She’s upright, walking comfortably,
in her dayclothes. There’s nothing remarkable about the thing, no special warmth
or affection, but nothing cold either, no distance. It just seems – seemed – a regular
part of the everyday. What came afterwards?
Afterwards, it was different, he said.
How so?
He suddenly stood up to go. That’s it, he announced. I’ve said far more than I meant
to say. I don’t at all know how you managed to get so much out of me, but bravo.
The session is adjourned? she said, as lightly as she could.
The session is closed.
16th September
Under a clear sky they stood to the westward. They were sailors again, riding the
waves, canvas bragging overhead. Already they had forgotten. As in the old days,
there was shouting across the spars. The insults were brazen, but glanced off the
new armour harmlessly. They were invincible now.
I hate to piss on the fire, Morgan said, but I think we’re going to be a little late
for the party.
We’re not late, we’re last , DeHaven said. Which is far, far worse.
They had lost too much time going back to Disko. The other ships had passed this
way long before.
God knows where they’re going to send us, DeHaven said. Where nobody else wants to
go, I suppose.
Surely a commander of Myer’s stature, Morgan said, but the joke was stale. What his
friend said was true. There was no telling what part of the map the Impetus would
be assigned. Arriving last, they would have to fall in with what had already been
decided in their absence, by other men.
In the evening they stared over the water towards the undying sun, that they were
too eager to serve. Beneath it were what looked like ink-spills on cotton wool. That
was Devon Island, Myer said – the great northern pillar of their gate.
For a day and a night they galloped through thick fog with men hanging from every
tree, scouring for danger. They were sailing blind, but Myer promised they had entered
Lancaster Sound, the last leg to Beechey.
It was the 17th of September, first watch. They were making eight knots. Suddenly
canvas was called out. By the time Morgan got up they were alongside. She was a schooner,
with a queer little lug foresail, pitiful small, being bounced like a barrel by every
wave. A man in an oilskin clung to the mast. As they came alongside, they saw him
open his mouth, roar. Myer stood at the stern with a bull-horn and they bellowed
back and forth across the wild sea. The voices, in shreds, drifted by on the wind.
He was barely audible, impossible to understand, but they were all cheered by the
sound of a strange voice.
Near breakfast-time land was announced to the north. Myer wrote his guesses in the
log. Cape Warrender? Cape Bullen? He could not keep away from the map, but they did
not really need it. They needed only to follow the coast, until it turned north into
the Wellington Channel, at Beechey Island.
PART II
20th September
Three headboards were planted in the slate of the eastern shore, to guard three mounds
of shale, shovelled from the ground round about. They lay in a neat row, facing east.
Each had an inscription burned into the wood. Morgan took out his little notebook
and wrote them down verbatim. They were all three much the same. The name and the
ship, then the date and the age. William Braine RM. HMS Erebus. Died April 3d 1846
aged 32 years. John Hartnell AB. HMS Erebus. Died January 4th 1846 aged 25 years.
John Torrington departed this life January 1st AD 1846 on board of HM ship Terror
aged 20 years. Choose Ye This Day Whom Ye Will Serve, said Braine’s marker, the marine.
Consider Your Ways, said Hartnell’s. Torrington’s had nothing but the bare unbending
facts.
Down by the shore, Austin’s men had found hundreds of food tins, filled with shale.
Ballast, Morgan said. To bring them home. All about the island they’d found scraps
of paper, canvas, cloth. Spent and unspent matches, heaps of cinders, heaps of nails.
Austin had found a cairn, too, on the
in her dayclothes. There’s nothing remarkable about the thing, no special warmth
or affection, but nothing cold either, no distance. It just seems – seemed – a regular
part of the everyday. What came afterwards?
Afterwards, it was different, he said.
How so?
He suddenly stood up to go. That’s it, he announced. I’ve said far more than I meant
to say. I don’t at all know how you managed to get so much out of me, but bravo.
The session is adjourned? she said, as lightly as she could.
The session is closed.
16th September
Under a clear sky they stood to the westward. They were sailors again, riding the
waves, canvas bragging overhead. Already they had forgotten. As in the old days,
there was shouting across the spars. The insults were brazen, but glanced off the
new armour harmlessly. They were invincible now.
I hate to piss on the fire, Morgan said, but I think we’re going to be a little late
for the party.
We’re not late, we’re last , DeHaven said. Which is far, far worse.
They had lost too much time going back to Disko. The other ships had passed this
way long before.
God knows where they’re going to send us, DeHaven said. Where nobody else wants to
go, I suppose.
Surely a commander of Myer’s stature, Morgan said, but the joke was stale. What his
friend said was true. There was no telling what part of the map the Impetus would
be assigned. Arriving last, they would have to fall in with what had already been
decided in their absence, by other men.
In the evening they stared over the water towards the undying sun, that they were
too eager to serve. Beneath it were what looked like ink-spills on cotton wool. That
was Devon Island, Myer said – the great northern pillar of their gate.
For a day and a night they galloped through thick fog with men hanging from every
tree, scouring for danger. They were sailing blind, but Myer promised they had entered
Lancaster Sound, the last leg to Beechey.
It was the 17th of September, first watch. They were making eight knots. Suddenly
canvas was called out. By the time Morgan got up they were alongside. She was a schooner,
with a queer little lug foresail, pitiful small, being bounced like a barrel by every
wave. A man in an oilskin clung to the mast. As they came alongside, they saw him
open his mouth, roar. Myer stood at the stern with a bull-horn and they bellowed
back and forth across the wild sea. The voices, in shreds, drifted by on the wind.
He was barely audible, impossible to understand, but they were all cheered by the
sound of a strange voice.
Near breakfast-time land was announced to the north. Myer wrote his guesses in the
log. Cape Warrender? Cape Bullen? He could not keep away from the map, but they did
not really need it. They needed only to follow the coast, until it turned north into
the Wellington Channel, at Beechey Island.
PART II
20th September
Three headboards were planted in the slate of the eastern shore, to guard three mounds
of shale, shovelled from the ground round about. They lay in a neat row, facing east.
Each had an inscription burned into the wood. Morgan took out his little notebook
and wrote them down verbatim. They were all three much the same. The name and the
ship, then the date and the age. William Braine RM. HMS Erebus. Died April 3d 1846
aged 32 years. John Hartnell AB. HMS Erebus. Died January 4th 1846 aged 25 years.
John Torrington departed this life January 1st AD 1846 on board of HM ship Terror
aged 20 years. Choose Ye This Day Whom Ye Will Serve, said Braine’s marker, the marine.
Consider Your Ways, said Hartnell’s. Torrington’s had nothing but the bare unbending
facts.
Down by the shore, Austin’s men had found hundreds of food tins, filled with shale.
Ballast, Morgan said. To bring them home. All about the island they’d found scraps
of paper, canvas, cloth. Spent and unspent matches, heaps of cinders, heaps of nails.
Austin had found a cairn, too, on the
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