The White Passage

By Kassandra Alvarado

In 1845, the largest and most well-equipped polar expedition set out from England under the command of Sir John Franklin. In three years, the entire expedition disappeared and was never seen nor heard from again. For Kate Allen, this is the story she has heard all her life. But when she is suddenly transported into the distant past, into the lives of the doomed men of the Franklin Expedition, she must decide whether to save herself from their eventual demise or find a way to change the course of history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kassandra Alvarado
• Release date: May 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301113293

Book preview

The White Passage

By Kassandra Alvarado

Published by Kassandra Alvarado at Smashwords

Copyright 2013

Discover other titles by https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/KassandraAlvarado at Smashwords.com

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Art designed by author

Clipart courtesy of Seamartini Graphics - http://clipartof.com/1062490

Table of Contents

Part 1 - The Journal

Part 2 - The Missing

Part 3 - The Long Road Home

Author’s Note

Dedicated to all those searchers past, present and future and to those humble ones whom have launched arm-chair expeditions in search of Franklin and his men.

Part One The Journal

I’m afraid I wasn’t very polite about it. Aside from a dutiful expensive gift from parents, uncle and his doting wife, I wasn’t experienced in receiving gifts. Etiquette, I mean.

For you, Dr. P said an object wrapped in shiny aluminum computer packaging was handed to me. Barcode ID, the works. Obviously, the wrapping came from the receptionist’s wastebasket.

I peeled the slick plastic back to reveal a light brown bound quarto-size book. Just to make sure I flipped past the leather cover - was it real leather? My fingertip sensors stroked the soft cover. The corners were imitation brass squares and the center had an intertwined gold squiggle. Meaningless ornamentation. A blank book? I puzzled aloud, impassively studying the empty sheets. What am I supposed to do with this? There was a certificate of authenticity tag sticking out of page 104.

Fill the paper with the breathings of your heart. Voice chip altered speech patterns to loft.

Quoting Wordsworth doesn’t suit you.

Dr. P wasn’t advanced enough to understand sarcasm. Since you adore sharp things and their uses as crude weapons. Do try not to stab anyone’s ocular cavity. From a drooping pocket, a set of Calligraphy pens with faux brass tips lay in a soldierly row. These were passed down the length of the Plexiglas workstation.

What am I...? I don’t like repeating myself.

Take a trip. A journey to the remotest place physical boundary allows. That book is to record your experiences in the most primitive form known to man. Dr. P was almost sympathetic. Firm. But, celluloid. I’m afraid by attempting a semblance of normal life; you aren’t dealing with the problem.

But, won’t the reminders still be here when I return? I guessed he meant a place with no cell phone.

There is a high ratio of failure, but the infinitesimal fraction of relief makes the time outlay worthwhile.

And so, my weekly appointments were placed on indefinite hiatus, Dr. P means for me to fill this little book with my meanderings and even my languages Professor from Penn State, Ms. Kojima agreed it was a very worthwhile venture. And so, outmaneuvered, this begins the journal of Catherine ‘Kate’ Allen, much good it’ll do.

November 26th 2096, Boarded the Polestar this afternoon, the body lies like a large floating bumblebee beside the docks. This is the start of a 14-day cruise entitled Discovering The Northwest Passage offered by Polaris LLC. The ship itself is a refurbished yacht with a capacity of sixteen cabins, the largest - the Great Cabin, is mine, offering crystal chandeliers, fine white tablecloth dining in the two mess halls, a formal Lounge with a minibar and hollow-book lined walls of a Franklin Library room with digital editions of every popular Arctic exploration subject line. On the walls are reproduction portraits of Richard Beard's daguerreotype set.

When lunch was served, we ate off porcelain plates styled after fragments of Sir John Franklin's plates, the flatware was bi-carbonate plastic in silver color bearing different officers crests. I think I had Fairholme's, a simple crest of a dove holding an olive branch in its beak bearing the legend Spero Meliora, I hope for better things.

The whole ship feels as though you’ve stepped back in time, that was probably my uncle’s intention.

December 2nd 2096, On one of the cabinets in my room, hangs two portraits, I’m writing beneath them now. One of Queen Victoria in her stoic youth and another of a woman England once hailed as their English Penelope, before all those nasty rumors of cannibalism: Jane Griffin-Franklin. I rather think her features aren’t bad. She possessed a weak chin, a thin hard mouth and sharp, intelligent eyes. I wonder if she enjoyed the freedom widowhood gave her?

December 3rd 2096, Glimpsed the ice for the first time. I'll never forget it. It was beautiful with a rare magnificence words themselves fail to emulate. The snows of the northern United States pale in comparison. Aboard the Advance on the First Grinnell Expedition, Elisha Kent Kane once described the bergs as 'slumberous' and 'pure' he went on further to write, 'that they (the ice) seemed to me the material for a dream, rather than things to be definitely painted in words.' I can't agree more.

December 5th 2096, Peel Sound is very blue. Google Earth doesn't show you that. Outside my starboard porthole window, a sea of vivid blue lies glass-like. In cresting mysterious waves a dense, low-lying fog steals in on silent feet. The occasional glint of white heralds a berg, fractured as it were from the mass of a whole.

Indeed, the season is nonexistent but we’re encountering little resistance traversing the channel to Franklin Strait. They say Global warming's a penguin killer, destroying their natural habitats, forcing more and more land mammals to seek colder waters. Truth is, there's none more suited than the Arctic Ocean or Antarctica - well let's say fifty or more years ago. The water is a balmy - ͦ 10 while the air is a pleasant  ͦ 30. It still gets colder in Philadelphia. Environmentalist groups are top dogs in the media now, trumpeting claims on how the ice will vanish forever by the year 2110. If that's so, the Arctic will become little more than a memory.

December 10th, This was and always will be Bill Harris's fault. A more oversexed pig-headed man couldn't be found this side of Victoria Strait. If he hadn't wrecked the Polestar, pride of my uncle's Polaris fleet, off the coast of King William Island, quite simply I wouldn't be sitting here beside a bowl of Mulligatawny soup listening to a man trying to serenade me in an awful Orkneys accent - oh, thank the stars! Someone just hauled him away.

But, I digress, it began with a great thunderous groan, the small ship felt as though it were being tossed by a giant's hand, rocking to and fro, forward progress halted. We, the passengers stumbled out into the hallway in our bedclothes, wearing anxious expressions, all asking, what's going on?

We were then told by intercom that the ship had run into engine difficulties and that a Coast Guard ice-breaker would be along in the morning to aid in repairs. Hot coffee, tea and chocolate were then served for a few Canadian dollars in the Lounge. I heard later from the engineers that Bill had tried to go sternboard to impress us with the view and despite the advanced control system, didn't see the mist lying low over the ice-choked sea.

In other words, he rammed the Polestar straight into it. I think he was trying to pull a James Ross via Antarctica 1840s. The ship had lost power by nine, the main body itself sitting low in the water. By 10 pm, we were informed that the ship was sinking. Onboard engineers had discovered the steel hull to have been breached by the ice, allowing a steady flow of water to inch up the bulkheads. No small amount of panic was caught like the plague by the passengers. We were herded topside, eight couples plus myself. On deck with - ͦ 10 below temperatures, the ship's Captain addressed us, simply saying, a party of Inuit had been radioed in, we would hike to land where they would meet up with us and escort us to Gjoa Haven by helicopter, where we'd find lodgings and in the meantime...enjoy the great outdoors, folks. In Canadian twang.

The last statement was met with cold stares. Winter was upon us and the arctic darkness is known for disguising bears and other predators of the night. Not a single soul on deck believed the one cabin steward armed with a pistol could escort us - safely - I sympathized with the poor man shivering in a thin plastic windbreaker and galoshes, he was used to recessed air vents funneling hot air inside the spacious companionways and cabins of the Polestar. The rest of us were more or less prepared for light traveling in Primaloft parkas, poly-propylene thermawear tops and pants tucked into heavy hiking boots outfitted for the kind of weather out here. Mine were army issue combat boots, meant for the coldest places on earth.

There were many grumblings about the fact that we had to carry out our entire luggage from the ship. Anyone who had purchased carved reindeer statues during the stopover in Finland had to load up everything in two small lifeboats. The scant accompaniment of crew would stay onboard with Captain Harris, he in turn didn’t miss this opportunity to try and kiss me goodbye. Thankfully, I managed to avoid the unpleasantness of his pocked face and puckering lips. I did hope at the time, he planned on going down with the ship, keeping up tradition, you know?

The strongest of the octogenarian set, took turns paddling the lead boat while the second with myself and the middle-aged husband of an Environmentalist couple, had insisted everyone use paddles instead of ruining the natural-ecosystem by using gas propellers. Well, the fellow didn’t seem to know how to paddle a boat, thwarting my forward progress by continuously propelling us backward toward the damaged hull of the ship. With some difficulties, we eventually made landfall on a sea of interlocked floes. Any continued progress hindered by jutting chunks where the ice had collided, smashing together into weird and somehow beautiful shapes. These, I later learned, were pressure ridges.

Further description of our time spent out there bears little consequence to this narrative. We had moved farther inland, the lights of the Polestar reflected the beacon of civilization even as she sunk lower in the water, her mass eventually vanished to our eyes when the mist came. Roiling across the surface of inky night, with it came screams, the sound of shouting and explosions of gunfire. I hardly remember whence it came, from land, from the north, south, east, or west. It was simply not there one moment, then there the next, all encompassing. It swallowed everything in its path. Our group stood huddled, hearing the feral growl of an animal, echoing, bouncing from all directions. I held my service revolver, the muzzle tilted skyward, calmly ordering everyone to stay together.

But, it was so difficult to see-!

The growl was closer, and then suddenly, I saw it. They all did. A monstrosity of black eyes, white fur and powerfully built muscles. The black-tipped snout and thick hooked-claw paws thundered toward us. We broke apart like water against stone. Scattering in all directions. I was closest, swinging aside, taking aim even as the arctic beast vanished into the sworls of grey mist.

Come back! I shouted to the rest. Look! It’s gone! My voice echoed from all sides, rebounding against solidified air. The steward ran up, panting. They’re all gone! I can’t find anybody! Fucking hell, Bill’s going to kill me! He half-sobbed, sniveling into his jacket sleeve.

We’ll find them, okay? We’ll just stick together, I reached out, gently lowering the barrel of the gun pointed in my general direction. He nodded, still choked up. Taking turns, we alternately called and wandered throughout the thickening maze.

I was the one who heard it. Someone was calling for help. I grabbed the steward’s arm, jerking him to an abrupt stop. Did you hear that? I was fixated, staring ahead through a gap between the ridges; a shaft of moonlight washed the passage white, the sound filtered like an aural slice from there alone. Someone’s in trouble!

I don’t- he began, voice trembling from the cold.

But, I did. Louder. More desperate. I knew I had to go. I’ll be right back! The words flew from my lips as I dashed forward impulsively. Just a few minutes - it was a tight squeeze, but I was through. - I’ll only be a moment! It never registered in my mind that I couldn’t hear the steward’s voice as he called after me, still. I was running forward, drawing closer to the sound. A roar and splinter of gunfire. I dared half-turn, seeing nothing but a sliver of darkness made all the more terrifying by the sudden silence. When I looked ahead again, the figure of a tall heavyset man completely garbed head to toe; loomed out into the pathway.

There was no way to avoid it, we were going to collide.

He saw me at the last second, a glimmer of dark as our eyes met. I tried to veer off course, feeling nothing but thin air slamming full pelt through. Equilibrium thrown off, I flew forward and down, dazed into the snow. Did I pass through him? The same thought must've gone through the apparition’s mind as he touched his chest where I should've struck and stared at where I had fallen.

Who are you? I wondered as he dropped his hand, taking a step toward me. There was something almost painfully familiar about him, something I couldn’t define. He extended his hand out, warding or aiding, I’m not sure which. Then, my eyes fell to the frozen ground beside my hip where the chill was just barely beginning to bite through my pants. The short stock of a sawn-off shotgun lay only inches away, the very same model smuggled onboard as one of the tourists was a big game hunter and had the money to bribe Harris to overlook the law.

Snatching it up, I rolled up and onto my feet, sprinting into the darkness.

Later-

If the events before were stretching the limits of imagination, what occurred next was simply beyond belief. I will certainly burn this journal before ever letting Dr. P inspect it, his binary code would insist I was crazy! Mayhap I’ll fall into a light sleep and try leaving after a few hours - probably discovering it was a dream after all.

- must stop.

Men’s voices paused just outside the cabin door.

Damage report, gentlemen, if you please?

"Two broken noses. Minor bruises, cut lips oh and Lieutenant Fairholme is still in shock. He...erm...keeps insisting he'll never have children."

Huh, probably just needs a nip of brandy before bed. Carry on then.

Sometime past midnight

I awoke sometime after four hours passage. Laced my boots, slipped jacket, gloves, scarf and glasses on. The latter were imperative for the polar darkness. The remainder of the innards of the wooden ship had descended into plaintive quiet sometime before. Still, I was wary slipping out into the corridor shadowed with darkness. The room I’d been given was directly the last in line opening into the murk and swaying masses of the berthing deck.

I looked to and fro, cautious, my senses primed. A rat squeaked somewhere, the ice groaned and a pan sizzled from the Galley. I held my breath lightly in this boiler of smells, reaching the narrow ladderway in silence. The main hatch afforded some difficulty in the opening of, seems a blizzard had blown in after seven. A large whoosh of icy air blew in from the aperture of blackness I’d uncovered, the lights below dimmed, and my gloves perched at the edge glistened afresh with white scrim.

The cold shuddered violently against my face, lacerating my skin with the fiery kiss of ice crystals. Swathed in its embrace, I determinedly strove to the top, climbing to the violent slapping of the canvas roofed deck straining to be torn from the mast beams. All the conditions were present for whiteout, a complete smothering of all five senses. Tempted through carelessness to test self against nature, part of me spoke out against a potential for destruction. Silently, I begrudged Dr. P’s ingress. I turned back wondering if it was fear of being smothered beneath a starless sky, delineation between earth and firmament nonexistent - was it fear?

I banged the hatch shut with less care, aware now of the amount of sound sealed in the bowels I descended to. The scrape of a spoon, the hiss of steam, the sound of dripping, garbled murmurs, snores, flatulence and the creak of wood beneath someone’s weight.

I spun weightless, my body tensing from years of practice.

You?

What were you doing? He asked sharply in almost the same breath. His hair a fair silver mottled with traces of dark brown fell disheveled around his ears. A day’s worth of stubble darkened a thin yet wide mouth, but his eyes remained piercing, suspicious. I noticed the unbuttoned shirt, a few flicked in for modesty’s sake, crushed trousers and rumpled jacket he had thrown over his shoulders left me concluding he had risen abruptly.

I just went to see conditions out. I answered unable to keep the defensive edge from my voice. Flouting authority is rare; inexplicable in my conduct save that part of me couldn’t yet accept this man’s command. Something about the way he looked at me..."What’re you doing?"

It was a simple question, in actuality born more of curiosity than rudeness. He started to answer, then shut his mouth unexpectedly. I should think that wasn’t your right to demand owing to my position and yours.

I shrugged; utter nonchalantly, get some rest. Automatically spinning on heel. He is right of course, I’m not offended. But, the way he stood there, stilled for a moment longer in the corner of my eye, made me ponder if three words were a rarity in his hermit-like existence. Oh, and good night, Captain Crozier.

December 11th ²⁰⁹⁶1846, I was awakened this morning by the sound of someone rifling through things without making an attempt to disguise the ruckus they were making. For one second, I half-dreamed I was back on the Polestar - and why in the hell did Bill lower the thermostat? It was freezing in here! Then, I whacked my head on the lowest shelf, knocking sense into the old noggin.

Ow, my head. I whimpered, squinting in the dim watery glow of the oil lamp sconce. Recollection kicked in. Who - oh, hello. You must be John Bridgens.

The older grey-haired man straightened from the sea chest, standing I would hazard a guess at close to my height. Remarkable for the men I'd seen so far, had been on the tall side. And you are the woman who has taken my quarters. He said coolly in a careful accented inflection.

I felt my face grow warm. I didn't ask for it.

He scrutinized me for a moment longer, sounding dismissive, no, of course you didn't. He bent again and took something small out of the chest. Gloves, I think. Just one more person to serve atop of everything else.

"You don't need to do that, really. I said hurriedly, pushing aside the blankets. I'm not helpless." I can’t do much on the menial task quota, but I’m not completely useless.

I was ordered to by Commander Fitzjames. Bridgens said sarcastically. "Now, please refrain from making nonsensical requests. Breakfast will be served at seven. Perhaps seven-fifteen for you. Good day, Lady Allen." And the infuriating man clicked his heels and walked out. I jumped out of the bunk and marched over to the open door, hair flyaway, bare feet instantly freezing on the cold floorboards.

"Now, you wait just a--"

Bridgens faintly smirked and slammed the door shut in my face.

Well! That went well! I snapped and shoved the sliding door violently back, determined to have the last word. To my down and out irritation, the man had vanished and a younger fair-haired male was exiting a door farther up the companionway, carrying out a pitcher of water. I turned and tried to smile in a friendly manner; judging by the guy's uniform, he was a steward as well.

The guy I can only assume was Edmund Hoar, gave me a decidedly frigid look, put his nose in the air and walked by, without giving me a second look.

Seems like I was off to a good start with the stewards.

December 13th ²⁰⁹⁶ 1846, Harry Goodsir knocked on the door earlier, how's the patient? He called cheerfully, letting himself in when I didn't answer. At the time, I knelt on the bunk, a stack of hardbound books in hand. This was the third time I'd rearranged the shelves three deep above the bunk.

Going stir-crazy. I muttered, "there is nothing for me to do except be confined in four walls since Fitzjames seems to think I'll be in danger the moment I set foot outside this room. I reclined back on my haunches and looked over my handiwork. Goodsir looked around and spotted the chamber pot in the corner. I'll speak to Mister Stanley and he in turn can recommend other options. The human body does require moderate exercise in order to keep in the prime of health."

I glanced over my shoulder, smiling. I know. Sweetly.

Goodsir was on the lanky side, thin with a thick scrub of whiskers on the sides of his face, his hairline was high, dark hair a thin cap covering a round skull. He tended to squint when interested in something which he did now, peering closely at my face. Seems alright, he mumbled in accented English, prodding the scabbed over red marks on my chin, across my nose and forehead. ...don't think it'll scar either. That must be a relief. He tilted my chin to the left, running his rough dry thumb pad across the fading purple of a bruise running along my jaw.

Y-Yes it is. I said, attempting to hide my discomfort.

Hmm...tilt your head back, no, no. To the left more, closer to the light. Goodsir instructed, practically twisting my head in an unnatural angle. He ran his finger in a curve behind the shell of my ear and frowned, leaning back.

What? I prompted, but he shook his head slightly and turned away.

It's nothing.

I reached a hand up and smoothed strands of hair over the chameleon-like barcode running along the base of my skull. There had been a lot of pressure on Government agencies to cease tracking civilians. As far as I know, nothing ever came of it. In the back of my mind, I seemed to hear the sharp rapport of a gun; Goodsir didn't miss my flinch.

Are you feeling alright?

My eyelids fluttered open, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Why does it rear its ugly head now? Have the conditions improved outside?

Depending on your meaning, Mister Reid said in a moment of blasphemy Hell itself would freeze over. He chuckled in reminiscence. If by conditions you refer to the Blizzard, then yes. It stopped yesterday.

So, I can leave then.

But, where are you going to go?

I’m going to look for my ship. I can’t make myself acknowledge ‘people’ for they aren’t, but ‘tourists’ unconnected whatsoever to myself. That, they abandoned me as well takes something out of my surety that I can waltz right out. What if...

Goodsir wore a very disagreeable look as if remembering something unpleasant. But, there aren’t any ships beyond the Erebus and Terror. I’d rather not be the one to quash your hopes, but, you are quite alone. He patted the top of my head, slightly firmer. Now, it’d be best for all if you started telling the truth about where you came from.

But, I told you-

He shushed me. No more lies. We both know very well that no ship could’ve sailed through the ice pack unless it was during the short arctic summer where we sailed in.

I wasn’t lying. He would never believe less than a week ago, Victoria Strait was practically iceless in winter.

Dr. P said was my hallucinations were based around a central theme, children. Faced with the certainty of the men around me, men who were for all intensive purposes 250 years dead, hmm...maybe I ought to rethink the whole psychosis thing. Am I going crazy? Or do they think I’m hiding something?

December 15th 1846, Goodsir came around again, this time bringing with him a few sheets of their newspaper. I take it he hasn't been successful in convincing the powers that be - Sir John and James Fitzjames, that no untoward incidents will happen if I'm given liberty. He promised to keep trying and patted my head like I was a little pet dog before leaving. Unsurprisingly, the content of the newspapers which I read by flashlight under the covers, wasn't much different than the sort imagined by the plastine sheets interspersed in the Polestar's lounge. Only the name of the newspaper was different: The Illustrated Beechey News.

December 20th 1846, The surgeon was triumphant at last. I've been given freedom to roam about the ship as long as three conditions were met. A. I didn't get in the way of the crew or officers. B. I was respectful to said men. C. I reported any improper advances of said men to the powers that be, meaning I couldn't break someone's hand if they swatted my ass. I made the point of that to the surgeon, who wagged his finger at me and said, you don't want to break someone's hand if they do that, now do you?

"Oh, but I do. I do." In five excruciating let-me-count-the ways.

He paled and bent lower, confidentially, do you know how to break someone's hand?

I smiled up at him because we were around others, I'll leave that to your imagination. Other details remaining were, I was to take the three meals of the day with the Subordinate Officers in the secondary mess, served by John Bridgens, their steward. I must say I was less than enthused upon arrival to find Des Voeux was one of the diners. Altogether there were six of us in the small room grouped around a rectangular table made of rough wood, the room itself was very tiny and the walls were thin, enabling us to hear the sounds of the senior officers mess next door. Bridgens came in and started serving while I was introduced to the ones I had not met.

There was James Reid, the Ice-Master, a grizzled older man whom one would expect to be stomping around with a peg-leg (he doesn't have one) and making predictions about the lack thereof of sailing weather. His Scottish accent was more pronounced than Goodsir's and a few of the others, I confess I giggled behind my hand over the pronunciation of Allen think Aerrin. He, in general gave the impression of being a crusty man, on the rough side, but with a balancing aspect of humor and gritty intelligence in his weathered face.

There was some eventual awkwardness over the hand I extended. No one expected me to shake hands like a man, maybe instead get up and curtsy proper-like, but not only did I not really know how, I wasn't wearing a damn dress. The rest of my table-mates are as follows:

First Mate, Robert Sargent. A rather pasty, plain-faced man with watery eyes and a limp grip. I fought the urge to wipe my hand on my thigh after we shook. Charles Des Voeux of course, held the rank of Second Mate, we did not shake hands and frowned at each other across cups of tea. I suspect the memory of being hurled onto the deck was too fresh in his mind.

Rounding out the table was Henry Collins, Second Master whom had a vapid air to otherwise uninteresting features. His handshake was merely weak, all very light as if afraid to crush my fingers.

They looked at me as an oddity while I gradually came to the frivolous conclusion that none were very....attractive.  I know it's ridiculous to make that observation, but this is a journal and wouldn't be accurate if I didn't include my thoughts. I'm only human after all as Dr. P kept reminding me. He’s one to talk, being made of gears, wires and metal chassis.

That being said, the one whom has the most interesting looks is Edward Couch, Third Mate ranking. Round jaw line, straight nose on the not - too large side, well-defined brow and black hair trimmed to his ears. He unfortunately isn't of our group and has a seat with the Marine contingent on the berthing deck. At present, Couch is manning the Magnetic Observatory some 200 yards distant of the ships. I think I might've taken his seat in here actually. 

Since introductions were finished, breakfast began. It consisted of crusty bread with a thin coating of butter. This was accompanied by thick strips of what was called bacon but did not resemble our 21st century equivalent. Tea or coffee was offered.

By the time I noticed the coffee was there, I had been served tea, my loss.

The tastes of the food mentioned above, I will describe a little.

The bread was dark-brown crusted, the grains coarse. The butter was vaguely rancid after a year and a half of sitting on a larder shelf and the bacon had been preserved with heavy salts, giving it a decidedly overly salted flavor. I had never had anything quite like it and did not savor the experience. Conversation flowed in brief spurts around me, always excluding me as though I weren't of the company.

Later -

Divine Service was a two hour affair held on the berthing deck on account of the weather with a soapbox serving as Sir John's pulpit. There was a secondary service held in his spacious cabin for the sentries on watch duty during that time. I was obliged for some reason to attend both. That being said, I won't attempt to transcribe the sermon in any length. Our situation was spoken of, the belief that the Northwest Passage was real and that they would plant the Union Jack near it, claiming it for England. As optimistic as those words were, I could see that almost if not every soul excluding me, believed it. I was the non-believer, the sixty-eighth. The one who didn't belong.

As I stood there, between the two surgeons, I felt nothing of the inner fire Sir John Franklin's faith suffused in him. He believed in a merciful God, in a God that hadn't abandoned them to the wilderness. There was nothing of a shy, diffident man in his strong voice, pronouncing the words of scripture with care.

The lamb of God...

I looked across the width of the floor to the row of officers from Lieutenant down to Third Mate. Most wore expressions of peaceful contentment. Even the dog attended, sitting beside Gore - now, this could've been my imagination, but I swear the dog looked solemn as befitting the occasion.

Now, let us bow our heads and pray...

I watched as every single head in my vantage point, inclined, dog included.

Now, that was a well-trained dog!

...especially for our poor brothers aboard our sister ship, Terror. Pray for their deliverance from ignorance and a heart closed to the Lord's mercy! This, the old man intoned particularly loudly; Fitzjames to his left of the podium - I mean - soapbox, couldn't resist smiling at the note of irritation. It took me a moment to realize he was referring to Terror's Captain - and even longer to recall - the old man's displeasure the night I got here. Probably Sir John had gone to preach the Lord's word and had received a less than welcome reception.

Soon, I was the only one left with her eyes open. Out of curiosity, I guess misplaced, some might put it. I had started to lean forward to take a gander at the crew around the neighboring surgeon's bulk - when somehow, Goodsir must've sensed my motion and sharply jabbed me with an elbow to the shoulder with unerring accuracy considering his eyes were closed. I jerked back into place, that hurt!  Shutting my eyes just in time, scowling.

...Amen.  The old man said grandly, unclasping his hands and surveying his flock with pride. I could feel that even I merited a glance, waiting until I was sure it was safe to drop the pretense. At once, the deck came alive and the men were breaking ranks, beginning to lower the mess tables from the rafters.

Relieved that the two hours were up, I started to wonder if I was supposed to give the Psalter back, and was scanning the surrounding faces to find the Purser, when Goodsir cleared his throat and hissed to me, you're holding it upside down!

Quickly, I looked down and saw that I did indeed have the embossed cross inverted. Whoops. Hopefully no one else noticed.

December 21st 1846, Over Supper, it came to me the reason for those distrustful looks, that barely concealed dislike. I had the strong urge to snort over the reasoning!

They thought I was after the Passage! True to my suspicion, I was called to a small enclave of officers headed by Sir John in his cabin, frowned over by the Ice-Master. The Inquisition began without preamble by puffy-faced Des Voeux - someone’s Shoreside Constitutional had been more indulgent than usual obviously - in his snotty little voice near to the line of questioning brought to the fore by the assistant surgeon. The surgeons weren’t present, excluded for reasons of not being entirely ‘gentlemen’ nor ‘Doctors’ they were ‘Misters’ and Doctor was an honorary toss off.

Sufficiently amused, I forgot to think up five different escape scenarios. Dr. P would say that was an improvement. Clearly, I was adjusting to civilian life.

Fitzjames, while obviously concerned over my answers, tried to keep a restraining collar on their Mate. Sir John was uncomfortable, muttering little complaints about ‘unnecessary’ and ‘uncouth’. The man has a specific distaste for anything ‘unpleasant’ and ‘fractious’. I suppose I don’t blame him when his men are glowering daggers and the most sensible, one Graham Gore stays out of the fray to take over somebody’s shift topside with the crew. He earned a little respect from me, for his eruditeness.

Even if I had a modicum of interest in the Northwest Passage, it took some effort not to abbreviate NWP. I wiped cold spit from my cheek with the back of my hand. Mr. Reid looked furiously down on Des Voeux’s curly head. Fitzjames winced imperceptibly. What were you going to do about it even if it was taken? I pointed out serenely.

Judging by Des Voeux’s thrust-out bottom lip he had plenty in mind, including tossing aside Old Glory and supplanting a bold Union Jack in its place never mind disposing of the messenger of bad news, me, in a very unpleasant murderous manner. Because, I didn’t appreciate his hateful looks, I cracked my knuckles very, very gently.

He paled, swallowed with difficulty and eased back in his chair, sending a sharp quick look for back up. Lieutenant Fairholme, errant shotgun shooter himself, attempted to appear inconspicuous in the background, crossing his legs almost protectively. A slow, saccharine smile spread across my face.

My boots hit the gangway and I was propelling myself up, hardly remembering crossing the field at all. 

Here! Here, lad! many hands reached out. 

Albeit though I was thankful for the assistance, some wise ass decided just then to join in the pop-pop-pops trying to take down Smokey's cousin. I had a moment of seeing the slender metal barrel poke between the shoving figures several feet above me, only to know, that barrel was a shotgun aimed at my face. 

Who the fuck!? I shrieked, dropping in running motion. The shell exploded over me, hitting air. Ignoring the fresh raw scrapes on my chin, I shot forward like a light, diving into the fray of rough wool-clad bodies, seeking the asshole whom had tried to blast me to Kingdom come. 

I just saw the whites of their eyes, startled faces blurring around me and my fists closed on someone's front. You stupid motherfucker! I raged. How dare you! How dare-- A fellow two feet away let go of his shotgun, panic on what I could see of his face. The one I had toppled, well, his expression worked between incredulity and surprise. 

Whoops.

- No shotgun. That went through my head in a millisecond. The next, I was hauling wiseass down to my height, snarling imprecations in his doughy face. Then, someone else grabbed my arms and began hauling me bodily backward, yelling, hey! Hey! No fighting!

My boots left the ground and in retaliation, I swung my elbow back high, smashing into something that groaned. Instantly some other idiot took the guy who started clutching his nose's, place. Oh, no, you--don't! I ground out and swung my foot out, catching my original target between his meaty legs. He went down howling, Jesus Christ!

A parting shot, what can I say?

I resurfaced from memory, smirking at Lieutenant Fairholme who seemed to be having the same visions. Turns out, it was the hapless Sailmaker John Murray, I’d plowed. Des Voeux had been the one to grab my arms and the second to grapple me had been a Royal Marine out in the proverbial doghouse for abandoning Sir John, Alexander Pearson, Corporal by rank.

The rest of the room seemed oblivious to the private discomforts of the Inquisition. Lieutenant Le Vesconte, a mountain of a man with a broad, flat face and soft voice, was gregarious enough by nature to fight the urge to smile. He’d heard everything secondhand no doubt, having been the last to climb up the hatch to see what all the ruckus was about and by that time, there wasn’t any ruckus to speak of, other than bawling officers, a wide-eyed Sailmaker and yours truly in the middle of the carnage, relatively unscathed.

But, what are you doing here? Des Voeux rallied. What other explanation is there other than you’re stealing The Passage from us for America! You damned Yank! The Passage, note my capitals.

My smile dropped. Actually, I’m here to sprinkle my uncle’s ashes on Victory Point.

What?

No one, but the immediate family was to know. Something about Canadian Mounties getting pissed off about ruining the natural ecosystem. My uncle once said he would give his entire fortune to the person who could build a time machine and allow him to meet J.C.R - ahem - James Clark Ross. I described the Polestar of the North in the second entry, he was pretty obsessed with exploration in general. The Astrale of the stars which cruises down into Antarctica, is outfitted with a mishmash of Scott, Shackleton and any other dudes who chose to freeze themselves into time immemorial for the pursuit of glory.

He was a big fan of James Clark Ross. You know, an aficionado of Polar exploration. No one corrected me on the ‘Sir’.

Their sheer disbelief caused me to shrug. Honestly, what else did they expect?

Really. I’m not kidding. Plus Dr. P’s memo was a ‘vacation’ into ‘the outer reaches of physical boundary’. It just so happened that my uncle died two weeks later from advanced stages of Lung Cancer. We had known for some time of his deteriorating health and because of this, I’d placed the trip on the backburner not wanting to be away in case of his passing.

Where’s your proof? Des Voeux didn’t quit, he maintained an unyielding expression despite Sir John trying to shush him. But, I didn’t mind - much. These men are strangers, the truth is stranger than fiction. My own mother - Uncle Rudy’s only surviving sister, said much the same thing as a socialite living on the edge of freedom, in the hospital ten minutes after he died. My brother is gone. The body is an empty vessel devoid of the essence that made him, himself. Her basis for refusing to sojourn to the North and too for more selfish reasons of a man she met at a Florida Ayurvedic Retreat, was flying down to Philly on business, they’d planned a tête-à-tête the week the cruise began. I’ve never even met that man, David - something or other.

My mother has her own life to live. So, after the cremation, Debbi approached me. It’s there. I have nothing to hide. In the luggage you boys carried down below. In the sailing ship patterned bag, there’s a box with cog designs on it. Bring it here.

Sir John tried to protest, really it’s unnecessary, he said he’s sorry for my loss, he tried ineffectually to shame Des Voeux from rising and retrieving the Steampunk box, but to no avail. The Second Mate deposited the intricate container on a nearby low table. I rose, plucking the key from the inside of my shirt. It hurt to think of the man I knew, thus reduced to a fine grayish powder, a few chips of bone and my earliest memories of a polar Library.

My hand hesitated twisting the stone key into the slot, click-click. James Fitzjames, in spite of appearing to accept my answer, was closest, perhaps having an errant curiosity for things not of the norm. I wondered incensed if he’d write to ‘dear Elizabeth about the mortal remains of a man they’d forced his niece into opening’ certainly given the Victorians penchant for morbidity, this was perfect letter fodder.

If you don’t mind. I remarked snappish, stepping protectively closer to the front of the table. Curiosity possessed them all to be less than respectful. No one moved. I lifted the lid up and off. They saw what was inside, the same thing I knew.

Amazing, so, is that a whole body in there?

Mister Des Voeux! Show some respect.

Oh. Oh. Sorry, sir.

Finally, I was dismissed with a terse apology, except now, they’re under the delusion that the Polestar sunk somewhere off Boothia Felix and that I, I’m the only survivor of the shipwreck, having a clouded memory on what really happened. For the time being, explanations were best imagined since no one will believe me.

I still have no damned idea what to do.

December 22nd 1846, I’m never out on ideas on how to get back – in my mind it’s labeled: Kate’s grand plan on how to get back to real flushing toilets, magnet cars, sometimes sarcastic robot doctors, video-calls, projectors which display virus-infected sectors on the wall and more importantly pre-packaged food. Unfortunately none of the ideas are very viable from magic shoes like Dorothy’s red glittering heels to E.Ts swooping down over the Erebuse to beam yours truly back to 21st century civilization.

Kate’s plan doesn’t include weirdly obedient dogs who remind me of Major Dickason and Major Reno, my aunt’s set of wrinkly monstrous English bulldogs, a dubious inheritance if you ask me. Neptune even bows his long, angular head at Divine Service! I could swear the dog could almost put his paws together and pray if he saw Gore do it often enough! Major Dickason could only put his fat paw out and shake. Major Reno used to howl at any ice-cream truck that passed by our house, not to mention biting the chrome leg of the robot mailman. Sadly, that was the extent of their intelligence.

Neptune does have his charms unlike the wrinkly old bulldogs, if you count growling at rude Irishmen, who pause and curse under their breath at 'that damned dog’ when visiting for no reason at all save to see if any untoward incidents had happened like had been predicted. 

I was witness to the tiny altercation and afterward recommended to Lieutenant Gore that he keep Neptune out of Crozier’s sight and pistol in the future.

Who knew when Captain Crozier might decide to make good on his threat?

Duly noted. Gore told me gravely, walking away to put Neptune back in his room. Later on, the Lieutenant mentioned a time on Beechey island (I assume it was there or maybe before they sailed) when the very same gentle Neptune had gotten somebody by the trouser leg and wouldn’t let go upon first meet. He didn’t say who it was, but, I have my suspicions.

December 23rd 1846, Spirits are a little down because of the blizzard-like conditions outside. I assume last year both crews were coming and going from the ships. There has been speculation that Terror's officers can't make it. That's fairly fine with me, Crozier's presence inspires discomfiture in whatever company he chooses to grace.

That isn't to say, the other officers whom I've never been formally introduced to, are lacking. Though, when I pressed for a few details from the assistant surgeon earlier during a lull in frostbite patients, what I heard wasn't heartening.

I'll only say, watch out for Irving.

Huh? Why? From John Irving's memorial sketch published in the late 1800s to commemorate his life, I'd have thought he was affable, courageous and generally on the comely side.

The surgeon's thick brows drew together as he made a discreet face, hunching over to whisper, he's a skirt-chaser!

"A wha- oh."

"I tried to warn the Commander that anyone in Irving's presence could become in the family way. But, he just laughed at me like I'd made a funny observation!" Goodsir hissed, sounding terribly aggrieved.

"Harry, are you gossiping?" Stanley interrupted from his desk of crates, sending us huddling in the corner, a piercing, suspicious look.

No, nope, not at all, Mister Stanley. Came the droopy-eyed reply, he shook a warning finger at me and slouched off to make notes on some form of lichen discovered on Beechey Island (I looked at what he had been writing) suffice it to add, I was slightly more curious about this paragon of womanizing ways, wondering if anyone could quite beat Dory Miller, a Lothario of Jonathan's acquaintance. Anybody who tries to pick up on me three times is a Don Juan of note.

Later -

The crew grumble about space, about the cold, about any minor complaint. Mostly about space or the lack thereof. These particular comments are addressed every single day unfailingly to the subordinate officers steward, John Bridgens, the oldest man on the expedition, who by a trick of age on the official muster roll, got past the Admiralty’s quality check. Bridgens is older than Sir John, who permitted the obvious mistake to pass.

Anyone can see the stewards on a whole, are disliked by the entire crew. Neither Able Seamen, nor Officer Class, they fall somewhere between slave and dog. Bridgens occupies one table at the lower end of the deck for cleaning the individual course dishes left behind by the three meals of the day.

Unfailingly, he responds some obscure quote whose meaning is lost on the crude men, I suppose as a form of protection. Today, it was: Corticis et ligni medium ne fixerius ungeum.

They guffaw as if it was amusing to be told off in Latin. Yesterday, he did tell them off.

Mind your own business, is what he said today however. I just so happened to be passing by. Gloriosum est iniurias oblivisci. It is glorious to forget injustice.

So, says the woman. Mulier est hominis confusio. The steward murmured, barely sneering. Woman is man’s ruin. Well. I could counter that.

Your Chaucer in Canterbury Tales. Homines quod volunt credunt. I replied. Men believe what they want to.

Julius Caesar. Bridgens identified the quote. For a moment, something in his expression wavered, a tentative struggle between acceptance and the ennui of scorn from afar. He is a tough nut to crack and despite conditioning, I’m lonelier than I’ve ever been. He doesn’t want to forgive me for taking his cabin, though reason knows it wasn’t fully of my choice. Reason wants to prevail, but he still holds onto the threads of antipathy.

Across the room, a captive audience of seamen watched us toss like Gameshow challengers, Latin phraseology. It was enough to warrant wandering attention from the men’s Winter School for those who wished to read and write. Sometime in his long life at sea, the steward had a better teacher.

We survey each other in silence now, the proverbial ice thawing in a way it will never thaw around Erebus. Well. The older man says.

It’s a start.

December 24th 1846, I had a chance to test my theories on specimens of Victorian manhood with summons to the Commander’s cabin. Le Vesconte escorted me to the door where I rapped twice on the sliding door panel. Who is it? The pleasantly recognizable voice called from within.

Catherine Allen. I responded.

Door's unlocked. By way