The Terror

⁵⁰ BRIDGENS

John Bridgens had always — secretly — compared the different parts of his life to the various pieces of literature that had formed his life.

In his boyhood and student years, he had from time to time thought of himself as different characters from Boccaccio’s Decameron or from Chaucer’s ribald Canterbury Tales — and not all of his chosen characters were heroic by any means. (His attitude toward the world for some years was, kiss my arse.)

In his twenties, John Bridgens most identified with Hamlet. The strangely aging Prince of Denmark — Bridgens was quite sure that the boy Hamlet had magically aged over a few theatrical weeks to a man who was, at the very least, in his thirties by Act V — had been suspended between thought and deed, between motive and action, frozen by a consciousness so astute and unrelenting that it made him think about everything, even thought itself. The young Bridgens had been a victim of such consciousness and, like Hamlet, had frequently considered that most essential of questions — to continue or not to continue? (Bridgens’s tutor at the time, an elegant don in exile from Oxford who was the first unabashed sodomite the young would-be scholar had ever encountered, had disdainfully taught him that the famous “to be, or not to be” soliloquy was not in any way a discussion of suicide, but Bridgens knew better. Thus doth conscience make cowards of us all had spoken directly to the boy-man soul of John Bridgens, miserable with the state of his existence and his unnatural desires, miserable when pretending to be something he was not, miserable when pretending and miserable when not pretending, and, most centrally, miserable that he could only think about ending his own life because the fear that thought itself might continue on the other side of this mortal veil, “perchance to dream,” kept him from acting even toward quick, decisive, cold-blooded self-murder.)

Luckily, even as a young man not yet become himself, John Bridgens had two things besides indecision that kept him from self-destruction — books and a sense of irony.

In his middle years, Bridgens most thought of himself as Odysseus. It was not the wandering the world alone that made the comparison apt for the wouldbe scholar turned secondary officers’ steward but rather Homer’s description of the world-weary traveler — the Greek word meaning “crafty” or “guileful” by which Odysseus’ contemporaries identified him (and by which some, such as Achilles, chose to insult him). Bridgens did not use his craft to manipulate others, or rarely did, but used it more like one of the round leather-and-wood or prouder metal shields behind which Homeric heroes sheltered while under violent attack by spear and lance.

He used his craft to become and to stay invisible.

Once, some years ago, during the fiveyear voyage on the HMS Beagle during which he had come to know Harry Peglar, Bridgens mentioned his Odysseus analogy — suggesting that all the men on such a trip were modern-day Ulysseses to some extent or another — to the natural philosopher aboard (the two played chess frequently in Mr. Darwin’s tiny cabin), and the young bird expert with the sad eyes and sharp mind had looked penetratingly at the steward and said, “But how is it that I doubt you have a Penelope waiting at home, Mr. Bridgens?”

The steward had been more circumspect after that. He had learned — as Odysseus had learned after a certain number of years of his wanderings — that his guile was no match for the world and that hubris would always be punished by the gods.

In these last days, John Bridgens felt that the literary character with whom he had most in common — in outlook, in feeling, in memory, in future, in sadness — was King Lear.

And it was time for the final act.

They had stayed two days at the mouth of the river that drained into the unnamed strait south of King William Land, now known to be King William Island. The river here, in late July, was running freely in places and allowed them to fill all their water casks, but no one had seen or caught a fish from it. No animals seemed interested in coming down to drink from it… not so much as a white arctic fox. The best one could say about this campsite was that the slight indentation of the river valley kept them out of the worst of the wind and afforded them some peace of mind during the lightning storms that raged every night.

Both mornings at this camp, the men — hopefully, prayerfully — laid their tents, sleeping bags, and whatever clothing they could spare out on rocks to dry in the sunlight. There came, of course, no more sunlight. Several times it drizzled. The only day with blue sky they had seen in the past month and a half had been their last day in the boats and after that day, most of the men had to see Dr. Goodsir for their sunburns.

Goodsir — as Bridgens knew well, being his assistant — had very few medicines left in the box he’d put together from the supplies of his three dead colleagues as well as his own. There were still some purgatives in the good doctor’s arsenal (mostly castor oil and tincture of jalap, made from morning-glory seeds) and some stimulants for the scurvy cases, camphor and Hartshorn being the last after the tincture of lobelia had been used so liberally in the first months of scurvy symptoms, some opium as a sedative, a bit of Mandragora and Dover’s Powders left to dull pain, and only Sulphate of Copper and Lead remaining to disinfect wounds or deal with sunburn turned to blisters. Obeying Dr. Goodsir’s orders, Bridgens had administered almost all of the Sulphate of Copper and Lead to the moaning men who had stripped their shirts off while rowing and added severe sunburn to their nightly misery.

But there was no sunlight now to dry the tents or clothes or bags. The men stayed wet and at night they moaned as they shook with cold and burned with fever.

Reconnaissance by their healthiest, fastest-walking shipmates had shown that while out of sight of land on boats they had passed a deeply indented bay less than fifteen miles to the northwest of this river where they had finally put in to shore. Most shocking of all, the scouts reported that the entire island curved back to the northeast only ten miles ahead of them to the east. If this was true, they were very close to the southeast corner of King William Island, their closest possible approach on this landmass to the Back River inlet.

Back River, their destination, lay southeast across the strait, but Captain Crozier had let the men know that he planned to continue man-hauling east on King William Island to the point where the coast of the island ceased its current southeastern slant. There, at this final point of land, they would set up camp again on the highest place possible and watch the strait. If the ice broke in the next two weeks, they would take to the boats. If it did not, they would try to haul them south across the ice toward the Adelaide Peninsula and, upon hitting land there, head due east the fifteen miles or fewer that Crozier estimated remained before they would reach the inlet leading south to Back’s River.

The endgame had always been the weakest part of John Bridgens’s chess skills. He rarely enjoyed it.

On the evening before they were scheduled to leave River Camp at dawn, Bridgens neatly packed away his personal gear — including the thick journal he had kept over the past year (he had left five longer ones on Terror the previous 22 April) — set it in his sleeping bag with a note that anything useful should be shared by his mates, took Harry Peglar’s journal and his comb, added an old clothes brush that Bridgens had carried for many years, put them in his peacoat pocket, and went to Dr. Goodsir’s small medical tent to say goodbye.

“What do you mean you’re going for a walk and might not be back by the time we leave tomorrow?” demanded Goodsir. “What kind of talk is that, Bridgens?”

“I’m sorry, Doctor, I just have a strong desire to take a stroll.”

“A stroll,” repeated Goodsir. “Why, Mr. Bridgens? You are thirty years older than the average surviving seaman on this expedition, but you are ten times healthier.”

“I’ve always been lucky when it came to health, sir,” said Bridgens. “All due to heredity, I fear. No thanks to any wisdom I may have shown over the years.”

“Then why…,” began the surgeon.

“It’s just time, Dr. Goodsir. I confess to considering trodding the boards as a thespian long ago when I was young. One of the few things I learned about that profession was that the great actors learn how to make a good exit before they wear out their welcome or overplay a scene.”

“You sound like a Stoic, Mr. Bridgens. A follower of Marcus Aurelius. If the emperor is displeased with you, you go home, draw a warm bath…”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Bridgens. “While I admit I’ve always admired the Stoic philosophy, the truth is, I’ve always had a fear of knives and blades. The emperor would’ve had my head, my family, and lands for certain, I’m such a coward when it comes to sharp edges. I just wish to take a walk this evening. Perhaps a nap.”

“‘Perchance to dream’?” said Goodsir.

“Aye, there’s the rub,” admitted the steward. The rue and anxiety — and perhaps fear — in his voice were real.

“Do you really think we have no chance to reach help?” asked the surgeon. He sounded sincerely curious and only a little sad.

Bridgens did not answer for a minute. Finally he said, “I truly do not know. Perhaps it all depends upon whether a rescue party has already been sent north from Great Slave Lake or one of the other outposts. I would think they might have — we have been out of touch for three years now — and if so, there may be a chance. I do know that if anyone on our expedition could get us home, Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier is that man. He’s always been underrated by the Admiralty, is my humble opinion.”

“Tell him that yourself, man,” said Goodsir. “Or at least tell him that you’re leaving. You owe him that.”

Bridgens smiled. “I would, Doctor, but you and I both know that the captain would not let me go. He is stoic, I think, but no Stoic. He might put me in chains to keep me… going on.”

“Yes,” agreed Goodsir. “But you’ll be doing me a favour if you stay, Bridgens. I have some amputations coming up that will require your steady hand.”

“There are other young men who can help you, sir, and who have hands far steadier — and stronger — than mine.”

“But no one as intelligent,” said Goodsir. “No one I can talk to as I have with you. I value your advice.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Bridgens. He smiled again. “I didn’t want to tell you, sir, but I’ve always been queasy around pain and blood. Since I was a boy. I’ve very much appreciated the opportunity to work with you these past weeks, but it’s gone against my basically squeamish nature. I’ve always agreed with St. Augustine when he said that the only real sin is human pain. If there are amputations coming, it’s best I’m going.” He extended his hand. “Goodbye, Dr. Goodsir.”

“Goodbye, Bridgens.” The doctor used both of his hands to shake the older man’s.

Bridgens walked northeast out of camp, climbed up out of the shallow river valley — as with everywhere else on King William Island, no hill or ridgeline was much higher than fifteen or twenty feet above sea level — found a rocky ridgeline free of snow, and followed it away from camp.

Sunset now came sometime around 10:00 p.m., but John Bridgens had decided that he would not walk until dark. About three miles from River Camp, he found a dry spot on the ridge, sat, and took a ship’s biscuit — his day’s ration — from his peacoat pocket and slowly ate it. Completely stale, it was one of the most delicious things he’d ever tasted. He had neglected to bring water with him, but now he scooped up a bit of snow and let it melt in his mouth.

The sunset to the southwest was beautiful. For an instant the sun actually emerged in the gap between low grey cloud and high grey gravel, hung there as an orange ball for a moment — the kind of sunset that Odysseus, not Lear, would have seen and enjoyed — and then disappeared.

The day and air grew grey and mellow, although the temperature, that had held in the twenties all day, was dropping very quickly now. A wind would come up soon. Bridgens would like to be asleep before the nightly wind howled out of the northwest or the nightly lightning storms rolled across the land and ice strait.

He reached into his pocket and removed the last three items there.

First was the clothes brush that John Bridgens had used as steward for more than thirty years. He touched the bits of lint on it, smiled at some irony understood only by himself, and set it in his other pocket.

Next was Harry Peglar’s horn comb. A few light brown hairs still clung to the teeth of it. Bridgens held the comb tightly in his cold, bare fist for a moment and then set it in his coat pocket with the clothes brush.

Last was Peglar’s notebook. He flipped it open at random.

Oh Death whare is thy sting, the grave at Comfort Cove for who has any doubt now… the dyer sad.

Bridgens shook his head. He knew that the last word should be “said,” whatever else the waterstained and illegible part of the message should have read. He had taught Peglar to read but had never succeeded in teaching Harry how to spell. Bridgens suspected — since Harry Peglar was one of the most intelligent human beings he’d ever known — that there had been some problem with the constitution of the man’s brain, some lobe or lump or grey area unknown to medical learning, that controlled the spelling of words. Even in the years after he’d learned to decode the alphabet and read the most challenging of books with a scholar’s insight and understanding, Harry had been unable to pen the shortest letter to Bridgens without reversing letters and misspelling the simplest words.

Oh Death whare is thy sting…

Bridgens smiled a final time, set the journal in his front jacket pocket where it would be safe from small scavengers because he would be lying on it, and stretched out on his side on the gravel, laying his cheek on the backs of his bare hands.

He stirred only once, to tug his collar up and his hat down. The wind was coming up and it was very cold. Then he resumed his napping position.

John Bridgens was asleep before the last of the grey twilight died in the south.