‘Sorry to bother you, Captain Crozier, but I preferred to tell you myself that the stoker Torrington has taken a turn for the worse and may not last the night.’
‘Are you sure?’
The surgeon nodded. ‘There is little else we can do for him, except make sure he is comfortable. Doctor McDonald is with him now and will call me when the end is near.’
John Torrington was our leading stoker who spent his days shovelling coal into the steam engine. I hardly knew him, just that he was young, maybe twenty years of age or so, and was permanently covered in coal dust.
Mr Peddie assured me that we were not in danger from some new and contagious disease, adding, ‘He must have been sick for a while.’
I raised my eyebrows at this.
‘Oh,’ offered the surgeon, ‘most likely he did not know how sick he was until he started coughing up blood or, if not then, when his strength finally gave out. They found him on the floor, I believe, his shovel still in his grip though he was barely conscious.’
‘Is it the usual?’ I asked.
‘The usual? You mean consumption, the scourge of the lower classes?’
Was he being sarcastic?
‘Yes, I should think so. He has all the symptoms anyway. His breathing is wretchedly loud, though I think he is beyond caring now. A blessing for him really.’
‘Well, Mr Peddie, let me know when …’ I stumbled over how to finish the sentence.
‘Will do, sir, although I will be asking the carpenters to begin on the coffin immediately. No sense in waiting until the last minute.’
I can hear the carpenters at work as I write here. A gloomy sound indeed because I know what they are building. I can only pray that this is the first and last coffin that we will require from them.
Thursday, 1st January 1846
The stoker John Torrington is dead. A dismal start to our new year.
We will bury him today. I went to inspect the coffin, and the carpenters have done themselves proud, taking mere hours to produce a mahogany coffin with brass handles. A fitting end for any man. They tacked on a plaque to the coffin’s lid, in the shape of a heart, engraving it with Torrington’s name, age and today’s date.
I understand he was from Manchester. Just nineteen years of age, he had no time to marry or start a family. He lived with his mother who will have another year, at least, to imagine him alive and well since we have no way of contacting her.
Friday, 2nd January 1846
Yesterday’s funeral was rather glum. Of course, all funerals are but there is something about the Arctic that is well suited to a funeral. Perhaps, it was the drabness of the sky and the snow and the wind that whistled about the marines whose job it was to put the coffin in the ground. Before they could do so, however, they had to spend a couple of hours hacking at the ice in tandem, with their hammers and chisels, doggedly working away until they excavated a trench deep enough for the coffin. As I listened to the clanging of their tools against the ice, I wondered if Torrington minded being stuck here alone forever. I think we all did.
Sunday, 4th January 1846
Today was Erebus’s turn. A twenty-five-year-old able seaman, named John Hartnell, died rather unexpectedly. He had been ill for a while but his death so surprised Surgeon Stanley that he informed Sir John that he wanted to perform an autopsy.
It is rather shocking, two young men taken within four days of one another, both on a ship at the world’s edge.
While we waited to hear the outcome of the autopsy, I paid a visit to Sir John. The marines were out battling the frozen ground once more with their shovels, so that Hartnell could be laid to rest beside Torrington. I did not envy them their task. It was a horrible day and I rushed to take shelter in Erebus, where I found our commander in his quarters, searching his Bible for another relevant passage for the funeral which would be held indoors as howling winds sorely hampered any attempt to pray or spend any decent time reflecting on this second loss of life.
‘I am in fear of repeating myself,’ he said, not meeting my eye. We could hear the thuds and chimes that signified the carpenters working on the coffin. Sir John looked troubled. No commander wants to lose even a single man. It can knock everyone’s confidence and is an unwelcome reminder of the perils involved on an expedition like this. Sounding somewhat apologetic, he said, ‘I have never had to perform two funerals in such a short amount of time.’
‘Sir John, the surgeons reckon these men might have died anywhere, that they may well have brought the disease with them.’
I wanted to reassure him, and myself too.
He shrugged. ‘Two deaths in six months seems like an awful lot.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed, ‘and there is bound to be a proper explanation. It only seems grossly misfortunate because their deaths occurred in four days. The rest of us are healthy. We have a varied diet and heaped dinner plates day after day. Sir, I have heard it tell that a sickness in the lungs can be resting in a person. It can hide somewhere in the body for months on end before making itself known.’
I might have continued on with my medical lecture for several moments or more had not my attention been taken by a flash of colour in the corner of the cabin. Following my gaze, Sir John allowed himself a smile. ‘Well, Captain Crozier, how do you like Jacko’s new dress?’
In truth, I was speechless. For one thing, I am not practised in making comments about fashion and, for another, the sight of the scrawny, chattering animal wearing a red dress with dark blue bloomers was too much for me. We both watched it munch away on a biscuit, making sure to catch the crumbs in its tiny paw. All I could think to say was, ‘Does he mind wearing a dress?’
Sir John smiled again. ‘Haven’t you heard, Captain? Jacko is not a male. Mr Goodsir was good enough to put me right.’
‘I see.’
‘Yes,’ continued Sir John. ‘I believe that someone is at work on a hat and coat and some other fellow is knitting a scarf and mittens. She has had a bad cough and undoubtedly finds it uncomfortably cold like the rest of us. Lady Franklin will be so glad at the kindness being shown to her little gift.’
‘It is always beneficial to have the men kept busy.’
It was not much of a response but what else could I say?
I was most grateful when the door opened to admit Surgeon Stanley and his assistant Mr Goodsir. ‘Come in, gentlemen, come in,’ said Sir John. ‘What news have you of poor Hartnell?’
Mr Goodsir sat down at his table. He could be found here every day as Sir John had offered him the use of it whenever he liked. Erebus’s assistant surgeon was also our most passionate naturalist. This was his very first trip to sea. His previous job, before now, was a conservator in a museum in Edinburgh and his Arctic dream was to make important discoveries in its natural history. To this end, he devoted his time to sketching or writing about plants, insects and anything exotic that our fish nets dragged up from the ocean. I admired his diligence and neatness. His notebooks and findings never took up more space than they needed to.
Mr Stanley remained standing, shaking his head when offered some refreshment. ‘Well, sir, we examined his internal organs – his heart, windpipe and lungs – and, from what we can see, his death was a combination of consumption and pneumonia.’
‘It is what we expected,’ added Mr Goodsir.
‘So?’ said Sir John, wanting a medical opinion that would assure him that all was still well.
‘So,’ obliged Mr Stanley, ‘he would have died anywhere. It has nothing to do with our situation and could not have been avoided. The disease had hold of him before he stepped foot on Erebus.’
‘Why, Captain Crozier,’ said Sir John. ‘You were right!’
Hartnell’s funeral took place this evening. A single man, like Torrington, Hartnell was lucky enough to have had his younger brother Thomas working alongside him. At least someone in his family knows of his demise. I am sure that makes a difference. The brother is quite devastated, by all accounts, fussing about how
to break the news to their mother, though he need not worry about that just yet.
At about five o’clock, the marines carried the coffin outside, where the wind was not screaming quite as loudly as it had been. The rest of us, or as many of us that could fit on Erebus’s covered deck, huddled around Sir John and listened to him read about the glory that awaits us all after death.
Sunday, 1st March 1846
Nobody has died this month, thank goodness.
It is almost nine o’clock and I am relaxing here in my quarters. The candles throw out a cheery light that arches and folds across my bookshelf and desk. Beside me is my cup of coffee and some chocolate that I had squirrelled away for such a night as this. I am swaddled in my heaviest blanket. As far as anyone else is concerned, I have taken to my bed with a headache. Sir John wanted me to dine with him, and Officer Fitzjames had challenged me to a game of chess. It seems that he has devised a competition between our two ships. I might have partaken of the first, the dinner, but not with the prospect of spending all night in Fitzjames’s company who, I suspect, is a better player than me. I hear he practises for hours every day and is willing to play with anyone, not just his fellow officers. He takes after our commander, wanting to be liked by all and sundry. I should not be at all surprised to hear that he has invited Jacko to a match.
I wonder what Sophie is doing at this moment. I wish I had a picture of her to dote upon.
Friday, 3rd April 1846
There has been a third death. This time, it is one of the Royal Marines who helped dig the graves in January. Thirty-two-year-old William Braine collapsed whilst out on a long sledge ride this morning. According to his friends, he had been losing weight for a while and did his best to hide his ill health, refusing to admit that there was anything wrong with him, which is a peculiar approach. In fact, it makes no sense to me. Perhaps our doctors could have done something for him, but we will never know now. It is foolish to try to hide anything here. The Arctic is a cruel mistress who wheedles out the frail and takes no nonsense from them.
Wednesday, 8th April 1846
A storm blew up delaying Braine’s funeral until today, giving Sir John plenty of time to choose a third passage from his Bible. Because there was no way of leaving the ships in safety, the corpse was kept below deck on Erebus. I will freely admit that, for that reason alone, I am glad that he was not one of my men. Sailors are easily spooked and I would not relish Terror playing host to a body that refused to wait for the burial before it started to rot. The smell, I believe, lingers still.
Furthermore, it duly attracted attention. When the carpenters went to lay him in the coffin, they found that the rats had been feeding on him. Finally, today, the raging gales morphed into spring breezes and no time was wasted in getting poor Braine off Erebus. The improvement in the weather allowed the funeral to be held outside, alongside the graves of Torrington and Hartnell.
The carpenters have constructed three wooden headstones to mark the graves, making it impossible to forget that that they are there. Anyone who leaves the ships has to pass by them and not one of us can do that without making some gesture or salute.
I do not think that I am alone in my impatience to leave Beechey Island. It has not brought us much luck.
Saturday, 11th April 1846
Thomas arrived at my cabin this morning with clean shirts and told me that he had sad news to impart.
‘Somebody else has died?’ I asked. There could be no other kind of sad news.
‘Alas, yes, sir. Sir John is most upset for his little pet, Jacko, is dead.’
I stared at him as he laid the shirts on the back of a chair and began to rearrange my bed clothes. For one moment, I thought to bawl him out for having me think that something far more serious had occurred. However, I suddenly worried what was afoot. ‘Is there is a funeral?’
Thomas was strangled by a coughing fit that prevented him from answering my question. In fact, when he did look up, he seemed surprised to find me waiting for him. Wiping his nose, he finally replied, ‘Well … I … I don’t think so, sir.’
I nodded at him. ‘Let me know if you hear anything.’
He gave me a strange look, a sort of half-smile, as if waiting for me to smile in return. I ignored him, deciding that if I heard tell of a funeral, I would make sure to be far too ill to attend.
Sunday, 31st May 1846
The weather is beginning to improve. The sun shines and we grow impatient for the ice to thaw in earnest, allowing us to pack up and sail on.
Every morning, the two ice masters, Messrs Read and Blanky, climb the cliffs with their telescopes, in search of the sea.
Night and day, we listen to the crackling, snapping and groans of the ice as it begins to shift around us. It can be rather unsettling, like a ghostly orchestra playing a hellish lullaby. Some nights, it prevents me from falling asleep and I am glad to have a book to keep me company.
One night, last week, I was reading Homer’s Odyssey. Meant to be one of the oldest stories in history, I first read it in school, about Odysseus’s wandering the seas for ten years, trying to get home after the Trojan War. The wind was whistling about Terror, grating on my nerves, playing a duet with the splintering ice. I reached the part where Circe advises Odysseus, our hero, and his men to plug up their ears with bees’ wax, to block out the voices of the Sirens, the murderous women who sing out to passing sailors, enticing them to approach their shores so as to shipwreck their vessels against the rocky coastline. How I envied Odysseus’s sailors with their bees and their wax.
The next morning, I was obliged to calm some of the men who have never heard the likes of it before. At least one was convinced we had been surrounded by bears or wolves. He swore that he could heard growls and heavy footsteps across the roof of the deck. I explained that it was only the ice talking. Others worried that the cracks were Terror herself, breaking up around them as they lay petrified in their hammocks, believing they were to be crushed at any moment. The more superstitious thought the creaking and the knocking belonged to the spirits of our fallen comrades, Braine, Torrington and Hartnell, wanting to shelter inside the ships.
The daily bulletins of the two ice masters is now the focus of our every waking moment as we grow eager to be sailing once more. It is hard to settle down to chores when there is a distinct possibility that we will be leaving soon.
Friday, 12th June 1846
Today, I took a walk with Erebus’s ice master, James Reid.
We are most fortunate to number amongst our crew two of the most experienced ice masters around. Scotsman James Reid and Thomas Blanky from Hull read ice like I read books. They can foresee how the ice is going to move and where. Try as I might, it is much too late for me to imitate their talent. For instance, Mr Reid earned his position as master of the ice only after thirty years of working on whaling ships, having made his first Arctic journey at thirteen years of age. He admitted to me that his family and friends had been surprised at his joining Sir John’s expedition. ‘Aye, they were flabbergasted, I think, especially my wife.’
‘And how did you explain yourself to them?’ I asked.
‘I told them the truth, that it was my patriotic duty to go and that they would do the exact same if they knew ice like I do. As far as I am concerned, I had no right to stay at home.’
At the risk of appearing overly familiar, I asked, ‘And did your wife accept your explanation?’
He shrugged. ‘Honestly, sir, no, she did not. But I promised her that this would be my last voyage. And I meant it.’
I nodded, saying, ‘I hope you keep your word to her. It is a strange life we lead, and no doubt it is a privilege to be here. Yet, I do not think a man should commit to exploring forever. It demands too much of us.’
Tuesday, 23rd June 1846
It is a little after two o’clock on a sunny afternoon and it has finally happened. We are on the move.
It has been a most hectic day that began with my hearing that the ice masters had dashe
d back to Erebus this morning, ignoring the inevitable questions and comments from the others. There was only one explanation for this. I left Terror and made my way to Erebus, to see Sir John.
On seeing me in his doorway, Sir John bellowed, ‘Captain Crozier, we must make haste and prepare to ship off. Mr Reid says there is no time to spare.’
Barely hiding my excitement, I said, ‘Very good, sir, and are you still of a mind to travel south as we decided?’
We had spent many hours over the previous weeks, along with Fitzjames and the other officers, debating what route we would take as soon as we were able to move. The Admiralty advised Sir John that the decision – to sail west or persevere to the south westward – was his to make. However, if there was too much ice west and south-west, then we were to head north where we would surely find open water and, thus, be able to sail freely.
It is widely believed that in travelling far, far north, conditions should greatly improve. This theory sprang from an Arctic voyage made a long time ago in 1608 when explorer Henry Hudson claimed that the farther north he sailed, the warmer the weather got. Ultimately, of course, we are at the mercy of the ice and can only go where it allows us.
Sir John’s smile was infectious. ‘Yes, we will head south, through the Peel Sound (a narrow waterway between two islands, due south of Beechey Island).’
I also knew that should we be unable to follow any of these routes, Sir John had two options: either spend another winter here, if he believed it to be worthwhile, or return home. Well, I doubt many of us would opt to remain here any longer than we needed to, but I wonder how many of us would prefer to be heading homeward instead.
Chasing Ghosts Page 6