by Killigrew
‘Yes, the lens.’
Killigrew reached into the pocket of his coat but found only his clasp-knife and what felt like a piece of string. ‘Must be in my knapsack.’ He gestured to where he had put down his pack a few feet away after shrugging it off, too exhausted to fetch the lens himself. ‘Help yourself.’
As Kracht rummaged in his pack, Killigrew drew out the piece of string and looked at it: that five-inch length of safety fuse he had never got around to tidying out of his pockets. Not much use to him now. He toyed with it, tying and untying knots.
Kracht drew out one of the metal canisters Killigrew had brought with him and removed the stopper, sniffing inside as if he thought it might contain food. ‘Message canister,’ Killigrew told him.
‘Why the devil did you lug one of those all this way, sir?’ asked Latimer. ‘I thought we were supposed to leave anything extraneous behind.’
‘To leave a final message,’ said Varrow, ‘so that whoever finds our bodies will know what happened to us.’
The engineer had guessed correctly, but Killigrew would have preferred it if he had kept such negative thoughts to himself. He glanced at the others to see how they were taking it, but the truth was they had no illusions about their chances and could not possibly be any more dispirited than they were now. ‘How did you guess?’ he asked Varrow with a thin smile.
The engineer pulled a matching canister from his own knapsack. ‘Had the same idea meself.’
Kracht was gazing at the length of fuse in Killigrew’s hands. ‘Zündschnur?’ he asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Fuse,’ said Ursula.
‘Oh. Yes, that’s right.’
‘May I?’ Kracht held out his hand. Killigrew gave him the fuse.
The blacksmith picked up the ice-axe and used it to puncture a hole in the lid of the canister. Then he removed it and started breaking open cartridges. They had plenty of cartridges – it was bullets they were running out of – so Killigrew did not object. The others started to gather round, watching curiously.
‘A grenade?’ guessed Killigrew.
Filling the canister with gunpowder, Kracht nodded. ‘In case the bear comes back.’ He tied a knot in one end of the fuse, poked it through the hole in the lid, and replaced it on the canister.
‘And just how do you plan to light the fuse?’ asked Varrow.
Kracht held up the spectacle lens by way of reply.
‘Well, that’s champion, that is,’ said Varrow. ‘Let’s just hope the next time Bruin attacks he does it during the day – a day when there’s nay cloud cover, like.’
‘And that he stands and waits while you try to light the fuse with the lens,’ put in Killigrew.
Red-faced Kracht pushed himself to his feet. ‘You have a better idea, mein Herr?’ he demanded hotly.
Killigrew shook his head. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I haven’t. It’s a good idea.’
To judge from the expression on the blacksmith’s face, he was not mollified.
They ate their supper and crawled into their tents. Just how far gone the men were was brought home to Killigrew the next morning when he tried to rouse them. Most of them pushed themselves to their feet, moving like clumsy, ill-made automatons; it had been many weeks since any of them had even had the energy to grumble, and now when Butterwick protested they could not go any further, Killigrew could only believe it. ‘It’s nay good, sir. I canna gan on.’
Killigrew shook his head. It was bad enough leaving the others behind; was he to leave a string of men, too weak to go on, from here to Fort Hope? ‘Surely you can, Butterwick. It’s only twenty miles, for heaven’s sake. Twenty miles, out of eight hundred! Don’t tell me you’re going to give up now?’
Butterwick just shook his head sadly. ‘I canna, sir. Not another step.’
‘Me too, mein Herr,’ said Fischbein. ‘I’m exhausted.’
Killigrew had more sympathy for the half-deck boy. Unlike the brawny, simple-minded stoker – and indeed all the seamen – Ignatz Fischbein had never been a big strong man, and if Killigrew had had to put any money on one of them not making it to Fort Hope, it would have been Fischbein. But the half-deck boy had made it this far, and done so as uncomplainingly as any of the seamen. ‘Very well,’ he relented at last, seeing from the sullen look in Butterwick’s eyes that the stoker was not going to back down, and that here perhaps was a way to kill two birds with one stone. ‘If you can’t make it to Fort Hope, do you think you could make it as far as where we left Mr Strachan, Qualtrough and Molineaux yesterday? It can’t be more than two miles.’
‘I can try, mein Herr.’
‘What about you, Butterwick?’
‘I s’pose so.’
‘I suppose so, sir,’ Killigrew chided him. No matter how desperate the situation, one could not afford to let discipline slide, and he did not care for the look in Butterwick’s eye.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘That’s more like it. Do you think you can go back to the others, and bring them this far?’ He indicated the tripe de roche on the rocks around them.
‘We’ll do our best, mein Herr.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Killigrew, and gave Fischbein his shotgun. Molineaux, Butterwick and Fischbein together would have a better chance of defending Strachan and Qualtrough from the bear than just Molineaux alone.
He watched Butterwick and Fischbein shamble slowly back the way they had come the day before, and then signalled for the rest of them to continue onwards. ‘One last effort, my buckoes,’ he told them, trying to sound hearty but only croaking like a decrepit crow. ‘Only twenty miles to go. We can be there before the end of the week!’
Nine men and one woman left, and twenty miles to go. Killigrew could not help wondering how many of them would be left by the time they reached Fort Hope.
* * *
‘There you go, gents.’ Molineaux handed out the boiled tripe de roche to Strachan and Qualtrough. ‘Get that little lot inside you. Just the thing to warm you up on a cold winter’s day.’
‘Except it’s the middle of spring,’ grumbled Strachan.
‘And what culinary delights have you prepared for us this evening?’ asked Qualtrough. ‘Lobster thermidor? Steak Chateaubriand, perhaps? Oh, no, it’s more tripe de roche. Well, there’s a surprise.’
Molineaux could not blame them for grumbling. He was getting sick of tripe de roche himself. No, he corrected himself, he had been sick of tripe de roche after his first mouthful. But they had to eat to stay alive. He had got his start at sea as a galley assistant and had become quite a proficient cook, priding himself on his ability to knock together an appetising meal from the most humdrum ingredients – God knows, there was rarely a shortage of humdrum ingredients on Her Majesty’s ships – but he doubted even his ability to prepare something appetising from tripe de roche, even if he had had the best condiments that Fortnum and Mason’s could supply to spice it up.
‘When I was at school,’ mused Strachan, ‘they used to give us liver on Thursdays. Every Thursday, without fail. I used to dread it. I hate liver. “Eat it up, Strachan minor,” they’d say. “There are starving children in India who would be grateful for that liver.” “Then let them have it,” I retorted once. I got six of the best off the head prefect for that; my backside still smarts to think of it.’
Molineaux and Qualtrough managed a smile. It was not too difficult to imagine the young assistant surgeon as a schoolboy.
‘It wasn’t enough to make me eat that disgusting liver, though. They wouldn’t let us out of the dining hall until our plates were cleared, so on Thursdays I’d try to get a seat by the window so I could chuck it out when no one was looking. If I couldn’t, I’d slip it in my pockets and dispose of it later. My greatest recollection of being a schoolboy was having pockets permanently greasy with gravy. I’ll tell you one thing, though: what I wouldn’t give for some of that liver now!’
In the silence that followed, a twig snapped amongst the trees at the
mouth of the defile. Molineaux quickly snatched up one of the muskets and levelled it, but it was only Butterwick. The boatswain’s mate lowered the musket and exchanged glances with Strachan and Qualtrough as the stoker came across to join them.
‘All right?’ was the only explanation Butterwick would offer them.
‘Jemmy?’ said Molineaux. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Couldn’t gan on, not all the way to Fort Hope.’ Butterwick sat down by the fire and warmed his hands. ‘Mr Killigrew said as how me and Ignatz could come back and join you. We found a big patch of that moss stuff, what’s it, treep durrosh? It’s about two mile down the way, if you can make it that far.’
‘Maybe tomorrow, when I’ve had a rest,’ said Strachan. ‘But I don’t think Qualtrough is going to be able to make it on that broken leg of his.’
‘Reckon he will, with me and Jemmy to carry him,’ said Molineaux.
‘What!’ spluttered the stoker. ‘You want me to help you carry ’im two miles? You must be bloody joking. I only came back ’cos I were so knocked up. Anyhow, we divven’t need to now. I found a dead wolf on the way back, I brought you some meat. You can eat that instead. It’s only about half a mile from here. I reckon there’s enough meat on it to keep us going until Mr Killigrew and the others can send a rescue party from Fort Hope.’
‘Meat!’ said Qualtrough. ‘Give it here! I don’t care if it’s wolf meat, right now I could eat a warthog’s scabby bum!’
‘Are you no gannin’ to cook it first?’ Butterwick asked dubiously, as Strachan, Qualtrough and Molineaux gorged themselves on the raw flesh.
‘Cook it!’ Molineaux exclaimed, talking with his mouth full. ‘Who can wait?’
Strachan nodded, wiping blood from his lips. ‘The last time I tasted meat it was that damned putrid musk-ox. At least this is fresh.’
They slumped down around the fire with a blissful feeling of indigestion.
‘Where’s Ignatz?’ asked Qualtrough.
‘Eh?’ said Butterwick.
‘You said Mr Killigrew gave both you and Ignatz permission to come back and join us. Well? I don’t see him.’
‘We got separated. In the blizzard.’
Qualtrough nodded. A sudden blizzard had sprung up during the afternoon, and the three of them had had to huddle in the lee of the rocks to shelter from the worst of it. It was easy enough to imagine Butterwick and Fischbein becoming separated in it. ‘Still, he should be here by now,’ said Qualtrough.
‘You calling me a liar?’ Butterwick demanded with an aggressive thrust of his jaw.
Qualtrough blinked, as surprised by the stoker’s violent reaction to his statement as Strachan was. ‘No. I’m just worried about him, that’s all.’
‘He must’ve lost his way in the blizzard.’
‘Maybe I should go and look for him,’ offered Molineaux.
‘Nay!’ yelped Butterwick. ‘I mean… what if that polar bear comes back, like? You’re not leaving us here on us own, are you?’ In their present conditions, neither Qualtrough nor Strachan counted for much.
‘He’s got a good point, Molineaux,’ said Strachan. ‘Perhaps it’s better if we all stick together.’
‘But what about Ignatz?’ demanded Qualtrough. ‘For God’s sake! The poor lad could be dying out there!’
‘Maybe that’s why he’s not found his way here yet,’ said Butterwick. ‘Maybe the bear got him.’
On which disquieting note, they wrapped themselves up in their furs and tried to get to sleep, leaving the sullen stoker on watch with the shotgun across his knees.
After the brief but violent blizzard it was a relief when the next day dawned bright and clear. Molineaux got the fire going again and they dined on the last of the meat that Butterwick had brought them. ‘I never thought that meat could taste so good,’ said Qualtrough. ‘Especially not wolf-meat.’
‘It’s plummy,’ agreed Molineaux, wiping grease from his chops with a sleeve. ‘Reminds me of something – I can’t quite put my finger on it. If wolves weren’t such vicious brutes, I’ll bet you could make a fortune from farming them for their meat.’
‘Pork,’ said Strachan.
Molineaux stopped chewing. ‘Pardon?’
‘That’s what it tastes like,’ Strachan mumbled with his mouth full. ‘Pork chops.’
The petty officer stared at him for several seconds, and then spat out his mouthful, choking and retching.
‘You’re not Muslim, are you?’
Molineaux shook his head. He looked sick and haggard.
‘What’s the matter?’ Butterwick demanded surlily, toying with the shotgun on his lap. ‘Divven’t you like it?’
Molineaux transferred his attention to the stoker. A number of emotions seemed to cross his face in the space of a second or two, and then he mastered himself and put on the blank expression of a man who wanted to give nothing away.
‘It’s… it’s plummy,’ he stammered. ‘But my crammer feels so tight after going without too long, I’m worried I might do meself an injury by eating too much. I think I read something about the members of Sir John Franklin’s expedition overeating after having gone without for too long, and only succeeding in making themselves sick. I think,’ he added, with a hard glare at Strachan and Qualtrough, ‘that we’ve eaten enough.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Qualtrough, still gorging himself. ‘I don’t care how ill I make myself, I can’t possibly feel any worse than I do now.’
Strachan looked at Molineaux. He could tell the petty officer was hiding something, and while he knew that Molineaux would not lie without good reason, he was at a loss to know what that reason was.
Nevertheless he put down the last of his meat, in spite of the pangs of hunger that still troubled him.
‘Are you nay gannin’ to eat it, either?’ asked Butterwick.
Strachan shrugged. ‘Molineaux’s got a good point. It’s dangerous to overindulge after a prolonged period of enforced abstinence.’
‘Well I like that!’ grumbled Butterwick. ‘After all the trouble I went to to kill that wolf, so you’d have summat to eat.’
‘You killed it?’ said Strachan.
‘Why aye, man! That’s what I said, isn’t it?’
‘No. Yesterday you said you and Fischbein found it already dead, before the two of you became separated in the blizzard.’
‘You calling me a liar?’
‘I’m confused, that’s all,’ said Strachan. ‘First you say one thing, then you say another. What the deuce is the matter with you, Butterwick?’
‘If Jemmy says he killed the wolf, that’s good enough for me,’ Molineaux said quickly, with a glance in Strachan’s direction that warned him to let the matter drop.
Something was going on which Strachan did not know about, that much was obvious. Not only Butterwick but now also Molineaux was acting damned rum. Strachan wanted to quiz him, but not in the stoker’s presence, and there was no subtle way he could take the petty officer to one side. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Molineaux, do you want to help me make a litter for Qualtrough here, so you and Butterwick can carry him between you?’
‘I’ll help you,’ Butterwick jumped in, as if he had guessed that Strachan wanted to talk to Molineaux in private and was determined not to allow it.
‘It’s all right, Butterwick. Molineaux can help.’
‘I said: I’ll help.’ Butterwick’s tone advised Strachan against quarrelling with a man holding a shotgun.
They cut down a couple of saplings with an ice-axe and then used them as the poles for a stretcher, tying a fur between them. They managed to get Qualtrough on the stretcher. Molineaux reached for his musket but Butterwick got there first.
‘I’ll carry that,’ he said.
This was getting worse and worse. Something in Butterwick’s manner warned Strachan against letting the stoker have both guns, but again Butterwick had the shotgun and the assistant surgeon thought better of arguing.
They picked up the stretch
er between them and carried Qualtrough, while Strachan hobbled along behind them with his crutch. The pace was agonisingly slow, and after a couple of miles that took six hours to cover, Butterwick sank to his knees in the snow, almost toppling Qualtrough from the stretcher as he did so. The ice quartermaster cried out in agony from his broken leg, and Strachan quickly attended to him, although there was not much the assistant surgeon could do but clasp Qualtrough’s hand and tell him everything was going to be all right.
‘We’ll stop here for the night,’ said Butterwick. ‘I canna carry him nay further.’
‘What about that patch of tripe de roche you came across the day before yesterday?’ asked Molineaux. ‘How much further is it from here?’
‘I divven’t know!’ snapped Butterwick. ‘One mile, ten miles, a hundred miles – what difference does it make? We’re gannin’ to die anyhow. You might as well kill me and eat me.’
‘What?’ spluttered Strachan. ‘What the deuce has got into you, Butterwick?’ The stoker had always been simple-minded, but now he was acting unbalanced. Strachan was beginning to suspect that the only difference between Pettifer and Butterwick was that while the captain had lost his mind, the stoker had never had much of a mind to lose in the first place.
Butterwick levelled the shotgun at him, more in a casual way than a deliberate, conscious act of aggression. ‘Are you nay gannin’ to build a fire, then?’
‘Sure, Jemmy, sure.’ Molineaux backed out of the glade.
Left alone with Butterwick and the silently weeping Qualtrough, Strachan started to feel nervous. The stoker sat down and toyed with the musket, his back to the assistant surgeon. Strachan picked up his makeshift crutch and limped out of the clearing, glancing over his shoulder every other painful step to see if Butterwick had noticed, but the stoker seemed to be in a world of his own.
Strachan gulped breaths of razor-sharp air into his lungs as soon as he was safely out of the line of fire. Whatever had got into the stoker, the next thing to do was to take those guns from him.