Hickey Hid and Watched as all this went on.
It is still pitch-dark and very Cold, but Captain Crozier is leaving in twenty Minutes to take a few men the Several Miles to the Site of the Murder and of today’s Deadly Skirmish with the Esquimaux. Presumably their bodies are still Lying in the Valley there.
I have just completed Stitching Lieutenant Irving. As tired as I am — I have not slept for more than 24 Hours — I will have Lloyd finish the dressing of the Lieutenant and make final preparations for his burial later Today. As Providence would have it, Irving brought his Dress Uniform in his bag of personal possessions from Terror. He will be dressed in that.
I am going now to ask Captain Crozier if I may accompany him, Lieutenant Little, Mr. Farr, and the others to the Murder Site.
40
PEGLAR
When the fog shifted, something that looked like an oversized human brain seemed to be rising out of the frozen ground: grey, convoluted, coiled upon itself, glistening with ice.
Harry Peglar realized that he was looking at John Irving’s entrails.
“This is the spot,” Thomas Farr said needlessly.
Peglar had been somewhat surprised that the captain had ordered him to come along on this trip to the murder site. The captain of the foretop had not been in either party — Irving’s or Hodgson’s — involved in yesterday’s incidents. But then Peglar had looked at the other men chosen to go on this predawn investigatory expedition — First Lieutenant Edward Little, Tom Johnson (Crozier’s bosun’s mate and old crewman from the south polar expedition), Captain of the Maintop Farr who had been here yesterday, Dr. Goodsir, Lieutenant Le Vesconte from Erebus, First Mate Robert Thomas, and a guard of four Marines with weapons — Hopcraft, Healey, and Pilkington under the command of Corporal Pearson.
Harry Peglar hoped he was not flattering himself to think that, for whatever reason, Captain Crozier had chosen people he trusted for this outing. Malcontents and incompetents had been left behind at Terror Camp; the sea lawyer Hickey heading up a detail to dig Lieutenant Irving’s grave for this afternoon’s burial service.
Crozier’s party had left camp long before dawn, following the footprints from yesterday and the tracks of the Esquimaux sledge that had borne the body to the camp southeast by lantern light. When the tracks disappeared on the stony ridgelines, they were easily found in the snowy vales beyond. The temperature had risen at least fifty-five degrees during the night, bringing the air up to zero degrees or higher, and a thick fog had rolled in. Harry Peglar, a veteran of weather on most of the earth’s seas and oceans, had no idea how it could be so foggy when there was no unfrozen liquid water within hundreds and hundreds of miles. Perhaps these were low clouds skimming across the surface of the pack ice and colliding with this godforsaken island that rose only a few yards above sea level at its highest point. The sunrise, when it came, was no sunrise at all but only a vague yellow glow in the swirling fog-cloud around them, seeming to come from all directions.
The dozen men stood in silence at the murder site for a few minutes. There was little to see. John Irving’s cap had blown against a nearby boulder, and Farr retrieved it. There was frozen blood on the frozen stones, the heap of human guts next to that dark stain. A few tatters of ripped clothing.
“Lieutenant Hodgson, Mr. Farr,” said Crozier, “did you see any sign of the Esquimaux up here when Mr. Hickey led you to this scene?”
Hodgson seemed confused by the question. Farr said, “Other than their bloody handiwork, no, sir. We approached the ridgeline on our bellies and peered down into the valley using Mr. Hodgson’s glass, and there they were. Still fighting over John’s telescope and other spoils.”
“Did you see them fight amongst themselves?” snapped Crozier.
Peglar never remembered seeing his captain — or any captain he had ever served under — look so tired. Crozier’s eyes had visibly sunken in their sockets over the past days and weeks. Crozier’s voice, always a bass bark of command, was now little more than a croak. It looked as if his eyes were ready to bleed.
Peglar knew something about bleeding these days. He hadn’t told his friend John Bridgens yet, but he was feeling the scurvy badly. His once-proud muscles were atrophying. His flesh was mottled with bruises. He’d lost two teeth in the past ten days. Every time he brushed his remaining teeth, the brush came away red. And every time he squatted to relieve himself, he shat blood.
“Did I actually see the Esquimaux fighting amongst themselves?” repeated Farr. “Not really, sir. They were jostling and laughing, though. And two of the bucks were tugging at John’s fine brass telescope.”
Crozier nodded. “Let us go down in the valley, gentlemen.”
Peglar was shocked by the blood. He’d never seen the site of a land battle before, not even a small skirmish such as this, and while he had prepared himself to see the dead bodies, he’d not imagined how red the spilled blood would be on the snow.
“Someone’s been here,” said Lieutenant Hodgson.
“What do you mean?” asked Crozier.
“Some of the bodies have been moved,” said the young lieutenant, pointing to a man and then to another man and then to an old woman. “And their outer coats — the fur coats, such as Lady Silence wears — and even some of their mittens and boots are gone. So are several of the weapons… harpoons and spears. See, you can see the imprint in the snow where they were lying yesterday. They’re gone.”
“Souvenirs?” rasped Crozier. “Did our men…”
“No, sir,” Farr said quickly and firmly. “We threw some baskets and cooking pots and other things off the sled to make room and took that sled up the hill to load Lieutenant Irving’s body. We were all together from then until we reached Terror Camp. No one lagged behind.”
“Some of those pots and baskets have gone missing as well,” said Hodgson.
“There seem to be some newer tracks here, but it’s hard to tell since the wind was blowing last night,” said Bosun’s Mate Johnson.
The captain was going from corpse to corpse, rolling them over when they were facedown. He seemed to be studying each dead man’s face. Peglar noticed that they were not all dead men — one was a boy. One was an old lady whose open mouth — as if frozen by Death into an eternal silent scream — looked like a black pit. There was much blood. One of the natives had received the full force of a shotgun blast at what must have been very short range, perhaps after he had already been hit by musket or rifle fire. The back of his head was gone.
After inspecting each face as if hoping to find answers there, Crozier stood. The surgeon, Goodsir, who had also been looking carefully at the dead, said something softly into the captain’s ear, pulling down his comforter scarf and the captain’s as well while whispering. Crozier took a step back, looked at Goodsir as if in surprise, but then nodded.
The surgeon went to one knee by a dead Esquimaux and removed several surgical instruments from his bag, including one very long, curved, and serrated knife that reminded Peglar of the ice saws they used to cut chunks from the iron tanks of frozen water on the hold deck of Terror.
“Dr. Goodsir needs to examine several of the savages’ stomachs,” Crozier said.
Peglar imagined that nine others besides himself were wondering why. No one asked the question. The squeamish — including three of the Marines — looked away as the small surgeon tore open fur or animal-skin garments and began sawing on the first corpse’s abdomen. The sound of the saw cutting into hard-frozen flesh reminded Peglar of someone sawing wood.