Dan Simmons - The Terror

The Captain had been suffering Problems with his Stomach and Bowels for some weeks, but suddenly, on the Second of June, Fitzjames collapsed. Our protocol on the March is not to stop for sick men but rather to place them in one of the larger Boats and pull them along with the other Supplies and dead weight. Captain Crozier made sure that Captain Fitzjames was made as comfortable as possible in his own Whaleboat.

Since we are doing this Long March South in relays – working for Hours on End to pull 5 of the 10 Heavy Boats as little as a few hundred Yards across the terrible gravel and Snow, always trying to stay on the Land when possible rather than be forced to deal with Pack Ice and Pressure Ridges, sometimes covering less than a Mile in a Day on the resisting gravel and ice – I make it my practice to stay with the sickest men while the Man-hauling Teams go back for the other 5 Boats. Often Mr. Diggle and Mr. Wall, gamely preparing to cook Warm Meals for almost a hundred Starving Men on their little spirit stoves, and a few men with muskets to guard against the Thing on the Ice or Esquimaux are my only companions for those hours.

Other than the Sick and Dying.

Captain Fitzjames’s nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea were terrible. Unrelenting. The Cramps curled him into a Fetal Position and made this strong and Brave man cry aloud.

On the Second Day, he tried to rejoin his team man-hauling his whaleboat – even the Officers pull from time to time – but soon he Collapsed yet again. This time the vomiting and cramps were Nonstop. When the Whaleboat was left on the Ice that afternoon as the able-bodied Men went back to man-haul forward the 5 Boats left behind on the First Haul, Captain Fitzjames confessed to me that his Vision was terribly blurred and that he was frequently seeing Double.

I asked him if he had been Wearing the Wire Goggles we use to block the sun. The men Hate them because they Obscure vision so terribly, and the Goggles tend to induce their own headaches. Captain Fitzjames admitted that he had Not been wearing them but pointed out that the day had been quite Cloudy. None of the other men were wearing them either. At that point our Conversation stopped as he was seized with diarrhea and vomiting yet again.

Late that night, in the Holland Tent where I was Attending him, Fitzjames gasped to me that he was having trouble swallowing and that his Mouth was constantly Dry. Soon he showed trouble Breathing and was no longer able to speak. By sunrise, a Paralysis had moved down his upper Arms to the point where he could no longer lift them or use his hands to Write messages to me.

Captain Crozier called a Halt that day – the first such full day’s stop we had enjoyed since leaving Terror Camp almost six weeks earlier. All of the tents were pitched. The larger Sick Bay Tent was finally unpacked from Crozier’s own Whaleboat – it took almost Three Hours to set it up in the wind and cold (and the men are much more Sluggish about such things these days) – and for the first time in almost a month and a half, all the Sick were made comfortable in one place.

Mr. Hoar, Captain Fitzjames’s long-suffering steward, had died on the Second Day of our March. (We had made less than a Mile that first Terrible day of Man-hauling, and the stack of Coal, Stoves, and other goods was still Horribly but Plainly Visible behind us at Terror Camp that first night. It was as if we had Achieved Nothing after twelve hours of Deadly Labour. Those first days – it took us Seven Days to cross the narrow iced Inlet south of Terror Camp and travel only Six Miles – almost destroyed our Morale and Will to go on.)

Marine Private Heather, who had lost a portion of his Brain months before, finally allowed his Body to Die on our Fourth Day out. His surviving fellow Marines played a bagpipe over his shallow, hastily dug grave that evening.

And so it went with the other Sick dying rapidly, but then there came a Long Period after the twin deaths of Lieutenant Le Vesconte and Private Pilkington at the end of the Second Week in which no one died. The men Convinced themselves that the truly Ill had died off and only the Strong remained.

Captain Fitzjames’s sudden collapse reminded us that we were all growing Weaker. There were no longer any truly Strong among us. Except perhaps for the Giant, Magnus Manson, who lumbers along Imperturbably and who never seems to lose weight or energy.

To treat Captain Fitzjames’s constant vomiting, I administered doses of asafetida, a gum resin used to control spasms. It helped very little. He was not able to Keep Down either solid food or liquids. I gave him limewater to settle his stomach, but it also did no good.

For his difficulty swallowing, I administered Syrup of Squills – a sliced herb set in tannin solution that is an Excellent Expectorant. Usually effective, it seemed to do little to lubricate the dying man’s Throat.

As Captain Fitzjames lost the Use and Control of first his Arms and then his Legs, I tried Peruvian Wine of Coca – a powerful admixture of wine and cocaine – as well as solutions of hartshorn, a Medicine made from ground-up antlers of red deer which stinks strongly of ammonia, as well as Solution of Camphor. These Solutions, at Half the Dosage I gave to the captain, often Arrest and even Reverse paralysis.

They did not help. The Paralysis spread to all of Captain Fitzjames’s extremities. He continued Vomiting and being Doubled Up by Cramps long after he could no longer speak or gesture.

But at least this Deadening of his Vocal Apparatus relieved the men of the Burden of hearing their Erebus Captain scream in pain. But I saw his convulsions and his mouth Open in silent screams that Long Last Day .

This morning, on the Fourth and Final Day of Captain Fitzjames’s Agony, his lungs began to shut down as the paralysis reached his respiratory muscles. He Laboured all day to breathe. Lloyd and I – sometimes abetted by Captain Crozier, who spent many hours with his Friend at the End – would set Fitzjames in a Sitting Position or Hold Him Upright or actually Walk the paralyzed man around the Tent, dragging his Limp Stockinged Feet across the Ice-and-Gravel floor, in a vain attempt to help his failing lungs Continue to work.

In desperation, I forced Tincture of Lobelia, a whiskey-coloured solution of Indian tobacco that was almost pure nicotine, down Captain Fitzjames’s throat, massaging it down his paralyzed gullet with my bare fingers. It was like feeding a dying Baby Bird. Tincture of Lobelia was the best respiratory stimulant left in my depleted Surgeon’s apothecary, a Stimulant that Dr. Peddie had sworn by . It would raise Jesus from the dead a day early, Peddie used to blaspheme when in his cups .

It did no good whatsoever.

It must be Remembered that I am a mere Surgeon, not a Physician. My training was in Anatomy; my expertise is in Surgery. Physicians prescribe; Surgeons saw. But I am doing my Best with the supplies my Dead Colleagues left to me.

The most Terrible thing about Captain James Fitzjames’s last hours was that he was Fully Alert through all of this – the vomiting and Cramps, the Loss of his Voice and ability to Swallow, the Creeping Paralysis, and the Final Terrible Hours of his lungs failing. I could see the panic and Terror in his eyes. His Mind was Fully Alive. His Body was Dying around him. He could do Nothing about this Living Torture except to Plead with me through his Eyes. I was impotent to help.

At times I wanted to Administer a lethal dose of pure Coca just to put an End to his Suffering, but my Hippocratic Oath and Christian belief did not allow that.