55 GOODSIR

From the private diary of Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir:

Saturday, 20 August, 1848 -

The Devil, Hickey, seems to have all the Good Fortune so denied to Sir John, Commander Fitzjames, and Captain Crozier for so many Months and Years.

They do not know that I had Inadvertently put my Diary into my Medical Kit – or, rather, they probably know, since they thoroughly Searched my kit two nights ago after taking me Captive, but they do not Care. I sleep Alone in a tent except for Lieutenant Hodgson, who is as much Captive now as I am, and he does not Mind my scribbling in the dark.

Part of me still cannot believe the Slaughter of my comrades – Lane, Goddard, and Crozier – and had I not Seen with my own Eyes the Feast of Human Flesh half of Hickey’s party celebrated late Friday night upon our return to this sledge Camp out on the Ice not far from our old River Camp, I still might not Believe in such Barbarism.

Not all of Hickey’s Infernal Legion have yet succumbed to the Lure of Cannibalism. Hickey, Manson, Thompson, and Aylmore are Enthusiastic Participants, of course, as are – it turns out – Seaman William Orren, Steward William Gibson, Stoker Luke Smith Golding, Caulker James Brown, and his mate Dunn.

But others abstain alongside Myself – Morfin, Best, Jerry, Work, Strickland, Seeley, and, of course, Hodgson. We are all subsisting on Mouldy Ship’s Biscuits. Of those Fellow Abstainers, I suspect that only Strickland or Morfin and the Lieutenant may continue to Resist for long. Hickey’s People have caught just one Seal on their voyage West along the coast, but that was enough to power a Stove with its Oil – and the smell of Roasting Human Flesh is Horribly Enticing.

Hickey has not Harmed me yet. Not even the past Two Nights when I have refused to partake of the Meal or to agree to Cut Other Bodies Up when the time comes. So far, Mr. Lane and Mr. Goddard’s Parts have assuaged their appetite and Freed me from having to decide between becoming a Chef for Cannibals or being Maimed and Carved myself.

But no one is allowed to Touch the Shotguns other than Mr. Hickey, Mr. Aylmore, or Mr. Thompson – these Last Two have become lieutenants of the New Bonaparte that is our Diminutive Caulker’s Mate – and Magnus Manson is a weapon of his own which only One Man – if he is indeed still a man – can Aim and Unleash.

But when I speak of Hickey’s Fortune, I do not speak of just the Luck of his own Dark Making that brought him a source of fresh meat. Rather, I refer to today’s Revelation when, just two miles northwest and offshore of our old River Camp where Mr. Bridgens went missing, we came upon Open Leads that stretched Westward along the Coast.

Hickey’s Depraved Crew unsledged, Rigged, loaded, and Launched the pinnace almost at once, and we have been Sailing and Rowing quickly along to the West ever since.

You Might Ask, How can 17 Men fit into a 28-foot Open Boat meant to carry only 8 to a Dozen men comfortably?

The Answer is that we crowd upon each other Terribly and – even though we haul only Tents, weapons, cartridges, water casks, ourselves, and our Terrible Food supply – we are so Heavily Laden that the Sea rises almost to the Gunwales on either side, especially when the width of the Leads allows us to Tack into the wind without the Use of Oars.

I Heard Hickey and Aylmore whispering after we landed to pitch Tents this Evening – they made Little Effort to lower their Voices.

Someone will have to go.

The Water is Open ahead, the Way is Free – perhaps all the way back to Terror Camp, or even to Terror herself – just as the Prophet Cornelius Hickey insisted during the confrontation with Crozier at the unnamed bay in July, where mutiny was avoided only by the shout of Open Water – and it may well Occur that Hickey and those who Remain with Him will be back at Terror Camp and the ship in three days of Easy Sailing rather than the Three and a Half Months of Brutal Man-hauling it took us to come the Same Distance in the Opposite Direction.

But now that they do not need Man-haulers, which Men will be Sacrificed to the Food stores so that the boat can be Lightened for tomorrow’s Sailing?

Hickey and his Giant and Aylmore and the other Leaders are Walking Through Camp as I write, calling us peremptorily Out of Our Tents, although the Hour is Late and the night is Dark.

If I am Alive tomorrow, I will write more then.

56 JOPSON

They were treating him like an old man and leaving him behind because they thought he was an old man, used up, dying even, but that was ridiculous. Thomas Jopson was only thirty-one years old. Today, the twentieth of August, he turned thirty-one years old. It was his birthday, and none of them except Captain Crozier, who had quit coming to see him in his sick tent for some unknown reason, even knew it was his birthday. They were treating him like an old man because almost all of his teeth had fallen out from the scurvy and most of his hair had fallen out for some reason he did not understand and he was bleeding from his gums and eyes and hairline and anus, but he was not an old man. He was thirty-one years old today and they were leaving him behind to die on his birthday.

Jopson heard the revelries the afternoon and evening before – impressions and memories of the shouting and laughter and smell of roasting food were not connected since he had been shifting in and out of fevered consciousness all that previous day – but he had wakened in the twilight to find that someone had brought a plate holding a slab of oily sealskin, strips of dripping white blubber, and a fish-smelling stripe of almost-raw red seal meat. Jopson vomited – nothing had come up because he had not eaten for a day or days – and shoved the offending plate of offal out the open tent door.

He’d understood that they were leaving him when crewmate after crewmate came by his tent later in the evening, saying nothing, not even showing their faces, but each shoving in one or two rock-hard and half-green ship’s biscuits, stacking them by his side like so many white rocks in preparation for his burial. He was too weak to protest then – and too preoccupied with his dreams – but he had known that these few lousy lumps of half-baked and fully stale flour were all he was to receive for his years of faithful service to the Navy, to the Discovery Service, and to Captain Crozier.

They were leaving him behind.

This Sunday morning he awoke more clearheaded than he had been in some days – perhaps in weeks – only to hear his shipmates’ preparations to leave Rescue Camp forever.

There was shouting down by the boats as the two whaleboats were righted and as the two cutters were readied on their sledges and as all four boats were loaded.

How could they leave me behind? Jopson had trouble believing they could or would. Hadn’t he stayed by Captain Crozier’s side a hundred times during the captain’s illnesses and moody low points and outright bouts of drunkenness? Hadn’t he quietly, uncomplainingly, like the good steward he was, hauled pails of vomit from the captain’s cabin in the middle of the night and wiped the Irish drunkard’s arse when he shat himself in his fever deliriums?

Perhaps that’s why the bastard is leaving me to die.

Jopson forced his eyes open and tried to roll over in his sodden sleeping bag. It was very difficult. The weakness radiating out from his center consumed him. His head threatened to burst with pain every time he opened his eyes. The earth pitched against him as fiercely as any ship he’d ever ridden around the Horn in high seas. His bones ached.