“Yes, of course,” Fitzjames said hurriedly. His slight lisp became more pronounced when he was nervous. “Shall I send some men to escort you back to
“No. And turn in early tonight, James. You look fagged out. We’ll both need our energy if we’re to properly sermonize the assembled crew on Sunday.”
Fitzjames smiled dutifully. Crozier thought it a wan and strangely disturbing expression.
On Sunday the fifth of December, 1847, Crozier left behind a skeleton crew of six men commanded by First Lieutenant Edward Little – who, like Crozier, would rather have his kidney stones removed with a spoon than be forced to suffer sermons – as well as his assistant surgeon, McDonald, and the engineer, James Thompson. The other fifty-some surviving crewmen and officers trooped off across the ice following their captain, Second Lieutenant Hodgson, Third Lieutenant Irving, First Mate Hornby, and the other masters, clerks, and warrant officers. It was almost 10:00 a.m. but would have been absolutely dark under the shivering stars except for the return of the aurora which pulsed, danced, and shifted above them, throwing a long line of their shadows onto the fractured ice. Sergeant Soloman Tozer – the shocking birthmark on his face especially noticeable in the coloured light from the aurora – headed up the guard of Royal Marines with muskets marching points, flank, and behind the column, but the white thing in the ice left the men alone this Sabbath morning.
The last full gathering of both crews for Divine Service – presided over by Sir John shortly before the creature carried their devout leader down into the darkness under the ice – had been on the open deck under cold June sunlight, but since it was now at least 50 degrees below zero outside, when the wind was not blowing, Fitzjames had arranged the lower deck for the service. The huge cookstove could not be moved, but the men had cranked up the seamen’s dining tables to their maximum height, taken down the removable bulkhead partitions that had delineated the forward sick bay, and removed other partitions that had created the warrant officers’ sleeping area, the subordinate officers’ stewards’ cubicle, and the first and second mates’ and second master’s berths. They also removed the walls of the warrant officers’ mess room and assistant surgeon’s sleeping room. The space would be crowded still, but adequate.
In addition, Fitzjames’s carpenter, Mr. Weekes, had created a low pulpit and platform. It was raised only six inches because of the lack of headroom under the beams, hanging tables, and stored lumber, but it would allow Crozier and Fitzjames to be seen by the men in the back of the jam of bundled bodies.
“At least we’ll be warm,” Crozier whispered to Fitzjames as Charles Hamilton Osmer,
Indeed, the packed bodies had raised the temperature on the lower deck here higher than it had been since
The crewmen rocked the dark oak beams with their singing. Sailors, Crozier knew from his forty-plus years of experience, loved to sing under almost any circumstance. Even, if all else failed, during Divine Service. Crozier could see the top of caulker’s mate Cornelius Hickey’s head in the crowd, while next to him, hunched over so that his head and shoulders would not hit the overhead beams, stood the idiot giant Magnus Manson, who bellowed out the hymn in a boom so off-key that it made the grinding of the ice outside sound like close harmony. The two were sharing one of the tattered hymnals that Purser Osmer had handed out.
Finally the hymns were finished and there came a low din of shuffling, coughing, and clearing of throats. The air smelled of fresh-baked bread since Mr. Diggle had come over hours earlier to aid
Now it was time for the two sermons. Fitzjames had shaved and powdered carefully and allowed his personal steward, Mr. Hoar, to take in his baggy waistcoat, trousers, and jacket, so he looked calm and handsome in his uniform and shining epaulettes. Only Crozier, standing behind him, could see Fitzjames’s pale hands clenching and unclenching as he set his personal Bible on the pulpit and opened it to Psalms.
“The reading today shall be from Pthalm Forty-six,” said Captain Fitzjames. Crozier winced slightly at the upper-class lisp that had become more pronounced with tension.
The LORD Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.
The men roared “Amen” and shuffled their warming feet in appreciation.
It was Francis Crozier’s turn.
The men were hushed, as much out of curiosity as respect. The Terrors in the assembled mass knew that their captain’s idea of a reading for Divine Service was a solemn recitation of the Ship’s Articles – “If a man refuses to obey orders from an officer, that man shall be flogged or put to death, punishment to be determined by the captain. If a man commits sodomy with another member of the crew or a member of the ship’s livestock, that man shall be put to death…” and so forth. The Articles had the proper biblical weight and resonance and served Crozier’s purpose.
But not today. Crozier reached to the shelf under the pulpit and pulled out a heavy leather-bound book. He set it down with a reassuring thud of authority.
“Today,” he intoned, “I shall read from the
There was a murmuring in the crowd of seamen. Crozier heard a toothless
Crozier waited for silence and began.
“ ‘And for that part of Religion, which consisteth in opinions concerning the nature of Powers Invisible,…”
Crozier’s voice and Old Testament cadence left no doubt as to which words were celebrated with capital letters.
“ ‘… there is almost nothing that has a name, that has not been esteemed amongst the Gentiles, in one place or another, a God, or Divell; or by their Poets feigned to be inanimated, inhabited, or possessed by some Spirit or other.
“ ‘The unformed matter of the World, was a God, by the name of
“ ‘The Heaven, the Ocean, the Planets, the Fire, the Earth, the Winds, were so many Gods.
“ ‘Men, Women, a Bird, a Crocodile, a Calf, a Dogge, a Snake, an Onion, a Leeke, Deified. Besides, that they filled almost all places, with spirits called
