by Killigrew
Worse than that, what was he to say to Lord Hartcliffe, a fellow naval officer who had been Cavan’s particular friend and mentor, as well as Killigrew’s best friend ever since the young aristocrat had saved his life at the taking of Chinkiang-fu ten years earlier? Hartcliffe had tried to talk Cavan out of going on this expedition, and at first he had been angry with Killigrew for getting the young man a berth on the Venturer. Killigrew had argued that Arctic service would improve Cavan’s chances of rapid promotion. In the end there had been nothing Hartcliffe could do but plead for Killigrew to bring his young friend back alive. And Killigrew had laughed at his concerns! The young aristocrat thought that Arctic exploration was a waste of good men, and only now, when it was too late, did Killigrew see how right he was. Better that these useless channels remain uncharted for eternity, than one good man – let alone three – die in this harsh wasteland.
‘Leave me,’ he heard Ursula say in a low voice, and looked up to see her standing on the other side of the graves, talking to Ziegler. Everyone else had gone back to the ship, except for Butterwick and Gargrave, who were waiting a discreet distance away to fill in the graves. Ziegler shot Killigrew a suspicious glance, and then turned and walked after the others.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked him, when Ziegler was some distance off.
He looked up at her, dazed by the unreality of it all. He couldn’t be dead – not Cavan. After all, the remains they had found could have belonged to just about anyone. But there was no escaping it: they had mustered the crew, and Cavan was the only one missing. Killigrew’s conviction that he would glance up and see the mate approaching him across the ice with that big grin of his all over his face was just a delusion. He was dead.
‘Why him?’ he asked Ursula. ‘Of all the people on board the Venturer, why did it have to be Sebastian? Why not that brute Thwaites, or Naylor, or…’ He trailed off and shook his head hopelessly.
‘Or you?’ suggested Ursula.
Killigrew shrugged. ‘At least if it had been me, there’d be no one to mourn me.’
‘And you think that would make your death preferable to Herr Cavan’s?’
‘Don’t you? Why should a self-confessed monster like you care, anyhow? You hardly knew him.’
She smiled. ‘I liked what I did know about him. And I am sorry that his death makes you so sad.’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘Save your pity for someone that needs it. Come on, let’s get in out of the cold and let Gargrave and Butterwick attend to their duty.’ He headed back to the Venturer with Ursula, and behind them the two stokers started to fill in the graves.
‘Do you think it’s true?’ she asked him.
‘What?’
‘That I am a jinx.’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘That? Don’t pay any attention to Pettifer. He was upset, that’s all. He didn’t mean what he said. That stuff about women being bad luck on board ships. Even most sailors don’t believe that, and they’re as superstitious a bunch as any. I remember when I was a volunteer first class – what they call a “cadet” these days – the hands on board my first ship were never happier than when we were in port, and they could bring their wives on board. Using the word “wives” in its loosest possible sense, you understand. Not that that sort of thing is allowed nowadays.’
‘But the Carl Gustaf sunk, all but six of us dead… and now your men are starting to die too, Perhaps I am a jinx.’
‘Don’t be silly. Now you listen to me: this is your ninth voyage into the Arctic, isn’t it? How many men did you see die before this voyage?’
She did not need to think about it. ‘Three.’
‘Three men. On eight whaling voyages into the Arctic. I’ll lay odds that’s a lot less than average. And as for things going wrong on board the Venturer, that happened long before you and your friends came on board. Our troubles started when Pettifer ran us aground at the Whalefish Islands…’ Killigrew shook his head. ‘No. They started before that. They started when Pettifer returned from having dinner with Sir Edward onboard the Assistance at Greenhithe, shortly before we set sail, with the news that we were to act as tender to the North Star. That’s when the madness and idiocy first took root.’
‘You think Pettifer’s mad?’
‘I think we’re all mad, for going along with him. Never mind demanding that my objection be noted in the log at Peel Sound; I should have assumed command there and then. It was an act of madness to continue. It would have meant the end of my career, one way or another, but at least Cavan would still be alive.’
‘You will assume command now?’
‘I don’t see the point. It’s too late for Cavan.’
‘But there may be more deaths, if the madness does not stop.’
He glanced around at the icy desolation. Perhaps she was right; on the other hand, perhaps it was too late for all of them.
They walked on in silence. When they finally climbed the gangplank and ducked through the opening in the awning, they found Terregannoeuck waiting for them on the upper deck.
‘Where is it?’ demanded the Inuk.
‘Where’s what?’
‘Nanuq’s bladder.’ Terregannoeuck pointed to where the bladder had hung over the stem.
‘Sorry. Commander Pettifer made me take it down. Said it was unhygienic. I suppose he had a point.’
Terregannoeuck shook his head. ‘Very bad. Take down bladder before five days’ end, you give great offence to nanuq’s tatkoq. Father of cubs seek to avenge his honour. Perhaps,’ the Inuk added darkly, ‘he already has.’
‘You’re saying that if I hadn’t taken down the bladder, Cavan wouldn’t have been attacked?’ Killigrew asked incredulously.
‘Poppycock!’ Standing nearby talking to Strachan, Bähr overheard the Inuk. ‘Polar bears are just animals, like any other. They don’t form emotional attachments.’
‘The seventeenth-century Arctic explorer van de Brugge once killed a female polar bear in Spitsbergen,’ mused Ursula. ‘Afterwards he saw a boar – presumably the sow’s mate – running to and fro, clawing at her body as if he wished to make her rise again, and growling fearfully.’
‘In the mating season, perhaps,’ allowed Bähr. ‘The father of the cubs will have vanished long before they were born.’
‘Van de Brugge reported that the dead sow had already been accompanied by a cub.’
‘You have wife, Angakoq?’ Terregannoeuck asked Bähr. ‘Angakoq’ was his name for the doctor; Killigrew has been amused to learn it meant ‘medicine man’ in Inuktitut. ‘Children?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yet you are not with them. You do not care what happens to them?’
‘That’s different. I’m a human being. Humans are different from animals.’ He sniffed contemptuously. ‘You’re not suggesting that while I’m here in the Arctic, the father of those cubs is nosing about the back streets of Hannover, are you?’ He laughed at his own wit.
No one else did. ‘I have a feeling the father of those cubs is a damned sight closer than Hannover,’ said Ziegler.
‘I’m sorry, Terregannoeuck,’ said Strachan. ‘But Dr Bähr does have a point. There’s absolutely no scientific evidence to suggest that polar bears form any emotional attachments.’
‘You kabloonas are wise,’ said the Inuk. ‘Perhaps you know more about the ways of nanuq than an Inuk like Terregannoeuck.’ He turned and walked away.
Killigrew turned to Strachan. ‘Polar bears: are they territorial or migratory?’
‘Oh, migratory, I’m sure.’
‘They follow seasonal patterns?’
‘To some extent, perhaps. Without making a lifetime’s study of it, following the bears – which would be next to impossible – one could not say for certain. In a wilderness like the Arctic, they go where the food is likely to be found, I should imagine.’
Killigrew grimaced. ‘That isn’t very reassuring.’
‘What do you mean…? Oh!’
Chapter 12
; Mørkesyke
Everyone in the mess deck was engaged in a ‘make-and-mend’ when Endicott seized his chance the following afternoon. Trying to look nonchalant, he opened his locker and took out a bulging sack before heading for the companion ladder.
‘Going somewhere, Seth?’ asked Hughes.
‘Just off for a stroll.’ Endicott tried to sound airy.
‘I’d’ve thought you’d had more than enough exercise this morning,’ said O’Houlihan.
‘I need some fresh air,’ grumbled the Liverpudlian. ‘I’m sick of being cooped up in here with you lot.’
‘What’s in the sack?’ asked Hughes.
‘Just some stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Stuff the pill-roller asked me to look after. For his experiments.’
Hughes and O’Houlihan exchanged sceptical glances. The idea of Mr Strachan asking Endicott to look after his expensive scientific equipment was laughable.
‘He asked me to take it to the observatory.’
‘Sure he did, Seth.’ O’Houlihan returned his attention to his needlework and Hughes took his lead from the Irishman, pretending disinterest by burying his nose in a back-issue of Punch.
Endicott eyed them both warily. They were a pair of nosy buggers, and he found it hard to believe his hastily improvised lies had satisfied them so easily, but even if they did follow him, it would only take him a few seconds to dispose of the sack and its contents; by the time they emerged from the ship behind him, the damning evidence would be gone for ever, and he would be out of danger.
He ascended the companion ladder to the upper deck, where Private Phillips was on sentry duty at the entry port. Endicott approached him with his heart pounding in his chest.
‘I’m just taking some stuff across to the observatory,’ he told the young marine.
‘All right.’
Endicott’s heart soared, and then his suspicion kicked in. It was too easy. He glanced back to the forward hatch, but there was no sign of Hughes and O’Houlihan following him. Remembering that the quicker he got this done, the less chance there was of being caught, he quickly untied the flaps at the entry port and slipped out from under the awning.
He paused at the top of the gangplank to survey the ice. Even though it was only one bell in the first dog watch, the sun was setting already, casting long shadows over that eerie landscape, a reminder that the long, sunless night of the Arctic winter was closing in. And somewhere out there, perhaps, was the bear that had killed Mr Cavan. The bitter wind that blew down Peel Sound from the North Pole stung his face, but Endicott was sweating inside his warm clothes and his mouth was dry. He stepped on to the gangplank and his feet shot out from beneath him. He landed painfully on his rump and dropped the sack, sliding on his backside down to the ice.
He picked himself up, rubbed his buttocks ruefully and scrambled across to where the sack had landed. Some of the contents had spilled out into the snow, and he hurriedly scooped them back into the sack, glancing around fearfully as he did so in case a bear crept up on him. He was well aware that Hughes and O’Houlihan had been pulling his leg the other day when they had teased him about the bear’s grease he wore on his hair. But many a true word was spoken in jest. Surely if bears could hunt seals and reindeer for miles across the ice, they could smell the grease. And even if they could not identify it, wouldn’t their infamous curiosity bring them in packs? Better safe than sorry.
He tied the mouth of the sack closed and carried it across to the fire hole. A final glance about him reassured him that no one was watching. He dropped the sack into the hole, but the ice that had formed across the surface of the water since O’Houlihan had cleared it earlier that day was already thick enough to resist the impact of the heavy sack. Cursing under his breath, Endicott sat down on the edge of the hole and kicked at the sack until the ice broke beneath it. He breathed again, and then stared in horror with his heart in his mouth when he realised the bloody thing was not sinking. He knew he should have put some round shot into the sack to weigh it down…
He was wondering what to do next when he heard a slight sound behind him. Remembering how Mr Strachan had been surprised – and how Mr Cavan had died – Endicott froze.
‘Is that you, Mick?’ he called nervously, without turning.
Whatever was behind him, it did not reply. His heart thudding like a steam hammer, Endicott started to turn when two heavy paws landed on his shoulders and an animalistic roar filled his ears.
Darkness descended over him.
* * *
‘It middle of the night,’ said the Inuk. ‘Terregannoeuck and his brother fall asleep. Terregannoeuck dream of beautiful Inuit women when brother wake him. Brother signal for Terregannoeuck to be silent. Terregannoeuck listen.’
Molineaux listened with the other sailors who gathered in the pool of light cast by a flickering pusser’s dip, hanging on Terregannoeuck’s every word as the Inuk told one of his tales of hunting on the ice. On the mess deck, you could have heard a pin drop as they strained to hear every word the Inuk spoke in hushed tones.
‘Outside, something moves. Something big. Brother reach for a spear. Then we hear it…’
At that moment, a blood-curdling roar sounded outside, making all the seamen jump in alarm. Unconcerned, Terregannoeuck glanced towards the bulkhead. ‘Not nanuq,’ he asserted.
Molineaux was not convinced. Pushing the Inuk’s tale from his head and dragging himself back to the present, he hurried up on deck where he snatched up a gaff hook and headed for the entry port, followed by the others. There was no sign of a sentry there, but the flaps of the awning were untied, a chill wind blowing through them.
Gripping the gaff hook tightly, Molineaux stepped out to see Private Phillips sprawled on the ice at the foot of the gangplank, where he must have landed after slipping on the icy planks. Nearby, a body lay motionless on the ice by the fire hole while Hughes and O’Houlihan stood over it.
Molineaux swore and slid gracefully down the gangplank, running past Phillips to where the body lay. ‘Who is it?’ he asked O’Houlihan.
‘Seth.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Fainted, I think,’ said Hughes.
‘Fainted? What happened? What was that roar?’
‘That was me,’ admitted O’Houlihan. ‘It was only meant as a joke.’ The Irishman chuckled. ‘You should have seen him jump when I grabbed him from behind…’
Hughes rubbed snow in Endicott’s face. The Liverpudlian revived and spluttered. ‘Bear!’ he moaned. ‘Bear attacked me!’
‘Like this, you mean?’ O’Houlihan raised his mittened hands like claws, and emitted another convincing roar.
As shaken as Endicott must have been, even he could see he had been made a fool of. ‘You bastards!’ he snarled, eyeing O’Houlihan malevolently. ‘You lousy, rotten bastards!’
Everyone laughed, and Hughes helped Endicott to his feet. As the others trooped back on the ship, O’Houlihan caught Molineaux by the sleeve.
‘He was putting something down the fire hole.’
Molineaux glanced at the sack that still floated amongst the broken ice in the hole. ‘What’s in it?’
‘You tell me,’ said O’Houlihan. ‘But it looks like tin canisters to me.’
The implication was clear: Endicott had secretly been stealing food, stockpiling it in his locker. Molineaux shook his head, unwilling to believe his friend was guilty of such a crime. Amongst sailors, theft was the worst crime a shipmate could be guilty of. Even murder might be excusable, but theft? Never.
‘Seth wouldn’t steal,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Not him, Besides, why would he prig it, only to ditch it in the hogwash?’
‘Maybe he got scared after what happened to Johnno and Jacko. Maybe he was trying to get rid of the evidence.’
‘Only one way to find out.’ Molineaux fished the sack out of the hole with the gaff hook. Lowering it to the ice, he pulled open the mouth of the sack to find it contained… dozens of jars o
f bear’s grease: Endicott’s entire supply, by the look of it.
Molineaux scratched his head in bewilderment, but O’Houlihan threw back his head and roared with laughter. The sound echoed off the low, distant hills. Before Molineaux could ask O’Houlihan what the big joke was, another sound came back in answer to the Irishman’s laughter – a sound that wiped the smile off his face.
The howl of a large animal.
A shudder ran down Molineaux’s spine. He gazed about the ice-scape. If there was a bear out there, he could not spot it in the gathering gloom of the Arctic dusk.
‘Come on,’ he told O’Houlihan. ‘Let’s get back on board.’
The Irishman nodded soberly and the two of them hurried up the gangplank, fastening the flaps of the awning securely behind him.
* * *
Killigrew was working on some paperwork in his cabin when there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in, Orsini,’ he called. With a crew of only thirty, it did not take long to learn how to distinguish one man’s knock from another’s.
The steward entered, looking agitated. ‘Is problem, Signor Killigrew.’
‘What kind of a problem?’
‘Is best you come see for yourself, signore.’
Killigrew sighed and followed the steward out of the cabin. The two of them made their way down to the hold. ‘I check the oil in the lamp in the wardroom,’ explained the steward. ‘Is getting low, so I go down to storeroom to get more. But is no more in the storeroom, so I come here, to hold.’
They made their way between the racks of cress, where Kracht was helping Latimer water the latest crop. As they passed, Orsini glared malevolently at Latimer, although the clerk was too busy concentrating on the task in hand to notice.