The Terror

³³ GOODSIR

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

I have been four Days at this place we are calling Terror Camp. I believe it lives up to its name.

Captain Fitzjames is in Charge of sixty men here, including Myself.

I confess that when I first sledged within sight of the place last week, the first Image that came to mind was something out of Homer’s Iliad. The camp is set along the edge of a wide Inlet about two Miles south of a cairn raised almost two Decades ago at Victory Point by James Clark Ross. It is somewhat more Sheltered from the Wind and Snow blowing off the ice pack here.

Perhaps scenes from the Iliad were evoked by the 18 long boats pulled up in a row by the edge of the sea ice — 4 boats lying on their sides in the gravel, the other 14 Boats tied upright on Sledges.

Behind the Boats are 20 tents, ranging in Size from the small Holland tents of the Design we used almost a Year Ago when I accompanied the late Lieutenant Gore to Victory Point — each Holland tent is large enough for six men to sleep in, three per bag in the 5-foot-wide Wolfskin Blanket-Robe sleeping bags — to the somewhat larger tents made by the sailmaker, Murray, including tents meant for Captain Fitzjames and Captain Crozier and their personal stewards, and the largest two tents, each roughly the size of the Great Cabins on Erebus and Terror, one serving as Sick Bay, the other as the Seamen’s Mess Tent. There are other mess tents for warrant officers, petty officers, and the officers and their Civilian Counterparts, such as Engineer Thompson and Myself.

Or perhaps the Iliad was evoked because when one approaches Terror Camp at Night — and all of the Sledging Parties coming from HMS Terror to the Camp arrived after dark on their Third Day — one is first struck by the number of bonfires and campfires. There is no wood to burn, of course, except for some spare Oak brought from the crushed Erebus precisely for that Purpose, but many of the Last Remaining sacks of Coal had been ferried across the ice from the Ships over the past month, and many of these coal Fires were burning when I first saw Terror Camp. Some were in Fire Rings made from rocks; some were in four of the tall Braziers salvaged from the Carnivale Fire.

The effect was flames and light, added to by the occasional torch and lantern.

After spending several days in Terror Camp, I have decided that the place more resembles a Pirate Encampment than any camp of Akilleus, Odysseus, Agamemnon, and the other Homeric Heroes. The Men’s clothes are ragged, frayed, and many times repaired. Most are Ill or Limping or both. Their faces are Pale under sometimes Thick beards. Their eyes stare out of Sunken Sockets.

They swagger or stagger around with their Boat Knives dangling from crude belts set around their outer Slops in clanking Sheaths made from cut-down Bayonet Scabbards. It was Captain Crozier’s idea, as were the Goggles improvised from Wire Mesh that the men wear on sunny days to safeguard them from Sun blindness. The overall effect is one of a ragtag group of Ruffians.

And most now show signs of Scurvy.

I have been very busy in the Sick Bay Tent. The sledge teams had spent the Extra Energy to haul a Dozen Cots with them across the ice and over the Frightful Pressure Ridges (plus two more cots for their Captains’ tents), but at the moment I have 20 men in Sick Bay, so 8 are on Blanket Pallets set onto the cold ground itself. Three oil lamps provide us with Illumination during the long nights.

Most of the men sleeping in the Sick Bay have collapsed from Scurvy, but not all. Sergeant Heather is back in my care, complete with the gold sovereign Dr. Peddie had screwed into his skull to replace the bone Dashed Out with some of his brains by the Thing from the Ice. The Marines have been taking care of Heather for months and planned to continue to do so here at Terror Camp — the Sergeant was transported here on his Own Little Sled designed by Mr.Honey — but a possible Chill during the three days and nights of the Crossing has brought on a Pneumonia. This time, I do not expect the Marine Sergeant, who has been a disturbing Miracle of Survival, to Survive much longer.

Also here is David Leys, whom his crewmates call Davey. His catatonic condition has not changed in Months, but after the Crossing this week — he came Across with my group — he has not been able to keep down even the Thinnest Gruel or water. Today is Saturday. I do not expect Leys to be alive by this time Wednesday.

Due to the Great Exertion of hauling the boats and so much Matériel from the Ship to the Island — over pressure ridges I had Trouble climbing even when not in man-hauling harness — there were the usual complement of bruises and Broken Bones for me to deal with. These included one serious compound fracture of seaman Bill Shanks’s arm. I have kept the man here after setting the bones for fear of sepsis. (The flesh and skin were punctured by sharp bone fragments in two places.)

But Scurvy remains the Primary Killer lurking in this tent.

Mr. Hoar, Captain Fitzjames’s Personal Steward, may well be the first Man to Die of it Here. He is no longer Conscious for much of the day. As with Leys and Heather, he had to be man-hauled across the 25 Miles separating our doomed Ship from this Terror Camp.

Edmund Hoar is an early but Typical example of the progression of this disease. The Captain’s Steward is a Young Man — he will turn 27 in a little more than two weeks, on May 9. If he survives that long.

For a Steward, Hoar is a large man — six feet tall — and to all appearances to Chief Surgeon Stanley and myself, he was in fine health when the Expedition sailed. He was quick, smart, alert, energetic in his Duties, and unusually athletic for a steward. During the running and manhauling Games held so frequently on the ice at Beechey Island in the winter of 1845–46, Hoar was frequently a winner and leader of his various teams.

He has had slight symptoms of the Scurvy since last autumn — the weariness, lassitude, increasingly frequent Confusion — but the disease became most Pronounced after the Debacle of the Venetian Carnivale. He continued serving Captain Fitzjames sixteen hours a day and more into February, but finally his health broke down.

The first Symptom to make itself known with Mr. Hoar is what the men in the fo’c’sle are calling the Crown of Thorns.

Blood began weeping from Edmund Hoar’s hair. And not just from the hair on his head. First his Caps and then his Undershirts and then his Underthings became stained with Blood each day.

I have observed this carefully, and the blood on the Scalp does come from the follicles themselves. Some of the Seamen attempted to avoid this Early Symptom by shaving their heads, but of course that does no good. With Welsh wigs, caps, scarves, and now pillows being soaked with blood by the Majority of the men, the sailors and officers have begun wearing Towels under their headgear and laying their head on them at night.

This does not, of course, Alleviate the Embarrassment and Discomfort of bleeding from all Points that have body hair.

Hemorrhages began appearing under Steward Hoar’s skin in January. Although the Outside Games were a distant Memory by then and Mr. Hoar’s duties rarely took him far from the Ship or into Great Physical Exertion, the slightest Bump or Bruise would show on his Body as a massive red-and-blue blotch. It would not heal. A Scratch from peeling potatoes or carving Beef would stay open and continue to bleed for weeks.

By late January, Mr. Hoar’s legs had swollen to Twice their Normal Size. He had to borrow filthy Trousers from larger crewmen just to stay dressed while serving his captain. He could not sleep because of the everincreasing Pain in his Joints. By early March, any movement at all was Agony for Edmund Hoar.

All through March, Hoar insisted that he could not stay in Erebus’s Sick Bay — that he had to return to his berth and to serving and caring for Captain Fitzjames. His blond hair was constantly soaked with caked blood. His swollen arms, legs, and face began to look like pasty Dough. Every day that I tested his skin, it had Lost more Elasticity; by the week before Erebus was crushed, I could push deep into Edmund Hoar’s flesh and the dimple would stay there permanently, the new Bruise spreading and spilling into a patchwork of earlier Hemorrhages.

By mid-April, Hoar’s entire body had become a Bloated, Misshapened mass. His face and hands were Yellow from jaundice. His eyes were a Bright Yellow, made all the more shocking due to the bleeding from his eyebrows.

Despite my assistant’s and my own efforts to turn and move the patient several times a Day, by the day we carried him from the dying Erebus, Hoar was covered with bedsores that had become brownishpurple ulcers that never ceased Suppurating. His face, especially on either side of his Nose and Mouth, was also ulcerated, constantly oozing Pus and Blood.

Pus from a Scurvy victim has an extraordinarily foul stench.

By the day we moved Mr. Hoar to Terror Camp, he had lost all but two of his teeth. And this was a man who — on Christmas Day — had boasted the healthiest smile of any young man on the Expedition.

Hoar’s gums have blackened and receded. He is conscious only a few hours each day and is in Terrible Pain during every second of that time. When we open his mouth to feed him, the Stench is close to unbearable. Since we cannot wash Towels, we have lined his Cot with sailcloth which is now Black with Blood. His frozen and filthy clothing is also Brittle with dried Blood and Crusted Pus.

As terrible as his Appearance and Suffering are, the more Terrible Fact is that Edmund Hoar may linger on like this — getting Worse each Day — for more Weeks or even Months. Scurvy is an Insidious killer. It Tortures for a long time before it grants its victim a final peace. By the time one dies of Scurvy, one’s closest Relative often will not be able to recognize the Sufferer and not enough of the Sufferer’s mind will be left to recognize the relative.

But that is not a problem here. With the Exception of brothers serving together on this Expedition — and Thomas Hartnell lost his older brother on Beechey Island — there are no relatives who will ever come out here on the ice or onto this Terrible Island of wind, snow, ice, lightning, and fog. There is no one to identify us when we fall, much less Bury us.

Twelve of the men in the Sick Bay are dying of Scurvy, and more than Two thirds of the 105 survivors, including myself, have one or more symptoms of it.

We will be out of the lemon juice — our most successful antiscorbutic, although its Efficacy has been Declining steadily the past year — in less than a week. The only Defense I will have then is Vinegar. A week ago — in the Stores Tent on the ice outside HMS Terror — I personally presided over the decanting of our remaining volumes of Vinegar from casks to be proportioned out into 18 Smaller Kegs — one for each boat that had been sledged to Terror Camp.

The men hate Vinegar. Unlike the lemon juice, whose Tartness can be somewhat disguised with dollops of Sugar Water or even Rum, Vinegar tastes like poison to men whose palates have already been damaged by the Scurvy growing in their systems.

Officers who have dined more on Goldner’s Canned Foods than the seamen have — they ate their beloved (although rancid) Salted Pork and Beef until those casks were empty — appear to be more prone to coming down with the advanced symptoms of Scurvy than the regular sailors.

This confirms Dr. McDonald’s theory that there is some vital Element lacking — or some Poison present — in the purely canned meats and vegetables and soups as opposed to spoiled but once-fresh victuals. If there was some miraculous way I could discover that Element — poison or lifesaver — I would not only have a good Chance of saving these men, possibly even Mr. Hoar, but would run an excellent Chance of being Knighted when we are rescued or reach safe harbour by ourselves.

But there is no way to do it, given our current Conditions and my lack of any Scientific Apparatus. The best I can do is insist that the men eat any fresh meat that our hunters shoot and bring in — even the Blubber and sweetmeats, I feel, against all logic, may strengthen us against Scurvy.

But our hunters have found no living things to shoot. And the ice is too thick to chop through for fishing.

Last night Captain Fitzjames stopped by as he does at the beginning and end of each of his long, long Days, and after he had his usual Rounds of the sleeping men, asking me the Changes in Condition of each, I was Forward enough to ask him the question I had been wondering about for so many weeks now.

Captain, I said, I understand if you are too busy to answer this or if you prefer not to, since it is a Lubber’s question, there is no doubt of it, but I’ve been wondering for some time — why 18 Boats? We seem to have brought Every Boat from Erebus and Terror, yet we have only 105 men.

Captain Fitzjames said, Come outside with me if you will, Dr. Goodsir.

I told Henry Lloyd, my Weary Assistant, to watch over the men, and followed Captain Fitzjames outside. I had noticed in the Sick Bay Tent that his Beard, which I had thought was coming in Red, was actually mostly Grey, only rimmed in dried Blood.

The captain had brought an extra Lantern from the Sick Bay and he led the way with it down to the graveled Beach.

There was no Wine-Dark Sea lapping at the Shingle of this Beach, of course. Instead, the heap of coastal Tall Bergs that formed a Barrier between us and the Ice Pack still lined the Shore.

Captain Fitzjames raised his lantern along the long line of boats. What do you see, Doctor? he asked.

Boats, I ventured, feeling every Inch the Lubber I had accused myself of being.

Can you tell the difference between them, Dr. Goodsir?

I looked more carefully in the lantern light.

These first four are not on Sledges, I said. I had been quick to notice that even the first night I was here. I had no idea why this was the case, when Mr. Honey had gone to such Care to make special Sledges for all the Rest. It seemed like Rank Carelessness to me.

Aye, you are correct, said Captain Fitzjames. These Four are our Whaleboats from Erebus and Terror. Thirty feet long. Lighter than the Others. Very strong. Six oars each. Double-ended like canoes… d’ye see now?

I did now. I had never noticed that the whaleboats seemed to have two bows, like a canoe.

If we had ten whaleboats, continued the Captain, everything would have been perfect.

Why is that? I asked.

They’re strong, Doctor. Very strong. And light, as I said. And we could pile Supplies in them and drag them across the Ice without having had the need to build Sledges as we did for the Others. If we find Open Water, we could launch them straight from the ice.

I shook my head. Knowing that Captain Fitzjames would think me a Total Fool as soon as I asked the question — I asked it anyway: But why can the whaleboats be dragged on the ice when the others cannot, Captain?

Captain Fitzjames’s voice showed no impatience when he said, Do you see the rudder, Doctor?

I looked at each end, but I did not. I confessed that to the captain.

Exactly, he said. Whaleboats have a Shallow Keel and no fixed Rudder. An oarsman at the stern steers her.

Is that good? I asked.

It is if you want a light, tough boat with a shallow Keel and no tender Rudder to be broken off when you’re dragging her, said Captain Fitzjames. Perfect for man-hauling across the ice, even though she’s 30 Feet long and can carry up to a Dozen Men with room for Supplies.

I nodded as if I understood. I almost did — but I was very tired.

Do you see her mast, Doctor?

Again I looked. Again I failed to find that which had been requested of me to find. I admitted as much.

That’s because the whaleboats have a single collapsible mast, said the Captain. It’s there folded under the Canvas the men have Rigged over her gunwales.

I have noticed that canvas and wood covering all the boats, I said, to show that I was not totally unobservant. Is that to keep the snow out?

Fitzjames was lighting his pipe. He had run out of Tobacco long ago. I did not want to Know what he was burning in it. The Boat Covers were put on to shield the Crews of all 18 Boats, even though we may only take 10 boats with us, he said softly. Most of the men in camp were sleeping. Guards paced coldly just at the edge of the lantern light.

We’ll be under that canvas when we cross Open Water to the mouth of the Back’s Great Fish River? I asked. I had never pictured us hunkered down under Canvas and wood. I had always imagined us rowing happily in Sunlight.

We may not use the Boats on the River, he said, puffing out aromatic clouds of what smelled like dried human excrement. If the Waters along the Coast open up this Summer, Captain Crozier would prefer to Sail us to Safety.

All the way to Alaska and St. Petersburg? I asked.

To Alaska at least, said the Captain. Or perhaps Baffin Bay if the Coastal Leads open to the North. He took several steps and swung the lantern closer to the Boats on Sledges. Do you know these Boats, Doctor?

Are they different, Captain? I found that such terrible Fatigue was a great Inducement to Honesty without Embarrassment.

Aye, said Fitzjames. These next two lashed to Mr. Honey’s special Sledges here are our Cutters. Surely you noticed them when they were Lashed on Deck or on the ice next to the Ships these past Three Winters?

Yes, of course, I said. But are you saying these are different from the first, the whaleboats?

Quite different, said Captain Fitzjames, taking the time to relight his pipe. Do you notice any masts on these boats, Doctor?

Even in the dim light from the lantern I could see two masts rising from each of these craft. The Canvas had been Artfully shaped and cut and Stitched around them. I told the Captain my observation.

Aye, very good, he said. He did not sound Condescending.

Are these collapsible masts not collapsed for a purpose? I asked, as much to show that I had been listening earlier as for any better reason.

They’re not collapsible, Dr. Goodsir. These masts are Lug Rigged… or you may know them as Gaff Rigged. Quite permanent. And do you see fixed rudders on these? And the deeper keels?

I could. I did. The Rudders and Keels are the reason they could not be Dragged like the whaleboats? I ventured.

Exactly. You have Diagnosed the Problem, Doctor.

Could not the Rudders be removed, Captain?

Possibly, Dr. Goodsir, but the deep Keels… they would have been Stuck or Ripped out by the first Pressure Ridge, now wouldn’t they?

I nodded again and laid my mittened hand on the gunwale. Is it my imagination, or are these four boats slightly shorter than the whaleboats?

You have a very good Eye indeed, Doctor. 28 feet long as opposed to 30 feet for the whaleboats. And heavier… the Cutters are Heavier. And square-sterned.

For the first time I noticed that these 2 Boats, unlike the whalers, definitely had a Bow and a squared-off stern. No Canoes here. How many men will the Cutters carry? I asked.

Ten. And they pull 8 Oars. They have Room for quite a few Stores, and there will be Room for us all to Huddle down out of the Storm, even on the Open Sea, and with the two masts the Cutters will offer twice the Canvas to the wind that the whaleboats do, but the Cutters will not be as good as the Whalers if we have to go up Back’s Great Fish River.

Why is that? I asked, feeling that I should already know, that he had already told me.

The deeper draft, sir. Let us look at the next two… the jolly boats.

I found nothing jolly-looking about either of the next two boats. They seem longer than the Cutters, I said.

They are, Doctor. 30 feet Long apiece… the same Length as our whaleboats. But Heavier, Doctor, Heavier even than the Cutters. A great Trial, with their 900-lb. Sledges to haul across the Ice… even this far… I assure you. Captain Crozier may choose to leave them here.

I asked, Then should we not have left them behind at the ships?

He shook his head. No. We need to choose which boats will best serve to allow 100 men to survive for several weeks or months at sea, or even on the river. Did you know that Boats… all of these Boats… have to be Rigged differently for sailing on the sea or catching the Wind going upriver, Doctor?

It was my turn to shake my head.

No matter, said Captain Fitzjames. We’ll get into the niceties of river rigging versus sea rigging some other time, preferably on a Sunny, Warm day far South of here. These last 8 Boats… the first Two are Pinnaces, the next Four are Ship’s Boats, and the final Two are Dinghies.

The Dinghies seem much shorter, I said.

Captain Fitzjames puffed on his literally execrable pipe and nodded as if I had revealed Some Pearl of Wisdom from Holy Scripture. Aye, he said sadly. The Dinghies are only 12 feet Long, as opposed to the Pinnaces’ 28-foot Length and the Ship’s Boats 22 feet. But none of them can be rigged for masts and sailing and they’re all lightly Oared. The men in these Boats would be in for some Hard Times if we went to the Open Sea, I am afraid. I would not be surprised if Captain Crozier chooses to Leave them Behind.

I thought, Open Sea? The idea of actually sailing any of these craft on anything more expansive than Back’s Great Fish River, which I imagined rather like the Thames, had never occurred to me before tonight, even though I had been present at various war councils discussing such possibilities. It seemed to me, looking at the smaller and rather delicate-looking Dinghies and Ship’s Boats lashed on their Sledges, that the men going to sea in these would be doomed to watch the Pinnaces with their Two Masts and the Whaleboats with their single Tall Masts simply sail away over the horizon.

The men in these Smaller Boats would be Doomed. How would the crews be chosen? Had they been chosen already, in secret, by the Two Captains?

And which boat — and which Fate — had I been assigned?

If we take the Smaller Boats, we’ll draw lots for them, said the Captain. The places in the pinnaces, jolly boats, and whaleboats would be assigned according to man-hauling teams.

I must have looked at him in alarm.

Captain Fitzjames laughed — a laugh that turned into a racking cough — and knocked out the ashes from his pipe against his Boot. The wind was coming up, and it was very cold. I had no idea of the time — sometime after Midnight. It had been dark for at least seven hours.

Don’t worry, Doctor, he said softly. I wasn’t reading your mind. Only your expression. As I say, we’ll Draw Lots for the smaller boats, but we may not take the Smaller Boats. In either case, we won’t leave anyone behind. We’ll tie the ships together on the Open Water.

I smiled at this, hoping that the Captain could see my smile in the lantern light but not my Bleeding Gums. I didn’t know that ships under sail could be tied to other ships not under sail, I said, showing my ignorance again.

Most of the time, they cannot, said Captain Fitzjames. He touched me lightly on the back — a touch I could hardly feel through my outer Slops. Now that you’ve learned the Nautical Secrets of all 18 Boats that might end up in our little Fleet, Doctor, shall we get back? It’s rather cold, and I have to get some Sleep before I rise at Four Bells to check on the Watch.

I bit my lip, tasting blood. I do have one last question, Captain, if you don’t mind.

Not at all.

When will Captain Crozier choose the boat we take and when will he put those boats in the water? I said. My voice was very hoarse.

The Captain moved slightly and was silhouetted against the light from the bonfire near the Seamen’s Mess Tent. I could not see his face.

I don’t know, Dr. Goodsir, he said at last. I doubt if Captain Crozier could tell you. Lady Luck may be with us and the Ice may break up in a few Weeks… if it does, I’ll sail you to Baffin Island myself. Or we could be launching some of these craft against the current at the Mouth of the Great Fish River in three months… conceivably there could still be time to get to Great Slave Lake and the outpost there before Winter fully sets in, even if it takes until July to reach the River.

He patted the curved side of the Pinnace closest to him. I felt a strange, quiet pride in being able to identify it as a Pinnace.

Or perhaps it was one of the 2 Jolly Boats.

I tried not to think of the condition of Edmund Hoar and what it forecast for all the rest of us if we did not begin the 850-mile Venture up Back’s River… the river they also call the Great Fish River… for another Three Months. Who could possibly be left Alive if a boat made it to Great Slave Lake months later than that?

Or, he said softly, if Lady Luck is not with us, these hulls and keels may never feel water under them again.

There was nothing to say to that. It was our Death Sentence. I turned from the light to walk back to the Sick Bay Tent. I respected Captain James Fitzjames and I did not want him to see my face at that Moment.

Captain Fitzjames’s hand fell on my shoulder, stopping me.

Should that be the case, he said, his voice fierce, we’ll just have to bloody well walk home, shan’t we?