A blog dedicated to AMC's "The Terror" and the Franklin Expedition/general boat appreciation blog. URL refers to Terror and Erebus whom I 100% ship, no pun intended. The ship name is Terebus.
Shortly after midnight on the 13th March, 1842, HMS Erebus and HMS Terror collided just north of the Antarctic Circle.
I wrote something in memory of that night, and of the two bomb vessels who are forever inextricably linked. Below the cut and on AO3.
THE MEANS
If I could speak to the men who come down each summer to prod at what remains of me I would ask but one question:
Erebus. Have you seen her? Have you seen my girl?
I have no means for such an address.
Here I sit, cold and broken. It is nothing new but for the duration of my stay. I was wrecked off the Portuguese coast back in 28. Trapped in ice at Repulse Bay in 36, I was pressed and squeezed until I toppled. George Back barely got me home, his hands trembling at my helm. He never sailed again. Meanwhile I, rested and refitted, was soon ready for sea.
But why am I telling you this, my girl? You know all about those years before we met. Sat side by side in our many harbours, I bored you with my tales until your masts groaned.
"Terror, not that icy yarn again.”
I only wanted to remind you: we are imminently fixable things. But you knew that, Erebus, didn't you, after our midnight kiss among the bergs?
Do you recall the day we sailed together for the first time, from Chatham for the farthest south? Cheering crowds to see us off, freshly woven sails, the black iron plate gleaming at our fores. New captains on our quarterdecks — we compared them like ladies do rings.
“What’s your one called?”
“James. Handsome. Yours?”
“Francis. Quiet.”
We listened to the nervous rap of their boot soles against our boards, the quick drum of their tiny warm hearts as they saw us off.
Soon you were dashing ahead. “Keep up,” you cried, laughing.
"Wait," I huffed. "Wait for me."
I was always behind. I wanted to beg Francis to chase you down, to feel the spit and foam of your wake splash against my bow.
I had no means to ask. It is the men who speak to us. They talk with tug and round and tack and heave. Go this way. Go that way. All we can do is pass the message back from the wind and sea. Yes. No. Maybe, if you tack hard, if you add more sail.
We are vessels, after all. We convey.
At times, Francis spoke to me in human words. Or perhaps he prayed.
And now here I sit, where he left me to sink.
Season after season shadows of men’s boats would pass over my resting place, mere thirteen fathoms deep. Light coruscating above, then fading as the ice set in. Then, ten summers ago, men came diving down like curious fish. I understood — understand — nothing of their delicate probings. They extract boots, toothbrushes, plates from my broken decks. What do you want? What are you looking for? Raise me up. Even if you must haul me, take me back to her.
Are you looking for them? They’re not here. They left me. He left me, and took Erebus instead.
Waiting, waiting. Do you recall, my girl, our midnight kiss among the bergs? Of course you do.
"Get off me," you howled as the breakers threw me up, almost over you, and our rigging tangled, became one. "My bowsprit, Terror, are you mad?"
I could do nothing, tossed about like a toy boat in a child's hand.
Then I got free and Francis had me storm ahead, to give you some small chance in the narrow channel made from soaring walls of ice. You vanished from my sight.
We rounded to and waited. In the dark, he and I together, burning our blue light. The enormity of Francis' fear strained against my beams. Terror, terror. As large as me.
His poor little heart. How he prayed. How we both did.
Your own light emerged. All well, all safe. James sailed you out, backwards, through the narrow path.
Afterwards, I thought you might sulk at me. Or complain about your disheveled state. But all you could prattle about, as we pushed our way north towards Cape Horn, was James.
"Oh Terror. You should have seen him. So brave. So indefatigable."
I sailed behind you, silent. You were in love. You weren't the only one.
At Cape Louis, we were emptied of our weary crews. On shore, it was Francis you watched: his eyes, his hand on James.
"Do you suppose he—" you began.
I watched you instead: battered and beautiful, a wounded black swan in the calm, shimmering bay.
"I don't know," I said. But I did, I did.
What James was to him, you were to me. I could have told you then, in that warm and sparkling harbour. I had the means. And yet.
Less than two years after coming home we were off again, together. With Francis and without James.
"I don't like my new one," you griped like a disappointed child at Christmas. "All he does is talk and eat."
I didn't know what to say. By then, I couldn't conceive being without you.
This time we went north, to my old ground of exertion. I trailed you wearily up to Baffin Bay, knowing what that labyrinth held in store for us. At least I thought I did.
Then came 47. How you suffered in the ice, a lady being too tightly laced into her corset. Though I ached the same, I sought to comfort you: we'll wait it out, Erebus. We've been here before, in this frozen press.
You'll see, we need only wait.
Months went by. You grew quiet. In the eternal night of winter, under the canopy they enclosed you in, I could hear you weep for James’ steady heart and hands.
Inside me, curled up in his berth, Francis wept for him too.
Daylight came again. In our bellies, one by one, tiny warm heart were going out. You said it was the only time you ever felt like a mother to them. Our hulls their only warmth and comfort.
When Francis had the last of them march out — oh, but here I must confess, Erebus. I was happy. No more death. Just us two, alone, trading tales.
So happy I was I failed to tell you that the icy corset had at last broken my ribs. Leads opened up some months later and I felt the shivering sensation of water trickling in.
When Francis came back, or what was left of him, he saw — and set his eyes on you.
We howled and begged.
Francis, are you mad?
Don't leave her. She will sink.
Don't take her. She's not yours to take.
What did he hear? Groan and croak, rope and timber, nothing more.
Perhaps he got you home. Perhaps he left you to sit in a dry dock in Portsmouth, half repaired and bored senseless, whilst he removed to the country to drink tea with James for the rest of their long days.
Well, here it is. I know not what else to say to you, my girl. Summer is coming to an end. The curious fish have gone away with their china and their toothbrushes, the ice will close over me again soon.
No matter. I'll sleep here for a little longer. I'll dream of you laughing:
"That time in the south, Terror. Do you recall? You froze over so quickly fish stuck to your hull. They scraped them off and fed them to the cat."
I'll dream and I'll wait. Perhaps by next summer, if I keep talking to myself, I will have found a way to ask.
END
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Location of the wrecks of HMS Terror and HMS Erebus, Terror Bay and Wilmot and Crampton Bay respectively.
Does he have ridiculous sideburns? Does he die a gruesome death? Is he on screen less than ten minutes total?
I spent a full day making this "Guess who? (is stuck)" The Terror game! Inspired by countless conversations about how hard it is to tell these dudes apart on first watch (and endless shitpost ideas with @merlintintintin ) This was honestly a lot of work, and now I really want to play it! I hope you'll find this cool, I'm personally really happy with the result! Would you play it?
I added Silna because I feel like the two boards kinda represent Terror & Erebus, and she's stuck here with these horrible dudes. Definitely more of a thematic easter egg rather than practical gameplay choice ahah.
To make this I bought a My Little Petshop Guess Who game (I liked the colors) second hand, took forever to cut out all the characters and color grade the pictures on photoshop (this serie is SO DARK, i'm thankful for the official pictures by Aidan Monaghan I also used), made the cards backing mostly using some designs I had already made, and then printed and cut the whole thing by hand!
I may share the template for this later on, if anyone is interested!
Yesterday night, I asked my parents to remind me to return The Terror (2018) to the video rental store. This morning I woke up to two — momentarily confusing and concerning — text notifications:
Back in the 2010s there would be a mass of fanarts of kawaii anime style antropomorphisation of all the polar exploration ships... but in these 2020s not a single one has emerged.
I originally made this blog with my concepts of humanized HMS Terror and HMS Erebus in mind, then I dropped them for while, and now I’m officially bringing them back
hold on sorry you're telling me the name of the boat was "the terror"?? i always assumed that was a retroactive name! did they WANT things to go horrifically awry???
obsessed with the implication that nominative determinism could have saved them
image description: 4 screenshots from one scene in The Terror, each with part of a tumblr post pasted over it. the first shows Collins running/stumbling through the fog, with a reblog by @/kurgy that says “it’s that time of year again.” the second shows Crozier looking alarmed, with a reblog by @/theangriestlittleunicorn that says “it doesn’t have to be.” in the third, Collins staggers close past another man with a reblog by kurgy that says “it’s not optional.” in the last, Tuunbaq (a polar bear-esque creature with a humanoid face) is shown about to maul a man, with fancy red text that says “Season’s Greason’s”. end description
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