Final Passage

Southern Expedition, Journal Entry, April 8, 1902

            My leg is broken. There is no doubt. A compound fracture. Joseph and the last of the porters set it. I took the last swig of our whiskey and bit down on a piece of wood. We had no anesthetic. I heard a snap or a pop. The pain was intense. I blacked out.

Southern Expedition, Journal Entry, April 9, 1902

            I have been unconscious for fourteen hours. In that time, Joseph and the porter did their best jury-rigging a splint out of two boards from our sleds. They look at me as if I am already dead. Maybe I am. We are over one hundred miles from our main camp, Camp Endeavour. It would be selfish to expect them to carry me that far. When the time comes, I will tell them to leave me behind with some rations and to return. We will all understand what that means.

Southern Expedition, Journal Entry April 11, 1902

            The winds buffets our tent. The constant beating and pulsing is enough to drive someone mad. In fact it had, a day ago when the porter Willam ran out into the blizzard wearing only his long underwear. We have not see him since.

            Joseph, Martin, and I are huddled together for warmth. It seems as if I am providing the warmth more and more. Joseph and Martin just shiver. There faces are turning blue and beginning to blister. I attempted to check there feet but only Joseph would let me. They were waxy and this greyish-yellow. Some were black. I touched them and he only responded by how did they look. No reaction to my contact. I lied and told him they were looking better. 

I cannot say I am doing much better. I believe my fingers are freezing. They caused me pain when poking at Jospeh’s feet. It is an odd combination with numbness in other parts of my hand.

Martin appears the worst. Not only is he all but blue all over but he is constantly talking as if to his fiancée. His eyes are closed. I fear they may never open again.

Southern Expedition, Journal Entry, April 13, 1902

            Martin has not spoken in hours. He has stopped moving. His skin is grey and black. Blistered formed yesterday. Joseph doesn’t want to admit that he is gone.

            Jospeh and I worry each other. His feet are black. There is no hope for them but I still haven’t told Joseph this yet. He pretends to wiggle his toes and smiles when he does.

Jospeh checks my leg and is much more honest. He has little choice. My fever started yesterday. The pain was increasing which was not good. I had expected the cold to keep it down. But gangrene has set in. Joseph says there is swelling and a green discolouration. The colour is creeping up my leg and likely infecting my insides. Blisters with dark puss as also breaking and freezing along the break. There is also the smell. It is difficult for us not to vomit from it. Joseph can only try to hide it by wrapping more blankets around it.

Joseph opens the last of our cans of food. It is discoloured as badly as we are. Obviously our food stores had not been sealed as well as we thought. We eat it none the less. Hours later we pay for it by vomiting all over ourselves.

Southern Expedition, Journal Entry, April 16, 1902

            Writing seems to be the only thing helping me keep my sanity. It becomes more difficult everyday as the gangrene spreads inside me and my fingers slowly freeze. Forgive my poor penmanship but I’m not sure if I can feel them anymore.

            Joseph laughs at thinks that he see fluttering in the tent. The winds do make interesting patterns.

            Waking and sleeping, I see my beautiful Katherine. She sits beside the parlour window, watching the world go by. She sneaks a peek towards me and smiles, then continues to look out the window. I can see the street as well but I know it is not there. My mind is going as Martin’s then Joseph’s went.

            I do not expect rescue.

Southern Expedition, Journal Entry, April 17, 1902

            I imagine this will be my last entry. I cannot read my own writing. I need both hands to hold the pen. I hope you will be able to decipher it. I wish to commend the bravery of the men of our expedition. It has been in the best British tradition. I would like to especially note Joseph Dartsmouth and Martin Greaves for their courage in the face of this impossible task. Our porters, while not of British origin, have also show the best of what men we all are. I thank you, those who find us and the efforts you have made to do so. It simply was not meant to be. And finally, I send my love to Katherine. I hold your portrait even as I write this. You are the last thing in my mind.

Southern Expedition, Supplemental

            I am looking over three bodies. They are black, grey, and yellow. Covered in blisters and puss. One of them is mine. It is fascinating that I am still able to control my hands even in spectral form. There is no sense or feeling from them but I understand I am hold the pen. You who find us must remember to compliment the makers of this ink. It is the last thing that will freeze in our expedition. 

            Freed of my body, I am now allowed to move so much faster and so much father ahead to our goal, The Pole. Looking at the landscape, we were insane to have tried. We did not have the equipment, food, resources, or experience to do so. But what a view. As I walk over the snow and ice, the sun circles hour after hour. A great halo like a rainbow surrounds it, embracing it, and encouraging me to to the same. There is no darkness, only light. The wind blows but not violent like it had been. The snow dances as it swirls.

            I can only say, as my true final words, is that it has all been worth it.

            “So, what should we do about that last bit in the book, sir?” The midshipman asked. The rescue team had been a week too late to save anyone. They found three distorted and discoloured bodies wrapped around each other as if in a final embrace of friendship. A trail of others had been found along the way marked with crude, wooden crosses. A final body in his long underwear was found a few yards from the tent. The ponies they had used for transportation had frozen to death weeks before. The expedition had made perhaps a few hundred miles before they realized their foolishness and turned back.

            “Tear it out,” the Lieutenant replied. “It’s obviously the ravings of a madman.”

            “But the writing is so much more clear…”

            “A madman. Tear them out and burn them. That last thing we need are stories of arctic ghosts.”