the journey—a kind of metal-wrapped paper trail—noted the ship’s positions and the dates. The fact that the paper trail had gone completely dead had puzzled historians for years, until Douglas Marshall had picked up the second canister, one of so many others that had been lost, and found the note from Crozier, Franklin’s second officer, inside.
More than anything, Jo wanted to talk to Marshall about that note. Crozier’s cryptic, lone message, thrown from the second ship, the Terror , in July 1845. The ships were in Lancaster Sound, past the northern tip of Bylot Island, heading west at speed. Heading straight for oblivion. Heading for hell.
Jo shivered now, involuntarily.
The sound of the engines was overpowering. Even with ear protectors the thump of the rotors seemed to have invaded her whole body, shuddering and thudding, rattling her spine. The flight had lasted fifty minutes now, with Jo continually checking her watch. The LMA gave her a crooked grin. He had an insulated pack of blood in a cool box on the floor between his feet. Now and then he rested his foot on it.
She wished it were over. Beside her John Marshall seemed to have gone to sleep.
The only other time that Jo could remember being afraid of flying was one summer when she was eighteen, coming back from Corfu on a package flight. Then, they had been caught by a thunderstorm over the Adriatic. The plane had lurched and rolled, dropping thousands of feet between air pockets, lightning dancing along the wing right next to her window.
But as far as she was concerned, the Dauphin had the plane knocked into a cocked hat.
She glanced up to see the pilot looking back at her, with a thumb raised. Then he pointed down at the sea.
Jo looked down in the direction of his finger and suddenly saw, far below them, the slim gray line of the Fox , a Type 23 frigate of the UK Royal Navy, heading south-southeast through the flat sea. Her heart lurched. Thank God, at last . The Dauphin swung low, promptly dropping Jo’s stomach a few hundred feet. She clenched her fists in her lap and gritted her teeth.
Minutes later they were shepherded out onto the deck under the still-turning blades. Buffeted by the wind, and steadying herself against the slight pitching of the frigate’s deck, Jo took the outstretched hand of the officer stepping forward to meet them.
“Good flight?”
She mimed enjoyment, a kind of slack grin. “Great,” she lied.
Inside the hangar she pulled off the wool hat she had been wearing.
The principal medical officer smiled at her. “Anthony Hargreaves.”
“Jo Harper,” she replied. She looked behind her for John. “And this is Doug Marshall’s son, John.”
The two shook hands. John said nothing.
“We’ve tidied him up for you,” Lieutenant Hargreaves told them.
“Is he okay?” Jo asked.
“We reset the leg last night.” Hargreaves hesitated a moment, glancing at John. “Nasty break,” he said.
“Can we see him?”
“Anytime.”
Jo looked at John. “You first.”
“I don’t mind,” John told her.
There was a moment of awkwardness. Jo felt strongly that Doug’s son should be ahead of her, and she was embarrassed for his apparent—she hoped feigned—lack of concern. She wasn’t quite sure, even now, if it were she that he disliked, or the whole idea of getting to the frigate. She had moved heaven and earth to get them both here, and from the first his attitude had surprised her.
She had reached him in Cambridge the day after Doug had been found.
His voice on the other end of the phone had been wary.
“You don’t know me …” she had begun, after saying her name.
“My mother told me,” John had replied.
From this difficult start he didn’t make it any easier for her.
“I’m trying to get a flight to the ship,” she’d said. “I know someone in the department, and … well, if anyone should go it would be you and your mother.…”
The line had remained silent.
“I’d like to go,” she
More than anything, Jo wanted to talk to Marshall about that note. Crozier’s cryptic, lone message, thrown from the second ship, the Terror , in July 1845. The ships were in Lancaster Sound, past the northern tip of Bylot Island, heading west at speed. Heading straight for oblivion. Heading for hell.
Jo shivered now, involuntarily.
The sound of the engines was overpowering. Even with ear protectors the thump of the rotors seemed to have invaded her whole body, shuddering and thudding, rattling her spine. The flight had lasted fifty minutes now, with Jo continually checking her watch. The LMA gave her a crooked grin. He had an insulated pack of blood in a cool box on the floor between his feet. Now and then he rested his foot on it.
She wished it were over. Beside her John Marshall seemed to have gone to sleep.
The only other time that Jo could remember being afraid of flying was one summer when she was eighteen, coming back from Corfu on a package flight. Then, they had been caught by a thunderstorm over the Adriatic. The plane had lurched and rolled, dropping thousands of feet between air pockets, lightning dancing along the wing right next to her window.
But as far as she was concerned, the Dauphin had the plane knocked into a cocked hat.
She glanced up to see the pilot looking back at her, with a thumb raised. Then he pointed down at the sea.
Jo looked down in the direction of his finger and suddenly saw, far below them, the slim gray line of the Fox , a Type 23 frigate of the UK Royal Navy, heading south-southeast through the flat sea. Her heart lurched. Thank God, at last . The Dauphin swung low, promptly dropping Jo’s stomach a few hundred feet. She clenched her fists in her lap and gritted her teeth.
Minutes later they were shepherded out onto the deck under the still-turning blades. Buffeted by the wind, and steadying herself against the slight pitching of the frigate’s deck, Jo took the outstretched hand of the officer stepping forward to meet them.
“Good flight?”
She mimed enjoyment, a kind of slack grin. “Great,” she lied.
Inside the hangar she pulled off the wool hat she had been wearing.
The principal medical officer smiled at her. “Anthony Hargreaves.”
“Jo Harper,” she replied. She looked behind her for John. “And this is Doug Marshall’s son, John.”
The two shook hands. John said nothing.
“We’ve tidied him up for you,” Lieutenant Hargreaves told them.
“Is he okay?” Jo asked.
“We reset the leg last night.” Hargreaves hesitated a moment, glancing at John. “Nasty break,” he said.
“Can we see him?”
“Anytime.”
Jo looked at John. “You first.”
“I don’t mind,” John told her.
There was a moment of awkwardness. Jo felt strongly that Doug’s son should be ahead of her, and she was embarrassed for his apparent—she hoped feigned—lack of concern. She wasn’t quite sure, even now, if it were she that he disliked, or the whole idea of getting to the frigate. She had moved heaven and earth to get them both here, and from the first his attitude had surprised her.
She had reached him in Cambridge the day after Doug had been found.
His voice on the other end of the phone had been wary.
“You don’t know me …” she had begun, after saying her name.
“My mother told me,” John had replied.
From this difficult start he didn’t make it any easier for her.
“I’m trying to get a flight to the ship,” she’d said. “I know someone in the department, and … well, if anyone should go it would be you and your mother.…”
The line had remained silent.
“I’d like to go,” she
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