“Have his body ready for burial at noon tomorrow,” said Crozier.
“Yes, sir.”
Crozier went to his tent, where Fitzjames was waiting.
When Crozier’s steward, the 30-year-old Thomas Jopson, had supervised the loading and transport of “the captain’s tent” to Terror Camp some weeks ago, Crozier had been furious to learn that Jopson had not only had a double-sized tent sewn for the purpose — the captain had anticipated just a regular brown Holland tent — but had also had the men haul an oversized cot and several solid oak and mahogany chairs from the Great Room, as well as an ornate desk that had belonged to Sir John.
Now Crozier was glad for the furniture. He arranged the heavy desk between the tent entrance and the private bunking area with the two chairs behind the desk and none in front. The lantern hanging from the tall tent’s peak harshly illuminated the empty space in front of the desk while leaving the area for Fitzjames and Crozier in semi-darkness. The space had the feel of a court-martial room.
That’s exactly what Francis Crozier wanted.
“You should go to bed, Captain Crozier,” said Fitzjames.
Crozier looked at the younger captain. He did not look young any longer. Fitzjames looked like a walking corpse — pale to the point of his skin becoming transparent, bearded with whiskers and dried blood from leaking follicles, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Crozier had not looked at himself in a mirror for several days and had avoided the one hanging at the rear of this tent of his, but he hoped to Christ he did not look as bad as the former wunderkind of the Royal Navy, Commander James Fitzjames.
“You need some sleep yourself, James,” said Crozier. “I can interrogate these men myself.”
Fitzjames shook his head tiredly. “I questioned them, of course,” he said, his voice a dead monotone, “but haven’t visited the site or really interrogated them. I knew you would want to.”
Crozier nodded. “I want to be at the site by first light.”
“It’s about two hours’ brisk walk to the southwest,” said Fitzjames.
Crozier nodded again.
Fitzjames pulled his cap off and combed back his long, greasy hair with dirty fingers. They had used the boat stoves that had been transported here to melt water for drinking and just enough to shave by should an officer want to shave, but there was none left for bathing. Fitzjames smiled. “Caulker’s Mate Hickey asked if he could sleep until it was his time to report.”
“Caulker’s Mate Hickey can fucking well stay awake like the rest of us,” said Crozier.
Fitzjames said softly, “That’s more or less what I told him. I put him on guard duty. The cold should keep him awake.”
“Or kill him,” said Crozier. His tone suggested that this would not be the worst turn of events. In a loud voice, shouting to Private Daly who stood guard at the tent’s door, Crozier said, “Send in Sergeant Tozer.”
Somehow the large, stupid Marine managed to stay beefy even when all the men were starving on one-third rations. He stood at attention, minus his musket, as Crozier conducted the interrogation.
“What was your impression of today’s events, Sergeant?”
“Very pretty, sir.”
“Pretty?” Crozier remembered the condition of Third Lieutenant Irving’s throat and body as he lay in the post-mortem tent immediately behind Crozier’s own tent.
“Aye, sir. The attack, sir. Went off like clockwork. Like clockwork. We come walking down that big hill, sir, muskets and rifles and shotguns lowered as if we had no harsh feelings in the world, sir, and them savages watched us come. We opened fire at less than twenty yards and raised pure holy Cain amongst their motley God-be-damned ranks, sir, that I can tell you. Raised pure holy Cain.”
“Were they in ranks, Sergeant?”
“Well, no, Captain, not as you might say on a Bible, sir. More like standing around like the savages they was, sir.”
“And your opening salvos cut them down?”
“Oh, aye, sir. Even the shotguns at that range. It was a sight to behold, sir.”
“Like shooting fish in a rain barrel?”
“Aye, sir,” said Sergeant Tozer with a huge grin on his red face.
“Did they put up any resistance, Sergeant?”
“Resistance, sir? Not really. Not any you might speak of, sir.”
“Yet they were armed with knives and spears and harpoons.”
“Oh, aye, sir. A couple of the godless savages threw their harpoons and one got a spear off, but them what flung them was already wounded and it done them no good but a little nick in the leg of young Sammy Crispe, who took his shotgun and blew the savage who nicked him straight to Hell, sir. Straight to Hell.”
“Yet two of the Esquimaux got away,” said Crozier.
Tozer frowned. “Aye, sir. I apologize about that. They was a lot of confusion, sir. And two of ’em who went down got up when we was shooting those pox-besotted dogs, sir.”
“Why did you shoot their dogs, Sergeant?” It was Fitzjames who asked this question.
Tozer looked surprised. “Why, they was barking and snarling and lunging at us, Captain. They was more wolves than dogs.”
“Did you consider, Sergeant, that they might have been useful to us?” asked Fitzjames.
“Yes, sir. As meat.”
Crozier said, “Describe the two Esquimaux that got away.”
“A little one, Captain. Mr. Farr said that he thought it might have been a woman. Or a girl. She had blood on her hood but obviously she wasn’t dead.”
“Obviously,” Crozier said drily. “What about the other one who escaped?”
Tozer shrugged. “A little man with a headband is all I know, Captain. He’d fallen behind the sledge there, and we all thought he was a deader. But he got up and run with the girl when we was busy shooting the dogs, sir.”
“Did you pursue them?”
“Pursue them, sir? Oh, yes, absolutely. We run our ar—… we run after them hard, Captain. And we was reloading and firing as we went, sir. I think I hit that little Esquimaux bitch again, but she didn’t slow down one whit, sir. They was just too fast for us. But they won’t be coming back this way no time soon, sir. We saw to that.”
“How about their friends?” Crozier said drily.
“Pardon, sir?” Tozer was grinning again.
“Their tribe. Village. Clan. Other hunters and warriors. These people came from somewhere. They haven’t been out on the ice all winter. Presumably they’ll return to that village, if they’re not there already. Did you consider that the other Esquimaux hunters — men who kill every day — might take it personally that we killed eight of their kindred, Sergeant?”
Tozer looked confused.
Crozier said, “You’re dismissed, Sergeant. Send in Second Lieutenant Hodgson.”
Hodgson looked as miserable as Tozer had complacent. The young lieutenant was obviously distraught over the death of his closest friend on the expedition and sickened by the attack he had ordered after he had come across Irving’s reconnaissance group and been led to Irving’s body.
“At ease, Lieutenant Hodgson,” said Crozier. “Do you need a chair?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell us how you came to join up with Lieutenant Irving’s group. Your orders from Captain Fitzjames were to go on a hunting expedition south of Terror Camp.”
“Yes, Captain. And we did that much of the morning. There was not so much as a rabbit track in the snow along the coast, sir, and we couldn’t get out onto the sea ice because of the height of the bergs piled up along the shore ice. So around ten a.m. we turned inland, thinking maybe there’d be sign of some caribou or foxes or musk oxen or something.”