On the Proper Use of Stars

by Dominique Fortier

  As I contemplate these fortresses of ice and snow, it strikes me as impossible not to be filled with a sense of one’s own insignificance, not to know that one is minuscule and superfluous in the midst of so much wild and majestic beauty. It is difficult for me to find any echo of that feeling in the officers since they seem, for the most part, insensitive to the nature that surrounds us, of which they speak only as if it were some kind of particularly cunning animal that must be outwitted and caught. Today I cannot stop thinking that if there really is a hunter and a prey in this land of ice, it is we who are the quarry, pursued, trapped, at bay.

  At last, it has happened. On this 9th day of September, 1845, we are iced in here in the open waters off Beechey Island, where we shall spend our first winter before continuing westward. The island is in fact merely a pile of rocks several miles long that is attached to Devon Island by a spit of pebbles and gravel. No tree grows there, nor any plant more than one inch high, nor does it provide shelter to any animal save the seabirds that land on it to dry off after fishing. It is a dreary and desolate place that seems to be mourning the absence of any life. In contrast, on board the two ships there reigns a peculiar frenzy, as if we had reached our goal, whereas it is still some months and thousands of miles away, should we indeed discover the Passage at the end of our hibernation. I must say that of the men around me, not one is familiar with the endless nights of the Polar circle – aside from Sir John, who is in good spirits after months at sea. Having departed gloomy and suffering from a cold, numb from years of the diplomat’s life in Tasmania, he seems like a new man. He jokes with the men, proffers optimistic forecasts about the timetable we will follow and about the rewards that will be waiting for us on our return.

  As for me, I would have been content to spend my life with Sophia, and if I thought that honour or money were liable to make her reconsider her decision, I would desire them with much more enthusiasm than they now inspire in me. Alas! No matter what she said, and although she maintained until the end that she would never be a sailor’s wife, I have seen how she looked at Fitzjames. He is no less a sailor than I am, but on his head the cap is more elegant, on his shoulders the jacket is more becoming, and the colours of the navy give him the complexion of a fiancé. The one reward my heart has ever longed for will continue to elude me; whatever our success, and even if I should discover by myself a new continent to which would be given my name, Sophia would continue to have eyes only for Fitzjames’s engaging smile.

  – ADAM?

  – Yes.

  – Are you asleep?

  – No.

  – I’m cold.

  – I know. Go to sleep, Thomas, you won’t feel the cold.

  – I’m wondering about something.

  – Yes.

  – D’you know what I’m wondering about?

  – No.

  – Why are the Moon and the Sun so much bigger here than in England? Do you know?

  – No, I have no idea.

  – Maybe it’s because we’re close to the end of the Earth here so we’re closer to the Moon and the Sun.

  – But the Earth is round …

  – So?

  – So, since it’s round it doesn’t have an end – either that, or any place on Earth could be an end, depending on where you are looking at it from.

  – You mean that England could be the end of the Earth?

  – Maybe.

  – So?

  – What, so?

  – So why, when the Moon and the Sun touch the horizon, are they so big that you would swear that they’re going to come crashing down and make a crater the size of Africa?

  – I don’t know. Maybe it’s an illusion, a kind of mirage …

  – What does that mean?

  – It means that your eyes play tricks on you. Like when you see water standing out against the desert sand, for instance.

  – If my eyes have decided to lie to me, I wish they’d show me a field of wheat rather than a giant Moon threatening to crash down onto Earth.

  – Do you know what the Esquimaux James Ross met in Greenland thought?

  – No, tell me.

  – Well, they’d never seen white men before and they thought that he was a heavenly being. They asked him if he came from the Moon or from the Sun.

  – And what did he say?

  – I don’t know. Probably that he came from the other side of the water.

  – That’s a lot harder to believe, isn’t it?

  The Sails

  AT DAWN, IN THAT STATE which is no longer altogether part of the world of dream but is not yet wakefulness, Crozier sees again with astonishing precision a scene he lived through five months earlier and which now seemed to harbour some altogether crucial element.

  It was two days before the departure of the expedition. Standing in the drizzle exuded by a grey and swollen sky, he was waiting for the arrival of Sir John, who was to come and make certain that the loading of foodstuffs and the final preparations were proceeding as they should.

  Crozier had been standing on the wharf for more than half an hour when he spied Franklin, flanked by Lady Jane and – as he discovered in a blinding flash that tightened his chest so hard that he had trouble breathing – by Sophia Cracroft. She was escorted by an exuberant Fitzjames who seemed to be recounting some story to which she was listening with her head bowed slightly, apparently amused. Sophia was startled when she caught sight of Crozier but she quickly recovered and came up to him, her hand extended and smiling broadly, as if to show that she had nothing to hide, nothing to fear, no reason to be ashamed or ill at ease.

  “Mr. Crozier, what a pleasant surprise,” she murmured in a hushed voice. “But you must go inside, you’ll catch your death of cold. As a matter of fact, my uncle has been suffering from a nasty influenza for some time now …”

  As if to confirm her words, Sir John sneezed loudly, extracted a handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose with a sound like a trumpeting elephant. His wife, with a motherly touch, tightened the knot in the scarf around his neck.

  “ … and,” Sophia went on, “who will command these vessels if you are both sick in bed?”

  “I must see your uncle before noon. On an important matter. I knew that he was supposed to be here, but I was unaware that you …”

  He broke off, unable to complete his thought, trying to express the rest of it by means of a vague movement that took in Sophia, Fitzjames, who was waiting politely a few steps away, and the sky from where, without let-up, diminutive icy drops that stabbed like needles were falling.

  “Yes, we only decided at the last moment, in fact. My aunt chose to escort Sir John, who has a fever this morning, and James offered to show us around the machine room. One is told that it is very interesting.”

  “Indeed, indeed, most interesting,” Crozier repeated almost without realizing it. JAMES? howled a voice inside him that was stronger than reason.

  The men were bustling about, transporting dozens of crates on which could be read the word tea. Fitzjames asked Sophia if she knew the origin of the word. Despite himself, to break into this conversation that united them and to force the young woman to turn her eyes in his direction, Crozier replied that the word came from a Chinese ideogram whose exact name he could not recall. Then he stood there foolishly with his hands in his pockets.

  “Ah, no, that’s not it at all!” exclaimed Fitzjames. “As it happens, when tea began to arrive in Europe from the East Indies and China during the fifteenth century, nearly all of it was conveyed in transit via Lisbon, in Portugal. There, the stock meant for local consumption was taken away and on the other crates, those that were in transit, was drawn the letter T. Which gave in English tea, in French thé, in Spanish té, while in Portugal, where the crates were not marked with the word transit, one uses the word cha.”

  Sophia drank in his words. Crozier regretted having made himself ridiculous by putting forward an explanation of which he was not certain, even if he had trouble believing Fi
tzjames’s story, which seemed to him far too fantastic. The younger man moved closer to Sophia, brushing her elbow and whispering:

  “Dear lady, let us not stand here getting wet, let us board the ship, if you would be so kind, where you will be served one of the British Navy’s celebrated hot toddies.”

  “Gladly,” Sophia replied.

  Then, turning to Crozier, she told him: “Don’t stay too long in the rain, you’re beginning to look like Mr. Darcy when he takes it into his head to dive into the duck pond …”

  In the time it took him to realize that she was referring to one of Lady Jane’s little dogs, she had disappeared in the wake of Fitzjames and her aunt, to whom the man had given his arm. Crozier stayed by himself with Sir John, who gave him an ill-tempered look.

  “I say, to what do I owe this visit? What is so important that we must discuss it on a wharf in the rain?”

  “Hmm … That is … Of course we can take shelter inside. I simply wanted to be certain that I would not miss you.”

  “Enough chattering,” replied Sir John in the curt tone of voice he resorted to when he hoped to express efficiency but which was most often dictated by discomfort, cold, or hunger. “Let’s get to the point. Speak up, Captain.”

  “It has to do with our rations, sir. I wanted to suggest that you avail yourself of a technique that was used by William Parry, among others, and yielded remarkable results.”

  “What are you talking about? For heaven’s sake, man, speak clearly.”

  “Sprouted seeds.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sprouted seeds.”

  Thrusting his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, Crozier took out a crumpled piece of towelling dotted with dozens of tiny, soft green heads, each attached to a small, pale-brown sheath.

  “I know what sprouted seeds are, Crozier, thank you, I’ve seen vegetable gardens. But what the devil are these supposed to be used for?”

  “Well, you see, sir, after six or eight months, when we will have consumed all our fresh fruit and vegetables, they could replace lettuce, spinach, and other greenery. They do not require soil or even light to grow. One need only place the seeds on a scrap of cloth, water them regularly, and in less than a week … voila! And on the ships where they have been cultivated, there has not been even one case of scurvy.”

  “But, but, but,” Sir John broke in, like a teacher who has just been waiting for the right moment to catch out a dunce, “that is precisely why we are bringing I don’t know many barrels of lemon juice –”

  “If you will allow me, Sir John, the men don’t care for lemon juice. I have often seen some of them pretend to swallow it, then spit it out right away.”

  “Never mind,” said Sir John, who had started to sway from one foot to the other, a sign of growing impatience, “we shall distribute it to them the way that one administers medicine to a child, and if necessary we will ask them to open their mouths and stick out their tongues after they’ve swallowed it. And then most important of all, dear Crozier, you forget that we shall have with us hundreds of tins of preserved vegetables already cooked and seasoned and ready to be eaten. Between a mixture of diced potatoes, carrots, and peas and your four seeds, which will the men prefer, will you tell me?”

  There was some truth to what he said. The tiny leaves on their slender stems, still prisoner of the seed that had served them as a cover, were not very tempting.

  “And then,” continued Sir John, who did not intend to have such a fine beginning interrupted, “do you not think that we shall have better things to do than play at being gardeners to your sprouts? No, Crozier, believe me, between geographical tracings, temperatures, magnetic readings, navigation as such, and the upkeep of the ships, I doubt very much that we’ll have the time or the desire to keep up a vegetable garden, not even one the size of a handkerchief. It is precisely for that reason that these tinned foods are ideal: they eliminate even the need to prepare the foodstuffs, to cut them up and cook them – all lengthy and tedious procedures. One need only open them, heat up the contents, and there you go, ready to feed an army.”

  “No doubt, Sir John.”

  Crozier was well aware that the game was lost. Mechanically, he turned over and over in his fingers the soft green shoots. Then he realized that he had never sampled the contents of those tins that were being loaded on in their thousands.

  “Have you tasted them, Sir John?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Those tins of vegetables –”

  “And meat!”

  “Those tins of vegetables and meat that we are taking with us in such great quantity?”

  “Good heavens, no, Crozier, I’ve eaten everything in my life when I’ve had to, from rock tripe to raw seal meat to bear steak and even the leather of my shoes, as you are not unaware, but I have never understood the purpose of submitting pointlessly to the exercise. I have consulted the lists of products offered by Mr. Goldner and I can assure you that they are far superior to the everyday fare served to the men during long voyages. But you need not worry: for the officers, the menu will be more traditional. We shall take on masses of salted meats and pickles of all sorts.”

  “I have no doubt where that is concerned, Sir John,” Crozier replied.

  “On that, with your permission, I shall go and dry off.”

  “Of course, Sir John, I thank you.”

  And Sir John lumbered off in the direction of the gangway leading to the deck of the Terror.

  Crozier stopped the first sailor who went past him pulling a trolley, upon which were piled some twenty huge tins of food, and asked him to open one.

  “Impossible, sir. These provisions are intended for the Terror, which is leaving in just a few days to spend a year in the Arctic. We’re not allowed to open these tins for no reason.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  The sailor considered Crozier standing in front of him soaking wet from head to foot, his coat hanging forlornly from his broad shoulders, water dripping from his hair. Briefly, his face expressed doubt, but he had certainly seen pictures of Sir John Franklin. He knew that this man could not be him.

  “No, sir.”

  Crozier sighed.

  “Never mind.”

  He picked up the two tins from the top of the pile and with a wave dismissed the sailor, who left without further ado. Then, kneeling on the wet quay, Crozier took his knife from his pocket and started to open a tin on the label of which could be read: Beef Stew.

  He had to start over twice before he could properly cut open the metal cylinder, from which came a sweetish smell. Crozier dipped his finger in the thick brown liquid where pieces of meat were floating, smelled it cautiously before touching it with his tongue, and immediately spat. Examining the stew more carefully, he discovered that it contained bits of meat that were half raw. He spilled the entire contents of the tin onto the quay and began to stir it with his knife under the watchful eye of the sailors who continued to follow one another, carrying rations. In the brownish mixture, which was being thinned by the rain, he discovered as well some bits of bone and something that looked very much like a piece of ear that someone had forgotten to relieve of its fur.

  Crozier rose to his feet and ordered in a powerful voice:

  “Stop the loading!”

  Dispatched to the premises to sort out the crisis, Fitzjames ordered that some twenty tins of various sizes containing meats, soups, and vegetables be opened. He did not go so far as to taste them but sniffed their contents and decreed that in nineteen cases it was altogether acceptable. As for the twentieth tin, from which came a smell of sulphur, well, nothing is perfect, and it was to be expected that a certain percentage would be lost. They started loading again a few hours later and finished during the night, while Crozier, unable to go home, paced the streets.

  While he was walking in the rain, which had let up somewhat and was now only a drizzle, he went over again in his mind the scene he had been part of earlier that afternoon, as
if he were trying to punish himself for some hope that was unseemly to maintain: the unexpected arrival of Sophia, his own idiotic, trite remarks, and Fitzjames’s loquaciousness, his vaguely impertinent way of suggesting to the young woman “one of the British Navy’s celebrated hot toddies.” In the twenty years he had spent in the ranks of the aforementioned British Navy, where grog was concerned Crozier had never tasted anything that was liable to delight the taste buds of a young woman from polite society. Of course one was sometimes given under that name a mixture of rum, gin, and lemon juice, enlivened on a lucky day by a cube of sugar, but never would it have crossed his mind to offer the bitter brew – concocted notably to bring down a fever or to numb a sailor on whom a painful operation was about to be performed – as an exotic drink, and even less as a delicacy. Touching her red lips to it, Sophia would probably shudder as much from the bitterness of the drink as from the excitement she would feel at savouring it in the company of a handsome officer who would not hesitate to tell her the story of the pirates from whom the rum had been snatched in a hard-won victory.

  Crozier knew how to lead men into battle as into peace, he knew how to read the sea and the landscape, the clouds and the stars. He knew the great wooden body of his ship as certainly as that of a faithful dog, but he did not and would never know how to offer a cup of lukewarm, sour liquid to a lady in such a way that she would find it delicious and consider herself obliged to him. For that, he would have been willing to trade all the rest.

  29 November 1845

  TO PASS THE TIME, I have set out to be a teacher to anyone who might be interested in learning. This has brought together an ill-assorted group to whom every day I give lessons that DesVoeux does not look kindly upon – which, I must admit, adds to my satisfaction at playing schoolmaster. Among my pupils, there are some who signed their documents of engagement by scrawling awkward Xs on the paper presented to them. Patiently, I draw large letters on a slate which the men, like children, try to copy, their tongues sticking out. As paper and ink are valued resources and the number of slates is limited, some carve the letters into pieces of wood taken from empty barrels that once held victuals, while others merely trace them in the air with their fingers, or onto the table in front of them.