Free The Terror by Dan Simmons Page B

his face to protect his eyes and sees a lantern gleam on the starboard side.
    Reuben Male is on one knee over Private Heather, who is lying on his back, his cap and Welsh wig knocked off and, Crozier sees, part of his skull knocked away as well. There seems to be no blood, but Crozier can see the Marine’s brains sparkling in the lantern light — sparkling, the captain realizes, because there is already a sheen of ice crystals on the pulped grey matter.
    “He’s still alive, Captain,” says the fo’c’sle chief.
    “Jesus fucking Christ,” says one of the crewmen crowded behind Crozier.
    “Belay that!” cries the first mate. “No fucking profanity. Speak when you’re fucking spoken to, Crispe.” Hornby’s voice is a cross between a mastiff’s growl and a bull’s snort.
    “Mr. Hornby,” says Crozier. “Assign Seaman Crispe to get below double-quick and bring up his own hammock to carry Private Heather below.”
    “Aye, sir,” say Hornby and the seaman in unison. The pounding of running boots is felt but goes unheard over the wind screech.
    Crozier stands and swings his lantern in a circle.
    The heavy railing where Private Heather was standing watch at the base of the iced-over ratlines has been smashed away. Beyond the gap, Crozier knows, the heaped ice and snow runs down like a toboggan ramp for thirty feet or more, but most of that ramp is not visible in the blinding snow. There are no prints visible in the small circle of snow illuminated by the captain’s lantern.
    Reuben Male lifts Heather’s musket. “It wasn’t fired, Captain.”
    “In this storm, Private Heather couldn’t have seen the thing until it was right on him,” says Lieutenant Little.
    “What about Strong?” asks Crozier.
    Male points toward the opposite side of the ship. “Missing, Captain.”
    To Hornby, Crozier says, “Choose a man and stay with Private Heather until Crispe is back with the hammock and carry him below.”
    Suddenly, both surgeons — Peddie and his assistant, McDonald — appear in the circle of lamplight, McDonald wearing only light slops.
    “Jesus Christ,” says the chief surgeon, kneeling next to the Marine. “He’s breathing.”
    “Help him if you can, John,” says Crozier. He points to Male and the rest of the seamen crowding around. “The rest of you — come with me. Have your weapons ready to fire, even if you have to take your mittens off to do it. Wilson, carry both those lanterns. Lieutenant Little, please go below and choose twenty more good men, issue full slops, and arm them with muskets — not shotguns, muskets.”
    “Aye, sir,” Little shouts over the wind, but Crozier is already leading the procession forward, around the heaped snow and vibrating canvas pyramid amidships and up the canted deck toward the port lookout station.
    William Strong is gone. A long wool comforter has been shredded, and the tatters of it, caught in the man lines here, are flapping wildly. Strong’s greatcoat, Welsh wig, shotgun, and one mitten are lying near the railing in the lee of the port privy where men on watch huddle to stay out of the wind, but William Strong is gone. There is a smear of red ice on the railing where he must have been standing when he saw the large shape coming at him through the blowing snow.
    Without saying a word, Crozier dispatches two armed men with lanterns aft, three more toward the bow, another with a lantern to look beneath the canvas amidships. “Rig a ladder here, please, Bob,” he says to the second mate. The mate’s shoulders are hidden under heaps of fresh — that is, not yet frozen — rope he’s carried up from below. The ladder goes over the side within seconds.
    Crozier leads the way down.
    There is more blood on the ice and snow heaped along the exposed port-side hull of the ship. Streaks of blood, looking quite black in the lantern light, lead out beyond the fire holes into the ever-changing maze of pressure ridges and ice spires, all more sensed than seen in