The Broken Lands

by Robert Edric

  Vesconte said he would build a more substantial shelter and wait a fortnight or three weeks before making a decision on his own march south. He spoke with little enthusiasm for the task, knowing as well as any of them that a dangerous and unpredictable balance had been struck—a balance between the rate of recovery of those who were sick and exhausted, if they recovered at all, and the speed with which those who had so far suffered the least now began to deteriorate. He said he would wait until those who were already close to death died and thus reduced the burden on the others.

  “You could return to the Erebus,” Fitzjames suggested, knowing that this contravened Crozier’s orders.

  “And what if some of those who set off with Crozier discover the going too hard and return to take their chances with us?” Vesconte answered, having considered the possibility of his own retreat.

  “Either way, they’ll stop you from moving,” Fitzjames said, immediately regretting the observation.

  “There’s a great deal can do that,” Vesconte told him.

  They were interrupted by Reid, who had left them to walk a short distance to the east. He told them he had seen fresh caribou tracks, and that he believed the animals had passed them moving north during the night. Several hunters hidden low against the ridge might have some chance of success if other animals followed the same path. The caribou might not be at their best after the winter, but a single carcass would provide them all with several pounds of fresh meat each.

  They then turned their attention to the scene below where, despite their earlier efforts, the shoreline was still littered with abandoned stores and possessions as far as they could see, and where, from their vantage-point, the mounds of clothing piled over the men on the beach looked ominously like freshly dug graves.

  Later, Fitzjames asked Vesconte if there were any letters or journals he wanted taking back to the Erebus. Vesconte declined the offer, and after a pause admitted that he had already handed these over to Crozier. Fitzjames silently considered the implications of this and made no further mention of it.

  Afterward, Vesconte spoke of his wife and daughters at some length, creating a succession of small pleasures out of all that was happening around him, and then swallowing the names when he could no longer bear to savor their fond taste.

  An hour before sunset they answered a wet-powder signal in the south with one of their own. They built several small fires, divided their remaining stores and tended to the sick. During his tour of inspection, Goodsir discovered that one of the men who had remained unconscious since coming ashore had finally died.

  Four hunters led by David Bryant spent a sleepless night on the ridge, but despite a number of shots fired blindly at noises and imagined movement in the pitch dark, nothing was killed.

  There was one further fatality during the night: Thomas Armitage, the Terror’s gunroom steward, was found in the morning bent double and with his blankets thrown aside. His mouth was open in silent rictal agony and he was clutching his stomach. He had also taken off his boots and his toes were curled and darkened with frostbite. Unable to straighten him out from this grotesque position, Vesconte and Goodsir covered him over with clothing until he was hidden from sight.

  Fitzjames and his party set off back across the ice on the morning of the 28th.

  The weather remained good for the crossing, with a light following wind, and of the sixteen men in the party, all were able to walk for the first day, making six miles by late afternoon.

  The boy Robert Golding spent an uncomfortable, sleepless night, complaining of stomach cramps, pain in his feet and hands and a violent headache. Goodsir tended to him, finally administering a small dose of morphine to help him sleep. The only other man to suffer badly was Thomas Watson, carpenter’s mate, who, already weakened by the long tight squeeze of scurvy, now developed severe nausea and could not keep down any of the food he ate. He complained of pain in his knees and thighs which kept him awake, until he too was sedated by Goodsir.

  Of the remainder, no one was unaffected by their labors of the previous week, but so far Reid, Goodsir, Edward Couch and the carpenter John Weekes appeared to be suffering from scurvy in only its earliest and mildest manifestations.

  The two carpenters had volunteered to return to undertake repairs to the Erebus to keep her sound enough for them to remain aboard. The more severe damage to her hull was already beyond them, and any work they were now able to carry out would be only makeshift and temporary.

  Des Voeux complained of increasing periods of dizziness, and moments when he felt his strength drain from him, and both Philip Reddington and seaman Thomas McConvey had difficulty walking for more than twenty minutes at a time.

  Fitzjames continued to limp from his injured ankle, and this was attended to by Goodsir, who could do nothing more than keep the swelling down until they reached the Erebus. Graham Gore walked alongside him, ready to lift him when he fell.

  Their number was completed by Joseph Andrews, captain of the hold, steward Hoar, and Robert Hopcraft, one of Bryant’s marines.

  The second day they moved more slowly, covering only four and a half miles. Thomas Watson and Robert Golding were carried, Watson on a stretcher, and the boy in the arms of whoever was strong enough to hold him, passed from man to man as they all quickly weakened.

  Two hours before nightfall, Fitzjames twisted his ankle and fell again, this time heavily, landing on his shoulder and the side of his face, which rose in a bruise from his temple to his chin. Gore and Reid helped him back to his feet and supported him between them as they went on.

  He tried to make light of these new injuries, but the pain from his foot grew worse and he was forced to call a halt. Goodsir inspected his ankle, and as he unwound the bandages, Fitzjames passed out.

  He came to several hours later. Thomas McConvey lay beside him, asleep, a small pool of vomit by his face. The light was beginning to fade and he saw that most of the others were asleep around a small fire. Goodsir came and knelt beside him. He told Fitzjames that McConvey had collapsed and was bleeding from his bowels and his ears. It was Goodsir’s opinion that the man had put on a pretense of being healthier than he actually was to avoid being left behind with the others.

  They came within sight of the Erebus at two o’clock the following day, having crossed only a mile and a quarter of ice in five hours, frequently stopping to change stretcher bearers, to pass on Robert Golding, and to rest and recover from their increasing exhaustion.

  David Bryant approached Fitzjames with the suggestion that he and Hopcraft should strike out ahead of the others and then return with whatever was needed for them to spend another night on the ice before completing their journey the following morning. They might even relight the Erebus’ boiler and several of her stoves in an attempt to warm up the ship prior to the arrival of the others. Both men were fit enough to make the crossing and carry out this work, but Fitzjames was reluctant to let them go; instead he announced they would abandon their stores and all of them would attempt to reach the ship by that evening.

  Unburdened, they walked until dusk, stopped for an hour, and then went on.

  Fitzjames suffered with every step he took, and he strapped a jacket around his foot in an attempt to further cushion it from the ground.

  Des Voeux collapsed early in the evening, recovered, and then fell again as they continued walking; by dusk he could no longer walk unaided. Reid left Fitzjames to help him, and his place was taken by Joseph Andrews.

  Both the boy and Thomas Watson remained unconscious, and it was for their sake that Fitzjames was determined to get back aboard the Erebus before nightfall. The other boy continued healthy and cheerful, and Fitzjames began to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better for him to have taken his chances with Crozier.

  By eight in the evening they started passing through objects on the ice they had cast aside nine days earlier, and an hour after that they found themselves amid the more thickly scattered debris and wreckage of the ships themselves, and of
the dismantled dwellings which now stood derelict and open to the night air.

  The Erebus had lost her outline in the falling darkness, and was soon little more than a presence ahead of them, a large and amorphous shape amid the confusion of other half-noticed outlines all around them.

  The two marines were the first to reach her, climbing aboard and firing their rifles to announce their return. They hung ladders over the side and secured these to the ice.

  Couch and Weekes were the next to arrive, carrying Thomas Watson, and handing him over to the marines, they ran back into the darkness to help Thomas McConvey, who had half-walked, half-crawled the last few hundred yards.

  Next to appear were Goodsir and Andrews, supporting Des Voeux, and behind these came Reid, carrying Robert Golding and with Thomas Evans holding on to his arm.

  Fitzjames brought up the rear, hopping more than limping, and helped by Reddington and Hoar.

  Weakened by the final climb aboard, and by the weight of those they carried, they all fell on the cold deck and gave thanks for their safe return, men and boys indistinguishable from the clutter of canvas, wood and rope into which they collapsed.

  THIRTY

  Fitzjames woke from a dream in which he had already woken to the sight of the feeble, scurvy-ridden monkey dragging itself around his cabin like a ghoulish marionette, and he lay disorientated for a moment, waiting for his head to clear, and for this tattered fragment of that earlier nightmare to dissolve as he came slowly to his senses and looked around him.

  Beside him lay a low mound of plates, each holding a flattened, uneaten meal, and alongside these, and on the floor beneath him, he saw a number of broken vials and empty syringes. The cabin smelled strongly of surgical spirit, woodsmoke and vomit.

  A noise at the bottom of his bunk caused him to sit up and peer through the dim light. Goodsir lay asleep in a chair, his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled up. His scarred and tapered forearm lay across his chest. A yellow handkerchief was fastened around his elbow and another syringe lay in his lap. Whether he had drugged himself to sleep or to help him stay awake, Fitzjames could only guess. He called to him, surprised when no voice came, then cleared his throat and called again. This time Goodsir stirred, rubbed his face and opened his eyes. He considered Fitzjames without speaking, took out his pocket watch, read the time and replaced it. He did all this slowly, mechanically, as though he too were not fully aware of his wider surroundings and of the man watching him from the bed.

  “Harry,” Fitzjames said, raising an arm to him.

  Still Goodsir looked at him without speaking. Then he began to tug absently at the cloth on his arm, finally pulling it free and rolling down his sleeve. He rose abruptly, stood unsteadily for a moment and then slumped back down. He laughed aloud, throwing wide his arms and kicking forward both his legs. He lay like this for several minutes before rising again and coming to stand beside Fitzjames. He walked on the vials and crushed them, and pushing himself into the space between Fitzjames’ bunk and the cabin wall, he dislodged the mound of plates and sent them clattering to the floor.

  “How are you?” he said, pulling open Fitzjames’ mouth before he could answer, then turning his head from side to side and prodding his jaw and cheeks. “You ought to eat more.” He laughed again at this and then dropped to his knees until his face was only inches from Fitzjames’ own.

  “How long?” Fitzjames asked.

  “The 4th of May. Nearly midday.”

  “And the others?”

  Goodsir pushed himself back in the restricted space, knocking his head on the wall. He breathed deeply before answering. “Thomas Watson died yesterday. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. He started raving and then cursing, followed by complete dementia.”

  “Cursing what?”

  “You mostly. Me, Reid, Gore, Des Voeux and everyone else who bound him hand and foot and dragged him back to this doomed wreck instead of letting him take his chances on the glorious march south with the gallant Francis Rawdon Maria Crozier. He seemed to think that Crozier would be living like a lord by now at some Bay Company outpost, gorging himself on good food and drink and making a fortune by telling the story of his heroic struggle to the world.” He smiled at this and then sniffed cautiously at the shriveled skin of his arm.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment as the death was accorded its dutiful silence.

  “And is she a doomed wreck?” Fitzjames said eventually.

  Goodsir said nothing for a minute, then shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “But near enough?”

  Even in the darkness it had been clear to all those who had struggled back to reclaim the Erebus that she had suffered further ravages during their short absence: her jib had gone, along with her mizzen and fore-top. She had been lifted astern by several more feet, her rudder fittings had been twisted out of alignment, and various points along both sides of her hull had been crushed.

  Fitzjames resolved to make a complete inspection for himself. He rose unsteadily, helped by Goodsir, who himself appeared only then to be fully coming round from his own drugged sleep.

  Fitzjames asked him again about the condition of the others.

  “The boy is still suffering, getting worse. Des Voeux is in his bed, as is McConvey.” Goodsir paused, his hand held to his brow.

  “And the others?”

  “Of those who came back fit, only Reid, the two marines and Couch show signs of any real vigor. The rest you can see for yourself, but probably don’t need to. Look in a mirror; you’re all the same.” His tone was a mix of anger, despair and resignation.

  “And you?”

  Goodsir glanced back to the chair in which he had been asleep. “Physician heal thyself.” He searched in his pockets, took out several full vials, looked closely at these and then replaced them.

  They went on deck together, moving slowly amid the jumble of wreckage and stores, as mixed and scattered on the ship as they were on the surrounding ice. Fitzjames’ foot had been splinted and rebandaged, but was still too painful to bear any weight. He could no longer fit a soft outer-boot over the dressing, and a padded leather pouch had been adapted for this purpose.

  He had expected to see others already out on the ice, but there was no one. He was dismayed by what he saw, unable at first to believe that this scene of dereliction and disarray was the one they had left behind them. Rigging and braces hung loose from the spars, lengths of rail were missing; their remaining small boat stood upright against the mainmast; clothing and books lay scattered everywhere, and along their entire deck, planking squeezed by the ice had sprung loose and lay as curled as shavings on the ribs of its joists.

  The scene which greeted them as they looked out over the surrounding ice disappointed them even further.

  “We laid Watson in one of the collapsed huts.” Goodsir indicated the toppled slabs of ice and lengths of timber directly beneath them. “There seemed little point in carrying him any farther, even if we could have managed it.”

  Fitzjames shielded his eyes and studied the remains of the Terror. With the exception of her main mast and the outline of her bows beneath the wreckage, she looked like little more than the stacked timbers of a massive fire waiting only to be lit.

  Above them, the sky, which had for so long been cloudless and blue, was now gray, deepening to charcoal and banded red across their southern horizon.

  “Reid thinks she’ll go down the moment the ice begins to fracture beneath her,” Goodsir said, nodding toward the Terror. “Her keel’s split in three places and her spars are barely holding as it is. According to him, she’s only sitting on top now because of the equal pressure of the ice inside pushing out.”

  Fitzjames was distracted by movement on the ice below. Two men were coming toward them, laboriously hauling a half-loaded sledge, which they pulled with straps fastened across their chests.

  Goodsir identified them as Reid and Edward Couch.

  Fitzjames asked him how he could tell at such a distance.
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  “Because the marines have gone to set traps, and Reid and Couch are the only two capable of doing what they’re doing.”

  They both turned to watch the figures on the ice. The two men appeared to be walking on the spot, their load standing still behind them. They stopped after every few paces to regain their breath, and one or other of them frequently fell to his knees.

  When they came within hailing distance, Fitzjames called down to them. Reid and Couch released themselves from the sledge and walked to the Erebus supporting each other. Both expressed their pleasure at Fitzjames’ recovery, and he asked them what they were pulling, doing his best to mask his surprise at their appearance. Couch in particular had lost more weight. There were open sores around his mouth and eyes, and small patches of dried blood on his cheeks where he had rubbed at these. His hair too was coming loose, and pale patches showed through his beard. Reid appeared the healthier of the two, but the skin around his own eyes was loose and waxy; his greased lips were cracked, and drops of clear liquid appeared each time he spoke. His gums were also bleeding and he had lost the first of his teeth.

  “A sack of beans and a dozen eight-pound cans of oxtail soup,” Couch said, indicating the sledge below.

  “No medical supplies in either Peddie’s or Macdonald’s cabins?” Goodsir asked.

  “Not even a cabin in Macdonald’s case,” Reid said. “And nothing worth salvaging in Peddie’s.”

  “We brought back his journals and papers,” Couch added.

  “We thought you’d want everything we could save in that line,” Goodsir said.

  Fitzjames asked them how much else remained to be salvaged.