‘In any case, inadequate food is not our most serious problem. According to Mr Reid and Mr Blanky, there is no sign of the ice melting.’
I nodded to Mr Reid to have him pitch in and he obliged by saying, ‘Any softening of the ice is quickly covered up by a fresh layer.’
I paused to allow this to sink in before continuing, ‘If the water does not thaw out this summer, we are stuck here for another year, and if that happens, we are going to run out of food.’
They stared at me in gloomy silence. Officer Fitzjames attempted to lighten the atmosphere, scrunching up his face as if he were about to be comical while making his harebrained point. ‘With all due respect, Commander Crozier, it cannot be as bad as all that. The ice will soon melt. Of course it will.’
Buoyed up by his words and his devil-may-care attitude, some officers nodded, their eyes full of newborn hope.
I was glad that it was he making the challenge; it was only right, I felt. Keeping my tone neutral, I said, ‘You sound so definite, sir. Pray tell, why do you say that the ice will melt?’
He gazed around, waiting for one of his chums to help him out, but he was only met by questioning looks. They wanted him to make his case, to back up his own theory and give us all something to believe in. I knew, however, that they were expecting the impossible. Stuttering a little, he said, ‘It just has to.’
I could see his listeners’ disappointment, as could he. Unable to give up, he babbled, ‘Because that is what always happens … you know, just like winter follows spring which precedes summer, night becomes day … and ice melts. It always melts!’
His voice sounded as thin and as frail as his argument. I could not help thinking that if the good gentlemen of the Admiralty were here to witness their man’s ineptitude, I should feel thoroughly exalted. I imagined myself flinging my arm at Fitzjames in disgust and bellowing at those learned men, with their wealth and their big money, ‘See here, what you have given me. He knows nothing about Arctic conditions and, ridiculously, with your blessings, hired few who do.’
In that moment, I cursed the Admiralty, believing that they should shoulder at least some of the blame for the large number of deaths. And only God knows how many more we will lose. Even as I write here, there are a few confined to their hammocks, showing the, by now, all-too-familiar symptoms of scurvy: blackened gums, loose teeth and a damning, all-encompassing exhaustion.
I spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Officer Fitzjames, you are quite right in saying that the ice always melts as, yes, indeed, that is what usually happens.’
Trying not to sound smug, I explained, ‘But, sadly, as we have now since discovered, just because a thing usually happens does not guarantee that it will always happen exactly as before.’
For a moment, I felt that this must be how a preacher feels, as he takes his stand behind the church pulpit, facing his congregation who wait to absorb his words. ‘This, gentlemen, is the Arctic, which is governed by a different rule book. For instance, back home, the strike of a match may fail or the button may fall from your coat or the horse and carriage that you ordered may be delayed. No matter, you might say, these things happen. It is not the end of the world. You fetch another match or another button and the erring carriage driver will swear never to let you down again, after which life goes on, just as it should.’
Some of the men were ignoring the fact that their pipes had gone out, knowing that if they attempted to revive them while I was talking, I would come down on them in a rage. I cannot bear it when an officer does not pay me his full attention.
‘Here, it is completely different. The ice failed to yield last summer, when it should, which is probably something small and even unremarkable for this part of the world. If we were elsewhere, we would know nothing about it. Yet, here we are, and so must face the consequences of unmelted ice day after day since it prevents our ships from bringing us elsewhere and, thus, has the potential to devastate us.’
‘Forgive me, sir, but what exactly are you saying?’
It was one of Fitzjames’s recruits, Officer Sargent. He was a young man, on his first visit in Arctic conditions. It troubled me that he was so very pale while his voice sounded raspy, as if he were having to force out every syllable. He was ill and this spared him from my instinct to shout my answer at the top of my voice.
‘I am saying that if we sit here until next summer, opening up tin after tin of our remaining food, it will not matter a whit to us if the ice melts or not as we will have starved to death by then.’
Officer Sargent, his eyes downcast, nodded ever so slightly. ‘Yes, sir, I see what you mean. So …?’
‘So,’ I continued, ‘I have decided to abandon the ships. I see no other way out of our predicament. It was always my worry that it could come to this but, in order to survive, we need to start walking.’
A chorus of shocked mutterings was unleashed: how could we leave our ships, our steadfast homes for the last three years? It was not something to which I looked forward myself. If there was any other option, I would have gladly considered it, but there was not, and to delay any further would only be courting sheer disaster.
Officer Sargent felt obliged to have me double-check my proposal. ‘Sir, are you quite satisfied that this is necessary? Surely they will send someone after us. I mean, we have been gone the allotted three years and, therefore, a search party must be on its way?’
‘You make a sensible point,’ I replied, ‘but we should remember that we have left too little information about our possible whereabouts. How I wish that we had made the time to write out our plans and deposited them in the cairn at Beechey Island. If we had, then, yes, I could believe that, in a reasonable amount of time, we might definitely be found here. However, as you all know, we left in a tremendous rush so a ship arriving at that island would have no indication of where we sailed next. Pure folly on our part, I’m afraid.’
Now it was Mr Goodsir’s turn to ask a question. ‘I wonder, Captain Crozier, should we have considered trying to reach out to the natives? I realise we have seen little of them, but should we not have sent out a party in search of them?’
I was surprised by this and hesitated to fathom a response, allowing Officer Fitzjames to make his own reply. ‘Whatever for? That would be a waste of time, surely? This expedition is the most advanced of its age. If we, Her Majesty’s Navy, cannot battle these circumstances, we can be certain that the lowly Inuit are worse off than we are.’
‘Hear, hear!’ was the general response to this.
Mr Goodsir shrugged and asked another. ‘Is it wise to leave now, sir? The weather is wretched and some of the men are already weak from their illness. Should we not wait for warmer weather?’
It was difficult for me not to agree with him. The storm outside was still in full throttle. Was I really going to lead over a hundred men outside to walk in that? It had been challenging enough to walk the short distance from Terror to Erebus. I wanted nothing more than to stay put. Just wait and see. But as the leader of this expedition, I was responsible for the lives of a hundred and four men who were relying on me to get them home. I knew this terrain and what it could do to a man. Striving against sounding regretful, I replied, ‘We have to leave in the next week or so. If we wait until next month, the temperature may rise just enough to soften the snow on land which means we would be walking in slushy, wet conditions. It is easier to walk across a hard surface to say nothing of the suffering caused by wet stockings and boots.’
‘Where will we walk to?’
‘Excellent question, Office Fitzjames. That is the second reason I have called you all here. Let us study the maps together and decide which direction serves us best: north or south, east or west.’
Relieved to have something to do, they cleared the table in front of them, pushing glasses, plates and cutlery out of the way. Candlesticks were brought closer as the map was spread out in front of us. Heads bowed down over it, and I felt moved to make one last point.
‘The
important thing, gentlemen, is to remember that we are naval officers of the British Empire and, as such, we need to follow procedures and work together to get through this. We must be the perfect role models for the crew, with no divisions amongst us officers.’
They all answered me in unison, ‘Yes, Captain Crozier.’
I can only pray that it will always be this way. And that I am correct in taking this drastic step.
14
It was only a dream
I cannot seem to find my way home.
There I was, walking to school when, somehow, somewhere, I took a wrong turn and, within moments, no longer recognised my surroundings. There was nothing for it except to walk as fast as I could or I would be late. Mrs Lee insists on punctuality and accepts no excuse as being worthy enough to miss her daily inspection at ten minutes to nine o’clock. But I could not be too far away since my school was only fifteen minutes from our front door.
On the other hand, I have been walking down this street for ages. Where does it end? And why can I not see anything I know, like the walls, the town hall, the River Foyle or Austins’ Department Store? Oh, I am going to be so late. I need to ask directions but the street is suddenly deserted. But, wait, I see someone! As far as I can make out, the figure in the distance is not wearing a hat but I am sure that it is a woman. I quicken my pace, although I am already out of breath. ‘Wait!’ I call out. She does not hear me, does not turn around. The faster I go, the faster she goes. I follow her around corners that I did not know existed.
How could my city be so strange to me? The buildings I pass begin to blur into one another but still the street does not end. Mrs Lee will cane me in front of everyone. I cannot bear the humiliation. I cannot bear being so lost when I should know exactly where I am.
‘Ann, Ann!’
Oh, thank goodness. It is Aunt Harriet. She has found me. I cannot see her but I hear her voice.
‘Ann Coppin, you are going to be late for school. Get up this minute!’
Relief surges through me. It was only a dream. It was only a dream. Nevertheless, I feel drained, as if I have spent the night searching the dark streets for something familiar.
Mama had kept me home after Weesy’s funeral, but this morning brought an end to my lengthy break that had stretched out across the summer months. It was time to return to school, where everything looks exactly the same as if there had been no death and no funeral. As usual, Mrs Lee did not smile as we lined up in front of her. Avoiding eye contact, she checked each of us for neat hair, spotless hands and fingernails, and clean boots. We stood in silence until she finished, telling us to take our places.
I managed to sit perfectly still and not draw a single thing while she spoke about what it is to be humble, our first lesson. This was no mean feat as my fingers itched to take up my charcoal and copy the portrait of Queen Victoria that hangs over the blackboard. Or even draw Mrs Lee herself, with her pale skin and thick, dark eyebrows that nearly meet over her nose. Or the rows of the heads in front of me, hair in a variety of brown, yellow and black, long, in plaits or falling straight, some decorated with bows in blues and pinks.
The morning passed slowly as we moved from humbleness to arithmetic, to grammar and, finally, handwriting before the clock over the door struck twelve o’clock, lunchtime. As usual, I walked home for lunch, falling in beside the Bradley twins. No one had said a word to me all morning, but Tess was now eyeing me up before asking, ‘Are you terribly upset?’ while Katie added, ‘You know, about your sister dying.’
I nodded dumbly.
‘How old was she?’ asked Tess.
‘Nearly four.’
‘How sad,’ sighed Tess, ‘although our cousin Virginia died last year and she was only two.’
‘From what?’ I asked, not out of any curiosity, just that I felt I should be interested.
‘Imagine,’ gushed Tess, her sister nodding along. ‘The poor little thing fell out of her bedroom window. Her nanny had only left her alone for five minutes, she said.’
‘How awful!’ I exclaimed.
‘Anyway, she was so badly hurt that there was a hole in the back of her head the size of a plum.’
I was intrigued in spite of myself. ‘Could you see into it? What was it like?’
‘No, silly!’ said Katie. ‘Nobody would let us see her though we asked and asked.’
‘Oh,’ I said, a trifle disappointed.
‘What did your sister die of?’ asked Tess.
‘A fever. The doctor said that she probably had it a while before she died.’
‘Lots of people die of that, though,’ said Katie.
‘Yes,’ agreed her sister. ‘Not like falling out a window, now that is really different.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘I suppose it is.’
We walked in silence until I forced myself to ask, ‘Has anybody seen your cousin since she died?’
The sisters were confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ I said. ‘Has she been seen or heard in the house?’
‘But,’ insisted Katie, ‘she died. She is actually dead. How could she be in the house?’
Tess, who was sharper than her twin, looked at me. ‘Like a ghost?’
I shrugged, possibly regretting my question.
The two girls exchanged a glance before Tess asked, ‘Do you believe in ghosts? You must, or you would not ask such a thing.’
Wishing it was possible to take back my words, I pretended to shudder. ‘I … that is, I don’t know … well, no, probably not.’
It was too late to protest. By this stage, we had reached my front door and the girls suddenly regarded me with fresh interest. Tess persisted, ‘Have you seen your sister? Is she a ghost?’
I hesitated, which was as good as a confession.
Staring at me in delight, they chanted, ‘You have a ghost! You have a ghost!’
‘Please, stop it,’ I begged. ‘My mother will be upset if she hears you.’
Just then, the front door opened, but it was only Aunt Harriet. ‘There you are, Ann. Your lunch is getting cold.’
‘Goodbye then,’ I mumbled, without looking at either twin.
They said goodbye in unison and burst out laughing. ‘We shall see you later, Ann Coppin.’
Aunt Harriet smiled after them. ‘Well, they are very cheerful. Are they always like that?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Mrs Boxhall has dished up your soup. In you go now. How was school? Are you glad to be back?’
‘Not really,’ I answered truthfully as I took my place at the table alongside William and Sarah. William’s shorter walk to his school meant he was always home before me. The soup was vegetable and it was steaming. William was pulling faces, making Sarah roar with laughter. I did not join in their fun. Even as I spooned the hot soup into my mouth, I felt a chill around me as if I had thrown open a door that should have remained closed.
I tried not to think about the twins but was dreadfully aware of the ticking clock in the dining-room counting down the minutes until it was time for me to leave for school again. Aunt Harriet flitted in and out, busy finding new threads for the cushion she was embroidering. Laura and Mrs Boxhall were talking about gallstones in the kitchen.
‘Where’s Mama?’ I asked William.
‘Out shopping, I think’ was his reply. Then, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing!’ I said rather fiercely.
‘You look strange!’
‘Oh, do be quiet, William!’
It was not his fault but everyone else seemed so innocent and proper. I was jealous of them not having a care in the world. Aunt Harriet called to me, ‘Are you finished, Ann? It is almost a quarter to one.’
Nodding, I left the table, stopping in the hall to put back on my coat and hat. Misinterpreting my feelings, Aunt Harriet began to laugh, exclaiming, ‘Oh, come on, pet. It cannot be as bad as that. Sure, you are halfway done now, only another three hours or so to go.’
Thinking of this
morning’s dream, I rather fancied the idea of taking a wrong turn and missing out on the afternoon’s classes. Anyway, I told myself, the twins might not have told anyone. Who would they tell anyway?
Thanks to my dawdling, I was one of the last to arrive. Sitting down, I was immediately approached by Polly Sherrard, who rarely bothered with me, but now asked, ‘Is there a ghost in your house?’
The twins had told. Of course they had. I stared at Polly, grappling for a simple answer. To my relief, Mrs Lee strode in. ‘Right, girls, we will have a spelling test. Put your books and slates away.’
Polly shrugged and returned to her desk, while Marjorie Sweetman, who sat next to me, gave me the most peculiar look. I welcomed Mrs Lee calling out the word ‘merciful’ and looking to pounce on the pupils who did not put their hand up to spell it.
‘Please, Miss,’ called Polly.
‘What is it, Polly?’ asked Mrs Lee.
‘Do ghosts really exist?’
Mrs Lee, already irritated by the interruption, snapped, ‘What sort of question is that? I would ask you to concentrate on what we are doing instead.’
A part of me was in awe of Polly as she persisted, ‘Oh, but, Miss, it is not my fault. Ann Coppin says she has a ghost in her house.’
My cheeks were aflame as everyone, including our teacher, looked in my direction. I waited for whatever was coming, meeting my teacher’s gaze as best I could. After what seemed like an awfully long time, Mrs Lee finally spoke. ‘Spell merciful, Ann!’
‘M-e-r-c-i-f-u-l.’
‘Very good. The next word is “understanding”. Who can spell it?’
Feeling dazed, I decided to concentrate on my lessons so that I would be too busy to notice the girls who were watching me. Mrs Lee was my rock. I kept my eyes chained to her, not daring to look left nor right.
At three o’clock, I left the schoolroom, meaning to hurry home, but the twins raced to join me. ‘Wait for us!’ they chanted.
‘Do you want to play with us?’ asked Tess.
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