Dan Simmons - The Terror

“But what if the bear has a better sense of smell than Napoleon did at Waterloo?” asked Sir John.

The men chuckled but Sergeant Tozer said, “We thought of that, Sir John. Mostly these days the wind is out of the nor’-nor’west. If we built the blind against the low pressure ridge near where poor Lieutenant Gore was laid to rest, sir, well, we’d have that nice great expanse of open ice to the nor’west as a killing zone. Almost a hunded yards of open space. Odds are great that it would come down off the higher ridges from upwind, Sir John. And when it gets where we want it, quick volleys of Minié balls into its heart and lungs, sir.”

Sir John thought about this.

“But we’ll have to call off the men, sir,” said Edward Couch, the mate. “With all the men crashing around out there on the ice, them and lookouts firing off their shotguns at every ice serac and gust of wind, no self-respecting bear would come within five miles o’ the ship, sir.”

Sir John nodded. “And what is going to lure our bear into this killing zone, gentlemen? Have you thought about bait?”

“Aye, sir,” said Sergeant Bryant, smiling now. “It’s fresh meat that draws these killers in.”

“We have no fresh meat,” said Sir John. “Not so much as a ring seal.”

“No, sir,” said the craggy Marine sergeant. “But we have that little bear. Once the blind is built and set in place, we’ll butcher that little thing, not sparing the blood, sir, and leave the meat out there on the ice not twenty-five yards from our shooting position.”

Sir John said, “So you think our animal is a cannibal?”

“Oh, aye, sir,” said Sergeant Tozer, his face flushing under the purple birthmark. “We think this thing will eat anything that bleeds or smells of meat. And when it does, we’ll pour the volleys of fire into it, sir, and then it’s ten sovereigns per man and then winter and then triumph and then home.”

Sir John nodded judiciously. “Make it so,” he said.

On Friday afternoon, the eleventh of June, Sir John went out with Lieutenant Le Vesconte to inspect the bear blind.

The two officers had to admit that even from thirty feet away the blind was all but invisible, its floor and back built into the low ridge of snow and ice where Sir John had given the eulogy. The white sails blended almost perfectly and the firing slit had tatters of canvas hanging at irregular intervals to break up the solid horizontal line. The sailmaker and armourer had attached the canvas so cleverly to the iron rods and ribs that even in the rising wind now blowing snow across the open ice, there was not the slightest flap of canvas.

Le Vesconte led Sir John down the icy path behind the pressure ridge – out of sight of the shooting zone – and then over the low wall of ice and in through a slit at the back of the tent. Sergeant Bryant was there with the Erebus Marines – Corporal Pearson and Privates Healey, Reed, Hopcraft, and Pilkington – and the men started to rise as their expedition commander entered.

“Oh, no, no, gentlemen, keep your seats,” whispered Sir John. Aromatic wooden planks had been set in high iron stirrups curled into the iron support bars at either side of the long, narrow tent, allowing the Marines to sit at shooting height when not standing by the narrow firing slit. Another layer of planking kept their feet off the ice. Their muskets were at the ready in front of them. The crowded space smelled of fresh wood, wet wool, and gun oil.

“How long have you been waiting?” whispered Sir John.

“Not quite five hours, Sir John,” whispered Sergeant Bryant.

“You must be cold.”

“Not a bit, sir,” said Bryant in low tones. “The blind is large enough to allow us to move around from time to time and the planks keep our feet from freezing. The Terror Marines under Sergeant Tozer will relieve us at two bells.”

“Have you seen anything?” whispered Lieutenant Le Vesconte.

“Not yet, sir,” answered Bryant. The sergeant and the two officers leaned forward until their faces were in the cold air of the firing slit.

Sir John could see the carcass of the bear cub, its muscles a shocking red against the ice. They had skinned everything except the small white head, bled it out, captured the blood in pails, and spread the blood all around the carcass. The wind was blowing snow across the wide expanse of ice, and the red blood against all the white, grey, and pale blue was disconcerting.

“We have still to see whether our foe is a cannibal,” whispered Sir John.

“Aye, sir,” said Sergeant Bryant. “Would Sir John join us on the bench, sir? There’s ample room.”

There wasn’t ample room, especially with Sir John’s broad beam added to those beefy posteriors already lined up along the plank. But with Lieutenant Le Vesconte remaining standing and all the Marines scooted down as far as they could go, it was just manageable to have the seven men crowded onto the piece of timber. Sir John realized that he could see out onto the ice quite well from this raised position.

At this moment, Captain Sir John Franklin was as happy as he had ever been in the company of other men. It had taken Sir John years to realize that he was far more comfortable in the presence of women – including artistic, high-strung women such as his first wife, Eleanor, and powerful, indomitable women such as his current wife, Jane – than in the company of men. But since his Divine Service the previous Sunday, he had received more smiles, nods, and sincere looks of approbation from his officers and seamen than at any time in his forty-year career.

It was true that the promise of ten gold sovereigns per man – not to mention the doubling of the advance pay, equal to five months’ regular salary for a sailor – had been made in a most unusual burst of good feeling and improvisation. But Sir John had ample financial resources, and should those suffer during his three years and more away, he was quite certain that Lady Jane’s private fortune would be available to cover these new debts of honor.

All in all, Sir John reasoned, the financial offers and his surprise allowance of grog rations aboard his teetotaling ship had been strokes of brilliance. Like all others, Sir John had been deeply cast down by the sudden death of Graham Gore, one of the most promising young officers in the fleet. The bad news of no open ways in the ice and the terrible certainty of another dark winter here had weighed heavily upon everyone, but with a promise of ten gold sovereigns per man and a single feast day aboard two ships, he had surmounted that problem for the time being.

Of course, there was the other problem, brought to him by the four medicos only last week: the fact that more and more of the canned foodstuffs were being found to be putrid, possibly as a result of improper soldering of the cans. But Sir John had set that aside for now.

The wind blew snow across the wide expanse of ice, obscuring then revealing the tiny carcass in its congealing and freezing X of blood on the blue ice. Nothing moved from the surrounding pressure ridges and ice pinnacles. The men to Sir John’s right sat easily, one chewing tobacco, the others resting their mittened hands on the upraised muzzles of their muskets. Sir John knew that those mittens would be off in a flash should their nemesis appear on the ice.

He smiled to himself as he realized that he was memorizing this scene, this moment, as a future anecdote for Jane and his daughter, Eleanor, and his lovely niece Sophia. He did that a lot these days, observing their predicament on the ice as a series of anecdotes and even setting them into words – not too many words, just enough to hold rapt attention – for future use with his lovely ladies and during evenings dining out. This day – the absurd shooting blind, the men crowded in, the good feeling, the smell of gun oil and wool and tobacco, even the lowering grey clouds and blowing snow and mild tension as they awaited their prey – should stand him in good stead in the years to come.