Again as if reading his thoughts, Crozier said to Goodsir, “What will it take, Doctor, to give us a chance to survive the scurvy and weakness for the three months it may take us to row upriver to Great Slave Lake?”
“Fresh food,” the surgeon said simply. “I am convinced that we can beat back the disease in some of the men if we can get fresh food. If not vegetables and fruits — which I know are impossible up here — then fresh meat, especially fat. Even animal blood will help.”
“Why will meat and blubber arrest or cure such a terrible disease, Doctor?” asked Corporal Pearson.
“I have no idea,” said Goodsir, shaking his head, “but I am as certain of it as I am that we will all die of scurvy if we do not get fresh meat… even before starvation will kill us.”
“If Hickey or the others reach Terror Camp,” said Des Voeux, “will the tinned Goldner food serve the same purpose?”
Goodsir shrugged again. “Possibly, although I agree with my late colleague, Assistant Surgeon McDonald, that fresh food is always better than canned. Also, I am convinced that there were at least two types of poisons in the Goldner tins — one slow and nefarious, the other, as you remember with poor Captain Fitzjames and some others, very quick and terrible. Either way, we’re better off seeking and finding fresh meat or fish than they are pinning their hopes on aging tins from the Goldner victuallers.”
“We hope,” said Captain Crozier, “that once out on the open water of the inlet, amidst the free-floating floes, seals and walruses will be available in plentitude before the real winter sets in. Once on the river, we’ll put in from time to time to hunt deer, foxes, or caribou, but may have to pin our hopes on catching fish… a real probability according to such explorers as George Back and our own Sir John Franklin.”
“Sir John also ate his shoes,” said Corporal Pearson.
No one reprimanded the starving Marine, but neither did anyone laugh or respond until Crozier said, his rasping voice sounding totally serious, “That’s the real reason I brought along hundreds of extra boots. Not just to keep the men’s feet dry — which, as you have seen, Doctor, was an impossibility. But to have all that leather to eat during the penultimate portion of our trek south.”
Goodsir could only stare. “We’ll have only one cask of water but hundreds of Royal Navy-issued boots to eat?”
“Yes,” said Crozier.
Suddenly all eight men began laughing so hard that they could not stop; when the others ceased, someone would begin laughing again and then everyone would join in.
“Shhh!” Crozier said at last, sounding like a schoolmaster with boys but still chuckling himself.
Men at their duties in the camp twenty yards away were looking over with curiosity painted on their pale faces staring out from under Welsh wigs and caps.
Goodsir had to wipe away tears and snot before they froze to his face.
“We’re not going to wait for the ice to open all the way up to the shore here,” Crozier said into the sudden silence in the group. “Tomorrow, as Bosun’s Mate Johnson secretly follows Hickey’s group northwest along the coast, Mr. Des Voeux will take a group of our ablest men south across the ice, moving with just rucksacks and sleeping blankets — with luck, traveling almost as quickly as Reuben Male and his two friends — going at least ten miles out onto the strait, perhaps farther, to see if there is any open water. If a lead opens to within five miles of this camp, we are all leaving.”
“The men have no strength…,” began Goodsir.
“They will if they know for certain that there’s only a day or two’s haul between them and open water all the way to rescue,” said Captain Crozier. “The two surviving men who’ve had their feet amputated will be on their bloody stumps and pulling with a will if we know the water is out there waiting for us.”
“And with only a little luck,” said Des Voeux, “my group will bring back some seals and walruses and blubber.”
Goodsir looked out at the cracking, shifting, pressure-ridge surging ice jumble stretching south below low, grey snow clouds. “Can you haul seals and walruses back across that white nightmare?” he asked.
Des Voeux just grinned broadly in answer.
“We have one thing to be thankful for,” said Bosun’s Mate Johnson.
“What’s that, Tom?” asked Crozier.
“Our friend from the ice seems to have lost interest in us and wandered away,” said the still-muscular bosun. “We’ve not seen or heard him for certain since before River Camp.”
All eight men, including Johnson, suddenly reached over to one of the nearby boats and rapped their knuckles on the wood.
53
GOLDING
Twenty-two-year-old Robert Golding rushed into Rescue Camp just after sunset on Thursday, the 17th of August, agitated, shaking, and almost too excited to speak. Mate Robert Thomas intercepted him outside of Crozier’s tent.
“Golding, I thought you were with Mr. Des Voeux’s group on the ice.”
“Yes, sir. I am, Mr. Thomas. I was.”
“Is Des Voeux back already?”
“No, Mr. Thomas. Mr. Des Voeux sent me back with a message for the captain.”
“You can tell me.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Mr. Des Voeux said I was to report only to the captain. Just the captain, sorry, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“What in hell is all the commotion out here?” asked Crozier, crawling out of his tent.
Golding repeated his instructions from the second mate to report only to the captain, apologized, stuttered, and was led away from the ring of tents by Crozier. “Now tell me what’s going on, Golding. Why aren’t you with Mr. Des Voeux? Has something happened to him and the reconnaissance group?”
“Yes, sir. I mean… no, Captain. I mean, something has happened, sir, out there on the ice. I wasn’t there when it did — we was left behind to hunt seals, sir, Francis Pocock and Josephus Greater and me, while Mr. Des Voeux went on farther south with Robert Johns and Bill Mark and Tom Tadman and the others yesterday, but this evenin’ they come back, just Mr. Des Voeux and a couple of the others, I mean, about an hour after we heard the shotguns.”
“Calm down, lad,” said Crozier, setting his hands firmly on the boy’s shaking shoulders. “Tell me what Mr. Des Voeux’s message was, word for word. And then tell me what you saw.”
“They’re both dead, Captain. Both of them. I saw the one — Mr. Des Voeux had her body on a blanket, sir, it was all tore up — but I ain’t seen the other one yet.”
“Who’s both dead, Golding?” snapped Crozier, although the “her” had already told him part of the truth.
“Lady Silence and the thing, Captain. The Esquimaux bitch and the thing from the ice. I seen her body. I ain’t seen its yet. Mr. Des Voeux said it’s next to a polyp about another mile out beyond where we was shootin’ at seals, and I’m to bring you and the doctor out to see it, sir.”
“Polyp?” said Crozier. “You mean polynya? One of the little lakes of open water in the ice?”
“Yes, Captain. I ain’t seen that yet, but that’s where the thing’s carcass is according to Mr. Des Voeux and Fat Wilson, who was with him and carrying and pulling the blanket like it was a sled, sir. Silence, she was in the blanket, you see, all tore up and dead. Mr. Des Voeux says to bring you and the doctor and no one else and for me not to tell no one else or he’ll have Mr. Johnson flog me when he gets back.”