The Terror

²⁶ GOODSIR

From the private diary of Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir:

I am the only one left.

Of the Expedition’s Surgeons, I am the only one left. All agree that we were incredibly Lucky to have lost only Five in Death to the Grand Venetian Carnivale’s Horror and Conflagration, but the fact that Three of those Five were my Fellow Surgeons is, at the very least, Extraordinary.

The two Chief Surgeons, Drs. Peddie and Stanley, died of Burns. My Assistant Surgeon counterpart on HMS Terror, Dr. McDonald, survived the flames and Raging Beast only to be Struck Down by a Marine’s Musket Ball upon fleeing the burning tents.

Both of the other two Fatal Casualties were also Officers. First Lieutenant James Walter Fairholme of Erebus had his chest crushed in the Ebony Room, presumably by the creature there. Although Lt. Fairholme’s Body was found Burned in the ice-melted wreckage of that Loathsome Tent Maze, my postmortem examination showed that he had Died Instantly when his collapsing Rib Cage had pulverized his Heart.

The final fatality of the New Year’s Eve Fire and Mayhem was Terror’s First Mate Frederick John Hornby, who had been Eviscerated in that Canvas Enclosure in what the men had called the White Room. The sad irony of Mr. Hornby’s death was that the gentleman had been on Watch Duty aboard Terror through most of the evening and had been relieved by Lieutenant Irving not an hour before the Violence broke out.

Captain Crozier and Captain Fitzjames now find themselves without three of their Four Surgeons and without the Advice and Services of two of their most trusted officers.

Eighteen other men were injured — six seriously — during the Venetian Carnivale Nightmare. Of those six — Ice Master Mr. Blanky from Terror; Carpenter’s Mate Wilson, also from that ship (the men affectionately call him “Fat Wilson”); Seaman John Morfin, with whom I Traveled to King William Land some months ago; Erebus’s purser’s steward, Mr. William Fowler; Seaman Thomas Work, also from Erebus; and Terror boatswain Mr. John Lane — I am pleased to report that all should survive. (Although it is another irony that Mr.Blanky, who had suffered less serious injuries from the Same Creature only less than a Month Ago — injuries to which all four of us Surgeons applied our time and expertise — had not been burned at the Carnivale Mayhem but was injured yet again in the right leg — mauled or bitten by the thing from the ice, he believes, although he says that he was cutting his way through burning Canvas and Rigging at the time. This time I had to amputate his right leg just below the knee. Mr. Blanky remains remarkably Chipper for a man who has sustained so much damage in so Short a Time.)

Yesterday, Monday, all of us Survivors witnessed Floggings. It was the first such Naval Corporal Punishment I have ever seen and I Pray God that I shall never see more.

Captain Crozier — who has been visibly consumed by an Anger Beyond Words since the Fire last Friday night — assembled every Surviving Crew Member of both ships on the lower deck of Erebus at 10:00 a.m.yesterday. The Royal Marines made a line with muskets at the vertical. Drums were beaten.

Erebus gunroom steward Mr. Richard Aylmore and Terror caulker’s mate Cornelius Hickey, as well as a truly huge common Seaman named Magnus Manson, were marched bareheaded and wearing only their trousers and undershirts to a place in front of the ship’s Stove, where a wooden Hatch Cover had been rigged vertically. One by one, starting with Mr. Aylmore, they were Tied to this Hatch.

But before this, the men were made to stand there, Aylmore’s and Manson’s heads bowed, Hickey’s upright and defiant, as Captain Crozier read the charges.

For Aylmore, it was fifty lashes for Insubordination and Reckless Behavior endangering his ship. If the quiet gunroom steward had simply come up with the idea for the coloured tents — an Idea he acknowledged had come from some Fantastical American Magazine Story — the Punishment would have been certain but less Severe. But in addition to being a Primary Planner of the Grand Venetian Carnivale, Aylmore had made the Mistake of costuming himself as the Headless Admiral — a Major Impropriety, given the circumstances surrounding Sir John’s death, and one we all understood could have resulted in Aylmore’s hanging. We had each heard tales of Aylmore’s private Testimony before the Captains in which he had described how he had Screamed and then Fainted in the Ebony Room upon Realizing that the Thing from the Ice was there in the Darkness with the mummers.

For Manson and Hickey, it was fifty lashes for Sewing and Wearing the Dead Bears’ animal skins — a violation of all of Captain Crozier’s previous Orders about not wearing such Heathen Fetishes.

It was understood that fifty or more other men were Complicit in the Planning, Rigging, Dyeing of Sails, and Staging of the Grand Carnivale, and that Crozier could have handed out an Equal Number of Lashes to all. In a sense, this Sad Trinity of Aylmore, Manson, and Hickey was receiving Punishment for the Entire Crew’s bad judgement.

As the drums stopped beating and the Men stood in a line before the Assembled Crews, Captain Crozier spoke. I hope that I remember his words exactly here:

These men are about to Receive the Lash for Violations of Ship’s Articles and for the Unwise Behavior in which every man here participated. Including myself.

Let it be known and remembered by All here Assembled, that the Ultimate Responsibility for the folly that claimed the lives of Five of Our Crewmates, the Leg of Another, and which will leave Scars on almost a Score More, was mine. A captain is responsible for everything that happens on his Ship. The leader of an Expedition is doubly responsible. The fact that I allowed these plans to proceed without my Attention or Intervention was Criminal Negligence, and I will admit as much during my Inevitable Court-Martial… inevitable, that is, if we Survive and escape from the ice that Binds Us. These lashes — and more — should be mine and will be mine when falls the inevitable Punishment meted out by my superiors.

I glanced then at Captain Fitzjames. Certainly any Self-Blame that Captain Crozier would cast upon himself would also apply to the commander of Erebus, since it was he, not Crozier, who had overseen most of the Carnivale’s arrangements. Fitzjames’s face was impassive and Pale. His gaze seemed unfocused. His thoughts seemed elsewhere.

Until such a day of my own reckoning for Responsibility, Crozier concluded, we proceed with the Punishment of These Men, duly tried by Officers of HMSs Erebus and Terror and Found Guilty of Violation of the Ship’s Articles and of the Additional Crime of Endangering the lives of their Comrades. Boatswain Mate Johnson…

And here Thomas Johnson, large and Capable boatswain mate of HMS Terror, old Shipmate of Captain Crozier — having served five years in the South Polar Ice on Terror with him — stepped forward and nodded for the first man, Aylmore, to be tied to the Grate.

Bosun Johnson then laid out on a cask a leatherbound Box and unlatched its ornate brass snaps. Incongruously, the interior lining was of Red Velvet. Set into its Proper Receptacle in this Red Velvet Lining was the palm-darkened leather grip and folded Tails of the Cat.

While two Seamen bound Aylmore securely, Bosun’s Mate Johnson lifted out the Cat and tested it with a preparatory Flick of his thick Wrist. It was not a Motion done for Show but a true preparation for the Hideous Punishment to come. The nine leather tails — of which I had heard so many Shipboard Jokes — flicked out with distinct and Audible and terrible cracks. There were small Knots at the end of each tail.

Part of me could not believe that this was happening. It seemed impossible in this crowded, sweat-stinking Gloom of the Lower Deck, with the low Overhead Beams and Lumber and Gear hanging lower, that Johnson could possibly manage the Cat so as to effect any Punishment. I had heard the phrase “not Enough Room to Swing a Cat In” since I was a boy, but never had I Understood it until this Moment.

Execute the punishment for Mr. Aylmore, said Captain Crozier. The drums beat again briefly and stopped abruptly.

Johnson took a broad sideways stance, setting his feet like a Boxer in the Ring, then swung the Cat back, and then Forward in a Violent, Sudden but Smooth Sidearm Motion, the knotted Tails passing less than a Foot from the Front Ranks of Assembled Men.

The sound of the Cat’s tails striking Flesh is something I shall never Forget.

Aylmore screamed — a more Inhuman Sound, some said later, than the roar they had heard from the creature in the Ebony Room.

Crimson Stripes appeared immediately upon the man’s thin, pale back, and droplets of Blood spattered the faces of those men standing nearest the Grate, myself included.

ONE, counted Charles Frederick Des Voeux, who had assumed the duties of Erebus’s First Mate upon the death of Mate Robert Orme Sergeant in December. It was the Duty of both first mates to administer this punishment.

Aylmore screamed again even as the Cat was pulled back for another blow, almost certainly in horrid anticipation of Forty-nine More Lashes. I confess that I swayed on my feet… the Press of Unwashed Bodies, the Stink of Blood, the sense of Confinement in the Dim, Stinking Gloom of the Lower Deck, all making my head swim. Surely this was Hell. Nor was I out of it.

The Gunroom Steward passed out on the Ninth Lash. Captain Crozier gestured to me to ascertain that the flogged man was still breathing. He was. Normally, as I was made to understand later, a Second Mate would have thrown a Bucket of Water on the victim of punishment to revive him so that he must Fully Suffer the remaining lashes. But there was no Liquid Water on the Lower Deck of HMS Erebus that morning. All was frozen. Even the droplets of Bright Blood on Aylmore’s back appeared to be freezing into crimson pellets.

Aylmore stayed unconscious but the Punishment continued.

After Fifty Lashes, Aylmore was untied and carried Aft to Sir John’s former cabin, since the Great Cabin was still being used as the Sick Bay in the aftermath of the Carnivale injuries. There were Eight Men on cots in there, including David Leys, still unresponsive since the Thing’s attack on Mr. Blanky early in December.

I started to go aft to attend to Aylmore, but Captain Crozier silently gestured me back into the ranks. Evidently it was protocol for all crew members to witness the complete series of Floggings, even should Aylmore bleed to death due to my absence.

Magnus Manson was next. The huge man dwarfed the second mates tying him to the Grate. If the Giant had decided to Resist at that moment, I have Little Doubt that the ensuing Chaos and Carnage would have resembled New Year’s Eve’s mayhem in the Seven Coloured Compartments.

He did not resist. As far as I could tell, Boatswain’s Mate Johnson administered the endless Flogging with the same force and Severity as he had for Aylmore — no more, no less. Blood flew from the first Impact. Manson did not scream. He did something Infinitely Worse. From the first touch of the Lash, he wept like a child. He sobbed. But afterward he was able to walk between the two Seamen escorting him back to the Sick Bay, although — as always — Manson had to hunch over so that his head did not strike the Beams overhead. As he passed me, I noticed Strips of Flesh hanging loose on his back between the crisscrossed Scourging wounds of the Cat.

Hickey, the smallest of the three men being punished, barely made a sound during the long Administration of the Lashes. His narrow Back tore open more freely than had the flesh of the other two, but he did not cry out. Nor did he pass out. The diminutive Caulker’s Mate seemed to remove his mind to something beyond the Grate and Overhead Deck upon which his obviously angry glare was firmly fixed and his only reaction to the Terrible Flogging was a gasp for breath between each of the fifty lashes of the Cat.

He walked aft to the provisional Sick Bay without accepting help from the seamen on either side of him.

Captain Crozier announced that punishment had been duly meted out according to the Ship’s Articles and Dismissed the Company. Before going aft, I ran up on deck very briefly to watch the departure of the men from Terror. They went down the ice ramp from the ship and began their long walk back to the other ship in the dark — passing the scorched and partially melted area where the Carnivale Conflagration had taken place. Crozier and his primary officer, Lieutenant Little, brought up the rear. None of the more than forty men had said a word by the time they had disappeared beyond the small circle of light radiating from Erebus’s deck lanterns. Eight men remained as a sort of companion Guard to walk with Hickey and Manson when they were ready to be returned to Terror.

I hurried down and aft to the new Sick Bay to take care of my new charges. Beyond Washing and Bandaging their wounds — the Cat had left a Sickening array of welts and gouges on each man and some Permanent Scars, I would think — there was little else I could do. Manson had ceased his Weeping, and when Hickey abruptly ordered him to stop his Snuffling, the giant did so at once. Hickey suffered my Ministrations in silence and gruffly ordered Manson to get fully dressed and to follow him out of the Sick Bay.

Aylmore, the gunroom steward, had been unmanned by the punishment. From the minute he had regained consciousness, according to young Henry Lloyd, my current Surgeon’s Assistant, Aylmore had moaned and cried aloud. He continued doing so as I Washed and Bandaged him. He was still moaning piteously and seemed unable to walk by himself when some of the other warrant officers — the elderly John Bridgens, the Subordinate Officer’s Steward, Mr. Hoar, the Captain’s Steward, Mr. Bell the Quartermaster, and Samuel Brown, the Boatswain’s Mate — arrived to help him back to his quarters.

I could hear Aylmore moaning and crying out all the way down the Companionway and around the Main Ladderway as the other men half-carried him to the gunroom steward’s cubicle on the starboard side between William Fowler’s empty berth and my own, and I knew that I would probably be listening to Aylmore’s cries through the thin wall all through the night.

Mr. Aylmore reads a lot, said William Fowler from his place on his cot in the Sick Bay. The Purser’s Steward had received serious burns and a Terrible Mauling during the night of the Carnivale Conflagration, but never once during the last four days of stitchings or skin removals had Fowler cried out. With wounds and burns on both his Back and Stomach, Fowler attempted to sleep on his side, but not once had he complained to Lloyd or me.

Men who read a lot have a more sensitive disposition, added Fowler. And if the poor bloke hadn’t read that stupid story by that American, he wouldn’t have suggested the different-coloured compartments for Carnivale — an idea we all thought was Wonderful at the time — and none of this would have happened.

I did not know what to say to this.

Maybe reading is a sort of curse is all I mean, concluded Fowler. Maybe it’s better for a man to stay inside his own mind.

Amen, I felt like saying, although I do not know why.

As I write this, I am in Dr. Peddie’s former surgeon’s berth on HMS Terror since Captain Crozier has instructed me to spend each Tuesday through Thursday aboard his ship and the Remaining Days of the Week aboard Erebus. Lloyd is watching my six recovering charges in the Erebus sick bay and I was Distressed to discover almost as many seriously ill men here aboard Terror.

For many of them, it is the disease we Arctic Doctors first called Nostalgia and then Debility. The early severe stages of this disease — besides bleeding gums, Confusion of Thought, weakness in the Extremities, bruises everywhere, and bleeding from the Colon — often include a tremendous Sentimental Wish to go home. From Nostalgia the weakness, confusion, Impaired Judgement, bleeding from Anus and Gums, open Sores, and other symptoms worsen until the patient is unable to stand or work.

Another name for Nostalgia and Debility — one which all Surgeons hesitate to say aloud and which I have not yet done — is Scurvy.

Meanwhile, Captain Crozier took to his Private Cabin yesterday and is terribly sick. I can hear his stifled moans since the late Peddie’s compartment borders the captain’s here on the starboard stern side of the ship. I think Captain Crozier is biting down on something hard — perhaps a Strip of Leather — to keep those moans from being heard. But I have always been Blessed (or Cursed) with good hearing.

The Captain turned over the handling of the Ship’s and Expedition’s affairs to Lieutenant Little yesterday — thus quietly but Firmly giving Command to Little rather than to Captain Fitzjames — and explained to me that he, Captain Crozier, was battling a recurrence of Malaria.

This is a lie.

It is not just the symptoms of Malaria which I hear Captain Crozier suffering — and almost certainly will continue to hear through the walls until I head back to Erebus on Friday morning.

Because of my uncle’s and my father’s weaknesses, I know the Demons the Captain is battling tonight.

Captain Crozier is a man addicted to Hard Spirits, and either those Spirits on board have been used up or he has decided to go off them of his own Volition during this Crisis. Either way, he is suffering the Torments of Hell and shall continue to do so for many days more. His sanity may not survive. In the meantime, this ship and this Expedition are without their True Leader. His stifled moans, in a ship descending into Sickness and Despair, are Pitiable to the extreme.

I wish I could help him. I wish I could help the dozens of other Sufferers — all the victims of wounds, maulings, burns, diseases, incipient malnutrition, and melancholic despair — aboard this entrapped ship and her sister ship. I wish I could help myself, for already I am showing the early signs of Nostalgia and Debility.

But there is little that I — or any surgeon in this Year of Our Lord 1848 — can do. God help us all.