The Terror Read Free Page A

going below to your quarters soon. It’s getting a bit nippy out here.”
    Silence stares at him. She does not blink, although somehow her long lashes are free of ice. She does not, of course, speak. She watches him.
    Crozier symbolically tips his hat again and continues his tour around the deck, climbing to the ice-raised stern and then down the starboard side, pausing to speak to the other two men on watch, giving Irving time to get below and out of his cold-weather slops so that the captain doesn’t seem to be following hard on his lieutenant’s heels.
    He’s finishing his chat with the last shivering lookout, Able Seaman Shanks, when Private Wilkes, the youngest of the Marines aboard, comes rushing out from under the canvas. Wilkes has thrown on only two loose layers over his uniform, and his teeth begin chattering even before he delivers his message.
    “Mr. Thompson’s compliments to the captain, sir, and the engineer says that the captain should come down to the hold as quick as you might.”
    “Why?” If the boiler has finally broken down, Crozier knows, they are all dead.
    “Begging the captain’s pardon, sir, but Mr. Thompson says that the captain is needed because Seaman Manson is near to mutiny, sir.”
    Crozier stands up straight. “Mutiny?”
    “‘Near to it’ were Mr. Thompson’s words, sir.”
    “Speak English, Private Wilkes.”
    “Manson won’t carry no more sacks of coal past the Dead Room, sir. Nor go down in the hold no more. He says he respectfully refuses, Captain. He won’t come up, but he’s sitting on his arse at the bottom of the man-ladder and won’t carry no more coal back to the boiler room.”
    “What is this nonsense?” Crozier feels the first stirrings of a familiar dark Irish anger.
    “It’s the ghosts, Captain,” says Marine Private Wilkes through chattering teeth. “We all hear ’em when we’re hauling coal or fetching something from deep stores. It’s why the men won’t go down there below orlop deck no more unless the officers order ’em to, sir. Something’s down there in the hold, in the dark. Something’s been scratching and banging from
inside
the ship, Captain. It ain’t just the ice. Manson’s sure it’s his old mate Walker, him… it… and the other corpses stacked there in the Dead Room, clawing to get out.”
    Crozier checks his impulse to reassure the Marine private with facts. Young Wilkes might not find the facts so reassuring.
    The first simple fact is that the scrabbling noise from the Dead Room is almost certainly the hundreds or thousands of large black rats feasting on Wilkes’s frozen comrades. The Norway rats — as Crozier knows better than the young Marine — are nocturnal, which means that they’re active day and night during the long arctic winter, and the creatures have teeth which constantly keep growing. This, in turn, means the God-damned vermin have to keep chewing. He has seen them chew through Royal Navy oak barrels, inch-thick tins, and even lead plating. The rats are having no more trouble down there with the frozen remains of Seaman Walker and his five unlucky comrades — including three of Crozier’s finest officers — than a man would have chewing on a strip of frigid salted beef.
    But Crozier doesn’t think it’s only the rats that Manson and the others are hearing.
    Rats, as Crozier knows from the sad experience of thirteen winters in the ice, tend to eat one’s friends quietly and efficiently, except for their frequent screeching as the blood-maddened and ravenous vermin turn on one another.
    It’s something else making the clawing and banging noises down on hold deck.
    What Crozier decides not to remind Private Wilkes of is the second simple fact: while the lowest deck would normally be cold but safe there beneath the waterline or winter line of frozen sea ice, the pressure from the ice has forced
Terror
’s stern more than a dozen feet higher than it should be. The hull there is still locked in, but