The weather had grown colder and there was Some light Snow falling, but by and large the Fog had lifted to become a Low-Hanging layer of Clouds moving only a Hundred Feet or so above the ice. While this allowed us to see much farther than in the fog of the previous Day, the effect was oppressive, as if all our Movements were taking place in some strange Ballroom set in a deserted Arctic Mansion with a shattered White Marble Floor underfoot and a Low Grey Ceiling with trompe l’oeil clouds just above us.
At the moment the 9th and Final Boat was shoved into the water and its Crew clambered in, there was a faint and Sad Attempt at a hurrah from the men since it was the first time that most of these Deep Water Sailors had been afloat in almost 2 Years, but the Cheer died aborning. Concern about Lieutenant Little’s Crew’s Fate was too great to allow for any Sincere hurrahing.
For the first Hour and a half, the only sounds were the Groaning of the Working Ice around us and the occasional Answering Groans of the Men Working at the oars. But seated near the front of the second boat as I was, sitting on the Thwart behind where Mr. Couch stood at the Bow, knowing that I was Superfluous to all Locomotive Purposes, as much Dead Weight as the poor comotose-but-still-breathing David Leys – whom the men had been hauling in one of the pinnaces without Complaint now for more than 3 Months and whom my new aide, former steward John Bridgens, duly fed and cleansed of his own Filth every Evening in the medical tent we shared as if he was caring for a Beloved but Paralysed Grandfather (ironic since Bridgens was in his early 60’s and comatose Leys was only 40) – my position thus situated allowed me to hear Whispered Conversation between the Men at the Oars.
Little and the Others must have got themselves Lost, whispered a seaman named Coombs.
There ain’t no way that Lieutenant Edward Little got himself Lost, shot back Charles Best. He may be Stuck, but not Lost.
Stuck in what? whispered Robert Ferrier at an adjoining Oar. This Lead’s open Now. It was open Yesterday.
Maybe Lieutenant Little and Mr. Reid found the way Open Ahead of them all the way to Back’s River and just raised their Sail and went on, whispered Tom McConvey from one Row back. They’re there already is my guess… eating Salmon that jumped into their boat and Trading beads for Blubber with the Natives.
No one said anything to this unlikely Suggestion. The mention of the Esquimaux had caused Quiet Consternation since the massacre of Lieutenant Irving and 8 of the Savages on 24 April last. I believe that most of the Men, however desperate for Salvation or Rescue from any Source, Feared rather than Hoped for another contact with the local Native People. Revenge, Some natural philosophers suggest and Sailors endorse, is one of the most Universal of human motivations.
Two and a half hours after leaving our campsite of the Previous Night, Captain Crozier’s whaleboat broke out of the Narrow Lead into an Open Stretch of water. Men in the lead boat and my own boat let out happy shouts. As if left behind to Point the Way, a tall black ship’s pike stood Upright, embedded in the Snow and Ice at the exit from this Lead. The Night’s snow and freezing drizzle had painted the northwest side of the pike White.
These shouts also died Aborning as our Close Line of Boats pulled out into Open Water.
The water was Red here.
On shelves of ice to the Left and the Right of the Lead Opening, crimson streaks of what could only be Blood were smeared on the flat ice and down the Vertical Planes of the ice edges. The Sight sent a Shiver through me and I could see other men reacting with Open Mouths.
Easy now, men, muttered Mr. Couch from the bow of our Boat. This is just the sign of seals caught by the White Bears; we’ve seen such Seal Gore before in the Summers.
Captain Crozier in the lead boat was saying Similar Things to his Seamen.
A minute later we knew that these Crimson signs of Carnage were not the Residue of Seals butchered by White Bears.
Oh, Christ! exclaimed Coombs at his oar. All the men quit rowing. The Three whaleboats, Four cutters, and Two pinnaces floated into a sort of circle in the choppy red-tinted water.
The bow of Lieutenant Little’s whaleboat rose vertically from the Sea. Its Name (one of the 5 boat Names not changed after Captain Crozier’s Leviathan sermon in May) - The Lady J. Franklin - was clearly Visible in black Paint. The boat had been Broken Apart about 4 feet Back from the bow so that only this Forward Section – the ragged End of shattered thwarts and splintered Hull just visible beneath the surface of the Dark and Icy Water – floated there.
The men began Gathering other Flotsam as our 9 remaining Boats fanned out and rowed Slowly forward in a line: an Oar, more bits of Shattered Wood from gunwales and stern, a Steering Sweep, a Welsh wig, a bag that once held cartridges, a mitten, a bit of Waistcoat.
When Seaman Ferrier used a boat hook to pull in what looked to be a floating bit of Blue Peacoat, he suddenly cried out in Horror and almost dropped the long gaff.
A man’s body floated there, his Headless Corpse still Garbed in sodden blue Wool, his Arms and Legs hanging down in the black water. The neck was a mere bit of severed Stump. His fingers, perhaps swollen by death and the cold water but looking strangely shortened into broad Stubs, seemed to move in the Currents, rising and falling on the Slight Swell like White Worms wriggling. It was almost as if, Voiceless, the Body was trying to tell us something via Sign Language.
I helped Ferrier and McConvey pull the Remains aboard. Fish or some Aquatic Predator had been nibbling at the Hands – the fingers were gone to the Second Joint – but the Extreme Cold had delayed the bloating and decomposition Processes.
Captain Crozier brought his whaleboat around until its bow was touching our side.
Who is it? muttered a seaman.
It’s ’arry Peglar, cried another. I recognize the peajacket.
Harry Peglar didn’t Wear no green Waistcoat, interjected another.
Sammy Crispe did! exclaimed a 4th Seaman.
Silence! bellowed Captain Crozier. Dr. Goodsir, be so Good as to turn out our unfortunate Shipmate’s pockets.
I did so. From the large pocket of the Wet Waistcoat, I pulled an almost-Empty tobacco Pouch tooled in red leather.
Ah, shite! said Thomas Tadman, sitting next to Robert Ferrier on my Boat. It’s poor Mr. Reid.
And so it was. All the men then remembered that the Ice Master had been Wearing only his Peacoat and Green Waistcoat the previous evening, and All of Us had seen him refill his Pipe a thousand times from that faded red-leather pouch.
We looked to Captain Crozier as if he could explain what had Happened to our Shipmates, although in our Souls, we all knew.
Secure Mr. Reid’s body under that Boat Cover, ordered the Captain. We’ll search the area to see if there are any Survivors. Do not row or drift out of sight or shouting range.
Once again, the boats fanned out. Mr. Couch brought our boat back to the ice near the Inlet Opening, and we Rowed Slowly along the icy Shelf that rose about 4 Feet above the open water’s Edge. We stopped at each smear of Blood on the surface of the Floe and on the Vertical Face, but there were no more bodies.
Oh, damn, moaned 30-year-old Francis Pocock from his place at the Sweep in the Stern of our Boat. You can see the bloody grooves of the man’s Fingers and Nails in the Snow. The Thing must’ve dragged him backwards into the Water.