Across Frozen Seas by John Wilson

The sound is like a low groan as thousands of hooves rise and fall on the soft ground. It is interspersed with a low clack as the antlers of the male deer knock together. It is almost impossible to believe that this paradise of life and colour can exist so close to the dull world of black and grey we have been inhabiting for so long.
    The deer are so thick that they are difficult to hunt. Small groups of men are scattered all along the edge of the herd waiting for an animal to stray off. When one does, there is invariably a sharp musket crash and a scuttle of activity as it is dragged clear and cleaned.

    Behind me, makeshift racks are already full of meat hanging in the weak sun. The Commander was right, the men have livened up with the activity and fresh meat. It is almost enough to make me believe that all will be well in the end.
    â€œWell, this is better than that rat-infested hulk,” George says, standing beside me watching the scene. It is summer, 1848. “We should have come down here long ago. Damned officers don’t seem to know what they’re doing.”
    â€œI don’t know George,” I reply defensively. “Mister Crozier and Mister Fitzjames seem like good men. In any case, this game won’t stay here forever, and then we will be better off back in the ships.”
    â€œDavy! You have been listening to the high-andmighty’s too much. You never used to pay no heed to old Marback, and now its
Mister
Crozier and
Mister
Fitzjames. They only care for themselves and their good life. We have to look after ourselves. We always have and we can’t change now. Anyhow, things are going to be different around here soon and you had best be sure you know which side you’re on.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” But it is too late, George turns on his heel and is already several steps ahead.

    â€œWe’re not going back to rot for another year on those God-forsaken hulks of yours.” There is a general murmur of agreement at Seeley’s words. The cuts onhis cheek where Neptune bit him have scarred, but they are still a livid red and give his face a twisted look. “You officers and any men who ain’t got the guts to stay can go if you want, but the rest of us is staying here. Right boys?” The murmur turns to a low roar which sweeps through the ranks of men standing on the shore beside the stretch of water we have named Plenty Bay.
    â€œThis is mutiny,” Crozier’s voice is colder than the chunks of ice floating in the wide bay behind him. “It is also stupidity. The game will not stay here forever and then where will you go? Will you walk to Canada over the Barren Lands or perhaps swim Baffin Bay to seek shelter with the natives of Greenland? Your best chance—our best chance—is to return to the ships and, when the ice frees them, sail the
Erebus
home through the passage as we were ordered to do.”
    â€œAnd if the ice don’t free her?” Seeley has taken a step forward and is looking hard at Crozier. “What if the ice crushes her? Then you are stuck where there ain’t no game at all. I say stay here where at least a man can eat fresh meat. If they don’t come to rescue us this summer, they’ll come next for sure.”
    â€œSeeley, you’re a fool.” Crozier says it calmly, but the men tense at his words. “And you men are fools as well to listen to him. The game will be gone when the first snow falls. You cannot store enough now to see you through the winter and you don’t have the natives’ skills to catch seals on the ice. You’ll starve long before any help arrives. The officers and I, and any men whowish to come are taking two sleds and returning to the ships. Those who stay will be charged with mutiny when we return to England. Any who try to stop us will be shot.”
    The men behind Seeley look restless and uncertain as Crozier’s small group handle their