“Maybe not the best time to be hanging around admiring the rocks,” he admonished.
Pitt traced the slab toward the ice-covered hillside, then looked up. “It’s not a rock,” he said quietly. “It’s a rudder.”
Giordino looked at Pitt like he was crazy, then followed his gaze up the ravine. Overhead was a dark mass of rock buried beneath a thin layer of ice. Surveying the hillside, Giordino suddenly felt his jaw drop. It wasn’t a mound of rock at all, he realized with astonishment.
Above them, embedded in the ice, the men found themselves staring at the wooden black hull of a nineteenth-century sailing ship.
80
THE EREBUS STOOD LIKE A FORGOTTEN RELIC OF a bygone era. Caught in an ice floe that had separated her from her damaged sister ship, the Erebus had been pushed onto the shore by a mammoth caravan of winter sea ice that pressed down Victoria Strait some one hundred and sixty years earlier. A shipwreck that refused to die at sea, she had been thrust into the ravine and gradually entombed in ice.
The ice had encased the hull and cemented the port side of the ship to the steep hillside. The ship’s three masts still stood upright, tilted at an irregular angle and sheathed in a layer of ice that melded into the adjacent ridge. The starboard sides and deck were remarkably free of ice, however, as Pitt and Giordino found w
hen they hiked up the gulch and climbed over the side rail. The men gazed in awe, incredulous that they were pacing the deck of Franklin’s flagship.
“Melt all the ice and she looks like she could sail back to England,” Giordino remarked.
“If she’s carrying any ruthenium, then I might consider a side trip up the Potomac first,” Pitt replied.
“I’d settle for a couple of blankets and a shot of rum.”
The men were shivering nonstop with cold, their bodies fighting to keep their internal temperature from dropping. Each felt a touch of lethargy, and Pitt knew they would have to find warmth soon. He stepped over to a ladderway aft of the main hatch and pulled off a crumbling canvas cover.
“Got a light?” he asked Giordino while peering down into the darkened interior.
Giordino pulled out a Zippo lighter and tossed it to him. “I’ll need that back if there should be any Cuban cigars aboard.”
Pitt led the way down the steeply inclined steps, snapping on the lighter as he reached the lower deck. He spotted a pair of candle lanterns mounted to the bulkhead and ignited their blackened wicks. The ancient candles still burned strong, casting a flickering orange glow over the wood-paneled corridor. Giordino found a whale oil lamp hanging on a nail nearby, which provided them a portable light.
Stepping down the passageway, the lamp illuminated a bizarre scene of murder and mayhem aboard the ship. Unlike the Terror, with its spartan appearance, the Erebus was a mess. Crates, garbage, and debris littered the corridor. Tin cups were scattered everywhere, while the distinct smell of rum hung in the air, along with a number of other dank odors. And then there were the bodies.
Moving forward to take a quick peek in the crew’s quarters, Pitt and Giordino were met by a macabre pair of shirtless frozen men sprawled on the deck. One had the side of his skull crushed, a bloodied brick lying nearby. The other had a large kitchen knife protruding from his rib cage. Frozen solid and in an eerie state of preservation, Pitt could even tell what color eyes the men had. Inside the crew’s quarters, they found an additional array of bodies in a similar state. Pitt couldn’t help noticing that the dead men had a tormented look about them, as if they had perished from something more terrible than just the elements.
Pitt and Giordino spent little time examining the gruesome scene, backtracking to the ladder well and descending to the orlop deck. They took a break from searching for ruthenium when they reached the Slop Room. A storeroom for the crew’s outerwear, the bay contained racks of boots, jackets, caps, and thick socks. Finding a pair of heavy wool officer’s coats that nearly fit their frames, the two men bundled into the clothes, adding watch caps and mittens. At last feeling a slight semblance of warmth, they quickly resumed their search of the deck.
Like the deck above, the orlop deck was a scattered mess. Empty casks and food containers were stacked in huge piles, attesting to the large amount of food stores once housed on the ship. They entered the unlocked Spirit Room, which housed the ship’s supply of alcohol and weapons. Though a rack of muskets lay untouched, the rest of the bay was a mess, with splintered rum and brandy casks scattered on the deck and tin cups everywhere. They moved aft to find large bins that housed a portion of the steam engine’s coal. The bins were empty, but Pitt noticed some silvery dust and nuggets lying at the base of one bin. He picked up one of the nuggets, noting it was far too heavy for coal. Giordino observed a rolled-up burlap sack nearby, kicking it over to read BUSHVELD, SOUTH AFRICA printed on the side.
“They had it here, but it was evidently all traded to the Inuit,” Pitt mused, tossing the nugget back into the bin.
“Then it’s down to finding the ship’s log to reveal the source,” Giordino said.
A faint shout was suddenly heard outside the ship.
“Sounds like our friends are drawing near,” Giordino said. “We better get moving.” He took a step toward the ladderway but noted Pitt didn’t follow. He could see the wheels churning in Pitt’s mind.
“You think it’s worth staying aboard?” Giordino asked.
“It is if we can give them the warm welcome that I think we can,” Pitt replied intently.
Waving the oil lamp, he led Giordino back to the Spirit Room. Setting the lamp on a long ice-covered crate, he stepped to a rack of Brown Bess muskets he had eyed earlier. Pulling one off the rack, he held it up and examined it closely, finding the weapon to be in pristine condition.
“It’s not an automatic, but it should even the odds a bit,” he said.
“I guess the previous owner won’t mind,” Giordino replied.
Pitt turned around, puzzled at his friend’s comment. He found Giordino pointing at the crate that supported the lamp. Pitt stepped closer, suddenly realizing it was no crate but a wooden coffin supported by a pair of sawhorses. The light from the whale oil lamp shimmered off a tin plate hammered to the enlarged end of the coffin. Leaning forward, Pitt brushed off a layer of loose ice, revealing a script of white lettering hand-painted on the tin. A chill ran up his spine as he read the epitaph.
SIR JOHN FRANKLIN