The Terror

25 CROZIER

Crozier and Fitzjames emerged from Erebus some time before midnight. The Great Cabin had been ferociously cold, but the deeper cold out here in the night was an assault on their bodies and senses. The wind had come up slightly in the last couple of hours and everywhere the torches and tripod braziers — Fitzjames had suggested, and after the first hour of whiskey Crozier had agreed, sending out extra sacks of coal and coal oil to fuel open-flame braziers to keep the revelers from freezing — were rippling and crackling in the hundred-below freezing night.

The two captains had talked very little, each lost in his own melancholic reverie. They’d been interrupted a dozen times. Lieutenant Irving came to report that he was taking the replacement watch back to Terror; Lieutenant Hodgson came to report that his watch had arrived at the Carnivale; other officers in absurd costumes came to report that all was well with Carnivale itself; various Erebus watches and officers came to report coming off duty and going on duty; Mr. Gregory the engineer came to report that they might as well use the coal for the braziers since there wasn’t enough to fuel the steam engine for more than a few hours of steaming come the mythical thaw and then went off to make arrangements for several sacks to be hauled out to the increasingly wild ceremony on the ice; Mr. Murray, the old sailmaker — dressed as some sort of mortician with a skull under his high beaver hat, a skull not so different from his own wizened visage — begged their pardon and asked if he and his helpers could break out two spare jibs to rig a wind shield upwind of the new tripod braziers.

The captains had given their acknowledgments and permissions, passed along their commands and admonitions, never really rising out of their whiskeyinduced thoughts.

Sometime between eleven and midnight, they bundled themselves back into their outer slops, came up on deck, and then went out onto the ice again after both Thomas Jopson and Edmund Hoar, Crozier’s and Fitzjames’s respective stewards, came down to the Great Cabin with Lieutenants Le Vesconte and Little — all four men in bizarre costumes squeezed over and under their many layers — to announce that the bear meat was being cooked up, that prime portions were being set aside for the captains, and could the captains please come to the feast now?

Crozier realized that he was very drunk. He was used to holding his liquor without letting it show, and the men were used to him smelling like whiskey while he was in complete command of situations, but he hadn’t slept for several nights and this midnight, coming out into the chest-slamming cold and walking toward the lighted canvas and glowing iceberg and movement of strange forms, Crozier felt the whiskey burning in his belly and brain.

They’d set up the main grilling area in the white room. The two captains traversed the series of compartments without comment either to each other or to any of the dozens upon dozens of wildly costumed figures flitting about. From the openended blue room, they walked through the purple and green rooms, then through the orange room and into the white.

It was obvious to Crozier that most of the men were also drunk. How had they done that? Had they been hoarding their allotments of grog? Hiding away the ale usually served with their suppers? He knew that they hadn’t broken into the Spirit Room aboard Terror because he’d had Lieutenant Little check to make sure the locks were secure both this morning and this afternoon. And Erebus’s Spirit Room was empty thanks to Sir John Franklin, and had been since they’d sailed.

But the men had gotten into hard spirits somehow. As a seaman of more than forty years who had served his time before the mast as a boy, Crozier knew that — at least in terms of fermenting, hoarding, or finding alcohol — a British sailor’s ingenuity knew no bounds.

Huge haunches and racks of bear meat were being grilled over an open fire by Mr. Diggle and Mr. Wall, pewter plates of the steaming victuals being handed out to the queues of men by a grinning Lieutenant Le Vesconte, his gold tooth gleaming, and by other officers and stewards of both ships. The smell of grilling meat was incredible and Crozier found himself salivating despite all his private vows not to enjoy this Carnivale feast.

The queue gave way to the two captains. Ragmen, popish priests, French courtiers, faerie sprites, motley beggars, a shrouded corpse, and two Roman legionnaires in red capes, black masks, and gold chest armour gestured Fitzjames and Crozier to the front of the queue and bowed as the officers passed.

Mr. Diggle himself, his fat-Chinese-lady’s pendulous bosoms now down around his waist and wobbling as he moved, cut a prime piece for Crozier and then another for Captain Fitzjames. Le Vesconte gave them proper officers’ mess cutlery and white linen napkins. Lieutenant Fairholme poured ale into two cups for them.

“The trick out here, Captains,” said Fairholme, “is to drink quickly, dipping like a bird, so that your lips don’t freeze to the cup.”

Fitzjames and Crozier found a place at the head of a white-shrouded table, sitting on white-shrouded chairs, pulled back for them on the protesting ice by Mr. Farr, the captain of the maintop whom Crozier had braced earlier in the evening. Mr. Blanky was sitting there with his icemaster counterpart, Mr. Reid, as were Edward Little and a half dozen of the Erebus officers. The surgeons clustered at the other end of the white table.

Crozier took his mittens off, flexed cold fingers under wool gloves, and tried the meat gingerly, careful not to let the metal fork touch his lips. The bear cutlet burned his tongue. He had the urge to laugh then — a hundred below zero out here in the New Year’s night, his breath hanging in front of him in a cloud of ice crystals, his face hidden down the tunnel of his comforters, caps, and Welsh wig, and he’d just burned his tongue. He tried again, chewing and swallowing this time.

It was the most delicious steak he’d ever eaten. This surprised the captain. Many months ago, the last time they’d tried fresh bear meat, the cooked flesh seemed gamy and rancid. The liver and possibly some of the other commonly prized organs made the men actively ill. It had been decided that the meat of the white arctic bear would be eaten only if survival demanded it.

And now this feast… this sumptuous feast. All around him in the white room, and obviously at canvas-covered casks, chests, and tables in the adjoining orange and violet rooms, crewmen were wolfing down the steaks. The noise and chatter of happy men easily rose over the roar of the grill flames or the flapping of canvas as the wind came up again. A few of the men here in the white room were using knives and forks — many just spearing the steaming bear steaks and chewing on them that way — but most were using their mittened hands. It was as if more than a hundred predators were reveling in their kill.

The more Crozier ate, the more ravenous he became. Fitzjames, Reid, Blanky, Farr, Little, Hodgson, and the others around him — even Jopson, his steward, at a nearby table with the other stewards — appeared to be wolfing down the meat with equal gusto. One of Mr. Diggle’s helpers, dressed as a baby Chinaman, came around the tables, dishing out steaming vegetables from a pan heated on one of the whaleboat’s iron stoves, but the canned vegetables, however wonderfully hot, simply had no taste next to the delicious fresh bear meat. Only Crozier’s position as expedition commander stopped him from muscling his way to the front of the queue and demanding another helping when he finished his heavy slab of bear steak. Fitzjames’s expression was anything but distracted now; the younger commander looked as if he was about to weep from happiness.

Suddenly, just as most of the men had finished the steaks and were drinking down their ale before the alcohol-rich liquid froze solid, a Persian king near the entrance to the violet room began cranking the musical disk player.

The applause — thick mittens pounding thunderously — began almost as soon as the first notes tinkled and thunked out of the crude machine. Many of the musical men aboard both ships had complained about the mechanical music player — its range of sounds emanating from the turning metal disks was almost precisely that of a corner organ grinder’s instrument — but these notes were unmistakable. Dozens of men rose to their feet. Others began singing at once, the vapour from their breaths rising in the torchlight shining through the white canvas walls. Even Crozier had to grin like an idiot as the familiar words of the first stanza echoed off the iceberg towering above them in the freezing night.

Captains Crozier and Fitzjames rose to their feet and joined in the first bellowing chorus.

Young Hodgson’s pure tenor led the men in six of the seven coloured compartments as they sang the second stanza.

Vaguely aware that there was a commotion two rooms to the east, in the entrance to the blue room, Crozier threw his head back and, warm with whiskey and bear steak, bellowed with his men:

The men in the outer rooms of the seven compartments were singing, but they were also laughing now. The commotion grew. The mechanical music player cranked louder. The men sang louder still. Even while standing and singing the third stanza between Fitzjames and Little, Crozier stared in shock as a procession entered the white room.

Someone led the procession in the theatrical costume version of an admiral’s uniform. The epaulettes were so absurdly broad that they hung out eight inches beyond the little man’s shoulders. He was very fat. The gold buttons on his old-fashioned Naval jacket would never have buttoned. He was also headless. The figure carried its papier-mâché head under the crook of his left arm, his moldering plumed admiral’s hat under his right.

Crozier quit singing. The other men did not.

Behind the headless admiral, who obviously was meant to be the late Sir John Franklin even though it had not been Sir John decapitated that day at the bear blind, ambled a monster ten or twelve feet tall.

It had the body and fur and black paws and long claws and triangular head and black eyes of a white arctic bear, but it was walking on its hind legs and was twice the height of a bear and with twice the arms’ length. It walked stiffly, almost blindly, swinging its upper body to and fro, the small black eyes staring at each man it approached. The swinging paws — the arms hanging loose as bell pulls — were larger than the costumed crewmen’s heads.

“That’s your giant, Manson, on the bottom,” laughed Erebus’s second mate, Charles Frederick Des Voeux, next to Crozier, raising his voice to be heard over the next stanza. “It’s your little caulker’s mate — Hickey? — riding on his shoulders. It took the men all night to sew up the two hides into a single costume.”

As the giant bear ambled past, dozens of men from the blue, green, and orange rooms followed it in procession through the white room and into the violet room. Crozier stood as if literally frozen to his spot near the white banquet table. Finally he turned his head to look at Fitzjames.

“I swear I did not know, Francis,” said Fitzjames. The other captain’s lips were pale and very thin.

The white room began emptying of costumed figures as the scores there followed the headless admiral and the swinging, towering, slowly ambling bipedal beargiant into and through the relative gloom of the long violet room. The drunken singing roared around Crozier.

Crozier began following the procession into the violet chamber and Fitzjames followed him. The captain of HMS Terror had never felt this way in all of his years of command; he knew that he had to stop this travesty of a lampoon — no Naval discipline could tolerate a farce in which the death of the expedition’s former commander became a source of humour. But at the same time he knew that it had already proceeded to a point where simply shouting down the singing, ordering Manson and Hickey out of their obscene monster suit, ordering everyone out of their costumes and back to their berths on the ships would be almost as absurd and useless as the pagan ritual Crozier was watching with growing anger.

The headless admiral, ambling bearthing, and the following procession of a hundred costumed men or more had not paused long in the violet room. As Crozier entered the violet-coloured space — the torches and outside tripod fires were whipping on the north side of the violet-dyed canvas wall and the sails themselves were rippling and cracking in the rising wind — he arrived just in time to see Manson and Hickey and their singing mob pause at the entrance to the ebony room.

Crozier resisted the impulse to shout out “No!” It was an obscenity for the effigy of Sir John and the towering bearthing to play this out in any forum, but unthinkably vile in that black, oppressive ebony room with its polar bear head and ticking clock. Whatever final dumb show the men had in mind, at least it would soon be finished. This had to be the finale of this ill-thought-out mistake of a Second Grand Venetian Carnivale. He would let the singing end of its own, the pagan mime close to drunken cheers from the men, and then he would order the mobs out of their costumes, send the frozen and drunken seamen back to their ships, but order the riggers and organizers to strike the canvas and rigging immediately — tonight — whether that meant frostbite or no. He would then deal with Hickey, Manson, Aylmore, and his officers.

The swaying, much-cheered headless admiral and swaying bear-monster entered the ebony compartment.

Sir John’s black clock within began striking midnight.

The mob of bizarrely costumed sailors at the rear of the procession began pressing forward, the rear ranks eager to get into the ebony compartment to see the fun, even while the ragmen, rats, unicorns, dustmen, one-legged pirates, Arab princes and Egyptian princesses, gladiators, faeries, and other creatures at the front of the mob, already making the turn and crossing the threshold into the black room, began resisting the advance, pushing back, no longer sure they wanted to be in that soot-floored and black-walled darkness.

Crozier elbowed his way forward through the mob — the mass surging forward and then back as those in the front thought twice about actually entering the ebony gloom — certain now that if he couldn’t end this farce before the finale, at least he could shorten this final act.

He’d no sooner entered the darkness with twenty or thirty men at the front of the procession who’d also halted upon stepping in — his eyes had to adapt in here, and the black soot on the ice gave him a terrible sense of falling into a black void — when he felt the blast of cold air against his face. It was as if someone had opened a door in the wall of the iceberg that loomed over everything. Even the costumed figures here in the dark were still singing, but he real volume came from the pushing mobs still back in the violet room.

Crozier could only just make out the white of the disembodied bear’s head emerging from the ice over the ebony clock — the chimes had struck six now and seemed terribly loud in the darkened space — and he could see that under the taller, swaying, white bear-monster’s form, Manson and Hickey were finding it difficult to keep their balance on the sooty ice, in the icy blackness with the north canvas walls flapping and rippling wildly with the wind.

Crozier saw that there was a second large white shape in the room. It also stood on its hind legs. It was farther back in the darkness than Manson and Hickey’s bear-hide-white glow. And it was much larger. And taller.

As the men fell silent and the clock was striking its last four chimes, something in the room roared.

Suddenly the men in the ebony room were shoving backward against the still-pushing throng of seamen trying to get in.

“What in God’s name?’ asked Dr. McDonald. The four surgeons, all in Harlequin costumes but with their masks hanging down now, were recognizable to Crozier in the brighter violet glow coming around the canvased curve between the rooms.

A man in the ebony room screamed in terror. There came a second roar, unlike anything that Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier had ever heard; it was something more at home in a thick jungle of some previous Hyborian Age than in the Arctic of the nineteenth century. The sound ground so low into the bass regions, grew so reverberating, and emerged so ferocious that it made the captain of HMS Terror want to piss his pants right there in front of his men.

The larger of the two white shapes in the gloom charged forward.

Costumed men screamed, tried to push backward against the wave of the forward-pushing curious, and then ran to the left and right in the darkness, colliding with the nearly invisible black-dyed canvas walls.

Crozier, unarmed, stood where he was. He felt the mass of the thing brush past him in the darkness. He sensed it with his mind… felt it in his head. There was a sudden stench as of old blood, then the reek of a carrion pit.

Princesses and faeries were throwing off costumes and coldweather slops in the darkness, clawing at the black walls and fumbling for their boat knives on their buried belts.

Crozier heard a meaty, sickening slap as huge platesized paws or knifesized claws slammed into a man’s body. Something crunched sickeningly as teeth longer than bayonet blades bit through skull or bone. In the outer rooms, men still sang.

The ebony clock concluded its striking. It was midnight. It was 1848.

Men used their knives to slash through the black-dyed walls and strips of wind-tormented canvas were immediately whipped into the flames of torches and tripods out on the ice. Flames leapt skyward and almost immediately engaged the rigging.

The white shape had moved out into the violet room. Men there were screaming and scattering, cursing and shoving, some already slashing at the walls there rather than trying to make the long run out through the compartment maze, and Crozier shoved seamen aside as he tried to follow. Both walls of the ebony room were ablaze now. More men screamed and one man ran past Crozier, his Harlequin costume, Welsh wig, and hair shooting flames behind him like yellow silk streamers.

By the time Crozier shoved himself free of the surging mob of fleeing, costumed forms, the violet compartment was also burning and the thing from the ice had moved on to the white room. The captain could hear the shouts from scores of men as they ran ahead of the white apparition in a wave of waving arms and shed costumes. The web of beautifully rigged ropes attaching the canvas and spar struts to the overhanging iceberg was burning now, the patterns of flame slashing like scribbled runes of fire against the black slate of sky. The hundred-foot wall of ice reflected the flames in its thousand facets.

The spars themselves that rose like exposed ribs along the burning walls of the ebony room, the violet room, and now the white room, were also on fire. Years of storage in the virtual desert of the arctic dryness had leached all moisture from the wood. They fed the flames like thousand-pound pieces of tinder.

Crozier gave up all hope of mastering the situation and ran with the others. He had to get out of the burning maze.

The white room was fully engaged. Flames shot up from the white walls, from the canvas carpets on the ice, from the former sheetdraped banquet tables and casks and chairs and from Mr. Diggle’s metal cooking grill. Someone had knocked over the mechanical disk player in their panicked flight and the oakandbronze instrument reflected the flames from all of its beautifully crafted faces and curves.

Crozier saw Captain Fitzjames standing in the white room, the only figure not costumed and not running. He grabbed the motionless man by his slops’ sleeve. “Come, James! We have to go.”

The commander of HMS Erebus slowly turned his head and looked at his superior officer as if they had never met. Fitzjames had that small, absent, maddening smile on his face again.

Crozier slapped him. “Come on!”

Pulling and tugging the sleepwalking Fitzjames, Crozier stumbled through the burning white room, out through the fourth room, whose walls were more orange with flames than with dye now, and into the burning green room. The maze seemed to go on and on. Costumed figures lay on the ice here and there — some moaning and with ripped and mauled vestments, one man naked and burned — but other seamen were stopping to help them up, shoving them onward and outward. The sea ice underfoot, where there were no burning canvas carpets, was littered with shreds of costumes and abandoned cold-weather gear. Most of these tatters and fabrics were either ablaze or the about to burn.

“Come on! ” repeated Crozier, still tugging a stumbling Fitzjames in his wake. A seaman lay unconscious on the ice — young George Chambers from Erebus, Crozier saw, one of the ship’s boys, although twenty-one now, one of the drummers in their early burials on the ice — and no one seemed to be taking notice of him. Crozier released Fitzjames just long enough to lift Chambers over his shoulder, and then he grabbed the other captain’s sleeve again and began running just as flames on either side exploded to the rigging above.

Crozier heard a monstrous hissing behind him.

Certain that the thing had circled behind him in the confusion, perhaps crashing up through the impenetrable ice, he swung to confront it with only his one mittened fist free.

The entire iceberg was steaming and popping from the heat. Huge chunks and heavy overhangs were breaking off and crashing down to the ice, hissing like snakes as they fell into the cauldron of flame that had been the tent maze. The sight held Crozier in motionless rapture for a minute — the berg’s countless facets reflecting the flames made him think of a hundred-storey fairytale castle tower ablaze with light. He knew at that instant that as long as he lived he would never again see anything like this.

“Francis,” lisped Captain James Fitzjames. “We have to go.”

The green room’s walls were falling away but there were only more flames on the ice beyond. The rapidly advancing fissures and tendrils and fingers of fire had spread to the final two compartments.

Shielding his face with his free hand, Crozier charged forward through the flames, herding the last of the fleeing revelers on ahead of him.

Out through the burning purple room staggered the survivors as Crozier led them into the blazing blue room. The wind from the northwest was howling now, joining with screams and roars and hisses that might have been only in Francis Crozier’s head for all he knew at that moment, and the flames were blowing across the blue compartment’s wide opening, creating a barrier of fire.

A cluster of about a dozen men, some still wearing shreds of their costume finery, had slid to a stop before those flames.

“MOVE!” roared Crozier, bellowing in his most commanding typhoon voice. A lookout in the crosstrees at the top of a mainmast two hundred feet above the deck could have heard the command clearly in an eighty-knot wind with forty-foot waves crashing around them. And he would have obeyed. These men also obeyed, jumping, screaming, and running through the flames with Crozier right behind them, still carrying Chambers along on his right shoulder and tugging Fitzjames along with his left hand.

Once outside, his slops steaming, Crozier continued running, catching and passing some of the dozens of men who were spreading out in every direction in the night. The captain did not immediately see the white creature among the men, but everything was very confused out here — even with the flames throwing light and shadows five hundred feet in every direction — and then he was busy shouting for his officers and trying to find an ice boulder on which to lay the still-unconscious George Chambers.

Suddenly there came the pop-pop-pop of musket fire.

Incredibly, unbelievably, obscenely, a line of four Marines just outside the circle of light from the flames had taken their knees on the ice and were firing into the clumps and mobs of running men. Here and there a figure — still sadly and absurdly in costume — fell to the ice.

Releasing Fitzjames, Crozier ran forward, stepping into the line of volley fire and waving his arms. Musket balls whizzed past his ears.

“CEASE FIRE! GODDAMN YOUR EYES, SERGEANT TOZER, I’LL BREAK YOU TO A PRIVATE FOR THIS AND HAVE YOU HANGED IF YOU DON’T CEASE THAT FUCKING FIRE IMMEDIATELY! ”

The firing popped and stopped.

The Marines snapped to a standing salute, Sergeant Tozer shouting that the white thing was out there among the men. They’d seen it backlit by the flames. It was carrying a man in its jaws.

Crozier ignored him. Shouting and shoving both Terrors and Erebuses into clumps around him on the ice, sending obviously mauled or burned men back to Fitzjames’s nearby ship, the captain was hunting for his officers — or Erebus officers — or anyone he could give an order to and have it relayed to the clusters of terrified men still running out through seracs and across pressure ridges into the howling arctic darkness.

If those men didn’t come back, they’d freeze to death out there. Or the thing would find them. Crozier decided that no one was going the mile back to Terror until they had warmed up on the lower deck of Erebus.

But first Crozier had to get his men calmed, organized, and busy pulling the wounded and the bodies of the dead from what was left of the burning Carnivale compartments.

In the first moments he found only the Erebus mate Couch and Second Lieutenant Hodgson, but then Lieutenant Little came up through the smoke and steam — the top few inches of ice were melting in an irregular radius around the flames and sending a thick fog out across the sea ice and into the serac forest — saluted clumsily, his right arm was burned, and reported for duty.

With Little at his side, Crozier found it easier to gain control of the men, get them back toward Erebus, and start taking roll. He ordered the Marines to reload and set them in a defensive skirmish line between the accumulating mass of staggering men near Erebus’s ice ramp and the still roaring inferno.

“My God,” said Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir, who had just come out of Erebus and was standing nearby, tugging off his slops and greatcoat. “It’s actually warm out here with the flames.”

“So it is,” said Crozier, feeling the sweat on his face and body. The fire had brought the temperature up a hundred degrees or more. He wondered idly if the ice would melt and they’d all drown. To Goodsir he barked, “Go over there to Lieutenant Hodgson and tell him to begin to assess the numbers of dead and wounded and to get them to you. Find the other surgeons and get Erebus’s sick bay fitted out in Sir John’s Great Room — set it up as they trained you surgeons to do for a combat engagement at sea. I don’t want the dead laid out on the ice — that thing is still out here somewhere — so tell your seamen to carry them to the forepeak on the lower deck. I’ll check in on you in forty minutes — have a complete butcher’s bill ready for me.”

“Aye, Captain,” said Goodsir. Grabbing up his outer clothes, the surgeon rushed toward Lieutenant Hodgson and the ice ramp to Erebus.

The canvas and rigging and iceset masts and costumes and tables and casks and other furniture in the inferno that had been the seven coloured compartments continued to burn all through that night and deep into the darkness of the next morning.