‘No map such as ours ever appeared in a newspaper. It shows places and things that have never been charted. And I do not see why Little Weesy would deceive us now when she never told us a lie in her lifetime.’
Again Captain Kennedy saw that look of scorn and disbelief flash across the face of little Ann, unobserved by anyone but he. It was a look he remembered from his own boyhood, the expression of a child who must endure hearing a rival wrongly praised. The look remained on the child’s face even as Miss Smith, who could not see it, brushed her fingers lovingly on her niece’s hair.
‘Are you quite sure, Ann,’ said Kennedy, speaking very gently, and with as much delicacy as he could, ‘that it is Weesy who brought you these messages, and not some other source or power? Are you sure that it was she?’
The little girl stared back at him, now expressionless, for what seemed like many seconds. She does not blink, thought Kennedy, and began to feel uneasy. One moment she was a child, the next she was like an old woman made bitter by a lifetime of suffering. He tried again. ‘Are you sure it was little Louise, Ann?’
It was her aunt who broke the silence with a sudden cry of scorn. ‘Of course it was Louise, Mr Kennedy! How can you doubt it? She was a dutiful child, and this is a good Christian household! To suggest anything else—’
‘I have my duty to discharge, madam. I am sent by Lady Jane to question the child, and I must play devil’s advocate.’
Miss Smith clutched the child’s shoulders so tightly her fingers dug into the flesh. Ann cried out and wriggled but she could not shake herself free of her aunt, who continued in a high, angry voice: ‘Playing devil’s advocate? That is another name for lying. We are plain-speaking people here, Mr Kennedy, and we say what we mean.’
‘Harriet,’ warned Captain Coppin, who had been recalled from his private misery by the sound of raised voices. But his sister-in-law ignored his interjection, glaring at their visitor. Two bright spots burned on her cheeks.
‘We say what we mean, Mr Kennedy, and we know in our hearts what is right. Dear little Weesy is always with us in this house. We feel her everywhere. She is with us all the time!’
Captain Coppin began to sob, the harsh, agonized convulsions of abject grief. Observing his friend’s distress, Kennedy himself felt close to tears.
Miss Smith was shouting at the finish of her speech and its conclusion left a silence in the room. But this was quickly broken by a new sound, the wailing of the child. She buried her face in her hands and her knees began to give, until she was only supported by her aunt’s hands on her shoulders. Tears ran onto her dress. Her aunt, calming enough to observe her distress, spun her little niece around and clasped her in her arms, patting her back and smoothing her hair, all the while glaring at Kennedy, whose mortification was now complete.
‘There, there, little Annie,’ soothed Miss Smith, though the expression she showed Kennedy was one of contempt. ‘There is no need to grieve for little Weesy. She will never leave us.’
And now of a sudden the child writhed in her aunt’s arms, kicking and scratching, trying to break free of her grasp. Her face, pulled away from Miss Smith’s bosom, was contorted with passion, though whether her emotion was grief or rage or terror Kennedy could not have said.
‘Let me go!’ screamed the child, in a voice so lost and so hollow that it made Kennedy’s skin crawl. ‘Let go of me! You know nothing!’
She pulled a hand free and struck blindly at her aunt. And Miss Smith, injured and shaken, sank back against the wall with horror on her face. Little Ann, thus freed, took a step towards the door, looking wildly about her, and then all strength seemed to leave her and she fell to the floor and lay sobbing.
Kennedy was first to her aid; he picked her up in his arms and brought her over to a little sofa under a window. Captain Coppin rang for a maid to bring salts and water. But before the maid had returned the child had stopped weeping as abruptly as she had begun. She sat up on the couch and smoothed down her skirts, and blew her nose in a handkerchief her father had given her. When she spoke her voice was quiet, although her eyes were still wide with shock or with terror and she seemed to stare through the wall where her aunt cowered.
‘You are wrong, Aunty Harriet. Weesy is gone.’
Miss Smith slumped onto the floor, a child herself again, her back to the wall, and began to weep noiselessly.
Kennedy took the child’s hand but still she did not look at him. ‘Where has she gone?’
‘Wherever they go.’ It was almost a whisper. ‘She is gone. I didn’t tell my family, because it would upset them all so. But it is several weeks now since I have felt her in this house.’
And then the child turned on her side on the couch, closed her eyes and went to sleep.
It was now quite dark outside. Nevertheless, Kennedy suggested that he and his host might take a turn on the Strand to work up their appetite for dinner.
It was a cold night, and clear, with the stars hard above them. A mist rose from the low places and covered the river; it swallowed two ships moored in the narrows until only their masts protruded from the sheet of ghostly white. Across the Strand road, Coppin’s shipyard was dark and silent, all lights extinguished in its offices and sheds. A fire burned near the wrought iron gate – the brazier which warmed the watchman huddled inside his hut.
The friends turned left along the shore past the last scattered houses. Behind them, the lights of the unconquered city burned on their hill, defying the darkness which bided in the north.
‘I don’t know how I missed you at the ship this afternoon,’ began Captain Coppin, but then, as if startled by the loudness of his voice, because they were already in the countryside, where anyone or no one might hear them, he checked himself and lowered his tone. ‘I cannot understand it. I was at the foot of the gangway when the first passenger came off the Maiden City.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Kennedy, ‘you were at the wrong gangway. I travelled second class.’
His friend caught his sleeve and pulled him to a halt. ‘But my dear Kennedy, you should have told me in advance! I could easily have asked the North West of Ireland Union to take you gratis! It was I who built the Maiden City for them, you know.’
Kennedy pressed his friend’s shoulder. ‘It was not a question of expense. Lady Jane implored me to travel discreetly. My face is quite well-known, since she gave me command of her Prince Albert, and there are reporters who make it their business to watch ships arrive and to study the passenger lists. But they seldom bother with the second class.’
Their heels, which had rung on the cobbles, fell silent, though they continued to stride side by side. Dark shapes loomed up on either hand, absences of starlight and of mist, and Kennedy guessed that their road had devolved into an unpaved country lane with hedges on each side of it.
Coppin spoke again. ‘Lady Jane has therefore abandoned her notion of seeking publicity? When I last met her, she talked of inviting Mr Dickens, or Miss Cracroft’s cousin Tennyson, to write an account to raise interest for her cause.’
Kennedy chose his words carefully. ‘Lady Jane had become concerned . . . on the advice, I believe, of her niece Miss Cracroft . . . that news of her interest in the events here might well be misconstrued by elements in the press and the scientific establishment – and indeed the Church – in ways that might harm her reputation.’
‘I see.’ Coppin looked away, across the white sheet of fog that covered the Foyle. ‘I had thought she believed me. When I sent her my message she responded like one who is truly convinced.’
‘She does believe. But for the present we must be discreet.’
‘And what of you, William? Do you believe?’
Kennedy had met an old Innuit woman on Baffin Island who had drawn for him maps of islands and channels which neither she nor any of her tribe had ever visited. He had recently had the opportunity to compare some of these maps to th
e first scientific charts made by that prodigious overland traveller Dr Rae, his fellow Orkneyman, and found them alike in almost every detail. But the Kirk had taught Kennedy that while there was only one God there were yet many demons; that God, having sent His son to complete His revelation, no longer had use for auguries and miracles, which must therefore be viewed in a sinister light, as the work of powers that are not of heaven.
He resolved to change the subject. ‘Your business is good? I heard you have five hundred men in your shipyard.’
‘I perhaps had that when I built the Great Northern, but that is nine years ago. The market has since passed us by – our river is too shallow for the big new designs. But I have other interests.’
‘Your marine inspectorate?’
‘Yes, that. And I am also an agent for the Canada mails. But I find that lately I am most engrossed in the science of salvage. It has become my great passion.’
Kennedy ventured to say that he had never known his friend to be without a passion, and that yet whenever they met, which was at intervals down the long years, he invariably found that this passion had changed.
‘You are right,’ replied Coppin, turning away from the river. ‘But I am older now and settled, and I think that this particular hobby-horse will see me out. Just think: all this great fuss and cost of designing and building new ships, yet as soon as they founder, even in inshore waters, we give them up for lost. Yet such ships can often be raised again and their hulls and cargoes saved.’
‘And is there profit in this salvage?’
‘There is profit, of course, but more than that.’ Coppin stopped again. He put his hand on Kennedy’s sleeve and stared soberly into his face, trying to see it through the gloom. ‘I do not do this for Sir John, or Captain Crozier, or the men of the Terror and Erebus. I do it for Weesy. I believe that she is with them, and that if they are found she will be at rest.’
‘Lady Jane believes,’ repeated Kennedy. ‘She has had other signs.’ He found himself lowering his voice and looking around him, though they were quite alone. ‘Mr Parker Snow, who went as Forsyth’s deputy on last year’s voyage of the Prince Albert, also claims to have had visions of Sir John and his men near the magnetic pole. I met Parker Snow myself in New York, on my way to join Lady Franklin in England – he was at Mr Grinnell’s house when I stayed there.
‘But Captain Forsyth is one of FitzRoy’s followers in the navy – a rationalist and scientist. When Parker Snow let slip to him the basis for their mission, Forsyth declared that he had been sent on a fool’s errand by mystics and charlatans. He then turned the ship for home. That is why Lady Jane has appointed me to lead this second voyage.’
Coppin clasped his friend’s hand. ‘Then Weesy’s map will be your guide? You will confirm her information?’
‘I am no navigator, William, nor a mapmaker. I’ve never been more than a Hudson’s Bay trader. There is pressure from the Admiralty on Lady Jane to appoint another Royal Navy man as her cartographer and scientist. Instead, Lady Jane intends to recruit a young French officer who wrote to her out of the blue. After what happened with Captain Forsyth, she feels that an ardent young foreigner will be easier to steer.’
Paris, 1854
Ministry of the Navy
Hôtel de la Marine
Rue Royale
Paris
14 October 1854
at 2.35 p.m.
Memorandum: most confidential
My dear P.
The latest dispatch from the Admiralty in London, arrived this morning, informs us of the lamentable loss of Lieutenant Joseph René Bellot in the course of his second Arctic voyage with the British.
Having returned from his first voyage on Lady Franklin’s Prince Albert, Lt Bellot had, as you will know, made interest in Paris to lead a purely French naval expedition to the Arctic. Failing in this objective, he then accepted a place as a volunteer on HMS Phoenix, which was resupplying a squadron of Royal Navy search vessels in the region of Lancaster Sound.
Alas, in the course of a sledging expedition young Bellot was carried away with two other men on a detached ice-floe. The other two castaways, ordinary British seamen, were later recovered and furnished what details they could, though neither observed the moment of his demise. He walked away from the snow-house they were building on the floe and was not seen again. He is therefore presumed to have gone through a crack in the ice.
The loss of so fine an officer at so young an age must be deeply regretted; though only twenty-seven, he had won the Legion of Honour at Tamatave and performed prodigious service on the Prince Albert two years ago. It is certain that the good lieutenant will enjoy a posthumous fame in France commensurate with his popularity in England, where they are already taking up a public subscription for a memorial to him at Greenwich.
Clearly, the ministry will have to do something fine to commemorate such a gallant French officer. But matters of ceremony are for other officials: we in the intelligence department have other concerns now that Bellot has vanished.
News of his loss spread quickly through the department this morning, and it was scarcely an hour after I read the dispatch myself that M. Julien Lemer, a journalist and author, presented himself at my office. M. Lemer is a friend to our service, and happened to be in the building when he heard the news about Bellot, whom he counted as a friend. It is well that Lemer was here: from what he tells me, we will have to move quickly to prevent the lieutenant’s death having a most damaging sequel.
The problem is this: on his Prince Albert voyage Lt Bellot started a journal in which he wrote frankly of all that he saw and did in the course of the expedition, and to which he confided his hopes, fears and opinions. It was his intention to edit and shape this journal into a book which he could publish to further his cause and to earn him some money – he is from a very poor family, and has several siblings to provide for as well as his parents.
According to M. Lemer, whom Bellot engaged as his editor and agent, and whom he allowed to read the full journal, there are several passages and episodes therein which would cause great scandal and sensation were they to become publicly known.
Chief among these is Lt Bellot’s belief that Lady Franklin was influenced by clairvoyants when she directed the Prince Albert’s crew to search southward to King William Land, ignoring the advice of the Admiralty, whose searches are directed to the north. He also writes that M. Kennedy was influenced by a ‘spirit map’ when he recorded a new North West Passage between Somerset Land and Boothia – a channel which Bellot (after whom Kennedy has named it Bellot Strait) himself denies having seen. It is for this reason, it seems, that Bellot was so keen to return to the north, to prove or disprove the existence of this phantom strait.
I need hardly say that any such public revelations, coming from the pen of a French officer whom the British had taken to their hearts, would be grievously damaging not only to Lady Franklin but also to our relations with the Royal Navy – and this at a time when we must make common cause against Russia in the Crimea.
Another of Lt Bellot’s stated suspicions, that the American naval surgeon Elisha Kent Kane might have removed items from a message cairn built by Franklin’s men on Beechey Island, would likely strain our relations with the United States.
Lemer says that Lt Bellot was aware of these considerations and – in the interests of his country and his service – intended to remove any sensitive passages before he published his journal. When he sailed north again on the Phoenix he left the journals in the keeping of his sisters in Rochefort, to be safe until he returned.
We now arrive at the heart of the matter: being recently in Rochefort, M. Lemer paid his respects to his friend’s family and expressed a desire to see the journal so he could prepare samples to circulate among publishers to cultivate their interest. Instead, the sisters told him that their brother had decreed that the valuable journals should not be given into the keeping o
f any third party. They also believed that he intended them to publish the journals themselves should he fail to return from the Arctic. Now that Bellot is lost it is to be feared that the sisters will show the unedited journal around the newspapers and publishing houses of Paris. And that would put an end to all hope of discretion.
All may not yet be quite lost, however. M. Lemer believes that the sisters might yet be persuaded to entrust the journals to himself if they are assured that they will be indemnified against their possible loss. I therefore propose that we make immediate interest with the Imperial court to have a special pension granted to the late lieutenant’s family, contingent on the sisters giving the journal into our keeping. This being done, I see no objection to subsequent publication once the appropriate adjustments have been made. The lieutenant enjoyed, it seems, not a little literary ability.
I have no doubt, my dear director, that you will see the merits of this plan, which would work to the benefit of all concerned. Thus the family might have its security while the deceased might enjoy a last tilt at glory. The public might have its hero, while M. Lemer might have the satisfaction of doing one last act of kindness for his friend, and doubtless also of earning an editor’s fee (his service to our department is patriotic and unpaid). The Emperor, in stooping to raise up the distressed family of a decorated martyr, might worship again at the Bonaparte shrine of meritocracy. And we, my dear director, might quietly proceed with our humble daily duty, to preserve and protect our homeland from its foes and its heroes alike.
Please accept my kindest wishes,
R.
Part Three
Joe Island
81º15’N 63º28’W
Inuvik, North West Territories
Nelson opened his eyes and found himself lying fully clothed on the comforter of Bert’s bed. The door was closed but the curtains were open. It was still night outside. Of course it was still night outside. He was still in Inuvik and it was still January. The parking-lot lights still seeped through the curtains. Bert was still missing. But he’d seen him in his sleep again. They were back in Grande Prairie, at the Nite Owls ski slope, and he was trying to teach Bert to snowboard. You should have learned this when we were kids, he told Bert. But Bert just smiled sadly and looked away. Of course, we didn’t call them snowboards back then, said Nelson. We called them Snurfers, remember? I’d have helped you learn if you’d let me. I’ll help you now. It’s easy. It’s never too late.
Minds of Winter Page 12