On the Proper Use of Stars

by Dominique Fortier

  He had discussed at length with his wife the contents of this logbook, which would in all likelihood become a valuable document for geographers, seamen, merchants, servicemen, and scientists of the day, as well as for posterity. He had agreed with Lady Jane that he would use a concise style and content himself with delivering factual information as precisely as possible. As she had judiciously pointed out, it was best to limit oneself to the essential without striving for effect: accounts of explorations were too often embellished with inappropriate poetry that, far from enhancing the contents, could give rise to manifold interpretations – and this, she had pointed out, in matters of navigation was liable to end in disaster. In any event, once he was home, Lady Jane would take what he had written and polish it sentence by sentence, as she was accustomed to doing for all the documents her husband composed, and, with his consent, she would breathe new life into them and give them the scope by which one can recognize the accounts by the great discoverers. She had advised Sir John to encourage his men to keep logbooks as well and to collect them when the expedition returned in order to use them to enrich his own, a technique he had used when writing his half of Two Voyages Undertaken by Order of the British Government, One by Land Directed by Captain Franklin; the Other by Sea Directed by Captain Parry, for the discovery of a Passage from the Atlantic Ocean into the Pacific Sea, which had created such a stir.

  While Sir John was rereading for the second time the words he had written, he sneezed, creating a small ink blot on the page. He considered retranscribing his entry on a new sheet of paper but thought to himself that one could not, dash it, expect that a journal written on the high seas, under conditions that were frequently difficult, indeed often beset by fearsome weather, be as clean as a letter composed quietly at home with one’s feet before the hearth. He set down his pen and cracked his knuckles.

  SHORTLY AFTER SIR JOHN’S departure, Jane in turn set off for France. She was accompanied by her stooped and ancient father, her favourite sister, Fanny, her niece Sophia, and her stepdaughter Eleanor, who the doctors had assured them would benefit from a warm, dry climate. The young woman’s health did not seem to improve, however, although on some days Lady Jane attributed Eleanor’s various ailments to neurasthenia or to a far too phlegmatic nature rather than to a genuine weakness of constitution. She encouraged Eleanor to follow her own example of walking briskly, forced her to bathe in the icy sea at dawn, imposed a diet of raw red meat – only to note that none of it produced the slightest result. From that time on, her resources momentarily exhausted and her interest blunted, Lady Jane dropped the matter and contented herself with transporting her stepdaughter as if she were a burdensome suitcase from place to place according to the doctor’s vague recommendations.

  Generally she left her father and Eleanor at the hotel, where they indulged in sessions of reading and strolls in the neighbourhood that brought them back in time for lunch. Jane would set off at dawn in the company of a delighted Sophia and a clearly less enthusiastic Fanny. The three women, wearing elegant dresses and petticoats but shod in sturdy walking shoes and having exchanged their parasols for hikers’ staffs, surveyed the bay of Mont Saint-Michel where the tide advanced “more rapidly than a galloping horse,” crisscrossed the parks abounding in game that surrounded the Château de Chambord, investigated the fortifications of Carcassonne, and explored the celebrated ochre cliffs of Roussillon, from where Sophia brought home paints that, on canvas, would remind her for years of this delightful journey. True to her habit, Jane took with her everywhere a notebook in which she noted methodically the atmospheric conditions, the geographical location of the building, or the natural phenomenon on the day’s itinerary as well as the reflections that her visit had inspired.

  These ladies would come back at the end of the day, sometimes well into the evening, and over dinner with Eleanor and Mr. Griffin tell the sedentary pair about the wonders they had discovered.

  One evening in Perpignan, an American who heard them conversing in English stood up from the table where he was dining alone and came over to introduce himself: Mr. Simonton was an industrialist from New England who had come to France to purchase works of art that would adorn the walls of the home he was having built for his young wife in Rhode Island. When Mr. Griffin introduced the elder of his daughters, the American, filled with interest, inquired: “Franklin, you say? Would you be related to the late Benjamin Franklin, my illustrious compatriot, of whose exploits you are no doubt aware?”

  Vexed for several reasons, not the least of which being the fact that at the mention of the name Franklin anyone would think first of an American man of the people – even if he was a brilliant inventor – rather than of her explorer husband, Lady Jane replied curtly that she did not have that honour, and ignored the continuing interrogations of the American, who soon let the matter drop and set about quite brazenly courting Fanny and Sophia.

  The travellers left France shortly afterwards, Mr. Griffin to return to England accompanied by Eleanor, who would spend the next few months with her grandparents, and Jane, Fanny, and Sophia for Portugal, where Lady Franklin was curious to visit some Gothic monasteries about which she had read a great deal.

  One evening, exhausted by the day’s excursions and feeling suspended between wakefulness and sleep, the memory of an insignificant incident came back to her. It was late one afternoon, a few days before Sir John’s departure. Through the windows came swords of light that traced oblique lines on the Persian carpet. The parlour was sunk in shadowy light, a fire burned in the hearth, the room was bathed in the warmth of the dying day and the aroma of jasmine tea. Sitting at her marquetry writing desk, Lady Jane was busy striking out with a confident hand various items on a list that was several pages long. Sir John was slumped on a sofa, eyes closed, legs apart, mouth open. He was snoring faintly, now and then uttering some incoherent words or shivering briefly. A hot water bottle lay at his feet, where Athena, the cat, was cozily settled.

  Alice, the middle-aged servant who had been in the service of Lady Jane’s father and had come with her after her marriage, entered the room, carrying a set of meticulously polished silver cutlery. Lady Jane examined the pieces one by one, peering at her image in the blades of the knives, gazing briefly at the inverted reflection of the room in a spoon, then pointing to a wooden box already three-quarters filled with various personal effects that her husband would take on board the Erebus; as it was out of the question to use glass or china, the officers were required to supply their own cutlery and dishes if they did not wish to eat from wooden bowls. Obviously Jane had not chosen the costliest silverware for this voyage to the North Pole, but neither did she want her husband to present a sorry figure to his officers, some of whom came from excellent families. He would then take not the holiday silverware but the Sunday set, embellished with the head of a fish crowned with a garland of leaves and struck with his monogram, which was beginning to wear away on some of the most frequently used pieces.

  After consulting her list one last time, she went to sit beside Sir John, who half wakened and muttered something before sinking back into a restless sleep. He was pale, his brow was damp, and he appeared to be cold. Jane considered for a moment the hot water bottle on which Athena was basking, then, changing her mind, picked up a flag of England embroidered with her husband’s initials which lay neatly folded in the box that held the silverware. Careful not to waken Sir John, she draped him from shoulders to ankles with the Union Jack, which rose and fell as it followed the rhythm of his wheezy breathing.

  Almost at once the cat got up lazily and with one supple leap crossed the carpet into the chest where the silver had been placed, setting off metallic thundering. Sir John woke with a start and, finding his movements impeded by the flag he had been wrapped in, tried for a moment to shake it off, not knowing what it was, like a butterfly awkwardly struggling to spread the threads of the cocoon that holds him prisoner. Then, finally realizing what the envelope was that was interfering with his move
ments, he let out a feeble cry and whispered to his wife:

  “Ah, wretched woman! Do you not know what it is that we wrap in flags at sea?”

  She showed little emotion, merely folded the Union Jack and, as Alice was coming in with a pile of books, asked for the lamps to be lit, for the sun had vanished and the parlour was filling with shadows.

  Alone in an unfamiliar room, seeing the scene again almost as a dream, Lady Jane felt an inexplicable uneasiness.

  24 June 1845

  FOR THE FIRST TIME in these thirty-five years when I have spent the better part of my time on the water, returning to land only to take on fresh supplies before weighing anchor once more, and as quickly as possible, it seems to me that this departure has something absolute about it. I am not leaving towards something as I have done so many times before, heart pounding, mind inflamed at the thought of discovering a part of our world that no one else has ever seen. I am now leaving something. I am leaving Sophia, whom I wished to be my wife, my home, my country, and who I know will never be mine just as I know that she will always refuse that I be hers. I am setting sail towards nothing, I am running away, quite simply. I do not know the true objective of my voyage, since for me it is not so much a matter of discovering the Northwest Passage, to which for dozens of years others have attached so much importance, as of returning home after having discovered it, holder of a secret that will no longer be one. I have no one to whom to offer my success, the way Neptune sets down at our feet the remains of some seabird too puny or too badly damaged to be salted and that the dog imagines he has hunted. What good is it to return a hero if she only has eyes for another?

  8 July 1845

  The day before yesterday we spotted our first icebergs, and today we are surrounded by them on all sides as if by some enchantment. One does not grow accustomed to such a landscape. The mountains of ice that shimmer with a mineral blue, green, turquoise rise up towards the sky like cathedrals built of snow. These masses, which make our ships seem Lilliputian by comparison, have in the sun a brilliance that is nearly supernatural: they seem to have emerged from a painting that depicts the surface of some unknown planet – or from the dream of a madman. They are, however, as dangerous as they are magnificent for, like men, they have the distinctive feature of concealing in their invisible depths the greater part of themselves, and one must navigate around these icy giants very slowly and very cautiously. The mist, which has not lifted for two days, makes navigation yet more difficult by wrapping those silent titans in a white and ghostly shroud.

  In the open sea a pod of whales, at least six or seven, form a distant escort for the ships. One or two sometimes come close enough that we can see a burst of vapour shoot up, accompanied by a fantastic hissing sound. Every now and then they offer us the sight of their fan-shaped tails standing out against the horizon for a moment like vast black wings before they slap down, sending up showers of water.

  We are well and truly in the Arctic.

  14 August 1845

  We left the Baretto Junior behind on July 12, after the men entrusted to its captain the final letters for their wives, their fiancées, their families. I for my part addressed a brief missive to Ross in which I tried to be not too boring, though I could not prevent myself from telling him once more how much I would have preferred to serve under his orders rather than those of Sir John. Ever the optimist, the explorer had recommended that the captain advise families to address their correspondence to Petropavlosk on the Russian peninsula of Kamchatka, promising that he would come to pick it up on the other side of the Passage. Since that date, we have not seen a soul aside from the crews of the Prince of Wales and the Enterprise, two whaling vessels that appeared when the men were shooting down hundreds of seabirds. The flesh is tough, but once it has been salted, it will provide a change from Master Goldner’s tinned beef and pork.

  It has been reported that Sir John had been pleased to show the Terror to Captain Robert Martin, the master of one of those whaling vessels, who it appears marvelled at the ingenuity of the ship’s engines. I was also told, but know not if I should believe it, that Franklin assured him we were carrying rations enough for five years and that we could make our supplies last as long as seven years should it be necessary.

  However crude this exaggeration was (supposing that it had indeed been uttered), at the rate we are going we shall be home long before our supplies are exhausted. It took us only one month to cross Baffin Bay, after which, in keeping with the orders of Sir John Barrow, we sailed back up Lancaster Sound following the route taken by Parry, to reach the open Polar sea. Unable as we were to continue beyond Cape Walker because of the ice, we headed north towards the Wellington Channel until the pack ice again blocked our way. We nonetheless reached 77 degrees latitude north in a matter of months, which is no mean feat. I must admit that my fears regarding Sir John’s competence were perhaps unfounded; all the members of the crew have truly grown attached to him and he has to date guided us very well.

  Morale is still very high; one would swear that we were making ready to return to port, our mission already accomplished.

  Instructions from Sir John Barrow

  to Sir John Franklin

  On putting to sea, you are to proceed, in the first place, by such a route as, from the wind and weather, you may deem to be the most suitable for despatch, to Davis’ Strait, taking the transport with you to such a distance up that strait as you may be able to proceed without impediment from ice, being careful not to risk that vessel by allowing her to be beset in the ice or exposed to any violent contact with it. You will then avail yourself of the earliest opportunity of clearing the transport of the provisions and stores with which she is charged for the use of the expedition and you are then to send her back to England, giving to the agent or master such directions for his guidance as may appear to you most proper, and reporting by that opportunity your proceedings to our secretary for our information. You will then proceed in the execution of your orders into Baffin’s Bay, and get as soon as possible to the western side of the strait, provided it should appear to you that the ice chiefly prevails on the eastern side or near the middle, the object being to enter Lancaster Sound with as little delay as possible. But as no specific directions can be given owing to the position of the ice varying from year to year, you will, of course, be guided by your own observations as to the course most eligible to be taken, in order to ensure a speedy arrival in the sound above mentioned. As, however, we have thought fit to cause each ship to be fitted with a small steam engine and propeller, to be used only in pushing the ships through channels between masses of ice when the wind is adverse, or in a calm, we trust the difficulty usually found in such cases will be much obviated. But as the supply of fuel to be taken in the ships is necessarily small, you will use it only in cases of difficulty.

  Lancaster Sound and its continuation through Barrow’s Strait having been four times navigated without any impediment, by Sir Edward Parry, and since frequently by whaling ships, will probably be found without any obstacles from ice or islands; and Sir Edward Parry having also proceeded from the latter in a straight course to Melville Island, and returned without experiencing any or very little difficulty; it is hoped that the remaining portion of the passage, about 900 miles, to Behring’s Strait may also be found equally free from obstruction; and in proceeding to the westward, therefore, you will not stop to examine any openings either to the northward or southward in that strait, but continue to push to the westward without loss of time, in the latitude of about 74 ¼°, till you have reached the longitude of that portion of land on which Cape Walker is situated, or about 98° west. From that point we desire that every effort be used to endeavour to penetrate to the southward and westward in a course as direct towards Behring’s Strait as the position and extent of the ice, or the existence of land, at present unknown, may admit.

  …

  You are well aware, having yourself been one of the intelligent travellers who have traversed the Ameri
can shore of the Polar Sea, that the groups of islands that stretch from that shore to the northward to a distance not yet known, do not extend to the westward further than about the 120th degree of western longitude, and that beyond this, and to Behring’s Strait, no land is visible from the American shore of the Polar Sea. In an undertaking of this description, much must be always left to the discretion of the commanding officer, and, as the objects of this expedition have been fully explained to you, and you have already had much experience on service of this nature, we are convinced we cannot do better than leave it to your judgment.

  Sir John Barrow

  Second Secretary to the Admiralty

  20 August 1845

  THE Terror AND THE Erebus have been sailing recently in virgin waters. We are advancing across a white map, drawing the landscape as if we were inventing it as we go, tracing as faithfully as possible the bays, coves, headlands, naming the mountains and the rivers as if we had been cast into the middle of a new Eden – though this one is icy, sterile, and for the most part uninhabited, but even so it is up to us to recognize and christen the territory. Before we came, the grandiose scenery of ice and sky did not exist; now we are tearing it from the nothingness to which it will never return, for henceforth it has a name. If ahead of us there is only empty space, the road we have travelled is riddled with observations, summaries, detailed information; it has joined the ever growing domain of what upon this Earth belongs to us.

  3 September 1845

  The icebergs that are slowly drifting out to the open sea form a changing setting the likes of which is unknown in England or anywhere else on terra firma, where the mountains do not move but remain sensibly where they are. What is paradoxical about this Arctic landscape is that we who look at it most often remain motionless, imprisoned by the ice, while it advances, backs up, unfurls, and is drawn tighter in a continual metamorphosis, as if it were in some mysterious way more alive than we are.