Killigrew and the North-West Passage

by Killigrew

  ‘All right, get to the sick-berth so Dr Bähr and Mr Strachan can take a look at it. You too, Orsini. That arm looks broken to me. Does anyone else need medical attention?’ A few did. ‘Right, you’d better get yourselves to the sick-berth, too. Thwaites, I want the backstays on the mainmast replaced. And check the stays on the foremast.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. You heard him, lads! Let’s look lively.’

  Killigrew turned to Pettifer. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  The captain was ashen-faced and trembling. He looked as though he had aged ten years in as many minutes. He nodded dumbly.

  Killigrew pointed across to a large ice floe. ‘I suggest we anchor the ship over there and take stock of the damage, sir.’

  ‘Whatever you think best, Killigrew,’ Pettifer said dully.

  * * *

  Once the Venturer was anchored to the floe, out of harm’s way, and the officers had had a chance to assess the damage, they gathered in the captain’s day-room: Pettifer, Killigrew, Yelverton, Strachan, and Cavan. Although only a warrant officer, Yarrow was also present to report on the state of his engine. Pettifer’s chair at the head of the table was empty: the captain sat in the easy chair in the corner of the room with Horatia curled up in his lap, absently stroking her.

  Killigrew exchanged glances with the others. ‘We’re ready to start when you are, sir.’

  ‘I can hear well enough from here.’

  ‘As you will, sir. Shall we start with our individual reports?’ When Pettifer neither agreed nor dissented, Killigrew turned to the mate. ‘Perhaps you’d like to start the ball rolling, Cavan?’

  ‘Right.’ The mate referred to his notes. Killigrew knew some officers who could remember most things off the top of their heads, and acted as if they could remember everything, but he preferred to work with more methodical men like Cavan, who wrote everything down and made sure there was no possibility of forgetting anything. ‘Apart from the broken stays – which have already been replaced – there’s no damage to the masts: Endicott has been over them with a magnifying glass checking for cracks, and he reports that all three are sound.’ Riggs should have done the job, but the carpenter’s mate was in no condition to go climbing the masts.

  ‘I’ve set Hughes, O’Houlihan and the two Smiths to work recaulking the seams from within. We’ll need to careen the ship to do it properly, but there’s no possibility of that at present. I’ve told Unstead to keep an eye on the amount of water in the well, but seepage seems to be minimal and I don’t think we need worry too much on that account. The rest of the damage seems to be limited to broken plates and crystal in the wardroom, so from here on we’ll be pouring our claret out of jugs instead of decanters.’

  Killigrew smiled. ‘I think we’ll survive, Mr Cavan. Mr Strachan?’

  ‘Only one dead,’ the assistant surgeon announced grimly. ‘Dawton seems to have been lacerated by one of the backstays whipping across the deck; it opened the carotid artery in his neck. He must’ve bled to death in seconds.’

  ‘I suggest we have a burial service for Dawton tomorrow. If that’s acceptable to you, sir?’

  Pettifer did not look up from where he was stroking his dog. ‘You must do as you see fit, Mr Killigrew.’

  ‘Right, burial at sea it is. You’ll officiate, sir?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘At the funeral. You’ll lead the service?’

  ‘Yes… yes, of course.’

  ‘That takes care of the dead,’ said Killigrew. ‘I hate to sound brusque and callous about it, but at the moment I’m more concerned for the living. How many injured, Mr Strachan?’

  ‘Chips has seriously sprained his ankle and Orsini has a compound fracture of the left forearm, so we’ll not only be serving our claret from jugs, we’ll be pouring it out ourselves too, for a while. Apart from that, it’s just a few bruises and grazes. Frankly, I think we’ve been damnably lucky. The butcher’s bill could have been worse.’

  ‘Should have been worse,’ muttered Yelverton. No one disagreed with him.

  ‘Let’s not throw a ball to celebrate just yet,’ said Killigrew. ‘Tell them about the screw, Mr Varrow.’

  ‘We lost both blades,’ the engineer explained cheerfully; he was one of those people who seemed to revel in being the bearers of ill tidings. ‘Must ha’ been when we were sliding across the ice. Either they’re at the bottom of the sea or we left them back there on the floe, buried under tons of ice.’

  ‘We have a spare, don’t we?’ asked Cavan.

  ‘That was the spare, sir,’ Varrow reminded him. ‘The original were damaged last Saturday when we reversed into that floe.’

  ‘Can we repair the original?’ asked Killigrew.

  ‘Why aye, man. Given time. But I’m more worried about the shaft. It’s bent out o’ kilter, and I’m not sure we’ve got the facilities to straighten it out here.’

  ‘Improvise, Mr Varrow,’ Killigrew told him. The engineer knew as well as anyone present that without the engine working, their chances of getting out of the Arctic were minimal, if not non-existent. ‘That’s what the navy’s best at.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Cavan.

  Killigrew glanced across at the captain. Pettifer still did not seem to be particularly interested, so it fell to the lieutenant to propose a course of action. ‘All we can do is follow this lead and see where it takes us,’ he said. ‘It bears to the south-east, so there’s a good chance it’ll take us to the west coast of Boothia. If we can make it that far, I suggest we find a nice, comfortable cove where we can sit out the winter and cut ourselves a harbour in the shore ice. Unless you have any objections, sir?’ Killigrew was terrified Pettifer would insist that they press on in their search for the North-West Passage, but he had to ask: Pettifer was still the captain, after all, even if he no longer acted like one. Fortunately, even he seemed to realise the folly of pushing any deeper into the ice so late in the season, especially with their screw missing, and merely nodded his assent.

  ‘I know it still isn’t September yet, but I think that as far as we’re concerned, the navigating season is over,’ said Killigrew, and the others murmured their agreement with no small hint of relief. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’d say we’ve got our work cut out for us. Shall we get cracking?’

  * * *

  Jakob Kracht found Varrow at the rear of the quarterdeck with stoker Gargrave, the two of them gazing mournfully down into the well for hoisting the screw out of the water and up to the upper deck. ‘Is there anything I can do to help, meinen Herren?’

  Varrow regarded him sceptically. ‘I divven’t know. Is there owt you can do to help?’

  ‘I used to be the Schmied on the Carl Gustaf. The blacksmith, yes? Herr Killigrew thought I might be able to help repair the broken screw-propeller?’

  ‘It’s kind of you to offer, Fritz, but even if you could fix it, it wouldn’t do no good anyhow.’ Varrow pointed down into the well. ‘See the “banjo” there – the metal guide rails running down the sides of the well? The portside one’s got a kink in it; they have to be absolutely parallel if we’re to bring the bearing up atwix them. So even if we did have a spare screw, we wouldn’t be able to hoist the bearing to fix it on.’

  Molineaux overheard them, and joined them, peering down into the well. ‘You know what you want, don’t you? You want a jack-brace.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ sneered Varrow. ‘And what would you know about it?’

  ‘I used one all the time, when I was a snakesman in the Big Huey. Used it to push bars apart when I was trying to get through a window. Same principle: put it between the guide rails at the kink, and push them apart. Chances are you’ll push the bent rail back into shape.’

  ‘Aye, or just end up bending the other rail.’

  ‘It’s got to be worth a try though, ha’n’t it, Mr V?’ said Gargrave, who had been pressed into service as the engineer’s assistant.

  ‘Oh, aye. If we had such a thing as a jack-brace on board. Which we divven’t. Unless Molineaux
here’s got one in his locker?’

  The boatswain’s mate shook his head sadly.

  ‘Could we not make one?’ asked Kracht.

  Varrow laughed. ‘Make one? That’s a good one, that is! “Make one,” he says!’

  ‘Might as well let him have a go, Mr V,’ said Gargrave. ‘We’ve got metal-working tools on board.’

  ‘Can you draw me a picture, showing how it works?’ Kracht asked Molineaux.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘All right, Molineaux. Get some paper and a pencil from Mr Latimer.’ Varrow sighed. ‘I suppose it’s better than sitting round doing nothing. While he’s doing that, Fritz, you can take a look at the broken screw, see if you can do owt with it. Take him down to the workshop, Gargrave.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Mr V.’

  ‘And when you’ve shown Fritz down to the workshop, put the kettle on and we’ll have a brew up, there’s a good lad.’

  As Molineaux, Kracht and Gargrave hurried away on their allotted tasks, Stoker Butterwick came on deck. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr V, but have you got a left-handed spanner?’

  Not for nothing was Butterwick known as ‘Daft Jemmy’ by his shipmates. In the ordinary run of things it would not have mattered: stoking furnaces required brawn, not brains, and even Butterwick had mastered the less than fine art of trimming coal. But Varrow’s winger, Assistant Engineer (Second Class) Bill Ibbott had a fondness for practical jokes, and found endless amusement in sending Butterwick on wild-goose chases. Last week Butterwick had asked Yarrow for a pot of tartan paint.

  ‘A left-handed spanner,’ Varrow echoed wearily. ‘I suppose it’s for Mr Ibbott?’

  ‘Why, aye, Mr V. How did you guess?’

  ‘Call it engineer’s intuition, lad.’ Varrow bent down to retrieve a spanner from his toolbox. ‘Hold out your hand.’

  Butterwick extended his right hand.

  Varrow put the spanner into it. ‘That’s a right-handed spanner, see?’

  Butterwick nodded.

  Varrow took the spanner back from him. ‘Hold out your other hand.’

  The stoker complied. Varrow turned the spanner over and put it in his palm. ‘That’s a left-handed spanner.’

  Butterwick looked confused. ‘Hang on a min’t, Mr V. I thought you said it were a right-handed spanner?’

  ‘It’s a right-handed spanner and a left-handed spanner,’ Varrow explained patiently. ‘You can use it in either hand. It’s an ambidextrous spanner.’

  Butterwick held up the spanner in his left hand. ‘Left-handed spanner…’ He transferred it to his other hand. ‘Right-handed spanner!’ Delighted, he looked up at Varrow with the light of comprehension shining in his eyes. ‘Howay, Mr V! That’s right canny, that is! A spanner you can use in either hand! Whatever will they think of next?’

  Varrow suppressed a groan. ‘I dread to think. Now take that spanner to Mr Ibbott and tell him to stick it up his nose. I’ve got better things to do than deal with the wild-goose chases he sends you on.’

  Butterwick nodded gravely. ‘Mr V says you’re to stick it up your nose,’ he rehearsed. He had an appalling habit of interpreting everything literally.

  ‘Divven’t bother,’ sighed Varrow. ‘I’ll tell him misel. You can fetch me a replacement cheese coupling for the banjo.’

  Butterwick nodded, turned away, and then caught himself. He turned back to Varrow with a knowing grin. ‘Oh, no you divven’t, Mr V.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A replacement cheese coupling for the banjo? You must think I’m daft or summat, me.’

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s a metal disc with a slot in it, about so wide…’

  ‘I’m nay falling for that one.’ Butterwick made his way below.

  Varrow shook his head wearily. ‘God’s punishing me,’ he decided. ‘That’s what it is.’

  * * *

  ‘Frostbite, Latimer?’ Strachan exclaimed in disbelief. ‘How can you possibly have frostbite? You haven’t been on the ice once, yet!’

  ‘In my feet, Pills. The skin’s gone dead in spots. I can feel it. See for yourself.’ Hopping up and down on one foot, the clerk tried to hold the other up from Strachan’s inspection.

  ‘Eurgh! Good God, Latimer! That’s disgusting!’

  ‘I was right, wasn’t I, sir? It’s frostbite, isn’t it? Please, tell me there’s something you can do. Tell me you don’t have to amputate.’

  ‘How often do you wash your feet?’

  ‘Once a month, sir. But I don’t see what that’s got to do with frostbite.’

  ‘Nothing at all, Latimer. But it’s got everything to do with the fact that your feet are the dirtiest and smelliest I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter. You should wash them at least once a week; and if we weren’t on board ship, I’d recommend you wash them every day. And cut your toenails every once in a while! You look like Shock-headed Peter! All right, you can put your socks and boots back on now.’

  ‘But what about this, sir? This hard patch of skin here? Tell me that’s not frostbite!’

  ‘It’s a corn, Latimer. Go on, get out of my sight. And take your disgusting feet with you!’

  Even redder in the face than usual, Latimer laced his half-boots. On his way out of the sick berth, he passed Killigrew coming in. ‘What’s he got this time?’ Killigrew asked Strachan, as he closed the door after Latimer.

  ‘Frostbite, he says. A corn, according to my diagnosis.’

  ‘Want me to have a word with him?’

  ‘What will you say? Tell him not to bother me with imaginary ailments? How’s he to distinguish between imaginary and real? In his mind, they’re all equally real. He just wants attention, that’s all.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t give it to him. Perhaps you ought to refer his next case to Dr Bähr. I can’t see him putting up with any of Latimer’s nonsense. He’ll end up like the boy who cried wolf, if he’s not careful. Got the sick list?’

  Strachan handed him the list, and Killigrew cast his eye over it: a few minor cases of frostbite amongst the men who had been working on the ice, a couple of hernias, a dozen men suffering constipation, nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Men’s health generally good?’ he asked.

  ‘Not bad,’ returned Strachan. ‘But I’m not sure how long it will last. They can’t stay on six-upon-four for ever. These are big, strong lads who work hard, Killigrew. They need a full ration of food each and every day. And I’m wondering how long it will be before scurvy rears its ugly head. Eating preserved vegetables out of tin canisters is all very well, but what they need are fresh greens. Did we not bring some cress seeds on board, and trays for growing it?’

  Killigrew nodded. ‘We can set them up down in the hold, once we’ve cleared some space there. Latimer can have charge of that: it seems to me that if he had more to do, he’d have less time to think up new ailments to come down with.’ He handed the sick list back to Strachan.

  It was early September: six days since they had escaped from the ice, and three since they had found a suitable anchorage on the west coast of Boothia – an inlet sheltered from the winds and currents that swept icebergs and bergy bits down from the north – and set to work to settle the ship in her winter quarters. The only problem was that almost a mile of shore ice lay between the Venturer and the inlet, so Killigrew, Ågård and Bombardier Osborne led a team of ten men on to the ice to cut a passage through. The ice was only six inches thick but it would get thicker as the winter progressed. The weather had cleared, but the air was still biting cold beneath the moonlit sky. At least at this time of year, in these latitudes, the sun behaved in a manner approximating to the normality they had grown up with in Europe, rising early in the morning and setting in the evening.

  The Venturers chopped a series of holes in the ice in two lines, a little over the width of the hull apart. Tripods made from the ship’s spare spars were built over these and the ice-saws were suspended from them. Then they began to cut. It took ten minutes to cut as many yards. At first the triangular slabs of ice th
at were cut free could be floated clear, but as the channel became deeper it became easier to submerge the slabs by tipping them up and sliding them under the ice on either side of the channel, like brushing dust under the rug.

  The surface of the water they exposed formed into mottled ice within minutes and they had to work fast. As soon as the first hundred yards was clear the Venturer was kedged into the channel, the men still on board turning about the capstan, the bluff bows bumping against the ice. No one was allowed to spend more than two hours working on the ice; at the end of each shift they would go back aboard and change into warm, dry clothes. As they came on board Strachan and Bähr checked them all for signs of frostbite, and when they went back on to the ice they were warned to keep massaging the exposed parts of their flesh to keep the circulation going.

  Working non-stop through the lengthening nights it took them three days to carve the channel through the ice. Seventy-two hours of back-breaking work in sub-zero temperatures, with the bitter winds howling across the ice pack driving snow and ice spicules into their faces, hands and feet growing numb beneath their mittens and socks. When the men started coming back on board with white, waxy faces, Strachan ordered the shifts to be reduced to an hour and a half, then an hour. Bathing tubs were filled on the mess deck and constantly replenished with hot water so that the men who came back on board could be quickly warmed up.

  Following Molineaux’s illustration, Kracht had constructed the jack-brace using parts cannibalised from spare tools and spare parts for the machinery, and to everyone’s astonishment it had worked. True, the bearing did not glide up and down the banjo as smoothly as it had done before; in fact, it had never been all that smooth in the first place, but now it got stuck midway, and Varrow had to climb into the well and stamp on the bearing to get it past the ghost of a kink. It was not ideal, but it worked.

  Repairing the damaged screw was going to take longer, however. Kracht would need a forge to hammer out the twisted metal blade, and they could not build that until they had settled into their winter quarters. The blacksmith was already making a set of bellows in preparation, using the squeeze box of O’Houlihan’s concertina, to the delight of everyone on board apart from the Irish seaman himself.