There was real open water much farther to the west, but Hickey could not allow the pinnace to be out of sight of land for the simple reason that no one left alive in their boat knew how to navigate at sea.
The only reason that Hickey and Aylmore had been so generous as to allow George Hodgson to come with them — actually, to seduce the young lieutenant into wanting to come with them — was that the fool had been trained, as all Naval lieutenants were, in celestial navigation. But on their first day of man-hauling away from Rescue Camp, Hodgson admitted that he could not fix their position or navigate their way back to Terror at sea without a sextant, and the only remaining sextants were still in the possession of Captain Crozier.
One of the reasons Hickey, Manson, Aylmore, and Thompson had doubled back and lured Crozier and Goodsir out onto the ice was to somehow get one of those God-damned sextants, but there Cornelius Hickey’s native cleverness had failed him. He and Dickie Aylmore failed to come up with any convincing reason that their Judas goat — Bobby Golding — could ask Crozier to bring his sextant out onto the ice with him, so they’d discussed torturing that toff Irish bastard into somehow sending a note back demanding the instrument be sent out from camp, but in the end, actually seeing his tormentor on his knees, Hickey had opted to kill him at once.
So once they found open water, young Hodgson’s usefulness, even as a man-hauler, was over, and Hickey soon had to dispatch him in a clean and merciful manner.
It helped to have Crozier’s pistol and extra cartridges for just such a purpose. In the first days after they’d returned with Goodsir and a food supply, Hickey had allowed Aylmore and Thompson to keep the two extra shotguns they’d seized — Hickey himself had been given the third one by Crozier the day they left Rescue Camp — but he soon thought better of having the extra weapons around and had Magnus toss them into the sea. This way was better: the king, Cornelius Hickey, having the pistol and control of the only shotgun and its cartridges, with Magnus Manson by his side. Aylmore was an effete, bookish born conspirator, Hickey knew, and Thompson was a drunken lout who could never be fully trusted — Hickey knew such things by instinct and because of his innately superior intelligence — and when the Hodgson food supply ran short around the third day of September, Hickey sent Magnus to knock both men on the head, bind them up, and drag them half senseless before the other dozen assembled men where Hickey held a brief courtmartial, found both Aylmore and Thompson guilty of sedition and of plotting against their leader and shipmates, and dispatched them both with a single bullet into the base of the brain.
With all three sacrifices for the greater good — Hodgson, Aylmore, and Thompson — the damned surgeon, Goodsir, still refused to fulfill his role as Dissector General.
So for each refusal, Commander Hickey had been forced to mete out a punishment for the recalcitrant surgeon. There had been three such punishments, so Goodsir was certainly having trouble walking now that they’d been forced ashore again.
Cornelius Hickey believed in luck — his own luck — and he’d always been a lucky man, but when luck failed him, he was always prepared to make his own.
In this case, when they’d come around the huge cape at the southwest corner of King William Land — sailing when they could, rowing hard when the leads grew narrow so close in to shore — and saw the solid pack ice ahead, Hickey had ordered the ship ashore and they’d reloaded the pinnace onto the sledge.
He didn’t need to remind the men about how lucky they were. While Crozier’s men were almost certainly dead or dying back there at Rescue Camp — or dying on the ice pack in the strait south of it — Hickey’s Chosen Few had made it more than two thirds, and possibly as much as three quarters, of the way back to Terror Camp and all the supplies cached there.
Hickey had decided that a leader of his stature — the reigning King of the Franklin Expedition — should not be forced to man-haul. The men were certainly being fed well thanks to him (and thanks only to him) and should have no complaints about illness or lack of energy, so for this final part of the voyage he had decided to sit in the stern of the pinnace atop the sledge and to allow his dozen surviving subjects, excluding only the limping Goodsir, to pull him across the ice, gravel, and snow as they rounded the north curve of the cape.
For the last few days, Magnus Manson had ridden in the pinnace with him, and not simply because everyone now understood that Magnus was the king’s consort as well as Grand Inquisitor and Executioner. Poor Magnus was having stomach pains again.
The primary reason that Goodsir was limping but still alive was that Cornelius Hickey had a deep fear of disease and contagion. The other men’s illnesses back at Rescue Camp and before — the bleeding scurvy especially — had disgusted and terrified the caulker’s mate. He needed a doctor along to attend to him, even though he had not yet shown the slightest sign of illness that so plagued such lesser men.
Hickey’s sledge team — Morfin, Orren, Brown, Dunn, Gibson, Smith, Best, Jerry, Work, Seeley, and Strickland — had also shown no signs of advancing scurvy now that their diet consisted of fresh or almost-fresh meat once again.
Only Goodsir was looking and acting sick, and that was because the fool insisted on eating only the last few ship’s biscuits and water. Hickey knew that he would soon have to step in and insist that the surgeon partake of a healthier antiscorbutic diet — the fleshy parts such as thigh, calf, and fore and upper arm were the best — so that Goodsir did not die on them because of his own perverse stubbornness. A doctor, after all, should know better. Stale ship’s biscuits and water might sustain a rat if nothing else were available, but it was not a diet for men.
To make sure that Goodsir stayed alive, Hickey had long ago relieved the surgeon of all the medicines in his kit, watching over them himself and allowing Goodsir to dole them out to Magnus or others only under careful supervision. He also made sure that the surgeon had no access to knives, and when they were out at sea, he always had one of his men assigned to watch to make sure Goodsir did not throw himself overboard.
So far, the surgeon had shown no indications of choosing self-murder.
Magnus’s stomachache was now severe enough not only to keep the giant riding in the sledge-raised pinnace with Hickey during the day, but to keep him awake some nights. Hickey had never known his friend to have trouble sleeping.
The two tiny bullet wounds were the cause, of course, and Hickey forced Goodsir to attend to them daily now. The surgeon insisted that the wounds were superficial and that any infection had not spread. He showed both Hickey and the innocently peering Magnus — holding up his shirttails to peek with alarm at his own belly — how the flesh around the stomach was still pink and healthy.
“Then why the pain?” Hickey insisted.
“It’s like any bruise — especially a deep-muscle bruise,” said the surgeon. “It may continue to hurt for weeks. But it’s not serious, much less life-threatening.”
“Can you remove the balls?” asked Hickey.
“Cornelius,” whined Magnus. “I don’t want my balls removed.”
“I mean the bullets, darling,” said Hickey, petting the giant’s huge forearm. “The little bullets that are in your belly.”
“Perhaps,” said Goodsir. “But it would be better if I did not try. At least while we are on the march. The operation would require cutting through muscle that has already largely healed. Mr. Manson might have to lie down for several days of recovery… and there would always be the serious risk of sepsis. If we were to decide to remove the bullets, I would feel much more comfortable doing so at Terror Camp or when we are back at the ship. So the patient could recover in bed for several days or longer.”