Marine Private Heather, who had lost a portion of his Brain months before, finally allowed his Body to Die on our Fourth Day out. His surviving fellow Marines played a bagpipe over his shallow, hastily dug grave that evening.
And so it went with the other Sick dying rapidly, but then there came a Long Period after the twin deaths of Lieutenant Le Vesconte and Private Pilkington at the end of the Second Week in which no one died. The men Convinced themselves that the truly Ill had died off and only the Strong remained.
Captain Fitzjames’s sudden collapse reminded us that we were all growing Weaker. There were no longer any truly Strong among us. Except perhaps for the Giant, Magnus Manson, who lumbers along Imperturbably and who never seems to lose weight or energy.
To treat Captain Fitzjames’s constant vomiting, I administered doses of asafetida, a gum resin used to control spasms. It helped very little. He was not able to Keep Down either solid food or liquids. I gave him limewater to settle his stomach, but it also did no good.
For his difficulty swallowing, I administered Syrup of Squills – a sliced herb set in tannin solution that is an Excellent Expectorant. Usually effective, it seemed to do little to lubricate the dying man’s Throat.
As Captain Fitzjames lost the Use and Control of first his Arms and then his Legs, I tried Peruvian Wine of Coca – a powerful admixture of wine and cocaine – as well as solutions of hartshorn, a Medicine made from ground-up antlers of red deer which stinks strongly of ammonia, as well as Solution of Camphor. These Solutions, at Half the Dosage I gave to the captain, often Arrest and even Reverse paralysis.
They did not help. The Paralysis spread to all of Captain Fitzjames’s extremities. He continued Vomiting and being Doubled Up by Cramps long after he could no longer speak or gesture.
But at least this Deadening of his Vocal Apparatus relieved the men of the Burden of hearing their Erebus Captain scream in pain. But I saw his convulsions and his mouth Open in silent screams that Long Last Day.
This morning, on the Fourth and Final Day of Captain Fitzjames’s Agony, his lungs began to shut down as the paralysis reached his respiratory muscles. He Laboured all day to breathe. Lloyd and I – sometimes abetted by Captain Crozier, who spent many hours with his Friend at the End – would set Fitzjames in a Sitting Position or Hold Him Upright or actually Walk the paralyzed man around the Tent, dragging his Limp Stockinged Feet across the Ice-and-Gravel floor, in a vain attempt to help his failing lungs Continue to work.
In desperation, I forced Tincture of Lobelia, a whiskey-coloured solution of Indian tobacco that was almost pure nicotine, down Captain Fitzjames’s throat, massaging it down his paralyzed gullet with my bare fingers. It was like feeding a dying Baby Bird. Tincture of Lobelia was the best respiratory stimulant left in my depleted Surgeon’s apothecary, a Stimulant that Dr. Peddie had sworn by. It would raise Jesus from the dead a day early, Peddie used to blaspheme when in his cups.
It did no good whatsoever.
It must be Remembered that I am a mere Surgeon, not a Physician. My training was in Anatomy; my expertise is in Surgery. Physicians prescribe; Surgeons saw. But I am doing my Best with the supplies my Dead Colleagues left to me.
The most Terrible thing about Captain James Fitzjames’s last hours was that he was Fully Alert through all of this – the vomiting and Cramps, the Loss of his Voice and ability to Swallow, the Creeping Paralysis, and the Final Terrible Hours of his lungs failing. I could see the panic and Terror in his eyes. His Mind was Fully Alive. His Body was Dying around him. He could do Nothing about this Living Torture except to Plead with me through his Eyes. I was impotent to help.
At times I wanted to Administer a lethal dose of pure Coca just to put an End to his Suffering, but my Hippocratic Oath and Christian belief did not allow that.
I went outside and Wept instead, making sure that none of the Officers or Men could see me.
Captain Fitzjames died at 8 minutes after 3:00 p.m. this afternoon, Tuesday the Sixth Day of June, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Forty-Eight.
His shallow grave had already been Dug. The Covering Rocks had been Gathered and Stacked. All of the Men who could stand and dress themselves turned out for the Service. Many of those who had served under Captain Fitzjames the past three years wept. Even though it was warm today – five to ten degrees above Freezing – a cold wind Came Up out of the Relentless Northwest and froze many Tears to beards or cheeks or comforters.
The few Marines left in our Expedition fired a volley into the Air.
Up the hill from the Grave, a Ptarmigan took to the air and flew out toward the Pack Ice.
A great Moan went up from the men. Not for Captain Fitzjames, but for the loss of the Ptarmigan for the evening’s stew. By the time the Marines reloaded their Muskets, the bird was a hundred yards away and far out of Range. (And none of these Marines ever could have hit a bird on the wing at one hundred yards even when they were Well and Warm.)
Later – just a half hour ago – Captain Crozier looked in on the Sick Bay Tent and beckoned me outside into the Cold.
Was it Scurvy that killed Captain Fitzjames? was his only question to me.
I admitted that I did not think it was. It had been something more Deadly.
Captain Fitzjames thought that the steward serving him and the other officers since Hoar’s death was poisoning him, whispered the captain. Is this possible?
Bridgens? I said too Loudly. I was deeply shocked. I had always liked the Bookish old Steward.
Crozier shook his head. Richard Aylmore has been serving the Erebus officers the last two weeks, he said. Could it have been poison, Dr. Goodsir?
I hesitated. To say yes would certainly mean Aylmore would be shot at sunrise. The Gunroom Steward was the man who had been Given fifty Lashes in January for his Improvident participation in the Grand Venetian Carnivale. Aylmore was also a Friend and Frequent Confidant of Terror’s Diminutive and sometimes Devious caulker’s mate. Aylmore, we all knew, harboured a small and resentful Soul.
It could well have been poison, I told Crozier not half an hour ago. But not necessarily a Deliberately Administered poison.
What does that mean? demanded Crozier. Our remaining captain looked so weary tonight that his white Skin actually glowed in the starlight.
I said, I mean that the Officers have been eating the Largest Portions of the last of the Goldner’s Canned Foods that we have brought along. There sometimes is an Unexplained but Deadly paralytic poison in foods that have gone bad. No one understands it. Perhaps it is some microscopic Animalcule we cannot Perceive with our Lenses.
Crozier whispered, Wouldn’t we have smelled it if the canned foods had gone putrid?
I shook my head and grasped the captain’s greatcoat sleeve to press home my point. No. That is the Terror of this Poison that Paralyzes first the voice and then the entire body. It cannot be Seen or Tested For. It is as invisible as Death itself.