by John Wilson
One day, Mr. Beard arrived with the Daguerrotype image-fixing apparatus that we were to take north to record our exploits. As a first record and as a way of training Second Master Henry Collins in the use of the apparatus, images were made of all the officers of Erebus and Captain Crozier of Terror. It was a cold, miserable day — Lieutenant Fairholme was obliged to borrow Mr. Fitzjames’s jacket — and Sir John was suffering much from the effects of influenza. Each officer sat most seriously for the images, except Mr. Fitzjames, who picked up his telescope and smiled at Mr. Beard when the second image was taken.
The Saturday before we sailed, the four thousand cans of Mr. Goldner’s meat, soup and vegetables finally arrived. As we struggled to load them on board, Mr. Osmer grumbled incessantly. “Penny-pinching fools,” he said as we sweated. “The Navy Board picks the lowest bid for supply and we only get our food at the last minute.”
“At least it’s all here,” I said.
“Aye,” Osmer agreed, “but done in such a rush that I’ll warrant we find a goodly number of cans blown and rotten when we come to open them, and I doubt if Mr. Goldner has an office in Greenland where we can complain.”
On the Sunday, Sir John conducted Divine Service for the assembled crews. He spoke eloquently on our duties and the importance of the task upon which we were embarking. After the service, a dove, which everyone except the miserable sailor Bill considered a good omen, alighted on the masthead. The day was filled with hope and much speculation on our great adventure.
Never in my life had I been so excited as I was when we cast off at ten-thirty that Monday morning, the nineteenth of May, 1845. The Erebus led our small flotilla out onto the river. She was followed by Terror, our supply ship Barretto Junior and two tugs, Rattler and Blazer. Laden as we were, our sails filled with the morning breeze and we presented a splendid sight, flags of every description snapping in the wind and every officer dressed in formal finery.
The embankment was thronged with well-wishers, many waving brightly-coloured cloths and cheering lustily. The cheering was echoed by ourselves and by the lowing of the ten live oxen being carried aboard Barretto Junior. The river itself was rich with boats of all description, many bedecked in fluttering bunting. Horns provided a deafening background music, and every vessel, from the smallest rowboat to the greatest warship, offered us three cheers as we passed by on the tide.
On that proud day, the future seemed endless and anything possible.
The voyage up the coast of Britain was a continual struggle against storms and contrary winds, however. Several crew, Davy among them, were sick from the violent motion of the ships, but I was pleasantly surprised at how well my stomach stood up to the ordeal. I had little appetite at first, but what I did eat stayed where it should.
“Kill me now,” Davy muttered. I had come on deck to escape the foul stink of sickness below and found him huddled by the rail, arms wrapped around his knees. “A quick death would be a mercy.”
The ship lurched violently as it slid down a huge wave. I grabbed a rigging line and Davy groaned. I often came up in the rough weather to inhale some fresh air and watch the angry sea.
I was often accompanied by the ship’s dog, Neptune, a large, hairy beast, of the type called after Newfoundland. He had a stronger stomach than many of the sailors, and the gentlest disposition I had ever found in an animal. For a scratch behind the ear, he was prepared to follow me anywhere on board.
“You’ll feel better soon,” I said to reassure Davy.
“I won’t survive to feel better,” he said. He was as pale as the ship’s canvas and losing weight from not being able to hold food in his stomach. “Next time I retch I’ll bring up my heart and lungs. There’s nothing else down there.”
There was no comforting Davy when he was suffering these bouts of seasickness. Neptune and I left him in peace. By the time we finally docked at Stromness in the Orkney Islands, he was feeling better and there were signs of his sense of humour returning.
At Stromness we replenished our freshwater supply from the well there and bade farewell to Rattler and Blazer. I was surprised on going ashore that I had become so used to the rolling and plunging of the ship’s deck that I had trouble walking on solid ground. Davy stayed on board to recover.
In contrast, the voyage across the Atlantic was calm. That is not to say it was boring. Davy and I were kept busy with a multitude of new tasks. One day we were given over to the care of Robert Sinclair, Captain of the Foretop.
“Ye cannot live aboard one o’ Her Majesty’s vessels wi’out learnin’ to climb the ropes,” he told us in his broad Scots accent. Sinclair was only twenty-five years old, but had been at sea since the age of twelve and had developed immensely strong arms from a life clambering up the rigging and crawling along the yards. Even though it was the calmest day we had yet seen, with only a steady following wind, I was nervous at the prospect of climbing high above the deck with only ropes to hold me there.
“Best way’s just to do it,” Sinclair said. “You first.” He pointed at me. “Climb that riggin’ on the foremast.”
I swallowed hard and headed for the rail, which I had to climb over to get onto the complex of ropes that would be my ladder up the mast. I had a moment’s hesitation as I swung out over the dark, rushing water of the Atlantic; then I was climbing. Before I knew it, I was enjoying myself. The wind whistled through the rigging around me, the heavy canvas sail snapped and the spars and mast creaked. It was almost like flying and I was soon at the main spar.
“Step out onto that rope below the spar,” Sinclair shouted through cupped hands. “See how ye can lean over the spar and grasp those other ropes that’ll furl the sail.”
The step from the rigging to the spar rope required taking one hand off the rigging and stretching over the yawning gulf down to the deck to place a foot on a single swinging rope. I took a deep breath and stepped.
To my immense relief I felt the rope under my foot and the solid spar against my chest. I brought my other foot over and grasped the spar for all I was worth, reaching over it to hold the ropes that hung down on the other side. I had seen sailors lined along the spar rope to furl or unfurl the sails on Mr. Fitzjames’s commands.
Joy surged through me. I was confident and secure and, for the first time since I had stepped up the gangway at Woolwich, I felt like a true sailor.
As if in celebration of my achievement, the sleek, silvery backs of a school of dolphins broke the surface on either side of Erebus’s bow. They gambolled in some complicated game, crossing and recrossing our bow many times before they shot off to starboard in pursuit of some other entertainment.
“Good work, lad,” Sinclair shouted. “Now you,” he said to Davy. “Come along now.”
I looked down to see Davy hesitating with one foot on the rail. “Come on, Davy,” I yelled. “It’s magical up here.”
Gingerly, he stepped onto the rigging and began a slow climb. He stopped a lot and eventually Sinclair shouted, “Hurry along, lad. Ye can’t be a sailor if ye can’t climb the riggin’.”
“I’d rather be a Resurrection Man,” Davy said under his breath as he reached the spar. He was breathing hard. Beads of sweat stood out on his face.
I moved along the spar to make room for him. “Come out onto the spar.”
Davy glanced down and a look of horror swept over his face. “I can’t.”
“It’s all right,” I said as reassuringly as possible. “Put your left foot onto the rope I’m standing on and throw your arm over the spar. One step and you’re here.”
Davy looked uncertain, but he tentatively lifted his foot off the rigging. At that moment a gust of wind snapped the sail with a loud crack and the spar rope swung wildly. Davy lurched back and clung desperately onto the rigging, his knuckles white and his breath coming in gasps. I tried to persuade him to try again, and Sinclair threatened him with flogging, but neither of us could get Davy to move. Eventually I climbed back onto the rigging and helped Davy down to the deck.
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p; Sinclair thumped me hard on the back. “Well done,” he said.
Then, turning to Davy, he added, “You’ll need to keep trying,” before striding away.
I tried to comfort Davy, but he simply stalked off and kept to himself for the rest of the day. I had planned to talk to him before we slung our hammocks that night, but he was tight in with old Bill, and playing some gambling game.
The thrill of my achievement on the rigging stayed with me, but there was another feeling lurking beneath the pride. I wasn’t happy that I felt this way … but I was glad that I had found something I could do better than Davy.
Chapter 6: Into the Northwest Passage
Beechey Island, 1845
On July 14 we caught our first sight of the Greenland coast through the swirling fog. It was not at all like its name, but a rugged place of black rock cut by white furrows and ravines of snow with huge rivers of blue ice cascading off the mountains into the ocean. It was a desolate place, and for the first time I understood the power of the land we were about to enter.
The ice rivers had dropped large bergs that were scattered over the calm dark-blue sea. We passed close to one fantastically formed berg and many of the crew lined the rail in silence to wonder at this immense gleaming cathedral of ice, sparkling in the midnight sun. Despite its size, it did not look out of place in this vast land, yet had it been placed at Woolwich, it would have blocked the entire river.
Icebergs became commonplace, but every day we sailed north presented those of us new to these lands with another wonder. We had nights so clear it seemed I could reach up from the deck and pluck the incredibly bright stars. I spotted whales of all descriptions gambolling about our bow. Perhaps strangest of all was ice-blink, the reflection of the sun off distant ice that Mr. Fitzjames said looked like nothing so much as a small town on fire about 20 miles off.
Mr. Goodsir was Assistant Surgeon to Mr. Stanley, but he was also our naturalist. In that role he spent many hours leaning over the rail with a drift net, catching all manner of strange creatures that he poked, prodded, drew and finally put away in bottles of foul-smelling preservative.
Eventually we reached Disko, where we transferred the last of our supplies from the Barretto Junior. Mr. Fitzjames tested the magnetic equipment and even attempted to paddle around the bay in one of the Esquimaux boats, called kayaks. Then we said goodbye to civilization and set off to cross Baffin Bay.
At the end of July, while awaiting a favourable wind, we anchored to a massive iceberg. Despite our growing familiarity with these objects, I was fearful that the berg might suddenly topple over and crush us. I mentioned my fear to Davy, but he merely scoffed. I was tempted to bring up his terror on the rigging, but thought better of it. He was already beginning to spend much of his free time with Bill and his cronies, and I did not wish to drive a wedge between us. As it turned out, my fears were groundless, as the berg proved as solid as the Isle of Wight.
As August came, we exchanged greetings with a couple of whaling ships before the wind turned favourable and we headed west into Lancaster Sound and the true beginning of our adventure.
One day in mid-August, we passed a sheltered bay at Beechey Island. “That would make a good winter harbour,” Mr. Fitzjames said to me after he had finished explaining more duties involved in standing a watch.
“Is it not too early in the year to think of wintering?” I ventured.
“Indeed, we should still have several weeks of good sailing time left before winter sets in. However, we have a Term Date to meet at some secure place where we can build a magnetic camp and take some precise readings.”
“Term Date?” I asked.
“August 29,” Mr. Fitzjames explained. “On that day, throughout the British Empire — which as you know means around the world — readings of the Earth’s magnetic field will be taken. Ours will be the most important of those readings, since we are at the most northerly point on the globe. If all goes well, our work will greatly contribute to our imperfect understanding of the strange magnetic currents that run through our planet and by which we find our way with the compass.”
“But we have two weeks until the twenty-ninth,” I said.
“True enough, but Parry found few safe anchorages until he reached Winter Harbour many miles to the west. Should we not be able to progress that far, we must return here by the Term Date. After that, we will have little time left for progress and, I believe, will do better to encamp here and use the remaining good weather to send out small exploring parties to scout the land and our possible routes for next season.”
Things turned out almost as Mr. Fitzjames had foretold. Our way west was blocked by a terrifying river of ice and we retreated to Beechey Island and set up a magnetic camp on nearby Cape Riley.
Through September and October we occupied ourselves in hunting, exploring as far afield as possible, establishing shore camps and preparing the ships for the coming cold. As soon as the sea froze, we marked out paths across the ice with tall posts so we could travel between the ships and the shore, even in a blizzard.
As the days shortened and the ice locked us in, work managing the ship decreased and Davy’s and my duties narrowed to our responsibilities to Sir John and Mr. Fitzjames and the other officers.
One day early in November I was serving Mr. Fitzjames soup in his cabin as he warmed up following his return from the Cape Riley magnetic camp.
“Well, young George,” he said, “we shall not complete the Passage in one year, as some had thought.”
“Aye, sir,” I agreed, “but I think we have found a good, sheltered place to spend the winter, and we shall learn much about this land.”
“That’s the spirit, boy,” Mr. Fitjzames said with a laugh. “We are here to learn, and the exploring parties have discovered much already. We shall have quite the collection of knowledge to take back home, not least the disgusting things Mr. Goodsir seems intent on keeping in bottles everywhere.”
Mr. Fitzjames took a spoonful of soup and furrowed his brow. “But we must also send out more hunting parties before hard winter sets in,” he said. “The canned food is a disappointment.”
“I heard some was spoiled,” I said. “Is it much?”
“Too much. I fear Mr. Goldner overreached himself in filling our order. There are signs of shoddy workmanship and spoiled food. The soup” — he waved his spoon over the bowl in front of him — “and the vegetables do not seem so bad, but I fear we must empty several hundred of the cans of meat into the ocean. Hopefully we will be able to replace much of it with fresh meat. Mr. Gore is organizing the hunting. He’s a good shot and should have some success, although I hear that the muskoxen hereabouts are difficult to stomach.
“Still,” he continued, “all is not lost. We are well supplied despite the loss, and we can reuse the cans. The tin has many uses and we can melt the lead solder down for musket balls to supply the hunters with ammunition. But for now I must catch what rest I can.”
I collected the soup bowl and spoon and left, wondering if the spoiled food might be a problem and what muskoxen tasted like. Since it was the first day for some time without cloud, I decided to take advantage and stretch my legs. I bundled up as well as possible and followed the line of posts to the shore of North Devon, the land to which Beechey Island is attached by a narrow isthmus.
I found myself in an unearthly landscape. The cliffs behind me loomed dark, like the walls of some fantastical fortress, but they served to block the bitter wind that blew eternally from the north in this desolate land. All else was white. Even the dark trails of the exercise paths around our vessels were bleached by a recent snowfall. The new snow blanketed the scene and made it impossible to tell where the sloping beach ended and the frozen water began. If it were not for the ships, tilted and black out in the bay, there would have been nothing to give the scene scale. It seemed almost that I could reach over and touch the shore of Beechey Island, even though it was more than a mile away.
I knew there were hollow
s and rises on the beach, but the landscape was so flat and white that I could not see them until I stumbled upon them. I had no plans for venturing farther — the chances of getting lost were too high.
But despite the cold nipping at my exposed skin, it was a joy to escape from the warm, damp, stinking atmosphere of the ship for an hour or two. It was good that the main deck of Erebus was heated, but with more than sixty unwashed, clay-pipe–smoking men in there, not to mention the burning candles and oil lamps, it sometimes seemed more like a foul pit.
As I stood and looked around, squinting to try to make out any features of interest, I noticed an odd lump in the snow some distance away. Wondering what it was, I made my way over.
When I was halfway to my destination, the mound moved. Shedding snow in a light, dry cloud, the largest creature I had ever seen reared up. It was a white bear. I watched in mounting horror as it continued rising until it stood near twice my height. The beast was pure white, with only the black of its nose, eyes and the pads on its massive forepaws showing.
I could not force my feet to move, and even if I could have, running would have been futile. Snow was this animal’s natural habitat, and while the thick powder would only impede my stumbling progress, I had no doubt that the bear could lunge over to me in only a few strides. We stood and looked at each other, the bear curious, me terrified.
The beast took a few shuffling steps forward, its large, flat nose twitching at my scent. My heart beat so fast that I feared it was about to burst from my chest. I was breathing in short gulps and, despite the cold, sweat was breaking out on my palms.
The bear leaned forward until it rested on all fours, its face almost level with mine, and a mere 3 or 4 feet away. The head tilted from side to side as the beast examined me. As it did so, it let out a series of soft snuffling noises. Then the monster roared. A huge dark cavern lined with sharp yellow teeth, some as long as my finger, opened. A loathsome smell of rotting fish washed over me. My stomach lurched. I was convinced that my entire head was about to disappear into the disgusting jaws. I could almost feel flesh being torn from my skull and my bones being crushed by those powerful jaws. I think I whimpered in fear.