Dan Simmons - The Terror

The men began Gathering other Flotsam as our 9 remaining Boats fanned out and rowed Slowly forward in a line: an Oar, more bits of Shattered Wood from gunwales and stern, a Steering Sweep, a Welsh wig, a bag that once held cartridges, a mitten, a bit of Waistcoat.

When Seaman Ferrier used a boat hook to pull in what looked to be a floating bit of Blue Peacoat, he suddenly cried out in Horror and almost dropped the long gaff.

A man’s body floated there, his Headless Corpse still Garbed in sodden blue Wool, his Arms and Legs hanging down in the black water. The neck was a mere bit of severed Stump. His fingers, perhaps swollen by death and the cold water but looking strangely shortened into broad Stubs, seemed to move in the Currents, rising and falling on the Slight Swell like White Worms wriggling. It was almost as if, Voiceless, the Body was trying to tell us something via Sign Language.

I helped Ferrier and McConvey pull the Remains aboard. Fish or some Aquatic Predator had been nibbling at the Hands – the fingers were gone to the Second Joint – but the Extreme Cold had delayed the bloating and decomposition Processes.

Captain Crozier brought his whaleboat around until its bow was touching our side.

Who is it? muttered a seaman .

It’s ’arry Peglar, cried another . I recognize the peajacket.

Harry Peglar didn’t Wear no green Waistcoat, interjected another .

Sammy Crispe did! exclaimed a 4 thSeaman .

Silence! bellowed Captain Crozier . Dr. Goodsir, be so Good as to turn out our unfortunate Shipmate’s pockets.

I did so. From the large pocket of the Wet Waistcoat, I pulled an almost-Empty tobacco Pouch tooled in red leather.

Ah, shite! said Thomas Tadman, sitting next to Robert Ferrier on my Boat . It’s poor Mr. Reid.

And so it was. All the men then remembered that the Ice Master had been Wearing only his Peacoat and Green Waistcoat the previous evening, and All of Us had seen him refill his Pipe a thousand times from that faded red-leather pouch.

We looked to Captain Crozier as if he could explain what had Happened to our Shipmates, although in our Souls, we all knew.

Secure Mr. Reid’s body under that Boat Cover, ordered the Captain . We’ll search the area to see if there are any Survivors. Do not row or drift out of sight or shouting range.

Once again, the boats fanned out. Mr. Couch brought our boat back to the ice near the Inlet Opening, and we Rowed Slowly along the icy Shelf that rose about 4 Feet above the open water’s Edge. We stopped at each smear of Blood on the surface of the Floe and on the Vertical Face, but there were no more bodies.

Oh, damn, moaned 30-year-old Francis Pocock from his place at the Sweep in the Stern of our Boat . You can see the bloody grooves of the man’s Fingers and Nails in the Snow. The Thing must’ve dragged him backwards into the Water.

Batten down your Gob on such Talk! called Mr. Couch. Holding his long pike easily in one hand like a True Whaleboat’s Harpoon, he had one Booted Foot up on the whaleboat’s Bow as he glowered back at the rowers. The men fell silent .

There were three such Bloody Spots on the ice at this Nor’west End of the Open Water.The third One showed where Someone had been Eaten some 10 Feet back from the Edge of the ice. A few leg bones remained, as did some gnawed Ribs, a Torn Integument that might be Human Skin, and some Strips of Torn Cloth, but no skull or identifiable features.

Put me on the ice, Mr. Couch, I said , and I shall Examine the Remains.

I did so. Had this been ashore almost anywhere in the World but Here, flies would have been buzzing around the Red Meat and Muscle left behind, not to mention the strands of Entrails looking like a Gopher’s Burrowing Ridge beneath the thin Covering of last night’s Snow, but here there was only the Silence and the soft Wind from the northwest and the Groaning of the Ice.

I called back to the Boat – the seamen were averting their Faces – and Confirmed that no identification was possible. Even the Few Remnants of Torn Clothing could give no clue. There was no Head, no Boots, no Hands, no Legs, not even a Torso other than the heavily gnawed Ribs, a Sinewed bit of Spine, and half a Pelvis.

Stay as you are, Mr. Goodsir, called Couch . I’m sending Mark and Tadman to you with an emptied shot bag in which to put the poor bugger’s remains. Captain Crozier’ll be wanting to give them a burial.

It was Grim work, but done quickly. In the end, I directed the two Grimacing Seamen to pack away only the Rib cage and bit of Pelvis into the shot-bag Burial Shroud. The Vertebrae had frozen into the Floe Ice, and the other remnants were too Grisly to bother about.

We had just shoved off from the ice and were Exploring along the South rim of the Open Water when there came a shout from the North.

Man found! some Seaman cried. And again , Man found!

I believe that we all could feel our Hearts Pounding as Coombs, McConvey, Ferrier and Tadman, and Mark and Johns pulled hard, and Francis Pocock steered us to a cricket-pitch-sized patch of floating ice that had drifted to the center of these Several Hundred Acres of Open Water amid the Frozen Floes. We all wanted – we all needed – to find someone Alive from Lieutenant Little’s boat.

It was not to be.

Captain Crozier was already on the Ice and called me forward to the Body lying there. I Confess that I felt slightly Put Upon, as if even the Captain was unable to Certify Death unless I was forced to Inspect yet another Undeniably Dead Corpse. I was very Tired.

It was Harry Peglar lying there almost naked – his few remaining Clothes mere Underthings – Curled up on the Ice, Knees Raised almost to his Chin, Legs crossed at the Ankle as if his last energy had been spent trying to keep warm by pressing his body Tighter and Tighter, his Hands tucked under his Arms while he Hugged himself in what must have been an End in Violent Shivers.

His blue eyes were open and frozen. His flesh was also Blue and as Hard to the Touch as Carrera Marble.

He must’ve swum to the Floe, managed to Climb up, and froze to death here, softly suggested Mr. Des Voeux . The Thing from the Ice didn’t catch or maul Harry.

Captain Crozier only nodded. I knew that the Captain had liked and much depended upon Harry Peglar. I also liked the Foretop Captain. Most of the men did.

Then I saw what Crozier was looking at. All around the Ice Floe in the recent snow – especially around the Corpse of Harry Peglar – were huge footprints, rather like a White Bear’s with claws visibly indicated, only easily Three or Four times Larger than any white bear’s paw prints.

The thing had Circled Harry many times. Watching as poor Mr. Peglar lay Shivering and Dying? Enjoying itself? Had Harry Peglar’s last shivering Image on this Earth been of that White Monstrosity looming over him, its black, unblinking Eyes watching? Why had the thing not eaten our Friend?

The Beast was on two legs the entire time it was on the floe, was all that Captain Crozier said .

Other men from the Boats came forward with a piece of Canvas.

There was no exit from the Lake in the Ice except for the Rapidly Closing Lead from which we had come. Two circumnavigations of the Body of Open Water – five Boats rowing clockwise, four Boats rowing antiwiggens – offered the Discovery of only inlets, Ruptures in the Ice, and two more Bloody Swaths where it looked as if one of our reconnaissance whaleboat’s crew pulled himself onto the ice and ran but was Cruelly Intercepted and pulled back. There were, thank God, shards of blue Wool but no more remains to be found.