“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.”

“I don’t want my tummy to hurt,” rumbled Magnus.

“No, of course you don’t,” said Hickey, rubbing his partner’s huge chest and shoulders. “Give him some morphine, Goodsir.”

The surgeon nodded and meted out a bit of the painkiller into a spoon.

Magnus always enjoyed his spoonfuls of morphine and would sit in the bow of the pinnace and smile sweetly for an hour or more before falling asleep after getting his doses.

So on this Friday, the eighth day of September, all was right with King Hickey’s world. His eleven dray animals – Morfin, Orren, Brown, Dunn, Gibson, Smith, Best, Jerry, Work, Seeley, and Strickland – were well and free of disease and pulling hard each day. Magnus was happy most of the time – he enjoyed riding in the bow like an officer and looking back at the countryside they’d just crossed – and there was enough morphine and laudanum in the bottles to hold out until they reached Terror Camp or Terror herself. Goodsir was alive and limping along with the caravan and attending to the king and his consort. The weather was good, although growing colder, and there was absolutely no sign of the creature that had preyed on them in previous months.

Even with their vigorous diet, they had enough Aylmore and Thompson food stores left to provide stew over the next few days – they had found that human fat burned as fuel much as did whale blubber, although less efficiently and for shorter periods. Hickey had plans for a lottery after that if they needed one more sacrifice before they reached Terror Camp.

They could go on shorter rations, of course, but Cornelius Hickey knew that a short-straw lottery would instill terror into the hearts of his eleven already-compliant dray animals and reaffirm who was king of this expedition. Hickey was always a light sleeper but now slept with one eye open and his hand on the percussion-cap pistol, but one last public sacrifice – presumably with Magnus then having to dole out the fourth public punishment for noncompliance to Goodsir – should break any last hidden will to resist that might be left in his dray beasts’ treacherous hearts.

Meanwhile, this Friday was beautiful, with temperatures in the pleasant twenties and a blue sky growing bluer to the north along their line of travel. The heavy boat sat high on the sledge while the wooden runners scratched and hissed as they slid across ice and gravel. In the bow, Magnus, recently dosed, was smiling, holding his belly with both hands and humming a soft tune.

It was less than thirty miles to Terror Camp and John Irving’s grave near Victory Point, they all knew, and less than half that to Lieutenant Le Vesconte’s grave along the coast. With the men strong, they were covering two to three miles each day and would probably do better if their diet improved again.

To that end, Hickey had just torn a blank page out of one of the multiple Bibles that Magnus had insisted upon gathering up and loading into the pinnace when they left Rescue Camp – never mind that the gentle idiot did not know how to read – and was now tearing that page into eleven equal little strips of paper.

Hickey, of course, would be exempt from the coming lottery, as would Magnus and the God-damned surgeon. But tonight, when they stopped to brew up tea and the evening stew, Hickey would have each man write his own name or put his sign on one of the slips of paper and all would be ready for the lottery itself. Hickey would have Goodsir look the slips over and publicly confirm that each man had signed his own true name or unique sign.

Then the names would go into the king’s peacoat pocket in preparation for the solemn ceremony to come.

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

6, 7, or perhaps 8 October, 1848 -

I have taken the Final Draught. It will be a Few Minutes before the Full Effect is Felt. Until it Is, I shall Catch Up on my diary.

These Last Few Days I have been recalling the Details of how young Hodgson confided in me and Whispered to me in the tent Weeks ago on that Last Night before Mr. Hickey shot him.

The Lieutenant whispered, I apologize for Disturbing you, Doctor, but I have to tell Someone I am Sorry.

I whispered back, You are not a Papist, Lieutenant Hodgson. And I am Not your Confessor. Go to Sleep and let me Sleep.

Hodgson Insisted, I apologize again, Doctor. But I have to tell someone how Sorry I am for Betraying the Captain – who was always Good to Me – and for Allowing Mr. Hickey to take you Captive like This. I sincerely Regret it and I am Dreadfully Sorry.

I Lay there Silently, Saying nothing, Giving the boy nothing.

Ever Since John was killed, persisted Hodgson. I mean, Lieutenant Irving, my Dear Friend from Gunnery School, I have been Convinced that Caulker’s Mate Hickey committed the Murder and I have been Terrified of Him.

Why would You Throw in Your Lot with Mr. Hickey if you thought him a Monster? I whispered in the Dark.

I was… Afraid. I wanted to be on His Side because he was so Terrible, whispered Hodgson. And then the Boy began to Weep.

I said, Shame on you.

But I put my Arm around the Boy and patted his Back while he Wept until he fell Asleep.

The Next Morning, Mr. Hickey assembled Everyone and had Magnus Manson force Lieutenant Hodgson to kneel before Him while the Caulker’s Mate brandished his Pistol and Announced how He – Mr. Hickey – would Brook no Shirking, explaining again How the Good Men Amongst Us would eat and live while the Shirkers would Die.

Then he set the long-barreled Weapon to the base of George Hodgson’s skull and Blew his Brains out onto the Gravel.

I have to say that the Boy was Brave at his end. He showed no Fear at all that Morning. His last words before the Pistol’s Explosive Discharge were, You can go to Hell.

I only wish that my End would be so Brave. But I know now for a Certainty that it Will Not.

Mr. Hickey’s Theatricals were not at an End with the Death of Lt. Hodgson, nor when Magnus Manson stripped the Boy Naked and left his Corpse Lying there in front of the Assembly.

The Sight made my Chest hurt. Speaking as a Man of Medicine, poor Hodgson was Thinner than I would have Thought Possible with any Recently Living Human Being. His Arms were mere Sheaths of Skin along Bones. His Ribs and Pelvis pressed Outward so Fiercely against the Skin that they threatened to Burst Through. And everywhere, the Boy’s flesh was Mottled with Bruises.

Nonetheless, Mr. Hickey called me Forward, handed me a Pair of Shears, and insisted that I Begin Dissecting the Lieutenant in front of the Assembled Men.