Finding John Rae Page 10

  “Lady Franklin, I have placed your husband’s possessions — indeed, all of the relics I acquired from the Esquimaux — in safe keeping. As soon as the examination and official log of the items have been completed, the Hudson’s Bay Company will ensure that all identifiable objects are swiftly returned to the families of the lost men.”

  She looked at the floor and nodded, no longer able to hold back her tears. She turned away and fell into the embrace of her husband’s niece, sobbing. There was nothing more to say, so with a heavy heart and no small measure of relief, I quietly took my leave from Spring Gardens. I was saddened by the fact that it had ended like this, with so many lives lost in the Arctic and countless numbers of hearts broken at home.

  The dramatic events which had unfolded after that chance meeting with In-nook on the Boothia Peninsula seemed to have gathered the momentum of an avalanche. At this point, I had no control over public opinion, but as I exited Lady Franklin’s building that afternoon, I vowed to pick up my pen often and use it in defence of the Esquimaux and their testimony. I needed time to think about this strange turn of events, to form a strategy for landing on my feet once the furor subsided. With these thoughts swirling about in my mind, I kept my head down with my hat low on my brow, and made my way back to the hotel.

  Shortly after I had settled into an armchair in my room, there was a knock at the door. Who knew I was staying here? I wondered, concerned that someone from the press had followed me from Spring Gardens. I was relieved to see that it was Neil, with an envelope addressed to me. My name was printed in large letters, as if to disguise the author’s own handwriting. I broke the unidentifiable seal, curious to see the contents of the envelope.

  24 October, 1854

  My Dear Friend:

  Your evaluation of the situation at Whitehall is quite correct, and most concerned parties are aware of this.

  I beg you to draw from the great well of strength within you and be patient.

  God is watching over you and He knows your faithfulness to the truth. In time, you will be highly praised for your integrity and your unimpeachable judgment of human character.

  I do not ask you to forgive me for my silence during your time of need, but I shall always pray that you will.

  With deepest respect, from a Fellow Traveller.

  I put the letter on the table, seated myself, picked it up and read it again. These seemed to be the words of a devout Christian, and the author appeared to be struggling with a guilty conscience. Who wrote it? The “fellow traveller” who came immediately to mind was Sir John Richardson. He was familiar with the oral system by which the Esquimaux shared and preserved information. His absence from Sunday’s meeting and his silence in Lady Franklin’s library were out of character for the man I thought I knew so well, yet I was now beginning to see the difficulty of his position on the matter. He was nearing the age of retirement, and I surmised that he feared the ruin of his good reputation. It was clear that whoever wrote the letter believed he had much to lose by stepping forward as a supporter of me, even though he had faith in the testimony I had acquired.

  Whether or not it was Sir John who wrote the letter, it troubled me to think that our friendship had faltered. Some twenty years my senior, John Richardson had also studied medicine at Edinburgh University. We had much in common: a mutual passion for exploration and studies in naturalism, even a shared love of English literature. When two like-minded men spend days, weeks and months together, it is inevitable that their conversations turn to more personal matters, and our friendship was no exception. He told me about his close relationship with John Franklin, and of his fondness for Franklin’s first wife Eleanor, who died at home in 1825 while her husband was embarking on an Arctic exploration journey out of the Port of Penetanguishene in Upper Canada.

  One day, after we had eaten a meal of roasted caribou meat and we were resting by the fire, John Richardson spoke of John Franklin’s second wife, Jane. “She is a complex woman, John,” he said. “Very intelligent, energetic, nervous. Her sense of curiosity seems to know no bounds. She is passionate about engaging in adventure and travel, for example.”

  “D’you think she fancies the idea of being an explorer?” I inquired.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” He paused. “Keep this entirely to yourself, John,” he said. “Since Jane Franklin is a woman and as such not eligible to join the Navy or officially explore uncharted territories, I have sometimes wondered if she married John Franklin not so much for the man he is, but rather for his connection to the British Admiralty.”

  I thought about it. “It is no secret that she pushed the Admiralty to choose her husband as commander of this expedition.”

  Richardson sighed. “He had a good deal of hesitation about going, you know.”

  “Good Lord! He went against his will? Did she force him into it?”

  He was silent for a moment. “No, I would not go as far as to say she forced him, but she certainly badgered him until he gave in. John Franklin was in his sixtieth year when the Erebus and Terror left for the Arctic. He confided to me that what he really wanted was to complete the remainder of his career as a consultant for the Admiralty in London.”

  I tucked the letter into the envelope and put it away with my other papers, wondering if the author would write to me again in the future. Would hearing from him alter the distressing course of events which were unfolding in London and beyond? I doubted it. There was no point in making further suppositions concerning the thoughts, beliefs or actions of others. I had experienced enough mental exertions that day, and tomorrow would come soon enough.

  London

  [OCTOBER–NOVEMBER 1854]

  I was still in no mood to seek out companionship with friends and acquaintances while I waited at the hotel for departure day to arrive. I spent a good deal of time in my room and in the quiet spaces of the university library, reading newspapers and making notes, thinking about how to get rid of the albatross tied around my neck. I regularly took my exercise after dark, often walking the streets through much of the night, my footsteps fast and purposeful, as if I were forging a new route far away, searching for something. I walked many miles for the purpose of maintaining good health, but walking also offered an escape from tossing and turning as I tried in vain to sleep.

  The Times published a letter from a brother of one of the missing men:

  “Dr. Rae should have kept silence altogether, rather than give us a story which pains the feelings of many.” He added, “A number of people still cling to hope of finding the men alive. I don’t, but others do…”

  I could not begrudge the poor, bereaved man his opinion. If I had been in his shoes, I would have felt the same way and would probably have penned a similar letter, wanting others to know of my feelings about the horrible details being made public. I wrote to the editor of the newspaper: “I think of the families, as well. I, too, am pained.”

  Another letter appeared in the Times. “Why hasn’t Rae verified his report? It is deeply reprehensible that he has not done so. It weakens his information.”

  And another one, the next day. “Why would the men bring utensils with them if they were abandoning the ships? This makes no sense. Silver cutlery would be a burden and useless on a survival march.”

  I responded to this challenge by writing to the editor right away. “I have reflected on the gentleman’s question about verifying my report,” I replied. “I believe I have done so, through an exhaustive interrogation of the Esquimaux and diligently documenting their testimony.”

  The Times also published a letter from New Zealand, written by Royal Navy Captain Thomas Collinson. The captain suggested that the Admiralty place me in charge of organizing a two-pronged Arctic expedition to search for more evidence. Whilst I appreciated his faith in my abilities, I had made the decision to never, ever work with the Royal Navy again, and I highly doubted that they would have any wish to work with me.

  There was, however, one important piece of busines
s to get out of the way before I considered my own plans for the future. I wrote a letter to the British Admiralty, claiming my right to the £10,000 reward money being offered to the person or persons who had ascertained the fate of the Franklin party. I had not thought about the money when I made the decision to return to London with the relics, but it was true that I was the first person to shed any light on the mystery. Based on the frosty reception I received from the first lord, I anticipated some opposition from members of the Arctic Council. On the other hand, there was nothing to be lost by applying for the reward, because I was already in an extremely uncomfortable position concerning the British government and public. I had been humiliated enough already.

  The newspaper then reported that the Admiralty had decided to defer its decision about assigning the reward to anyone, until the return of Captain Collinson’s brother Richard from a five-year absence at sea aboard the HMS Enterprise in search of the missing expedition. Apparently, the younger Collinson had acquired some important intelligence concerning the fates of Sir John and his men. Where on God’s earth had Richard Collinson been all these years? All I could do was wait and hope the decision — whenever it came about — would be in my favour.

  I also wondered if I was not yet finished with the mystery of the missing men and ships, and whether I could privately undertake further investigation. While I waited for the departure of the Prince of Wales II, I gave thought to the idea of organizing my own search party. Given the information I already possessed, I surmised that there might be a good chance of locating the Franklin encampments, collecting specific evidence, and thus being in a position to prove the veracity of the Esquimaux testimony. Perhaps I could revisit the channel I suspected to be the missing link in the Northwest Passage. These two objectives were not so farfetched, and achieving them would give me a great deal of personal and professional satisfaction.

  – PART III –

  Home: The Orkneys

  [1854]

  London to Stromness, Orkney

  [NOVEMBER 1854]

  The evening before our departure for Stromness, I received a message from the shipping office of the Hudson’s Bay Company, informing me that the scheduled ship’s surgeon had suddenly taken ill. Would I be willing to take his place on the voyage? I was more than willing. The surgeon’s cabin aboard the Prince of Wales II was well appointed and comfortable, and I hoped that if all was well during the journey, there might be some spare time for reading and making notes, helping the crew on deck, and strolling for exercise.

  In the morning, I stood on the deck of the Prince of Wales II, waiting for the barque’s holds to be loaded so we could begin our eastward journey down the Thames to the North Sea. The morning air was damp, cool and cloudy, with a light southwesterly breeze. If wind conditions were favourable, it would take a little more than a week to travel up the eastern coastlines of England and Scotland to the northern isles of Orkney.

  The east London docks used by Hudson’s Bay Company’s ships stood at the waterside of Lower Thames Street near the Custom House. They were often awash with mud, dung and all manner of effluvia, simmering as if the area was just on the verge of a boil. The scene on the morning of the Prince of Wales II’s departure was loud and chaotic, with foremen yelling into vast crowds of desperate, impoverished men pushing and shouting, seeking a day’s labour. Tethered animals bleated their distress, hooves slipping and sliding on their own urine and feces, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. Hundreds of wooden boxes and crates of all sizes teetered this way and that, as cursing workers hauled them up and into the ships’ yawning holds.

  I looked back at the city, admiring the great dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising majestically above the dark pall of coal-fire smoke that was constantly being belched into the city air from thousands of chimney pots perched upon rooftops. The River Thames was a steady means of conveyance — through London, beyond and back again with the tides — for such flotsam as planks of wood, empty bottles and packing crates, branches, rubbish, body parts, offal, human and animal waste, and a vast assortment of unidentifiable objects. When the Celts settled along its banks twenty centuries earlier, they had named the river Tamesas, meaning “Bright Water.” Expanding populations, animals, agriculture, and then the filth of waste materials created by machines and industry had forever altered the pure nature of the river’s waters. A heavy price was being paid in the name of progress. Sometimes I thought about the cost of the white man’s great push to open up the polar regions of North America, and experienced my own misgivings about being a participant in an enterprise which had the power to destroy everything in its path, except when nature held up its heavy hand and brought human progress to a halt.

  The crew took their posts at the ship’s stations, some of the sails were hoisted, and the vessel was released from the dock. I drew deeper breaths as the Prince of Wales II slowly moved eastward on the river, past Greenhithe pier — where the Franklin Expedition had first set off from England in a blaze of glory more than nine years ago — past the Isle of Dogs and Gravesend and eventually into fresh air, where the jaws of the snake opened and the Thames merged with the cleaner waters of the North Sea. The remaining sails rose up in quick succession, flapping furiously in the wind until each one was filled with air and secured in the appropriate position.

  Once we had left London behind, I took pleasure in listening to the familiar creaks and groans of a ship under sail, as she rose and fell with the waves. There was a fresh breeze on this November morning, and I was reminded of sailing our beloved 18-foot yole Brenda in the waters around the Orkney Isles with my brothers, the wind beating at our faces and my brother William shouting orders from the helm.

  We would be making a brief stop at Aberdeen, where some of the ship’s cargo would be offloaded and more supplies picked up. Commander Herd would then set her course northward for Stromness to deliver goods for the winter. Later she would make the return voyage to London, loaded with furs from the Arctic, Orcadian whiskies, various assortments of dried fish and woollen goods. I was invited to take my evening meals with the commander and the ships’ officers.

  I was apprehensive about the prospect of dining at the captain’s table. I did not wish to be questioned about the events of the last six months or the recent outcry in London, but I resigned myself to the likelihood of having to say a few words at some point. At eight o’clock, a steward showed me to my chair. There were four officers including the commander. We remained standing until he was comfortably settled.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, “and welcome aboard, Dr. Rae.”

  Commander Herd and I knew one another from previous voyages back and forth between London and Stromness. He was a stocky, round-faced and fair-haired fellow with a pleasant disposition. He was also a sensible man. I liked the way he ran his ship, with good discipline and a fair hand.

  “Good evening, Sir, and thank you.”

  “I trust your accommodation is comfortable enough, Dr. Rae.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  A fine meal of roasted lamb was served; the table soon came alive with good-natured banter. Some of the men had been on shore leave or assigned to other ships, and they had not seen each other in a while. Commander Herd turned to me while they were chatting among themselves.

  “Dr. Rae, I should think you are looking forward to being at home in Orkney and seeing your family. Tell me, how is your dear mother, Margaret?”

  “She is not well just now, Mr. Herd. She recently suffered a stroke, which has apparently left her with some paralysis. My sister Marion and her husband John live next door to her in Stromness. John is a physician and he attends to our mother several times each day.”

  The commander sighed. “Ah yes. Old age is an affliction we will all face one day, if we survive long enough to experience it. My own mother is now under full-time care in Portsmouth. She had a series of spells last year, and one can readily see that she is failing.” He paused, and put his fork and knife down
on his plate. “It doesn’t seem so long ago that she was bright and full of energy.”

  The robust conversations around the table began to fade. The others were straining to listen in, but trying to hide their curiosity. I assumed the men were counting on the subject of John Franklin arising at some point because it was inevitable, given my presence at the table. Commander Herd opened the conversation, before one of his men had time to make a clumsy remark.

  “Dr. Rae, please forgive me for being so forthright. I must confess that I — we all, of course — are most disheartened to learn that any hope of finding survivors from the Erebus and Terror is lost. Such a tragedy. Although the men were officially declared dead by the government last winter after nine years without a sighting, I suppose humans, by nature, have a tendency to hold on to some sliver of hope…”

  I leaned back in my chair, my hands gripping its arms, keenly aware that the first words I uttered would be remembered. “It is indeed a great tragedy, all of it, Sir. It is most unfortunate that we cannot change what is true, despite our fervent desire to do so.”

  One of the younger fellows was unable to hold his tongue. “But surely it cannot be true that British naval men resorted to consuming the flesh of their companions,” he blurted. “Our nation is the most civilized society in the world. We are well educated. We believe in God, for heaven’s sake!”

  The commander swiftly intervened. “Wellington, you ought to learn to manage your words, to think carefully before you speak. We cannot pretend to know what those poor wretched souls went through, because neither you nor any of us were there. You mustn’t be so arrogant as to presume that you personally understand the situation.”