The Broken Lands (35 page)

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Authors: Robert Edric

BOOK: The Broken Lands
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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.
F
itzjames 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.
“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.
“Precious little,” Reid said.
“The Eskimos have been in before us,” Couch added.
The remark surprised Fitzjames. “Eskimos? Have they come here?” He looked out over the broader expanse of ice beyond the
Terror
, and then in the direction of the abandoned camp.
“They’ve been in the
Terror
,” Reid said. “But it’s not likely they’ll be after the same things we’re wanting. They’re stripping her for iron braces and good small timbers.”
“How can you be so certain they’ve been aboard?” Fitzjames asked.
Neither man was willing to answer him.
“They’ve disturbed the bodies,” Goodsir said. “Unwrapped them and then left them with only their faces covered.”
“What about here, the
Erebus
? John Irving?”
“Him, too,” Goodsir said. “There’s been no mutilation. Just the same as on the
Terror
. They undressed him and then left him with only his face covered.”
“Perhaps they thought we’d—” Fitzjames stopped himself. He had been about to suggest that the Eskimos might have thought
they’d abandoned the corpses for good, but this now felt almost sacrilegious even to suggest.
 
A week later Fitzjames was woken by Reid with the news that a small party of the Eskimos had been spotted out on the ice half a mile to the north of them, that they appeared to have spent the night there, and that as yet they showed no sign of leaving. It was Reid’s opinion that they were awaiting some approach from the ship, possibly too frightened of their reception after their looting to come any closer. He had already woken Des Voeux, with whom he was now sharing a cabin, and who, like himself, was able to speak a few words of the natives’ language.
Already fully dressed beneath his blankets and furs, Fitzjames pulled himself from his bed. He rubbed his legs and arms, massaging the cramp in them, and hiding the pain from his foot, which had given him another largely sleepless night. Reid waited in the doorway, watching him and guessing. There was the smell of baking bread in the air as the day’s ration was prepared, and the appetizing aroma of freshly roasted coffee being ground.
Fitzjames, however, had been sick the previous evening, and the smell made his stomach turn. He told Reid to inform Goodsir what was happening and then to wait for him on deck. Reid had been gone only a few seconds when Fitzjames began to retch and was then sick, bringing up a thin and bitter bile into his water bowl. He sweated heavily, and his chest, throat and jaw ached with the strain. When he had finished he rinsed his face and combed his hair. He looked at himself in a mirror. He had not shaved since returning to the ship, and the dark growth made his cheeks appear fuller than they had become. He felt unsteady for a moment, and then went out to catch up with Reid and the others.
The sun was not yet fully risen, but there was sufficient light for him to make out the distant shelter, the glow of a shielded fire, and the six or seven figures crouched around it.
Bryant, Hopcraft and Joseph Andrews accompanied Fitzjames, Reid and Des Voeux as far as the edge of the
Terror’
s debris, but would go no farther. Their reaction puzzled Fitzjames, who was
eager to make contact with their visitors, and who fell several times as he stumbled toward them, moving with the help of sticks rather than the crutches he had been using.
He hoped the Eskimos might be a smaller group of the party he had encountered the previous year and that they might remember him, but as he called out and they rose to greet him none gave any indication of recognizing him. He spoke and gestured to them, wanting to convey that they were welcome and that he hoped they would accompany him back to the
Erebus.
They showed little sign of understanding, but when he had finished they indicated their fire and the pot upon it, in which a piece of seal meat sat in its rendered fat. Sickened further by the smell, he nevertheless accepted the offer and crouched down beside them. Reid and Des Voeux did the same.
All around them, the three men saw the crockery and pieces of cloth and wood which the Eskimos had already scavenged from the wasteland surrounding the
Terror
. In addition to the iron bars and various blades they had gathered up, the men also carried spears and clubs, but apart from their unsettling show of indifference to Fitzjames and his party, they exhibited no hostility.
The meal was shared, and with each mouthful he swallowed Fitzjames was convinced that he was again about to be sick. He put down his bowl when it was only half empty, signaling to his hosts that he had eaten enough. They were satisfied by this and one of them took back the bowl.

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