Crimson Stripes appeared immediately upon the man’s thin, pale back, and droplets of Blood spattered the faces of those men standing nearest the Grate, myself included.
ONE, counted Charles Frederick Des Voeux, who had assumed the duties of Erebus’s First Mate upon the death of Mate Robert Orme Sergeant in December. It was the Duty of both first mates to administer this punishment.
Aylmore screamed again even as the Cat was pulled back for another blow, almost certainly in horrid anticipation of Forty-nine More Lashes. I confess that I swayed on my feet… the Press of Unwashed Bodies, the Stink of Blood, the sense of Confinement in the Dim, Stinking Gloom of the Lower Deck, all making my head swim. Surely this was Hell. Nor was I out of it.
The Gunroom Steward passed out on the Ninth Lash. Captain Crozier gestured to me to ascertain that the flogged man was still breathing. He was. Normally, as I was made to understand later, a Second Mate would have thrown a Bucket of Water on the victim of punishment to revive him so that he must Fully Suffer the remaining lashes. But there was no Liquid Water on the Lower Deck of HMS Erebus that morning. All was frozen. Even the droplets of Bright Blood on Aylmore’s back appeared to be freezing into crimson pellets.
Aylmore stayed unconscious but the Punishment continued.
After Fifty Lashes, Aylmore was untied and carried Aft to Sir John’s former cabin, since the Great Cabin was still being used as the Sick Bay in the aftermath of the Carnivale injuries. There were Eight Men on cots in there, including David Leys, still unresponsive since the Thing’s attack on Mr. Blanky early in December.
I started to go aft to attend to Aylmore, but Captain Crozier silently gestured me back into the ranks. Evidently it was protocol for all crew members to witness the complete series of Floggings, even should Aylmore bleed to death due to my absence.
Magnus Manson was next. The huge man dwarfed the second mates tying him to the Grate. If the Giant had decided to Resist at that moment, I have Little Doubt that the ensuing Chaos and Carnage would have resembled New Year’s Eve’s mayhem in the Seven Coloured Compartments.
He did not resist. As far as I could tell, Boatswain’s Mate Johnson administered the endless Flogging with the same force and Severity as he had for Aylmore – no more, no less. Blood flew from the first Impact. Manson did not scream. He did something Infinitely Worse. From the first touch of the Lash, he wept like a child. He sobbed. But afterward he was able to walk between the two Seamen escorting him back to the Sick Bay, although – as always – Manson had to hunch over so that his head did not strike the Beams overhead. As he passed me, I noticed Strips of Flesh hanging loose on his back between the crisscrossed Scourging wounds of the Cat.
Hickey, the smallest of the three men being punished, barely made a sound during the long Administration of the Lashes. His narrow Back tore open more freely than had the flesh of the other two, but he did not cry out. Nor did he pass out. The diminutive Caulker’s Mate seemed to remove his mind to something beyond the Grate and Overhead Deck upon which his obviously angry glare was firmly fixed and his only reaction to the Terrible Flogging was a gasp for breath between each of the fifty lashes of the Cat.
He walked aft to the provisional Sick Bay without accepting help from the seamen on either side of him.
Captain Crozier announced that punishment had been duly meted out according to the Ship’s Articles and Dismissed the Company. Before going aft, I ran up on deck very briefly to watch the departure of the men from Terror. They went down the ice ramp from the ship and began their long walk back to the other ship in the dark – passing the scorched and partially melted area where the Carnivale Conflagration had taken place. Crozier and his primary officer, Lieutenant Little, brought up the rear. None of the more than forty men had said a word by the time they had disappeared beyond the small circle of light radiating from Erebus’s deck lanterns. Eight men remained as a sort of companion Guard to walk with Hickey and Manson when they were ready to be returned to Terror.
I hurried down and aft to the new Sick Bay to take care of my new charges. Beyond Washing and Bandaging their wounds – the Cat had left a Sickening array of welts and gouges on each man and some Permanent Scars, I would think – there was little else I could do. Manson had ceased his Weeping, and when Hickey abruptly ordered him to stop his Snuffling, the giant did so at once. Hickey suffered my Ministrations in silence and gruffly ordered Manson to get fully dressed and to follow him out of the Sick Bay.
Aylmore, the gunroom steward, had been unmanned by the punishment. From the minute he had regained consciousness, according to young Henry Lloyd, my current Surgeon’s Assistant, Aylmore had moaned and cried aloud. He continued doing so as I Washed and Bandaged him. He was still moaning piteously and seemed unable to walk by himself when some of the other warrant officers – the elderly John Bridgens, the Subordinate Officer’s Steward, Mr. Hoar, the Captain’s Steward, Mr. Bell the Quartermaster, and Samuel Brown, the Boatswain’s Mate – arrived to help him back to his quarters.
I could hear Aylmore moaning and crying out all the way down the Companionway and around the Main Ladderway as the other men half-carried him to the gunroom steward’s cubicle on the starboard side between William Fowler’s empty berth and my own, and I knew that I would probably be listening to Aylmore’s cries through the thin wall all through the night.
Mr. Aylmore reads a lot, said William Fowler from his place on his cot in the Sick Bay. The Purser’s Steward had received serious burns and a Terrible Mauling during the night of the Carnivale Conflagration, but never once during the last four days of stitchings or skin removals had Fowler cried out. With wounds and burns on both his Back and Stomach, Fowler attempted to sleep on his side, but not once had he complained to Lloyd or me.
Men who read a lot have a more sensitive disposition, added Fowler. And if the poor bloke hadn’t read that stupid story by that American, he wouldn’t have suggested the different-coloured compartments for Carnivale – an idea we all thought was Wonderful at the time – and none of this would have happened.
I did not know what to say to this.
Maybe reading is a sort of curse is all I mean, concluded Fowler. Maybe it’s better for a man to stay inside his own mind.
Amen, I felt like saying, although I do not know why.
As I write this, I am in Dr. Peddie’s former surgeon’s berth on HMS Terror since Captain Crozier has instructed me to spend each Tuesday through Thursday aboard his ship and the Remaining Days of the Week aboard Erebus. Lloyd is watching my six recovering charges in the Erebus sick bay and I was Distressed to discover almost as many seriously ill men here aboard Terror.
For many of them, it is the disease we Arctic Doctors first called Nostalgia and then Debility. The early severe stages of this disease – besides bleeding gums, Confusion of Thought, weakness in the Extremities, bruises everywhere, and bleeding from the Colon – often include a tremendous Sentimental Wish to go home. From Nostalgia the weakness, confusion, Impaired Judgement, bleeding from Anus and Gums, open Sores, and other symptoms worsen until the patient is unable to stand or work.