“‘But that’s not all,’ Goodsir went on,” continued Peglar. “ ‘Your vision and hearing will be impaired… compromised… as will your judgement. You’ll suddenly see no problem walking out in fifty-below-zero weather with no gloves and no hat. You’ll forget which way is north or how to drive a nail. And your senses will not only fail, they’ll turn on you,’ he says. ‘If we had a fresh orange to give you, when you have scurvy, the smell of the orange might make you writhe in agony or literally drive you mad. The sound of a sledge’s runner on ice might drop you to your knees in pain; the report of a musket could be fatal.’

“‘’Ere now!’ shouts one of Hickey’s legion into the silence,” continued Peglar. “‘We got our lemon juice!’

“Goodsir just shook his head sadly. ‘We won’t have it for much longer,’ he said, ‘and what we have is not worth much. For some reason no one understands, the simple antiscorbutics like the lemon juice lose their potency after months. It’s almost gone now after more than three years.’

“There was this second terrible silence then, John. You could hear the breathing then, and it was ragged. And there was a smell rising from the mob – fear and something worse. Most of the men there, including a majority of the officers, had seen Dr. Goodsir in the past two weeks with early symptoms of scurvy. Suddenly one of Hickey’s compatriots shouts out, ‘What’s all this got to do with getting rid of a Jonah of a witch?’

“Crozier stepped forward then, still holding the girl like a captive, still seeming to offer her to the mob. ‘Different captains and surgeons try different things to ward off or cure scurvy,’ Crozier said to the men. ‘Violent exercise. Prayer. Canned foods. But none of these things work in the long run. What is the only thing that works, Dr. Goodsir?’

“Every head on the lower deck turned to look at Goodsir then, John. Even the Esquimaux girl’s.

“‘Fresh food,’ said the surgeon. ‘Especially fresh meat. Whatever deficiency in our food brings on scurvy, only fresh meat can cure it.’

“Everyone looked back at Crozier,” said Peglar. “The captain all but thrust the girl at them. ‘There’s one person on these two dying ships who has been able to find fresh meat this autumn and winter,’ he says. ‘And she’s standing right in front of you. This Esquimaux girl… merely a girl… but one who somehow knows how to find and trap and kill seals and walruses and foxes when the rest of us can’t even find a track in the ice. What will it be like if we have to abandon ship… once we’re out on the ice with no food stores left? There is one person out of the hundred and nine of us remaining alive who knows how to get us fresh meat to survive… and you want to kill her.’ ”

Bridgens showed bleeding gums of his own when he smiled. They were at the ice ramp to Erebus. “Our successor to Sir John may be a common man,” he said softly, “with little formal education, but no one ever accused Captain Crozier – within my earshot at least – of being a stupid man. And I understand he has changed since his serious illness a few weeks ago.”

“A sea change,” said Peglar, enjoying both the pun and using a phrase Bridgens had introduced him to sixteen years earlier.

“How so?”

Peglar scratched his frozen cheek above the comforter. The mitten rasped on his stubble. “It’s hard to describe. My own guess is that Captain Crozier is completely sober now for the first time in thirty years or more. The whiskey never seemed to compromise the man’s competence – he’s a fine sailor and officer – but it put a… buffer… a barrier… between him and the world. Now he’s there more. Missing nothing. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Bridgens nodded. “I presume there’s been no more talk of killing the witch.”

“None,” said Peglar. “The men gave her extra biscuits for a while, but then she left – moved out onto the ice somewhere.”

Bridgens started up the ramp and then turned back. When he spoke, his voice was very low so that none of the men on watch above could hear. “What do you think of Cornelius Hickey, Harry?”

“I think he’s a treacherous little shit,” said Peglar, not caring who heard him.

Bridgens nodded again. “He is that. I’ve known of him for years before I sailed on this expedition with him. He used to prey on boys during long voyages – turning them into little more than slaves for his needs. In recent years, I’ve heard, he’s chosen to bend older men to his service, like the idiot…”

“Magnus Manson,” said Peglar.

“Yes, like Manson,” said Bridgens. “If it were just for Hickey’s pleasure, we need not worry. But the little homunculus is worse than that, Harry… worse than your average would-be mutineer or conniving sea lawyer. Be careful of him. Watch him, Harry. I fear he could do great harm to us all.” Bridgens laughed then. “Listen to me. ‘Do great harm.’ As if we weren’t all doomed anyway. When I see you next, we may all be abandoning the ships and taking to the ice on our last long, cold walk. Take care of yourself, Harry Peglar.”

Peglar did not speak. The captain of the foretop took off his mitten and then his glove, and lifted his frozen fingers until they touched the frozen cheek and brow of subordinate officers’ steward John Bridgens. The touch was very light and neither man could feel it through the incipient frostbite, but it would have to serve.

Bridgens went back up the ramp. Without looking back, Peglar tugged on his glove and started the cold walk back through the rising dark to HMS Terror.

It was Sunday, and Lieutenant Irving had served two straight watches up on deck in the cold and dark, one of them covering for his friend George Hodgson, who was ill with the symptoms of dysentery, missing his own warm supper in the officers’ mess as a consequence and having only a small ice-hard slab of salt pork and a weevil-filled biscuit instead. But now he had eight blessed straight hours off before he had to go on duty again. He could drag himself belowdecks, crawl under the frozen blankets in the cot in his berth, thaw them some with his body heat, and sleep for the full eight hours.

Instead, Irving told Robert Thomas, the first mate who was taking his place as the officer on deck, that he was going for a walk and would be back presently.

Then Irving went over the side and down the ice ramp and onto the dark pack ice.

He was searching for Lady Silence.

Irving had been shocked weeks ago when Captain Crozier had appeared to be ready to toss the woman to the mob that was building, after crewmen listening to the mutinous whispers of Caulker’s Mate Hickey and others started shouting that the woman was a Jonah and should be killed or cast out. When Crozier had stood there with Lady Silence’s arm gripped in his hand, thrusting her toward the angry men much like an ancient Roman emperor might have tossed a Christian to the lions, Lieutenant Irving had not been sure what to do. As a junior lieutenant, he could only watch his captain, even if it meant Silence’s death. As a young man in love, Irving was ready to step forward and save her even if it cost him his own life.

When Crozier won the majority of the men over with his argument that Silence might be the only soul on board who would know how to hunt and fish on the ice should they have to abandon ship, Irving had let out a silent sigh of relief.

But the Esquimaux woman moved off the ship completely the day after that showdown, coming back at supper time every second or third day for biscuits or the occasional gift of a candle, then disappearing back onto the dark ice. Where she was living or what she was doing out there was a mystery.