you must persuade them, Lieutenant Killigrew.’ Graham smirked. ‘Or should I say, Commander Killigrew?’
Killigrew licked his lips. ‘Those men are all destitute now, sir. I know the navy doesn’t pay its crews a penny after the destruction of their ships, but they might be more amenable to keeping quiet if they were paid some kind on honorarium to cover the period from the destruction of the Venturer to their arrival back in England.’
‘It would be highly irregular… but I’ll see what I can do.’ The First Lord smiled. ‘I do believe we’ll make a politician out of you yet, Mr Killigrew.’
‘God forbid!’ Killigrew replied with some feeling.
* * *
‘Hyde Park Corner, please,’ Killigrew told the cabbie of the hansom waiting outside. He climbed in and sat down next to Ursula.
‘How did it go?’
‘They’re going to promote me to commander.’
‘But that is wonderful!’
‘No it isn’t. The court martial is going to be a whitewash. I get a promotion as long as I keep quiet about anything that might embarrass the navy.’
‘You rejected their offer?’
‘I told them I’d think about it.’ As the hansom rattled down Pall Mall and up St James’s Street on to Piccadilly, he told her about the deal he had been offered.
‘What will you do?’
Killigrew took a deep breath. ‘Accept, I expect. Oh, I’ll wait until the last minute before I let those bastards know – make ’em sweat a bit. A petty revenge, but all I can manage. For now. Besides, they’ve got me over a barrel and they know it. If the full facts did come out, I’d be the one with the most to lose. They’d see to it I was found guilty of mutiny. I don’t believe they’d have me shot, but I’d be dismissed the service – and when you come from a long line of naval officers, it amounts to much the same thing.’
‘I do not think anyone could blame you for accepting.’
‘No one,’ he agreed, ‘except myself. I’d be lying if I denied wanting that promotion to commander, but… Lor’ to get it like this! ’ He shook his head, filled with self-loathing.
The cabbie dropped them off at Hyde Park Corner. Killigrew paid him, told him to keep the change, and escorted Ursula into the park. The Crystal Palace had been dismantled now, and the riders were out on Rotten Row. Killigrew and Ursula made their way to the Serpentine where the lieutenant hired a boat from the attendant. Even those turgid waters sparkled beneath the glorious sunshine, and their Arctic ordeal seemed little more than a half-remembered nightmare. Ursula made herself comfortable on the cushions on the bottom boards and Killigrew rowed her out into the middle of the lake. Then he shipped his oars and stared off into the middle distance.
‘You kept your promise,’ she said. ‘To take me boating on tire Serpentine.’
He grunted non-committally.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Perhaps I didn’t let you down, but I can’t help thinking of the others… the ones I left behind,’ he said bitterly. ‘And for what? We didn’t find the North-West Passage; we didn’t even find any traces of the Franklin Expedition. Twenty-six men dead, Strachan missing a foot…’
‘I saw him earlier this morning. Out and about on crutches, showing off the wooden foot that Riggs carved for him. He seemed very… heiter. In English you would say “chipper”?’
Killigrew managed a faint smile. ‘That sounds like Strachan. How’s your leg?’
She sighed. ‘I’ll always have the scars. But I like them. Something to remember you by.’
‘I’ll give you something to remember me by.’ He lay down beside her in the boat and kissed her.
She tried to push him away. ‘Kit! Someone will see us!’
‘Don’t
be silly. We’re right out in the middle of the lake. Who’s going to see us here?’
‘Ahoy there!’ The familiar voice came from a second row-boat that headed towards them. ‘Is that you, Killigrew?’
He cursed under his breath and sat up to see Rear Admiral Sir Charles Napier sitting up in the stern of the boat while a midshipman rowed him from the bank.
‘Mr Latimer told me I might find you here,’ Napier said when he was nearer. The admiral looked the same as ever: civilian clothes hopelessly dishevelled, a dusting of snuff all down the front of his frock coat.
‘Did he!’ Killigrew muttered in a tone that boded no good for the clerk.
‘I read your dispatch to the Admiralty with interest,’ Napier continued as his boat came alongside. ‘One hopes that now they’ll see sense and stop wasting men on Arctic exploration. There are plenty of more important jobs for you to do. Surveying enemy waters, for one thing. As you’ve probably gathered since your return, there’s a lot of gammon about how we’re going to have to go to war with the Russians over this spot of bother in the Balkans.’
‘The Mediterranean, sir?’ Killigrew said hopefully. ‘The Black Sea?’
‘Ah, actually, that’s already in hand. I’ve been saving something special for a man with your particular experience with ice.’
‘Ice!’ exclaimed Killigrew. ‘Don’t talk to me about ice, sir. After the Arctic, I don’t think I shall be able to look at even so much as a sorbet again so long as I live.’
‘Ah,’ Napier said dubiously. ‘It’s just that we do need a survey of Russian fortifications at Murmansk and Archangel to be carried out, and I was wondering…?’
‘Nyet!’ Killigrew seized up his oars, pushed off from Napier’s boat, and began rowing strongly for the southern shore of the lake.
Killigrew and the North-West Passage Page 54