by John Wilson
My second session with Chris didn’t go well at all. I had nothing to say and all he could do was repeat the same stuff he had said the week before. He speculated on the dreams’ cause and why they had ceased. In some strange way, I blamed Chris for the loss of the dreams and that made me uncooperative. I didn’t object when he suggested I leave early.
I didn’t feel any better after the session, but I had some spare time so I went to the library to pick up a book on Franklin I had ordered the week before. It was a journal written by one of the officers from the expedition that had discovered Franklins first wintering site on Beechey Island. It was pretty dull and only told me stuff I had read a dozen times before. There were descriptions of the three graves of John Torrington, John Hartnell and William Braine, the foundations of the blacksmith’s workshop and the pile of discarded cans. As I thumbed through it I began drifting away. I was thinking that there was not much point in going to see Chris again. Then my eye caught something. It was a brief footnote that I could have easily missed. It discussed the possibility that the ships had left Beechey Island in a hurry. That in itself was not remarkable. What was, was that one of the searchers had found a pair of gloves laid out to dry. They had been weighed down with a rock and forgotten in the haste to leave.
I was stunned. George’s gloves, left behind in the rush to take advantage of the open lead. It was a detail of my last dream that I could not have known from anywhere else. It was as if George were trying to talk to me. He was sending me a message: Don’t listen to anyone else. Only your dreams are true. No one else will understand.
Maybe there was hope yet! Maybe my dreams would come back. I tucked the book under my arm and rushed out to meet Mom in the car. I told her I wasn’t going back to see Chris again. I put it very positively, saying he had been a great help, but that there was no point now that the dreams had stopped. On the drive home we chatted about school and sports, but my mind was in turmoil. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the book. I was convinced that, in some way, that footnote was a message from George and I was almost too scared to hope that it meant that the dreams would return.
That night I dreamt again. This time I told no one. But I did follow one of Chris’ suggestions—I wrote the dreams down. Not for him, but so that, if they stopped again, at least I would have something concrete to remember. The dreams were mine, and I was not going to risk losing them again until they had led me to the end, whatever or wherever that might be.
CHAPTER 10
In nine days I will be fourteen. What a difference it will be from my last birthday when we left Beechey Island with such high hopes. Then I thought that we would be celebrated heroes by now. Instead, I am standing by the rail looking out over a grey wilderness of ice and snow. Neptune sits by my feet. He is my constant—my only—companion these days. I cannot help remembering what a difficult year it has been.
At first progress was slow as the ice was still heavy. Often we had to wait for an open lead heading in our direction, then we would cautiously follow it until we could go no farther. Twice the Erebus became trapped and we waited nervously to see if we should escape. Then, at last, we reached Cape Felix, the northernmost tip of King William Land.
This is where we are now, halfway between east and west and farther than any man has gone by ship before. A few miles south of us is the cairn at Victory Point built by James Ross at the end of his sled trip from the east three years before I was born. Only sixty miles south of that is another cairn. This one was built only seven years ago by Simpson and Dease on their canoe journey from the west. That sixty miles is the last unexplored bit of the Northwest Passage. It seemed when we first arrived that our success was assured.
It was late summer but there was still a full twelve hours of light each day. The west coast of the island was blocked by heavy ice, so we set off down the east side, down Ross Strait. The bottom of the strait was unexplored, but we hoped it connected to Simpson’s Strait and we could sail around King William Land. The ice was light and progress was good. It looked as if we would easily reach Simpson’s cairn. But half way down the shallows beat us. After days of trying to find deep enough water to continue, the Terror grounded. It took a week and the removal of many supplies to refloat her. The stores we stacked neatly on the beach; who could say if we might have need of them one day? Then, sadly, we sailed back north to search for a way through the heavy ice to the west. For weeks we tacked back and forth following blind leads and watching the frozen waves of ice heave restlessly. Finally, on September I2 last year, both ships became beset and we resigned ourselves to a second winter frozen in an icy stranglehold.
As I stand here lost in my thoughts, I can hardly distinguish this last winter from the one before. Both are little more than a haze of cold and boredom. Seeley spent much of the time away from the ships, so I was happy enough with my books. I am now big and strong enough to take part in sled hauling and I did manage a few short trips to visit our scientific camps. The main magnetic camp is set up at Cape Felix on King William Land. It must be on land since the sea ice moves. The work is of the most boring sort and consists of sitting watching a pendulum and a dip needle and recording their movements every hour. There must be no metal nearby and even our belt buckles must be removed for fear that they will interfere with the readings. What we discover will be of great interest since we are a mere hundred miles from the location of the Magnetic North Pole which James Ross visited in 1831.
Surgeon Stanley has become very adept at skinning and preserving birds and now has a sizeable collection. His assistant, Goodsir, is kept busy collecting and drawing all manner of creatures which he obtains with a dredge through holes in the ice. As our supplies are used, the extra space is soon filled with specimens and we continue to gather information at every opportunity.
George has returned to his gambling ways and we grow farther apart. This Arctic loneliness affects us all in strange ways. I find that I am withdrawing more into myself while many of the men become more querulous and rowdy. There have been a number of fights, and knives have been drawn, although no one has been seriously injured yet.
With the coming of spring and the end of the winter storms, it was decided that two sled parties would set out to map King William Land. One would go down the west coast and complete the Northwest Passage. The other would work down the east and explore that region. Lots were drawn and we were all elated when the Erebus won the honour of completing the passage. On the 24 May, 1847 Lieutenant Gore, Mate Charles Des Voeux and six men set off on their historic journey. We all envied them and heartily cheered them on their way. Simultaneously, but with less enthusiasm, Lieutenant Little and Mate Robert Thomas led a team from the Terror in the opposite direction.
Both parties have been away nearly three weeks now. Mister Gores team was to move fast and he is expected back any day now. They were heavily laden with supplies to begin with, but planned to drop provisions at depots for future parties. As soon as they reached Simpson’s cairn they were to return. Mister Little’s trip is longer. He is expected to be away for some time yet. If there is no word of him by my birthday, we will send out a party to meet him.
As I gaze out on the colourless vista, I sense a presence behind me. Dreading that devil Seeley catching me unaware, I jump round. The figure in front of me is not Seeley, but almost as frightening.
Sir John is no longer a young man, and the voyage has taken a toll on him. He always appears confident and cheerful in front of the men, but he has lost weight and seems almost to be sagging under the burden of leadership. His face has taken on something of a grey pallor.
“Good day lad,” Franklin smiles faintly at me, “I did not mean to startle you. Are you keeping watch for Mister Gore?”
“Aye sir,” I stammer nervously. “His will be a great achievement.”
“It will be that.” The smile broadens. “To complete the passage is what we came for. But it is our scientific work that will live on long after our journey is forgotten. This stretc
h of water is of no use for commerce.” Sir John turns his gaze out over the ice. “I have spent many years in these lands. I have seen men starve and have almost died myself. No one will willingly come here with any hopes of profit. The only force strong enough to compel men to suffer in these latitudes is the desire to learn. To know what this world, so different from our own, is really like.”
Franklin falls silent and I have not the courage to interrupt his thoughts. Eventually he begins speaking again, but more to the barren wastelands than to me.
“It is a perilous journey we have undertaken and I have been plagued by black dreams of late. I see a lonely grave and I fear that it might be my own.”
I am horrified that Sir John, who has been the strength and driving force for us all, should be thinking this way. But I am too terrified to offer any comfort.
“That day we first met,” he says, “when I had that damned image made, I was suffering mightily from a cold. That very evening, I drifted into uneasy sleep on the couch beside the fire. My dear wife Jane was beside me embroidering the Union flag which I am to raise on the completion of the passage. I felt a weight on my legs and awoke. I found the flag thrown over me for warmth. Poor Jane, she did not realize that the Union Jack is only draped over a corpse.”
After a moment’s silence, Sir John seems to shake himself from his sad reverie and turns to me. “Do you still have your companion?”
It is a strange question and I try to answer as best I can. “George is below. He will be cleaning the....”
“No,” Sir John manages a wan smile as he interrupts me, “I recall when I first saw you that I was getting two sailors for the price of one. Is that still true?”
“Aye sir,” I reply, understanding at last. I pull Jack Tar from my pocket and hold him up. “Here he is.”
“Good lad. Keep him warm now, he is not dressed for these climes. You have another friend too I see.” Franklin reaches down to scratch Neptune’s ear. A shout from the topmast stops him.
“Sled on the ice. South south east.”
Sir John straightens. “It seems Mister Gore is back.” With a last half-smile he turns and walks across the deck. He has only gone some ten paces when he stops. As I watch, his broad back seems to tense. He takes another half-step and stops again. One knee buckles and the large figure slumps to the deck.
For what seems like hours no one moves. Then Mister Fitzjames, who is coming down the bridge ladder, jumps the last few steps and rushes over. Soon there is a crowd around the fallen figure. Surgeon Stanley is called and Sir John is carried below. I am in a turmoil. What has happened? Will he be all right?
It is night and I am in my hammock, but I cannot sleep. It has been such a day of contrast that I do not know what to think. First Sir John spoke with me. Then he collapsed. Within hours Mister Gore and his party were back with the news that the Northwest Passage has been completed. He is rushed to Franklin’s bedside. The great man has regained consciousness, but he is paralyzed down his left side and only occasionally aware of his surroundings. He is alert enough to realize the significance of Lieutenant Gore’s achievement and promptly elevates him to the rank of Commander. It is almost his last act. Within the hour he lapsed into unconsciousness and, at ten o’clock this evening, Sir John Franklin died.
How could the heart of such a strong, noble man fail so suddenly? He had become the symbol of our endeavor. How could we fail with him at the helm? Now he is gone and we have yet another grave to dig. Although I only met him twice, his death only adds to my almost overwhelming sense of loneliness.
It is one of the few days recently when the cursed wind is not blowing through our bones. It has dropped to a gentle breeze, but still we huddle in the lee of the sled to hide from it. There are nine of us scattered around a small fire which engulfs the last fragments of our supply boxes. The fire is precious, for there is no wood in this land, yet the circumstances warrant it. Eight of us are a sledging party from Erebus.
George sits beside me. We are led by Captain Fitzjames who, since Sir John’s death, is now second in command below Mister Crozier. Our aim is to meet with the Terror party under Mister Little. The ninth member of our sad circle is Henry Sait of that party. He sits across the fire from me. His cheeks are hollow and his eyes sunken and glazed. He is barely able to keep upright.
We have been out for three days now. This morning Mister Fitzjames, who was out in front, shouted that he had spotted something. It soon resolved into the emaciated figure of Sait. He was staggering all over and, when we brought him in, incapable of recognizing any of us. He was mumbling incoherently and looked close to death. It is for him we have built the fire. Its warmth, and some biscuits and brandy, have revived him somewhat. We are all eager to hear his story, although none of us think it will be to our liking. We lean forward expectantly as Sait tells his tale.
“At first we made good time,” he begins hesitantly. “Of course, we were disappointed not to be completing the passage, but we made light of it and joked of what we might find on our side of the island. The land was bleak and flat and the jagged rocks which make up the beaches hereabouts made walking on the land difficult. We found the going much easier on the sea ice where it was flat, close in to the coast. The only trouble we had was in traversing a long inlet which was packed with a jumbled mass of ice. It was tiring work and it took us two days to cover only ten miles. Mister Little named the inlet Hardwork Cove.”
Sait’s eyes lift to the horizon and he drifts off into some private reverie until Mister Fitzjames nudges him. Sait sips some tea and continues.
“There were some large islands offshore, which we took time to explore, but were of little interest. The coast continued southeast and the weather remained fair although the ice was becoming rougher and we had to go ashore frequently to pass open patches of water.
“After we crossed a large peninsula, our route turned southwest and we all felt we would soon be heading back up to the ships. We had reached our most southerly point when we were faced with a wide lead of open water. Since beach travel was so hard and as there was a collection of small islets offshore, Mister Little decided that we should head that way, examine the islets and try to pass the lead on the seaward side.
“We had barely gone halfway when a crack opened in the ice beneath us and the sled began to be drawn into the icy water. I was at the front and so I threw off the harness, but the rest of the men were pulled in. All managed to scramble onto the ice, but soaked to the skin and with no supplies, our predicament was severe.”
Sait hesitates again as if drawing strength to tell the rest of his tale.
“We made camp on the closest island in a makeshift shelter of rocks and snow. That night, Mister Little, who had spent a considerable time in the freezing water trying to help men out and save some supplies, died. We buried him in the morning as best we could. Before we had finished, the wind was up and it was beginning to snow.
“It was not much of a storm, but it trapped us for five days. Five others died before the wind eased and Mister Thomas and myself could leave. We followed the coast for days, hoping to find a supply cache left by Mister Gore. We lost all track of time and my companion began to rave about his wife and family back in England. At last he fell. We were walking along a low ridge when he just lay down in mid-step. I went over to help him up and found him dead.
“I don’t know how long I staggered on. I do not remember much until I found myself beside your fire.”
Silence falls across our group like a shroud. Henry Sait sits gazing at the rocks at his feet and no one else feels the urge to speak. At last Mister Fitzjames says, “Set up the tents. We will camp here and attempt to find the body of Mister Thomas. Thank you, gentlemen.”
“What is going wrong George?” I ask as we move over to begin unpacking the sled. “Our luck seems to have left us along with Sir John. Seven men dead and one so weak he may not last long. Will any of us get out of this God forsaken place alive?”
“Don’t
talk like that Davy.” George is making an effort to lift my spirits. “It is bad luck all right, but remember the dove when we set sail?”
“Yes,” I reply sadly, “but I also remember the man who fell from the mast—was that not an equally bad omen?”
“That was nothing. He got careless is all. You’ll see. We’re halfway there and still with supplies a’plenty to see us through. Come summer this damned ice will break open and we will be on our way home. It is a shame Sir John won’t be able to take us, but Crozier’s a good man. He knows the Arctic almost as well as Sir John and he will surely see us through.”
“I suppose so.” I know George is right; it is only a spell of bad luck, but I cannot get rid of the idea that things have changed for the worse.
“Anyway, let’s get these tents up and some food made. I fear Mister Fitzjames will have some work for us to do come morning.”
We bend to the task before us, but the pitiful image of poor Henry Sait staggering alone through this unforgiving wilderness hovers before my eyes. Will that be the end for us all? My mind will not let go of some lines from Coleridge’s poem. They seem to echo the last words of my poor friend Bill Braine:
Like one, that on a lonesome road