The Terror

⁴⁷ PEGLAR

The men waiting in Hospital Camp had been eager to depart ten minutes after Lieutenant Little’s party brought in the word of the open water, but it was another day before they broke camp and another two days until the boats’ hulls were actually slipped from the ice into the black water south of King William Land.

First they had to wait for all the other hunting and reconnaissance parties to return, and some came back after midnight, staggering into camp in the dim-yellow arctic twilight and collapsing into their sleeping bags without even hearing the good news. Very little game had been bagged, but Robert Thomas’s group had killed an arctic fox and several white rabbits and Sergeant Tozer’s team brought back a brace of ptarmigan.

On the morning of 5 July, a Wednesday, the Sick Bay tent all but emptied out as everyone who could stand or stagger wanted to lend a hand in preparations for putting to sea.

John Bridgens had taken the place of the dead Henry Lloyd and Tom Blanky as Dr. Goodsir’s assistant in recent weeks, and the steward had watched the previous afternoon’s near mutiny while standing next to the surgeon in the door of the Sick Bay tent. It was Bridgens who described the whole scene to Harry Peglar, who felt sicker than he already was by learning that his Erebus foretop counterpart, Robert Sinclair, had joined in the near uprising. Reuben Male, he knew, had always been a dependable man, but strong-willed. Very strong-willed.

Peglar had nothing but contempt for Aylmore, Hickey, and their sycophants. In Harry Peglar’s eyes they were all men with busy little minds and — except for Manson — an abundance of words, but no sense of loyalty.

That Thursday, the sixth of July, found them out on pack ice for the first time in more than two months. Most of them had forgotten how terrible the man-hauling was on the open ice, even here in the lee of King William Land and the bulbous cape they’d just come around. There were still pressure ridges to haul the ten boats up and over. The sea ice was far less slippery under runners than the snow and shore ice were. There were no vales in which to shelter, no low ridgelines — not even the occasional boulder — in which to hide from the wind. Out here there were no trickling streams to drink from. The snowstorm continued and the wind grew stronger out of the southeast, blowing directly in their faces as they hauled the boats the two miles Lieutenant Little’s hunting group had covered before coming across the open lead.

The first night out they were so exhausted that they did not even erect the Holland tents but pitched a few tent floors as tarps extending from the leeward side of the boats and boats on sledges and huddled together on the ice through the few hours of arctic summer dimness in their three-man sleeping bags.

Even with the storm, wind, and pack-ice difficulties, energized by their excitement, they covered the two miles by midmorning Friday, 7 July.

The lead was gone. Closed up. Little pointed out the thinner ice — none more than three to eight inches thick — where it had been.

With Ice Master James Reid in the lead, they followed the zigzag path of the recently frozen-over lead southeast then due east for much of that day.

Now, added to their disappointment and ever-present misery exacerbated by the snow in their faces and their thoroughly soaked clothing, came the tension — for the first time in years — of walking on thin ice.

A little after noon that day, Marine Private James Daly, who was one of six men sent ahead to test the ice by poking at it with long pikes, fell through. His comrades pulled him out, but not before he quite literally turned blue. Dr. Goodsir had Daly stripped naked on the ice, wrapped in Hudson’s Bay blankets, and bundled under more blankets beneath the canvas cover of one of the cutters. Two other men had to stay with him, lying on either side of him in the canvas-yellow dimness beneath the boat cover so that their body warmth could keep him alive. Even then Private Daly’s body shook and his teeth chattered uncontrollably and he ventured into delirium for much of the rest of the day.

The ice, as stable as a continent underfoot for two years, now rose and fell in low swells in a way that made everyone dizzy and caused some men to vomit. Pressure made even the thicker ice crack and groan with sudden explosions from far ahead, close ahead, to either side, behind, or directly underfoot. Dr. Goodsir had explained to them months before that one of the symptoms of advanced scurvy was a man’s heightened sensitivity to sound — the blast of a gunshot could actually kill a man, he had said — and now the majority of the 89 men pulling the boats across the ice recognized those symptoms in themselves.

Even a near idiot like Magnus Manson realized that if any or all of the boats fell through the ice — ice that had failed to support a single skinny, starved scarecrow of a man like James Daly — there would be no hope for any of the men in harness. They would drown even before they froze to death.

Used to their tight procession across the ice, the men felt strange about their new man-hauling method of keeping the boats far apart and staggered. At times in the snowstorm each group would be out of sight of all the other groups and the sense of isolation was terrible. When they went back to haul the last three cutters and two pinnaces forward, they did not follow their old tracks and had to worry that the new ice they were on would not hold them.

Some of the men grumbled that they might have already missed the inlet leading south to the mouth of Back’s River. Peglar had seen the charts and Crozier’s occasional theodolite reading and knew that they were still a good distance to the west — thirty miles to the inlet, at the very least. Another sixty or sixty-five miles south then to the mouth. At the rate of their travel on land, even if food appeared and everyone’s health miraculously improved, they would not reach the inlet until August and the mouth of the river until late September at the earliest.

The promise of open water made Harry Peglar’s heart pound. Of course, his heart was pounding erratically much of the time these days anyway. Harry’s mother had always worried about his heart — as a boy he had suffered scarlet fever and frequent pains in his chest — but he’d always told her such concerns were nonsense, that he was foretop captain in some of the world’s greatest ships and that no man with a bad heart could hold such a position. Somehow he convinced her he was fine, but over the years Peglar felt occasional flutters in his chest, followed by days of pain and a sense of constriction and an ache down his left arm so bad that some days he had to climb to the foretop and upper spars with only one hand. The other foretopmen thought he was showing off.

These last weeks, his heart fluttered more frequently than not. He’d lost the use of his left fingers two weeks ago and the ache never left him. This, along with the embarrassment and inconvenience of the constant diarrhea — Peglar had always been a modest man, even about doing his business in the open over the side of a ship, which other men gave no thought to, had kept him constipated and waiting for darkness or the seat of ease.

But there was no seat of ease on this march. Not even a God-damned bush or shrub or large rock to hide behind. The men in Peglar’s hauling team laughed that their petty officer would fall behind out of sight and risk being taken by the Terror rather than allow himself to be seen taking a shit.

It wasn’t the friendly laughter that had bothered Peglar in recent weeks; it was the rushing to catch up with his team and to get back into harness. He was so exhausted from the internal bleeding and lack of food and heart flutters that he was having more and more trouble rushing to catch the receding boats.

So out of eighty-nine men this Friday, Harry Peglar was probably the only one who welcomed the blowing snow and the fog that came in after the snow began to abate.

The fog was a problem. Traveling so separately across the treacherous ice, it would have been easy for the boat teams to lose one another. Even backtracking to pick up the remaining cutters and pinnaces had been a problem, and that was before the fog grew thick as evening approached. Captain Crozier called a halt to discuss the matter. No more than fifteen men were allowed to congregate on a small area of ice at one time and that not too near a boat. They were pulling this evening with the fewest men it took to move the huge, heavy masses of boats and sledges.

The sledges were going to be a logistical problem if they ever reached the promised open water. The chances were great that they would need to load the deep-draft cutters and pinnaces with their keels and fixed rudders on sledges again before they reached the mouth of Back’s River, so they couldn’t just abandon the battered vehicles on the ice. Before leaving on Thursday, Crozier rehearsed taking the six sledged boats off, collapsing the heavy sledges as much as they had been designed to be collapsed or broken down, and stowing them properly in the boats. It took hours.

Setting the boats back up on their sledges before going out onto the pack ice was just within the men’s failing strength and abilities. Fingers stupid with fatigue and scurvy fumbled with simple knots. A shallow cut kept bleeding. The slightest jostle left hand-sized bruises on their softening arms and in the thinning skin above their ribs.

But now they knew they could do it — unload, then load again the sledges, ready the boats for launching.

If they found the lead soon.

Crozier had each boat team light lanterns fore and aft. He called back the almost useless Marine ice-checkers with their pikes and appointed Lieutenant Hodgson as officer to lead the diamond of five boats, with one of the heavy whaleboats filled with the least essential items being pulled ahead of the others in the fog.

Every man there knew that this was young Hodgson’s reward for throwing in with potential mutineers. His man-hauling team was led by Magnus Manson, while Aylmore and Hickey were also in harness, men who until now had been assigned to separate teams. If this lead boat team broke through the ice, the others would hear the screams and flailings through the heavy evening fog, but there would be nothing they could do except leave them and go a safer way.

The rest now must risk a near procession, staying close enough that they could see the others’ lanterns in the growing gloom.

Around 8:00 p.m. there did come shouts and screams from Hodgson’s lead team, but they had not fallen through. They’d found open water again more than a mile east and south of where Little had seen a lead on Wednesday.

The other teams sent men forward with lanterns, moving tentatively on what they assumed was thin ice, but the ice stayed firm and was estimated to be more than a foot thick right up to the edge of the inexplicable lead.

The cleft of black water was only about thirty feet wide, but it extended off into the fog.

“Lieutenant Hodgson,” commanded Crozier, “make room in your whaleboat for six men at oars. Put the extra supplies out on the ice for now. Lieutenant Little will then take command of the whaleboat. Mr. Reid, you will go along with Lieutenant Little. You will proceed down the lead for two hours if that is possible. Don’t raise your sail, Lieutenant. Oars only, but have the men put their backs into it. At the end of two hours — if you get that far — turn around and row back with your recommendation as to whether it’s worth our effort to launch the boats. We’ll use the four hours you are gone to unload everything here and pack the sledges into the remaining boats.”

“Aye, sir,” said Little and began barking orders. Peglar thought that young Hodgson looked as if he might weep. He knew how hard it must be to be in your twenties and know that your Naval career was over. Serves him right, thought Peglar. He’d spent decades in a navy that hanged men for mutiny and lashed them for the mere thought of mutiny, and Harry Peglar had never disagreed with either the rule or the punishment.

Crozier walked over. “Harry, do you feel well enough to go along with Lieutenant Little? I’d like you to handle the tiller. Mr. Reid and Lieutenant Little will be in the bow.”

“Oh, yes, Captain. I feel fine.” Peglar was shocked that Captain Crozier thought he looked or acted sick. Have I been malingering in any way? The very thought that he could have been made him sicker.

“I need a good man on the sweep oar and a third assessment as to whether this lead is a go,” whispered Crozier. “And I need at least one man along who knows how to swim.”

Peglar smiled at this even as his scrotum tightened at the thought of going into that black, cold water. The air temperature was below freezing, and the water, with all its salt content, would be as well.

Crozier clapped Peglar on the shoulder and moved on to talk to another “volunteer.” It was obvious to the foretop captain that Crozier was carefully picking the men he wanted along on this scouting trip while keeping others, like First Mate Des Voeux, Second Mate Robert Thomas, Bosun’s Mate and Terror’s disciplinarian Tom Johnson, and all the Marines, with him and alert.

In thirty minutes they had the boat ready to float.

It was a strangely equipped expedition within an expedition. They brought along a bag with some salt pork and biscuits, as well as some water bottles in case they became lost or otherwise extended the four-hour mission. Each of the nine men was handed an axe or pickaxe. If they should find a small berg overhanging and blocking the lead, or if a scrim of ice should block the way, they would try hacking their way through. Peglar knew that if a wider, thicker band of ice stopped them, they would portage the whaleboat to the next band of open water if they could. He hoped that he had the strength left to do his part in lifting, pulling, and shoving the heavy boat for a hundred yards or more.

Captain Crozier handed Lieutenant Little a two-barreled shotgun and a bag of cartridges. The items were stowed in the bow.

Should they somehow be stranded out there, Peglar knew, the heaps of supplies they kept onboard included a double-sized tent and a tarp for the floor. There were three three-man sleeping bags kept in the boat. But they did not plan to get lost out there.

The men crawled in and found their places as the ice fog curled around them. The previous winter, Crozier and the other officers and mates had discussed having Mr. Honey — and Mr. Weekes before his death on Erebus in March — raise the sides of all the boats. The small craft would have been better prepared for open seas that way. But in the end it was decided to keep the gunwales at their usual height to better facilitate river travel. Also to that end, Crozier had ordered all the oars cut down in length so that they might more easily be used as paddles on the river.

The remaining ton or so of bundled food and gear in the bottom of the boat made seating difficult; those six seamen at the oars had to prop their feet on the duffels and would be rowing or paddling with their knees as high as their heads, and as the man at the oar-sweep tiller, Peglar found himself sitting on a rope-wrapped bundle rather than on the stern bench — but everyone fit and there was room for Lieutenant Little and Mr. Reid to perch in the bow with their long pikes.

The men were eager to launch the boat. There was a chorus of “one, two, three” and several heave-hos, and the heavy whaleboat slid across the ice, the bow tipped and fell two feet into the black water, the oarsmen fended off nearby ice as Mr. Reid and Lieutenant Little crouched and gripped the gunwales, the men on the ice heaved again, oars found water, and they were moving away in the fog — the first boat from Erebus or Terror to feel liquid water under its hull in almost two years and eleven months.

A spontaneous cheer went up, followed by the more traditional three hip-hip-hurrahs.

Peglar steered the boat to the center of the narrow lead — never more than twenty feet across here, sometimes barely room for the shortened oars to find water on both sides — and by the time he glanced back over his shoulder, all the men on the ice were lost in the fog astern.

The next two hours were dreamlike. Peglar had steered a small boat through floe ice before — it had taken more than a week of poking into berg-ridden harbours and inlets before they’d found the right anchorage for the two ships at Beechey Island two autumns ago, and Peglar had been in command of one of those small boats for days — but that had not felt like this. The lead stayed narrow — never more than thirty feet wide and sometimes so tight they propelled the whaleboat by poling on the ice that scraped the sides rather than by rowing — and the narrow channel of open water would bend left and then right, but never quite so tightly that the boat could not make the turns. Tumbles of pressure-raised ice hid the view to either side and the fog continued to close on them, then open a bit, then close even more tightly. Sounds seemed to be muffled and amplified at the same time and the effect was unsettling; men found themselves whispering when they had to communicate.

Twice they encountered stretches where floating ice blocked the way or the lead itself was frozen over to the point that most of the men had to clamber out to shove floating ice ahead with pikes or to hack away at the frozen surface with pickaxes. Some of the men stayed on the ice on either side then, pulling at ropes tied to the bow and thwarts or grabbing the gunwales and shoving and pulling the screeching whaleboat through the narrow crevice. Each time the lead then widened enough that the men could clamber back in and shove, paddle, and row their way forward.

They had been creeping forward this way for almost their full allotment of two hours when suddenly the meandering lead narrowed. Ice scraped both sides, but they used the oars to pole as Peglar stood in the bow, his steering sweep useless. Then suddenly they popped out into what was by far the widest stretch of open water they had seen. As if confirming that all their troubles were behind them, the fog lifted so that they could see hundreds of yards.

They had either reached true open water or a massive lake in the ice. Sunlight streamed down from a hole in the clouds above and turned the seawater blue. A few low, flat icebergs, one the size of a respectable cricket pitch, floated ahead of them in the azure sea. The icebergs prismed the light and the weary men shielded their eyes from the painful glory of sunlight shimmering on snow, ice, and water.

The six men at the oars gave a loud, spontaneous cheer.

“Not yet, men,” said Lieutenant Little. He was peering through his brass telescope, his foot up on the whaleboat’s bow. “We don’t know yet if this goes on… if there’s a way out of this ice lake other than the way we came in. Let’s make sure of that before we turn back.”

“Oh, it goes on,” shouted the seaman named Berry from his place at the oars. “I feel it in me bones. It’s open water and fair breezes between here and Back’s River, all right. We’ll get the others, open our sails, and be there before supper tomorrow.”

“I pray you’re right, Alex,” said Lieutenant Little. “But let’s spend some time and sweat to make certain. I want to bring nothing but good news back to the rest of the men.”

Mr. Reid, their ice master, pointed back at the lead from which they had emerged. “There are a dozen inlets here. We might have trouble finding the real lead when we come back unless we mark it now. Men, bring us back to the opening there. Mr. Peglar, why don’t you take that extra pike and drive it into the snow and ice there at the edge where we can’t miss it on our way back. It’ll give us something to row toward.”

“Aye,” said Peglar.

With their return avenue marked, they rowed out into the open water. The large, flat iceberg was only a hundred yards or so from the opening to their inlet, and they rowed close to it on their way toward open water.

“We could camp on ’aton and have plenty of room left over,” said Henry Sait, one of the Terror seamen at the oars.

“We don’t want to camp,” said Lieutenant Little from the bow. “We’ve had enough camping for a fucking lifetime. We want to go home.”

The men cheered and put their backs into it. Peglar at the sweep started a chantey and the men sang along, the first real singing they’d done in months.

It took them three hours — a full hour beyond the time they should have turned back — but they had to be sure.

The “open water” was an illusion: a lake in the ice a little more than a mile and a half long and a little more than two thirds of a mile wide. Dozens of apparent “leads” opened from the irregular southern, eastern, and northern ice edges of the lake, but they were all false starts, mere inlets.

At the southeastern terminus of the lake they tied up to the ice shelf, driving a pickaxe into the six-foot-thick ice and tying on to it, then cutting steps up the side as if it were a wharf; all the men clambered out and looked to the direction they’d hoped the open water continued.

Solid, flat white. Ice and snow and seracs. And the clouds were coming down again, swirling into a low fog. It was beginning to snow.

After Lieutenant Little looked in each direction, they boosted the smallest man, Berry, up onto the shoulders of the largest man there, thirty-six-year-old Billy Wentzall, and let Berry look through the glass. He boxed the compass with his search, telling Wentzall when to turn.

“Not so much as a fookin’ penguin,” he said. It was an old joke, referring to Captain Crozier’s trip to the other pole. No one laughed.

“Do you see dark sky anywhere?” asked Lieutenant Little. “As one sees over open water? Or the tip of a larger berg?”

“Nay, sir. And the clouds is comin’ closer.”

Little nodded. “Let’s head back, boys. Harry, you clamber down into the boat first and steady her, will you?”

No one said a word in their ninety-minute pull across the lake. The sunlight disappeared and fog blotted away the landscape again, but before long the cricket-pitch berg loomed out of the mist and showed them that they were going the correct direction.

“We’re almost back to the lead,” called Little from the bow. At times the fog was so thick that Peglar in the stern had trouble seeing the lieutenant. “Mr. Peglar, a little to port, please.”

“Aye, sir.”

The men at the oars did not even look up. To a man they seemed lost in the misery of their thoughts. Snow was pelting them again, but from the northwest now. At least the men at the oars had their backs to it.

When the fog did lift a bit, they were less than a hundred feet from the inlet.

“I see the pike,” Mr. Reid said tonelessly. “A bit to starboard and you have it lined up nicely, Harry.”

“Something’s wrong,” said Peglar.

“What do you mean?” called back the lieutenant. Some of the seamen looked up from their oars and frowned at Peglar. With their backs to the bow, they could not see ahead.

“Do you see that serac or big ice boulder near the pike I left at the mouth of the lead?” said Harry.

“Yes,” said Lieutenant Little. “So?”

“It wasn’t there when we came out,” said Peglar.

“Back oars!” ordered Little, uselessly since the men had already ceased their rowing and were back-stroking briskly, but the heavy whaleboat’s momentum continued carrying it toward the ice.

The ice boulder turned.