Crozier realized that he could hang this man, but he could not shut him up. He frowned and listened.

“You remember, Captain, that Parry’s supplies of food and boats were there at Fury Beach. Ross took the boats and sailed north along the coast to Cape Clarence, where from the cliffs there they could see north across Barrow Strait and Lancaster Sound to where they hoped to find whaling ships… but the sound was solid ice, sir. That summer was as bad as our last two summers have been and as this coming one may be.”

Crozier waited. For the first time since his deathly illness in January, he wished he had a glass of whiskey.

“They went back to Fury Beach and spent a fourth winter there, Captain. Men were close to dying of scurvy. The next July… 1833, four years after they had entered the ice up there… they set out in the small boats north and then east down Lancaster Sound past Admiralty Inlet and Navy Board Inlet, when on the morning of twenty-five August, James Ross… Sir James now… saw a sail. They waved, hallooed, and fired rockets. The sail disappeared east over the horizon.”

“I remember Sir James mentioning something about that,” Crozier said drily.

“Yes, Captain, I imagine he would,” said Bridgens with his maddening little pedant’s smile. “But the wind calmed, and the men rowed like smoke and oakum, sir, and they caught up to the whaler. She was the Isabella, Captain, the same ship that Sir John had commanded way back in 1818.

“Sir John and Sir James and the crew of Victory spent four years in the ice at our latitude, Captain,” continued Bridgens. “And only one man died – the carpenter, a Mr. Thomas, who had a dyspeptic and disagreeable disposition.”

“Your point?” asked Crozier again. His voice was very flat. He was too aware that more than a dozen men had died under his command on this expedition.

“There are still boats and stores at Fury Beach,” said Bridgens. “And my guess is that any rescue party sent out for us – last year or this coming summer – will leave more boats and stores there. It’s the first place the Admiralty will think of to leave caches for us and for future rescue parties. Sir John’s survival assured that.”

Crozier sighed. “Are you in the habit of thinking like the Admiralty, Subordinate Officers’ Steward Bridgens?”

“Sometimes, yes,” said the old man. “It’s a habit of decades, Captain Crozier. After a while, proximity to fools forces one to think like a fool.”

“That will be all, Steward Bridgens,” snapped Crozier.

“Aye, sir. But read the two volumes, Captain. Sir John lays it all out – how to survive on the ice. How to fight the scurvy. How to find and use Esquimaux natives to help in the hunting. How to build little houses out of blocks of snow…”

“That will be all, Steward!”

“Aye, sir.” Bridgens knuckled his forehead and turned toward the companionway, but not before sliding the two thick volumes closer to Crozier.

The captain sat alone in the freezing Great Cabin for another ten minutes. He listened to the Erebuses clatter up the main ladderway and stomp across the deck above. He heard shouts as Terror officers on deck bid their comrades farewell and wished them a safe crossing of the ice. The ship quieted except for the bustle of men settling down after their supper and grog forward. Crozier heard the tables ratcheted up in the crewmen’s berthing area. He heard his officers clump down the ladderway, hang their slops, and come aft for their own supper. They sounded more chipper than they had at breakfast.

Crozier finally stood – stiff with cold and body aches – lifted the two heavy volumes, and carefully set them back in their place on the shelf set into the aft bulkhead.

The surgeon woke to shouts and screaming.

For a minute he did not know where he was and then he remembered – Sir John’s Great Cabin, now the sick bay on Erebus. It was the middle of the night. All the whale-oil lamps had been extinguished and the only light came through the open door to the companionway. Goodsir had fallen asleep on an extra cot – seven men seriously ill with scurvy and one man with stones in his kidney were sleeping in the other cots. The man with stones had been dosed with opium.

Goodsir had been dreaming that his men were screaming as they were dying. They were dying, in his dream, because he did not know how to save them. Trained as an anatomist, Goodsir was less skilled than the three dead expedition surgeons had been at a Naval surgeon’s primary responsibility – dispensing pills, potions, emetics, herbs, and boluses. Dr. Peddie had once explained to Goodsir that the vast majority of the medicines were useless for the specific sailor’s ailments – most merely served to clean out the bowels and belly in an explosive manner – but the more powerful the purgative, the more effective the seamen thought the treatment was. It was the idea of medicinal help that helped the sailors heal, according to the late Peddie. In most cases not involving actual surgery, the body either healed itself or the patient died.

Goodsir had been dreaming that they were all dying – screaming as they died.

But these screams were real. They seemed to be coming up through the deck.

Henry Lloyd, Goodsir’s assistant, ran into the sick bay with his shirttails hanging out from under his sweaters. Lloyd was carrying a lantern and Goodsir could see that he had no shoes on. He must have run straight from his hammock.

“What’s going on?” whispered Goodsir. The sick men had not been roused from sleep by the screams from below.

“The captain wants you forward by the main ladder,” said Lloyd. He made no attempt to lower his voice. The young man sounded shrill and terrified.

“Shhh,” said Goodsir. “What’s happening, Henry?”

“The thing’s inside, Doctor,” Lloyd cried through chattering teeth. “It’s below. It’s killing men below.”

“Watch the men here,” ordered Goodsir. “Fetch me if any of them wakes or takes a turn for the worse. And go put your boots and outer layers on.”

Goodsir went forward through a milling of warrant officers and petty officers coming out of their cubicles and struggling into their clothes. Captain Fitzjames was standing with Le Vesconte at the head of the hatchway open to the lower decks. The captain had a pistol in his hand.

“Surgeon, there have been men injured below. You’ll come with us when we go down to fetch them. You will need your slops.”

Goodsir nodded dumbly.

First Mate Des Voeux came down the ladder from the deck above. Cold air rolled down with him, taking Goodsir’s breath away. For the past week Erebus had been rocked and battered by a blizzard and staggeringly low temperatures, some reaching down to −100 degrees. The surgeon had not been able to spend his allotted time on Terror. There had been no communication between the ships while the blizzard raged.

Des Voeux brushed snow off his slops. “The three men on watch haven’t seen anything outside, Captain. I told them to stand by.”

Fitzjames nodded. “We need weapons, Charles.”

“The three shotguns up on deck are all we’ve issued tonight,” said Des Voeux.

Another scream came up from the darkness below. Goodsir could not tell if it came from the orlop deck or deeper, from the lower hold deck. Both hatches seemed to be open below.

“Lieutenant Le Vesconte,” barked Fitzjames, “take three men down through the scuttle in the officers’ mess to the Spirit Room and hand up as many muskets and shotguns – and bags of cartridges, powder, and shot – as you can. I want every man on the lower deck here armed.”