by Owen Beattie
As the wait for the final permits continued, Beattie and Damkjar decided to explore the remains of Franklin’s winter camp, then the historic sites along the east coast of the island.
Most of the relics left behind by Franklin’s expedition had already been collected and taken away by the search expeditions that followed. Those that remained were subjected to continual disturbance right up to 1984. Despite this, a number of important artefacts could be seen in the areas adjacent to the graveyard. Most prominent among them was a large gravel-walled outline, believed to have been a storehouse. Also nearby the graves were the remains of a smithy, a carpenter’s shop and, further away, depressions where tent structures or observation platforms once stood. (Between 1976 and 1982, Parks Canada had conducted detailed archaeological investigations of a number of important historical sites in the Arctic. Beechey Island was one of the sites studied. The only artefacts from Franklin’s expedition remaining at that time—besides the structure outlines—were clay pipe fragments, nails, forge waste, a stove door fragment, wood shavings and tin cans.)
Beattie also looked over two graves dating from the searches of the 1850s that had been dug alongside Torrington, Hartnell and Braine. One of the graves was that of Thomas Morgan, a seaman from Robert McClure’s ship, the HMS Investigator. The owner of the other grave is unknown, though one journal from the 1850s indicates that it may be a dummy grave serving as a memorial to French Navy Lieutenant Joseph René Bellot. Both of these men had died heroic and tragic deaths. Morgan had been among the scurvy-wracked from the Investigator who—before the Franklin expedition achievements were discovered—had been credited with being the first to cross the Northwest Passage. Having abandoned the ice-locked Investigator with the rest of McClure’s crew at Mercy Bay on the north coast of Banks Island, Morgan had made the difficult trek by foot over the ice first to Dealy Island, then later reached Beechey Island, only to die aged thirty-six in May 1854 on board the HMS North Star. Bellot, who had served in the French Navy with distinction, later volunteered to join in the Franklin search. Bellot visited the Arctic first under Captain William Kennedy aboard the Prince Albert, then later aboard the HMS Phoenix. On 18 August 1853, while carrying dispatches to searcher Sir Edward Belcher up icy Wellington Channel, Bellot was caught by a gust of wind and swept into the frigid water. His body was never recovered.
Beattie and Damkjar, leaving the graves and adjacent Franklin campsite behind them, walked south along the beach ridge above the waterline. The first artefacts found along their route were tins, scattered individually or in small clusters. Close inspection of the cans identified them as being from the supplies of the search expeditions. Not only had Captain Horatio Thomas Austin and Captain William Penny—the searchers who had first discovered Franklin expedition relics on Beechey Island—spent time here, but others later used the island as a base for their searches. Walking along, the number of tins increased and wood fragments also became evident. Visible around a curve in the coastline was the mast of one of several vessels left at King William Island during the 1850s—jutting at a steep angle out of a gravel beach ridge. The vessel, which was probably left on the island to serve as a depot, was still largely intact in 1927 when Sir Frederick Banting, codiscoverer of insulin, and Canadian painter A.Y. Jackson visited the island on a sketching trip. The mast, and a small section from the hull of the vessel, which lay flat on one of the lower beach ridges, were all that remained for Beattie and Damkjar to inspect.
Owen Beattie standing at the ruin of Northumberland House, the supply depot built in 1854 by the crew of the North Star, part of the fleet commanded by Belcher.
Eric Damk- jar inspecting the monument erected by Sir Edward Belcher to commemorate all those who died searching to discover the fate of Franklin’s expedition.
Along one of the highest beach ridges was a series of recent markers and cairns dating from the 1950s to the 1970s. Also at the site: a memorial combining the monument left by Leopold M’Clintock in 1858 and a cenotaph erected by Belcher as a memorial to all those who died during the Franklin search.
Belcher, commanding a British naval fleet of five ships from 1852 to 1854, ordered that one of these ships, the North Star, under the command of William John Samuel Pullen, remain off Beechey Island as a base for the other vessels. Directly in front of the cenotaph, on a much lower ridge, is the skeleton of Northumberland House, the supply depot built by the crew of the North Star in 1854. It had been in a reasonable and useful state of repair even into the early 1900s, but no longer. Only parts of the wood walls were still visible, though a stone wall had held up quite well. Scattered in and around the structure were hundreds, possibly thousands, of artefacts from the structure itself and the food containers (primarily wooden barrel staves and metal barrel hoops) once housed inside. On 6 August 1927, when Banting and Jackson visited Northumberland House, significant damage had already been done to the structure, though Jackson noted in his journal that “there are a lot of water barrels, thirty or forty of them, that could be used today.” Banting, however, also noted that “Bears had chewed holes in the side of some of the barrels, large enough to admit the head and neck so that they could get the last drop of the contents.” Still, the scattered relics on Beechey Island do not attest to the hundreds of men, from various expeditions, who spent time at the site over the course of the searches of the early 1850s. Even on such a small island, their artefacts are lost among the forbidding landscape.
Peering off the south shore of the island during his survey, Beattie thought of the wreck of the Breadalbane, sent from England with fresh supplies for the ships under Belcher. Crushed in the ice, the Breadalbane sank off the island on 21 August 1853. In 1980, Canadian underwater explorer Dr. Joe MacInnis located the remains of the remarkably preserved ship under 330 feet (100 metres) of water and, in 1983, led a diving team to visit the wreck.
HMS Breadalbane (left) and HMS Phoenix landing provisions at Cape Riley.
Returning to camp from his hike, Beattie saw that the wait for permissions was taking its toll on everyone’s nerves. Feeling that the permissions would not be granted in time to complete the project that summer, Amy finally decided to return to Edmonton, where he had a number of pressing professional obligations. He left Beechey Island on 15 August.
At last, on 17 August, Beattie received a radio transmission from the Polar Shelf offices in Resolute giving permission to proceed with the exhumation, autopsy and reburial of John Torrington. Hearing the letters of permission read over the radio caused a great sense of relief and fuelled a new surge of energy and enthusiasm. The last letter also detailed the procedures to follow should contagious disease be detected in the Franklin crewmen. Everyone in the Arctic could have picked up the transmission and heard the Polar Shelf radio operator read in part: “If, in the course of the excavations, Dr. Beattie discovers any evidence of infectious disease in the artefacts or corpses exhumed, further digging should be discontinued.”
Work on clearing off the last layer of ice and gravel began almost immediately, and the source of the noxious odour soon became apparent. It was not partly decomposed tissue, as had been expected, but rather the rotting blue wool fabric that covered the coffin.
As they reached the coffin lid, the wind picked up dramatically and a massive black thunder cloud moved over the site. The walls of the tent covering the excavation began to snap loudly, and, as the weather continued to worsen, the five researchers finally stopped their work and looked at one another. The conditions had suddenly become so strange that Kowal observed, “This is like something out of a horror film.” Some of the crew were visibly nervous and Beattie decided to call a halt to work for the day. That night the wind howled continuously, rattling the sides of Beattie’s tent all night and sometimes smacking its folds against his face, making sleep difficult. Ruszala, unable to sleep, stayed in one of the long-house tents. All were concerned about the stability of the tent that had been e
rected over Torrington’s grave and, through the night, anxious heads would peer out of their tents to check on it. Towards morning, a violent gust slashed its way under the floorless tent, lifting it up and over the headboard before slamming it down on the adjacent beach ridge. Only a single rope held to its metal stake, preventing the tent from blowing into Erebus Bay. In the morning, the weather finally calmed and they dismantled the tent, remarkably only slightly damaged, and continued their excavation in the open.
Time was not a major consideration during the work, and, with continuous daylight, all soon lost track of the actual time of day. Eating when hungry, sleeping when tired, a natural rhythm developed, resulting in a work “day” stretching up to twenty-eight hours in length. The only reminders of the regimented, time-oriented outside world were the daily 7 AM and 7 PM radio schedules with the Polar Shelf operators. During these broadcasts they would pass along weather information and messages and listen to the messages and weather reported in turn from the other Polar Shelf-supported camps strewn across the Arctic.
The tinned wrought iron plaque nailed to the lid of John Torrington’s coffin. The inscription reads: “John Torrington died January 1st 1846 aged 20 years.”
As the last layer of ice and gravel cemented to the top of the coffin was removed, Damkjar thought he could see something different in the texture of the fabric on the upper central portion of the lid. “Look at this,” he said, while continuing the thawing and cleaning. “It looks like something is attached to the lid or maybe carved into it.” Damkjar’s slow and meticulous work eventually revealed a beautiful hand-painted plaque that had been securely nailed to the coffin lid. Roughly heart-shaped, with short, pointed extensions along its top and bottom edges, it was made of tinned wrought iron, perhaps part of a tin can, and looked as though it was hand-cut. It was painted dark blue-green and on it in white was a hand-painted inscription: “JOHN TORRINGTON DIED JAN-UARY 1ST 1846 AGED 20 YEARS.”
The coffin containing John Torrington. The arrow points to true north.
The plaque was a touching last gesture made by Torrington’s shipmates, and Damkjar spent a lot of time studying and sketching the discovery. Frozen for 138 years, the paint was showing signs of peeling, and rust had accumulated around its outer edges. The rust was carefully cleaned away and the plaque’s surface lightly brushed with water to remove the accumulated crust of silt.
The coffin itself was also impressive. It was obviously well made and its mahogany lid and box had been individually covered by wool fabric dyed dark blue. White linen tape had been tacked to the lid and box in a geometric, military, yet decorative manner that contrasted with the personal nature of the plaque. Bolted to the sides of the coffin were brass handles, the one on the right still in the “up” position, and bolted to the foot- and head-ends were brass rings. But what was most remarkable was the size of the coffin—it appeared almost too small to contain an adult, though this may have been an optical illusion created by the box being in a narrow hole.
During the hours spent removing the permafrost adhering to the coffin, the researchers would occasionally tap on the lid, expecting to hear a hollow sound each time, but this was never the case. Rather, it was like striking a large block of marble, a strange sound given the circumstances. This result obviously meant a heavy mass was enclosed. It couldn’t be just a body.
The removal of the lid was surprisingly difficult. It was very strongly secured to the box by a series of square shafted nails, and, as the researchers were soon to find out, it was “glued” down by ice within the coffin. The options for removing the lid were to pry it up, pull the nails or shear the nails at the junction of the lid with the box. Prying the lid would almost certainly destroy it: the wood was soft and delicate. For a similar reason, the team decided not to attempt to pull the nails out of the coffin. The best method, in Beattie’s mind, was to shear the nails. He placed the chisel edge of a rock hammer against the lid/box junction at each nail location and struck the rock hammer inward with another hammer. The chisel head drove into and through the nail without damage to the coffin.
Finally, after all the nails had been sheared and the ice holding down the lid had thawed, Beattie took the foot-end and slowly lifted it up, revealing the shadowy contents of the coffin. A partially transparent block of ice lay within, and, through the frozen bubbles, cracks and planes in the ice, something—some form—could be seen. But the more closely they looked, the more elusive the contents became.
This block of ice was the most serious obstacle yet. They had come to within inches of the body, only to be confronted with an apparently insurmountable obstacle. Work stopped while Beattie brooded over the next step. The options were few.
An aircraft engine preheater on the site, a noisy, temperamental and dangerous machine, could not be used to thaw the ice because hot air would put the biological matter and any artefacts enclosed at considerable risk. The outside air temperature was always at or slightly below freezing and in the grave lower still, so natural thawing was not a possibility. Chipping away the ice was not practical and probably impossible.
Ruszala suggested pouring water, some heated, some cold, onto the ice block. It worked better and faster than could have been hoped for. The researchers heated buckets of stream water on the camp stoves, lugged them bucket-brigade-style to the grave, then poured the water over the ice, from where it eventually ran out of the bottom join of the coffin onto the floor of the grave. The run-off was then scooped into a pail and dumped away from the gravesite. The team worked hard, spurred on by the knowledge that they would soon come face to face with a man from the Franklin expedition, and progress was swift.
The first part of Torrington to come into view was the front of his shirt, complete with mother-of-pearl buttons. Soon, his perfectly preserved toes gradually poked through the receding ice.
Most of the day was spent at this initial stage of exposure. All the while, the face remained shielded, covered by a fold of the same blue wool lain over the outside of the coffin. This created an eerie feeling among the researchers; it was almost as if Torrington was somehow aware of what was happening around him. But for artists’ portraits and a few primitive photographs, who living today has ever seen the face of a person from the earlier part of the Victorian era, a person who took part in one of history’s major expeditions of discovery? It would not be long before they were to gaze upon the face of this man from history.
Beattie was fascinated by the almost perfect preservation of the toes. The realization that a completely preserved human was attached to them had not yet sunk in. This was a strange period during their work: they were extremely close to a frozen sailor from 1846, and yet, they were concentrating so much on small details of thawing that the eventual exposure of the complete person was totally unexpected.
Arne Carlson was painstakingly thawing the section of coffin fabric covering the face area. Using a pair of large surgical tweezers, he pulled the material up carefully as it was freed by the melting ice. It was a difficult and meticulous task; as Carlson wanted to prevent any tearing of the material, he had to work hunched closely to it. Then suddenly, as he pulled gently upwards on the right edge of the material, the last curtain of ice gave way, freeing the material and revealing the face of Petty Officer John Torrington. Carlson gasped and sprang to his feet, allowing the fabric to fall back on Torrington’s face. Pointing with the tweezers, Carlson said in a strangely calm voice: “He’s there, he’s right there!” The others quickly gathered at the graveside, and, while everyone peered at the fabric covering, Beattie pulled it back.
All stood, numb and silent. Nothing could have prepared them for the face of John Torrington, framed and cradled in his ice-coffin. Despite all the intervening years, the young man’s life did not seem far away; in many ways it was as if Torrington had just died.
It was a shattering moment for Beattie, who felt an empathy for this man and a sadness
for his passing—and as if he were standing at a precipice looking across a terrifying gulf into a very different world from our own. He was a witness to a tragedy, yet he had to remind himself that the tragedy belonged to another time.
The sky on the day of the autopsy was overcast, the grey clouds merging with the grey waters of Erebus Bay. The temperature was 30˚F (-1˚C), the wind a steady 12 miles per hour (20 km/h) from the south. Standing at the graveside and looking into the coffin, the gloom seemed to be reflected in Torrington’s simple grey linen trousers and his white shirt with closely spaced thin blue stripes. The shirt had a high collar and was pleated from the waist downwards, where it was tucked into the trousers. Under Torrington’s chin and over the top of his medium-brown hair was tied his kerchief, made of white cotton and covered in large blue polka dots.
The first photograph of John Torrington, taken moments after the wool coffin covering was pulled back.
John Torrington looked anything but grotesque. The expression on his thin face, with its pouting mouth and half-closed eyes gazing through delicate, light-brown eyelashes, was peaceful. His nose and forehead, in contrast to the natural skin colour of the rest of his face, were darkened by contact with the blue-wool coffin covering. This shadowed the face, accentuating the softness of its appearance. The tragedy of Torrington’s young death was as apparent to the researchers as it must have been to his shipmates 138 years before.
Torrington would have stood 5 feet 4 inches (163 cm) tall. His arms were straight, with the hands resting palm down on the fronts of his thighs, held in position by strips of cotton binding. These bindings were located at his elbows, hands, ankles and big toes. Their purpose was to hold the limbs together during the preparation of the body for burial. It was discovered later that his body lay on a bed of wood shavings, scattered along the bottom of the coffin, with his head supported by a thicker matting of shavings. He wore no shoes or boots, and there were no other personal belongings beyond his clothing.