On the Proper Use of Stars

by Dominique Fortier

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Argo Navis

  The Sails

  The Southern Cross

  Cathedra foraminata

  Stella Maris

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Sail, sail adventurous Barks! Go fearless forth,

  Storm on his glacier-seat the misty North,

  Give to mankind the inhospitable zone,

  And Britain’s trident plant in seas unknown.

  – Eleanor Porden

  The Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty have, in every

  respect, provided most liberally for the comforts of the

  officers and men of an expedition which may, with the

  facilities of the screw-propeller, and other advantages of

  modern science, be attended with great results.

  – The Times, May 12th, 1845

  You are mad and I am blind;

  Tell me, who will take us home?

  – Jalal Ud Din Rumi

  It was long disputed among the learned, whether the waters of the ocean are capable of being congealed; and many frivolous and absurd arguments, of course, were advanced to prove the impossibility of the fact. But the question is now completely resolved; and the freezing point of sea-water is established both by observation and experiment. To congeal such water of the ordinary saltiness, or containing nearly the thirtieth part of its weight of saline matter, it requires not an extreme cold: this process taking effect at about the 27th degree on the Fahrenheit scale, or only five degrees below the freezing point of fresh water.

  Let us be wary, though, of arriving at a hasty conclusion regarding the phenomenon, as several have been tempted to do, that a Polar sea free of ice could not exist. On the contrary, a multitude of facts attest to the presence of such an expanse of water at the North Pole, of which we shall limit ourselves to citing the most obvious and most indisputable: as it is generally admitted that ice forms only in proximity to the coast, whether it be the mainland or islands, and that no such lands are to be found either at the Pole or thereabouts; as the Arctic sun shines for some twenty hours a day during the summer, which is quite sufficient to melt any icefield that may have formed during the winter months; as a good many ships have been able to sail in open water at elevated latitudes while their progress was impeded by icebergs, growlers, and floating ice at latitudes far more southern, one may only conclude that the North Pole is in all seasons surrounded by a sea that is utterly free of ice and, consequently, easily navigable.

  Argo Navis

  THE SUN WAS SHINING on that 19th day of May in 1845 when the Erebus and the Terror were preparing to cast off at Greenhithe, their reflections shivering on the greenish water of the port where floated garlands, handfuls of rice, and small dead fish. A crowd of a good ten thousand was assembled on the docks to witness the departure of Sir John Franklin, hero of the Arctic, who was setting off once again to conquer the mythic Northwest Passage, as always for the greater glory of the Empire. On the deck of the Erebus, in full regalia, the explorer was holding aloft a coloured handkerchief so that his wife Jane, Lady Franklin, could easily make him out in the midst of his inferiors, who were waving handkerchiefs of black silk. A brass band struck up the first bars of “God Save the Queen,” the chords joining the cheers and farewells; emotion was nearly at its peak. One might have thought, as a shrewd observer noted in the newspaper the following day, that England was celebrating the explorer’s triumphant return, not his departure. A dove flew lazily across the sky and touched down on the mast of the Terror, observing all the agitation with its head tipped a little to one side before settling comfortably, as if to hatch an egg. All agreed that it was a good omen.

  Then the ships lumbered off to tackle unknown seas. The spectators went home. The hero of the Arctic, who was having difficulty recovering from a nasty bout of influenza, descended to his cabin, where he sipped a little tea and before long dozed off. Soon sailors, aides, and officers from the two ships returned to their respective posts. On the deck of the Terror, Francis Crozier, second-in-command of the expedition and commander of the aforementioned ship, stood alone, looking back at the V-shaped wake left in the water. Hearing a muffled sound behind him on the deck, he turned around and nearly stepped on the dove, which had tumbled from the mast. He took one wing between his thumb and forefinger: still warm, the limp bird stared at him with its round eyes. Quite unceremoniously Crozier flung the creature into the sea. The surgeon’s dog, Neptune, a rather ungainly mixture of beagle and wolfhound, pretended for a moment that he wanted to dive in after the bird, but changed his mind and proceeded instead to circle three times before he lay down on the deck and let out a loud fart.

  25 May 1845

  SCARCELY ONE WEEK has gone by since we weighed anchor, and the country that I left seems now to be farther away than the Moon and the stars above our heads, ever the same and ever different.

  The sea is calm and the ships are sound. The Terror is my oldest friend, perhaps my only friend on this voyage when I cannot count on the presence of Ross, with whom I crossed the boundaries of Antarctica and into whose hands I would have agreed without hesitation to place my life once more. I insisted in vain that we have on board some of those whalers who know the treacherous waters of the Arctic better than any lieutenant of the British Navy, brave men to whom we owe most of the discoveries of this land of ice. Alas, the crew put together by Fitzjames is in the image of the man who chose it: elegant, enthusiastic, sure of itself, but sorely lacking in experience. Of the twenty-one officers – in the exclusive service of whom there are no fewer than eight men who I hope will not balk when the time comes that they must pull off their white gloves to scrub the deck or to furl the sails – only Sir John, the two ice masters, and I myself have ventured before into one or the other of the Polar circles. The most curious know nothing of the Arctic, may God have mercy upon us, save what they have read in the accounts of Parry and of Franklin himself, of which they recite passages with the same fervour as if they were verses of the Gospels. They are excited, like schoolboys being taken to the circus.

  Scarcely one week and three times I have been summoned to dine on board the Erebus, Sir John seeming to believe that his duties include planning exquisite suppers and seeing to it that his officers do not suffer from boredom. In the morning he has brought to me small cards upon which it is written in careful script that “Sir John Franklin, Captain of the Erebus, requests the honour of the presence at his table of Francis Crozier, Captain of the Terror” – as if I were likely to confuse him with the captain of another vessel and present myself mistakenly on a ship where I was not expected. The men who are to bring him my reply wait, soaking wet, apparently astounded at such elaborate courtesies, while I turn the card over to write my answer, following which they row back in order to deliver the precious bit of paper. I must recommend that the lookouts agree upon a code so as to avoid these jaunts that transform our seamen pointlessly into messenger boys.

  One dines well on the Erebus. Five bullocks that accompanied us on board the Baretto Junior, the supply ship, were sacrificed in a veritable hecatomb and prepared in various fashions. Yesterday we had a sole meunière, a splendid rib roast with buttered carrots and potatoes, and custard with berries, all served on silver plates struck with the arms or the monogram of the owner. The ridiculous is not pushed to the point of requiring that I supply my own cutlery, but I do use that of Sir John, who has apparently brought more than is strictly necessary.

  We converse cheerfully about the voyage that is beginning, as if it were a hunting expedition with hounds, though I doubt that most of these gentlemen
have ever killed any game more formidable than a partridge or, possibly, a fox. Most, like DesVoeux, harbour a boundless admiration for Sir John, hero of the Arctic, whose accounts of his courageous deeds had marked their childhood, the man who ate his boots and, contrary to all expectations, had been able to survive on his own in a wild and hostile place.

  At the sight of this happy gathering, of the valets who serve and take away the dishes under their silver lids, of the wines that accompany each new course, one might think he was at a supper at the country home of a gentleman whose livestock had experienced a particularly productive year or who had just married off his daughter. Except that there is no lady present – although it is true that they must withdraw in any case once the last bit of food has been swallowed, to leave the gentlemen to their cigars and port – and the candelabra are fixed firmly to the table, where there are silver goblets in place of crystal stemware. Without forgetting of course that once the merrymaking is over, rather than requesting that my carriage be brought, I ask for oarsmen to be called who, at the end of a voyage that can require as much as two hours on the rollers of the Atlantic, will take me back to the Terror, which I think of as the only home I’ve ever had.

  4 June 1845

  This morning, I discovered that my private stock of tobacco and tea, which I thought had never been delivered, had rather been taken on board the Erebus, to the cabin of Fitzjames, who I know has no reason to reproach himself since he has been trumpeting without interruption that some unknown friend has seen fit to give him an unexpected present on the occasion of his departure. I would be happy to disabuse him but it would be utterly absurd to split hairs like a fishwife over a few pounds of tea. I have suffered enough ridicule at the hands of Fitzjames, most often unbeknownst to him and without his having sought it, which only renders the insult more bitter. Fortnum and Mason, though, made no mistake as to the cabin to which their bill should be delivered. I paid without a second look at the provisions of that scoundrel who still has no idea about it and is quite certain it is a gift from an admirer – or, more likely, an appreciative lady.

  I fear that the mood on board the Terror is not so euphoric as that on the Erebus, where, if I can rely on what I have been told, “laughter can be heard from morning to night.” I confess that I have not yet had the pleasure of witnessing such a thing on board a ship, but who knows, perhaps Sir John possesses unsuspected talents as an entertainer. Unless the jubilation can be attributed to Fitzjames, whose countenance radiates joy and confidence.

  My vessel may not ring out with laughter all day long, but I am nonetheless quite satisfied with the officers whose task it is to assist me, who appear to have similar feelings.

  Edward Little, my lieutenant, is a serious man, although he has not much experience. He is less than forthcoming and neither of us finds it necessary to fill our silences with pointless chatter. He strikes me as level-headed and thoughtful and he knows how to appear firm while manifesting neither scorn nor contempt towards the men. Moreover, he does not attempt to make friends – a temptation to which I saw Fitzjames give in as early as the day after our departure, when he strolled among the sailors on the Erebus, offering them tobacco (my tobacco!) in addition to their daily ration – and knows that it is better to be respected than loved or feared.

  John Peddie and Alexander MacDonald, surgeon and surgeon’s assistant, form a curious pair, the second being as long and thin as the first is short and stocky; they resemble illustrations of Don Quixote of La Mancha and his faithful Sancho Panza, but reversed in a sense, because in this case it is the portly Sancho who instructs the lean, ingenious hidalgo. Those instructions are moreover few in number, for the assistant obviously knows what he is doing and does not need to be recalled to order. Every day he makes the rounds to inquire about the health of the men, recording in a small notebook various observations which he will then discuss with Peddie, without to date feeling the need to advise me of the fruit of these conversations. From this I deduce that everyone is in good health. As for Peddie, he spends most of his time in his cabin, where he has set up a tiny laboratory cluttered with flasks and vials that seem to me far too fragile to survive a voyage like the one on which we are setting out. There he mixes powders and liquids in order, he informed me, to produce sovereign remedies, known only to him, for scurvy and headache among others. These concoctions will enrich the well-stocked dispensary that he assembled before our departure and which contains – in addition to opium, laudanum, and morphine used to treat pain, camphor and cocaine reputed as stimulants, inoffensive castor oil and tincture of lobelia, all of them remedies commonly found on board ships about to undertake lengthy expeditions – substances of which I knew nothing, notably calomel and mandrake, which possess properties that, while not well known, yet allow us to foresee, he says, numerous uses. He feels a genuine passion for botany and is eager to begin putting together a herbarium of Arctic simples. I advised him that he was liable to be disappointed since it is likely that we shall arrive in Lancaster Sound at the moment when all vegetation disappears, but he assures me that one need only know how to look in order to find life where an untrained eye would see only barrenness. But let us not forget, he has never journeyed north of the sixtieth parallel.

  7 June 1845

  We are making good progress. What more is there to say save that every minute that takes me farther from her makes me suffer.

  Supper on board the Erebus again, and this evening it required more than an hour to get there and the same to return once the coffee, the port, and the brandy had been duly ingested. The sea having swelled during the meal, the oarsmen had to redouble their efforts to have us arrive safe and sound, and we were all soaking wet from head to toe and shivering when we boarded the Terror again. I ordered them served a hot toddy, which seemed to restore their tranquility. It will take more to calm me.

  The conversation was at first centred on various matters of little importance: the politics of the land recently enough departed that one still feels mysteriously tied to it; mutual acquaintances about whom we hadn’t yet finished sharing news, news which will probably be repeated ad infinitum over the next two years whenever we feel nostalgic, embellished, depending on one’s mood, with new details real or invented, until one can no longer distinguish the former from the latter. Then we broach subjects of interest to everyone, about which each of us has something to say: electricity, magnetism, and, more prosaically, the improvements made to the two ships that will allow them to spend several winters in Arctic waters treacherously sown with icebergs, where stray chunks of pack ice come in the morning to impede the passage that was clear the night before.

  Sir John lists these technical wonders tirelessly, just as he would admire the coat of a horse or the inlay work of a writing desk. “Thanks to our central heating,” he is fond of repeating, “the coal that fuels our boilers will serve a double purpose and we shall be as cozy as in the most modern houses on Park Lane.”

  “I was able to see the boilers when the locomotive engines they power were being installed in the holds,” DesVoeux intervened. “Imagine, if they were able to pull dozens of cars, how they will laugh at the ice that aspires to stop them.”

  “At the Polar circle, the ice is sometimes several dozen feet thick,” I pointed out, having often observed it. “Twelve locomotives would not suffice to break it in those places and it could crush the hull of a ship as easily as you would crush an eggshell in your hand.”

  Sir John looks at me for a moment without replying, as if I have been intentionally offensive towards him or have deliberately shown a lack of respect. Then he starts again, in a tone that has lost none of its enthusiasm: “The reason for the prow of the Terror and that of the Erebus to be reinforced with tempered steel. With your knowledge of glacial waters, my dear Crozier, we shall find an anchorage where there is no risk of being in the way of those formidable pieces of ice.”

  And he raises his glass in a good-natured manner which may well mean that he forgives
us both, the pack ice and me, for being such spoilsports.

  10 June 1845

  While we continue our crossing of the Atlantic, surprisingly calm for the time of year, I remember those sailors of yesterday, terrified at the thought of one day reaching the end of the Earth and falling into space, who nevertheless ventured into uncharted waters, driven by the same thirst for discovery that has tormented human beings from the dawn of time, some need to brave the unknown, to shed light on the mystery of that which rudely escapes man’s understanding or his control, a desire to which every science, every religion, aims to respond.

  As for me, I have gone to the end of the Earth, I have fallen into that void where there are no sea monsters or giant octopuses or mermaids or even God. I have found only night in that abyss, and of all the discoveries one can make, that is without a doubt the most dreadful.

  10 June 1845

  47° 54’ N 24° 56′ W

  Winds 20 knots

  TERROR and EREBUS weighed anchor in the Port of Greenhithe on 20 May for a Journey undertaken by order of the Admiralty with the objective of discovering and navigating a Passage leading from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific. 129 men on board 2 Ships. The pages that follow are the Ship’s Log of Captain Sir John Franklin, Commander in Chief of the Expedition.

  Satisfied, Sir John reread what he had just written with little concern for spelling or grammar, which had always rather bored him, but using his finest handwriting. It seemed to him an entirely fitting introduction which compared favourably with those of the accounts by Parry, Ross, and all the other explorers who had, alas, failed where he had every intention of succeeding. He regretted a little of course having waited so long before taking pen in hand, but he had been far too busy, and besides, except for their spectacular departure, nothing had yet occurred that warranted being recorded.