Journey (19 page)

As they worked, each man thought to himself at one time or another: Good God! This time even closer to the Arctic Circle! And each man swore that he would conserve his energy, eat meager rations without complaining, and do everything possible to maintain his health. And each prayed for inner strength.

—

As winter began, sixteen months since their departure from Edmonton, the men were in as good condition as could have been expected. Carpenter and Blythe had shin cuts acquired while hauling and all were markedly underweight, not from lack of food but from the endless hours of exertion. No one had any perceptible sickness, nor bad teeth, nor malnutrition, but all would have to face a most taxing winter, with temperatures lower than they had known along the Mackenzie and with a frightening lack of proper food.

This year there had to be new rules, as Lord Luton explained: “Latrine same as before. Daily run the same, and do not shirk. No one, and I mean no one, no one at all, is to eat anything except in the presence of us all. You must give me your word on that.” And the men swore to share food equally and openly. “We shall pray that our distinguished poacher, Fogarty, will put his talents to good purpose.” Plenty of hunting shells the group did have, thanks to the gift of
George Michael. Fogarty said that he would do his best, but he hoped Major Carpenter would assist, since he was a practiced shot.

Strangely, it was Fogarty who evoked the first revelation of the lurking terror which these men had so far successfully hidden. The latrine had been positioned as before, a respectable distance from the lean-to cabin, but the cold this winter was frightful, and Fogarty noticed that the other three were failing to visit it as often as he thought they should. One night he warned them about constipation: “In Edmonton they told me it was the curse of cold climates. Gentlemen, do not ignore those little messages from your bowels.”

He was prepared to squat at the latrine for as long as necessary. “His bottom must be lined with bear fur,” Harry suggested, but at the latrine Fogarty would stay. It was what he did when he returned that caused trouble, for always when he came into the warm room he sighed with deep satisfaction, saying the same four words: “Better out than in.” Since this was true, and was also a kind of reproof to the others with less hardy bottoms, it occasioned resentment. No one did anything about it until one night, when the routine was lustily repeated, Lord Luton suddenly reached for his revolver and shouted, indeed, he almost screamed: “Say that one more time and I'll blow your brains out!”

There was an awed hush, during which each man acknowledged how desperate their situation was. No one apologized for what Luton had done, and he said nothing. Fogarty, aware at last of how offensive he had been, said: “I am sorry, Milord.” And then he added as if nothing had happened: “I think I spotted where the caribou cross.” Luton laid his revolver down and said calmly: “I hope so. We shall have to rely on you, Fogarty.”

For several weeks the poacher failed to bring in fresh meat, and even when Carpenter accompanied him as second gun they returned empty-handed. Food now became the problem that superseded all others, and as the supplies purchased in Edmonton began to dwindle, everyone had to go on severely reduced rations, watching with deep apprehension as one can after another was carefully opened and scraped of every morsel. For some curious reason, which no one could have explained, the six cans of meat acquired by chance at Fort Norman were considered sacrosanct, not to be touched until the ultimate extremity. They stood neatly stacked in the corner, representing a fighting chance for survival. That pile became the religious icon that kept hope alive.

The savage deprivation had to have visible consequences: the men grew leaner, their countenances ashen as blood fled their faces, their movements more carefully considered. Also, their tempers frayed, but of this they were aware, so that they spoke to one another with a more careful courtesy, as if they were members of some ancient court in which formality was required. And then one day Trevor Blythe shattered the make-believe with a startled cry of real anguish: “Oh, Jesus! Look what's happened!” And he held forth in the palm of his left hand one of his back molars, unblemished and sound as a walnut but nevertheless ejected from his weakening upper gum.

“Scurvy,” Luton said without showing his fear. “We must eat more carefully,” but how this was to be accomplished he did not suggest.

One very cold afternoon as Carpenter and Fogarty were trying to find a stray caribou or the cave of some hibernating bear, Harry suddenly went lame, and when Fogarty inspected his left leg he saw that the open wound caused by the rocks in the Peel had not healed. This was bad enough, but when he pressed his fingers about the wound to see whether putrefaction had set in, he saw to his and Harry's horror that the prints of his fingertips remained indented in the graying flesh. Harry, never one to avoid reality, pushed his own fingers in, with the same result.

“Necrotic,” he said.

“Is that what you told the young men about?” Fogarty asked, and Harry replied: “Yes. Scurvy.”

“What can we do?” Fogarty asked, and he was told: “Catch us an animal. We heard fresh meat will cure it.”

Of course, both Luton and Carpenter, as experienced explorers and students of British naval history, knew that this was not totally true; fresh meat did help combat scurvy because it strengthened the body and thus made it somewhat more capable of withstanding the attack, but they knew that this was merely a delaying tactic, not a cure. They were also aware of the remarkable work done in the previous century by Captain James Cook, who almost single-handedly eradicated scurvy as the curse of seafaring men. By almost forcing his crew to drink what they described as “a nauseating mix of things” containing ingredients like vegetables, seaweed, roots and the brine of fermented sauerkraut, he had sneaked into their diet the specific nutrient that would eliminate scurvy. Later experimenters said: “Cook had eight items in his mix and seven were totally useless, but
somewhere in there he had lucked upon something which provided ascorbic acid, and that saved the day.”

Luton and Carpenter knew that ascorbic acid in minute but lifesaving amounts could be obtained from digging up a mess of roots, boiling them, and drinking the water. But what roots? Explorers never knew which particular ones carried the treasured acid, but a wide mix always seemed mysteriously to provide the necessary. But Luton's party could not dig for roots and grasses, for the arctic land on which they were camped was frozen so solid and for so long each year that normal roots could not thrive in it. Those that might have proved helpful were locked into the ground, frozen so deep that they were not attainable. Potential salvation was everywhere under their feet, but they could not get at it.

The condition of Harry Carpenter's leg was ominous but not yet fatal; a strong man like him, with tremendous inner courage and determination, would have a good chance of survival. So when Fogarty and Harry returned to the camp they both refrained from adding to Lord Luton's worries by informing him that a second member of his party had scurvy, but they did say that it was imperative to find meat. Luton, Carpenter and Fogarty went out to scour the countryside—Blythe was far too weak to join them—and although they shot nothing that day or the next, they could not allow their exhaustion to stop them, and on the third day they did shoot a small caribou, and with joy they butchered it and hauled it home.

It was a miracle. Harry said of it: “When that roasted meat hit my stomach, I could feel the proper juices rushing to all the starved veins,” and Blythe said the same. They were self-deluded, of course, for not even fresh meat could halt the inroads of this terrible disease—only a replenishment of lost acids could accomplish that—but the salutary effect of the savory meat in their systems created such a sense of renewed well-being that Trevor believed his gums were strengthening and Harry was sure his necrotic leg had begun to mend.

But that was the last fresh meat they would enjoy for weeks. One night when the men were really starving, Lord Luton, as protector of the six cans of meat, announced almost merrily: “Gentlemen, we celebrate!” and with exaggerated ritual he placed one of the precious cans on their rude table and watched approvingly as Fogarty slit it open with an ax, tossed the contents in a saucepan, and threw in odd bits of everything he could find. As they waited for it to heat, they became aware of the arctic wind howling at their shack, and for some
reason not one of them could have explained, they began to hum and then sing softly the Christmas carols of their youth. When they came to that grand old English one not favored in other countries, “The Holly and the Ivy,” Trevor Blythe's high tenor sounded so sweetly throughout the tent that one could imagine the sound of sleighbells echoing in the frigid air outside. They talked of home and family and of the grand Christmases they had known in England and Ireland. Then, one by one, each returned to his own sad silence, and only the thunder of the wind was heard.

Two nights after the caroling the others heard Trevor gasp, and when they looked in his direction he was holding in his palm two more of his big back teeth, flawlessly white and glimmering in the lamplight like the malevolent eyes of some ghost. Before anyone could commiserate with him, he said softly and with profound resignation: “I doubt I shall see spring.”

“Now look here, Trevor,” Luton began to bluster, but the young fellow said with the gentleness that always marked him: “Evelyn, will you please fetch my Palgrave?” and when the precious little book was found, Trevor asked: “Will you read some of the short poems?” In his strong baritone Luton read those wonderfully simple lines, those thoughts that seemed to represent the best that England had ever offered the world: “ ‘My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains…' ” and “ ‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways…' ” and “ ‘Tell me where is Fancy bred…' ”

As this essence of love and beauty and the longings of youth filled the cabin, Blythe sighed. Soon thereafter his breath became uneven and labored, and he whispered: “Evelyn, please read me the Herrick.” Luton could not find the right poem, so Trevor with his trembling hands leafed through the pages for Number 93 and found the magical six lines:

“Whenas in silks my Julia goes

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows

That liquefaction of her clothes
.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see

That brave vibration each way free;

O how that glittering taketh me!”

When Luton finished reading, Trevor reached for Carpenter's hand and whispered in a voice so weak it could scarcely be heard: “When
we reached home I intended speaking with your cousin, Lady Julia. Please tell her. And my
Treasury…
I want her to have it.” Then he turned his ravaged body toward Luton: “Oh, Evelyn, I'm so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For having let you down,” this in a gray, deathly tone.

“Forget that!” Luton said heartily, trying to mask his emotion. “Sleep now and mend yourself.”

He was long past mending. That remorseless killer, scurvy, had so depleted him, stealing his sources of strength and destroying his capacity to rebuild, that all he could do was look pitifully at his three companions and gasp for breath, even though he knew the cool, clean air would do him little good.

Fighting valiantly to maintain control, he reached out to clasp Evelyn's hand, failed, and watched with dismay as his fingers fell weakly onto the blanket. Knowing that he was near death, he tried with harsh rasping sounds that formed no syllables to bid farewell to his companions, fell back, and with one last surge of energy turned his face to the wall to spare them his distress. Thus isolated, this compassionate young man, so full of promise but with his love undeclared, his poems unwritten, died.

—

As before, the end of February was the time of hell and ice, except that this year there was no springlike break in the middle, and much of the misery it brought stemmed from the fact that the days were lengthening, visibly so, but the rate was slow and the persistence of the cold so deadening that it seemed a perversion, a teasing of the spirit. Spring was due but it did not come.

Camp routine continued as before. Lord Luton shaved, and tended his clothes, and protected his five cans of meat, and marched erect rather than bent over as the others did in order to keep whatever heat they had trapped in their bellies. He ran three laps in this winter's version of a track and he goaded the others to do the same. He ate sparingly, preferring that the others take larger portions, and he did everything possible to sustain the spirits of his two remaining partners. He was an impeccable leader, and barring that one dreadful night when he had threatened to shoot Fogarty, he never lost his composure. His party had fallen upon rough times and he intended leading the survivors to safety. Never, not even in his lonely, unspoken reflections, did he acknowledge personal culpability for the
growing disaster; he viewed it as either a capricious act of God or the manifestation of the malevolent forces of nature.

Harry Carpenter was the regimental major. His big mustache had proliferated into a beard, but he kept it clipped, and when he sat in the cabin divested of the heavy clothes he had to wear when outside, he was a handsome man, not so rugged as before and somewhat drawn about the face because of scurvy, but still a proper officer whose upright bearing was relaxed rather than stiff. Had he stayed in India and become the colonel of his regiment, his men would have called him “Good old Harry,” and here in the wastes of northern Canada he was the same. He did not run every day; he couldn't, but when he felt that Luton was silently chiding him he tried; after one lap he would return to the cabin, exhausted.