Dan Simmons - The Terror

The long cabin was cold and no light came through the Preston Patent Illuminators overhead since the deck remained under three feet of snow and its winter canvas cover. The whale-oil lamps on the bulkheads flickered dutifully but did little to dispel the gloom.

The gathering at the table resembled a gloomier version of the summer war council Sir John Franklin had called almost eighteen months earlier on Erebus , but now instead of Sir John at the head of the table on the starboard side, Francis Crozier sat there. On the aft side of the table, to Crozier’s left, were the seven officers and warrant officers from Terror whom he had asked to be present. His executive officer, First Lieutenant Edward Little, was at Crozier’s immediate left. Next was Second Lieutenant George Hodgson, with Third Lieutenant John Irving to his left. Then the civilian engineer – given warrant officer status on the expedition but looking thinner, paler, and more cadaverous than ever – James Thompson. On Thompson’s left were Ice Master Thomas Blanky, who appeared to be stumping along very nicely on his wooden peg leg these days, and Captain of the Foretop Harry Peglar, the only petty officer Crozier had invited. Also present was Terror ’s Sergeant Tozer – who had been out of both captains’ graces since the night of the Carnivale when his men had fired on survivors of the fire but who was still the highest-ranked survivor of his heavily thinned group of lobsterbacks – speaking for the Marines.

At the port end of the long table sat Captain Fitzjames. Crozier knew that Fitzjames had not bothered to shave for several weeks, growing a reddish beard surprisingly flecked with grey, but he had made the effort today – or had ordered Mr. Hoar, his steward, to shave him. The effect only made his face look thinner and more pale, and now it was covered with countless small scrapes and cuts. Even with multiple layers of clothes on, it was obvious that Fitzjames’s garments hung on a much frailer frame these days.

To Captain Fitzjames’s left, along the forward side of the long table, sat six Erebuses. Immediately to his left was his only other surviving Naval officer – Sir John Franklin, First Lieutenant Gore, and Lieutenant James Walter Fairholme had all been killed by the thing on the ice – Lieutenant H. T. D. Le Vesconte, the man’s gold tooth gleaming the few times he smiled. Next to Le Vesconte was Charles Frederick Des Voeux, who had taken over the duties of first mate from Robert Orme Sergeant, who had been killed by the thing while overseeing torch-cairn repair in December.

Next to Des Voeux sat the only surviving surgeon, Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir. While technically the expedition’s and Crozier’s surgeon now, both the commanding officers and the surgeon had thought it appropriate for him to sit with his former Erebus crewmates.

To Goodsir’s left sat Ice Master James Reid, and to his left the only Erebus petty officer present, Captain of the Foretop Robert Sinclair. And sitting on the forward side of the table was Erebus ’s engineer, John Gregory, looking much healthier than his Terror counterpart.

Tea and weevil-rich biscuits were being served by Mr. Gibson of Terror and Mr. Bridgens of Erebus since the captains’ stewards were both in sick bay with signs of scurvy.

“Let’s discuss things in order,” said Crozier. “First, can we stay in the ships until a possible summer thaw? And part of that answer has to be, can the ships sail in June or July or August if there is a thaw? Captain Fitzjames?”

Fitzjames’s voice was a hollow husk of its once-confident firmness. Men on both sides of the table leaned closer to hear him.

“I don’t think Erebus will last until summer, and it’s my opinion – and the opinion of Mr. Weekes and Mr. Watson, my carpenters, and Mr. Brown, my bosun’s mate, Mr. Rigden, my coxswain, and of Lieutenant Le Vesconte and First Mate Des Voeux here – that she will sink when the ice melts.”

The cold air in the Great Cabin seemed to grow colder and to press more heavily on everyone. No one spoke for half a minute.

“The pressure from the ice these past two winters has squeezed the oakum right out from between the hull boards,” continued Fitzjames in his small, hoarse voice. “The main shaft to the screw has been twisted beyond all repair – all of you know that it was designed to be retracted into an iron well all the way up to the orlop deck to be kept out of harm’s way, but it will no longer retract any higher than the hull bottom – and we have no more replacement shafts. The screw itself has been shattered by the ice, as has been our rudder. We can jury-rig another rudder, but the ice has torn our hull bottom to splinters all along the length of the keel. We’re missing almost half of our iron plating along the bow and sides.

“Worse,” said Fitzjames, “the ice has squeezed the hull until the iron crossbeams added for reinforcement and the cast-iron replacements for her knees have either snapped or punctured the hull in more than a dozen places. If she were to float, even if we patched every breach and managed somehow to repair the problem with the screw-shaft well leaking, she would have no internal bracing against the ice. Also, while the wooden channels added to her side for this expedition have largely succeeded in keeping the ice from climbing over the raised gunwales, the downward pressure on these channels resulting from her raised position in the encroaching ice has caused splitting of the hull timbers along every channel seam.”

Fitzjames seemed to notice their rapt attention for the first time. His unfocused stare went away and he looked down as if embarrassed. When he looked up again, his voice sounded almost apologetic. “Worst of all,” he said, “is that the twisting pressure of the ice has so cork-screwed the sternpost and started the heads and ends of planking that Erebus has been bent far out of true by the stress. The decks break upward now… the only thing holding them in place is the weight of the snow… and none of us believe that our pumps could equal the leaks should she be floated again. I will let Mr. Gregory speak to the condition of the boiler, coal supplies, and propulsion system.”

All eyes shifted to John Gregory.

The engineer cleared his throat and licked his chapped and bleeding lips. “There is no steam propulsion system left on HMS Erebus ,” he said. “With the main shaft twisted and jammed in the retraction well, we’d need a Bristol dry dock to set her right. Nor do we have enough coal left for a day’s steaming. By the end of April, we’ll be out of coal to heat the ship, even at the rate of moving just forty-five minutes of hot water a day only to parts of the lower deck that we’re trying to keep habitable now.”

Crozier said, “Mr. Thompson. What is Terror ’s status in terms of steam?”

The living skeleton looked at his captain for a long minute and said in a voice that was surprisingly strong, “We wouldn’t be able to steam for more than an hour or two, sir, if Terror was floated this afternoon. Our shaft was retracted all right a year and a half ago, and the screw is workable – and we have a replacement for that – but we’re almost out of coal. If we were to transfer what’s left of Erebus ’s coal stores here and just heat the ship, we’d keep the boiler going and the hot water running two hours a day until… I’d venture… early May. But that wouldn’t leave any coal for steaming. With just Terror ’s stores of fuel, we’ll have to stop heating by mid- or late April.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” said Crozier. The captain’s voice was soft and betrayed no emotion. “Lieutenant Little and Mr. Peglar, would both of you be so kind as to give your assessment of Terror ’s seaworthiness?”