Finding John Rae Page 14

  “D’you think it’s possible, though, that some of the men are living with the natives?”

  “No one can know anything for certain, of course, but I expect I would have heard something about that during two months of interviews at Pelly and Repulse Bays.”

  John took her hand. “We will never know the full story nor understand what those poor men went through, my dear. Unfortunately, much of what happened must be left in the realm of imagination. It sounds as though our Mr. Snow is a charlatan. I wouldn’t be surprised if more people like him begin crawling out of the woodwork, looking for ways to profit from the news.”

  “Aye, they are.” I passed the newspaper to him. “If even one crew member is found alive, the Admiralty will have to make good on its offer of an additional £10,000 in reward money to those who bring him safely to England. There can be no doubt that many others will be seeking absurd ways to claim it.”

  I placed two issues of Household Words on the table. “I picked these up from the newsagent,” I explained. “Charles Dickens has written a two-part essay called ‘The Lost Arctic Voyagers.’” I began to read Part One, expecting the worst. He was generous enough in the opening paragraphs of his article, and I was relieved to see that he wrote that I had acted with integrity: “… we find no fault with Dr. Rae, and that we thoroughly acquit him of any trace of blame… faithful report to the Hudson’s Bay Company… his report was made public by the Admiralty: not by him.”

  One of England’s greatest living novelists was not afraid of informing his readers that the Royal Navy, which he publicly supported, had released scandalous news about its own men. That is the greater of the two stories, I thought.

  I read an excerpt from the first essay to Marion and John: “‘Of the propriety of his immediate return to England with the intelligence he had got together we are fully convinced. As a man of sense and humanity, he perceived that the first and greatest account to which it could be turned, was, the prevention of the useless hazard of valuable lives; and no one could better know in how much hazard all lives are placed that follow Franklin’s track, than he who made eight visits to the Arctic shores. With these remarks we can release Dr. Rae from this inquiry, proud of him as an Englishman, and happy in his safe return home to well-earned rest.’”

  “Well, Johnny,” Marion smiled, “Mr. Dickens seems to have great admiration for you.”

  “He refers to me as an Englishman. I am a Scot, and he knows it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you being bit too sensitive? Perhaps his comment was just an oversight…”

  “I have my doubts about that.”

  Mr. Dickens had printed decent words about me, but once the niceties were out of the way, his essay took a less congenial turn. Sure enough, he quickly and decisively moved beyond the flattery, swung around, and took aim at the Esquimaux. I continued reading: “‘… no man can, with any show of reason, undertake to affirm that this sad remnant of Franklin’s gallant band were not set upon and slain by the Esquimaux themselves.’” It seemed clear he was scattering seeds of hatred. The pen can indeed be mightier than the sword, and with his pen in hand, Dickens continued his assault on all natives, sparing no one.

  Both Marion and John leaned forward, their eyes widening. “Listen to this,” I said, as my eyes moved ahead on the page. “‘We believe every savage to be in his heart covetous, treacherous and cruel…’”

  An image of Dickens floated into my mind, his shoulders hunched over a writing table, his head close to the paper, his facial features drawn tight with determination. I continued reading: “‘The word of a savage is not to be taken for it; firstly because he is a liar; secondly, because he is a boaster; thirdly, because he often talks figuratively; fourthly, because he is given to a superstitious notion that when he tells you he has his enemy in his stomach, you will logically give him credit for having his enemy’s valour in his heart.’”

  When it seemed that he had said more than enough, he moved in for the kill: “‘… the noble conduct and example of such men, and of their own great leader himself, under similar endurances… outweighs by the weight of the whole universe the chatter of a gross handful of uncivilized people, with a domesticity of blood and blubber.’”

  John shook his head. “Such nasty statements! Charles Dickens certainly doesn’t mince his words, does he?”

  I tossed the paper onto the table, as if it carried a disease. It was clear that, like most Britons, he had absolutely no knowledge or understanding of native morals and values. He, an intelligent man, could at the very least have made an effort to learn something about those people before he put pen to paper. His dramatic attack on the innocent Esquimaux was abhorrent.

  “I have no doubt this vile portrait of the natives will sell many issues of Household Words,” I said. “And that’s exactly what he and his friend Jane Franklin want: to divert the public’s attention away from the truth.”

  As we three read on, we came to the same conclusion. The central point in his essay — that the native testimony in my report was worth less than the paper it was written on — was weak, at best, because he had no information to draw upon in support of his vicious declarations. Instead, he wrote at length about other British sailors who had faced starvation but never stooped to the last recourse. Ad infinitum. He knew nothing of what really happened to the men of the Erebus and Terror, none of whom survived to tell any tales. And his ignorance was showing.

  Marion was furious. “Are you thinking of writing a rebuttal, Johnny? Dickens is doing even more harm to the poor people who have lost their husbands, sons and brothers by suggesting they were murdered and eaten by savages!”

  “I will challenge his accusations, although I can’t imagine that my arguments will do much good. It seems as though Charles Dickens can do no wrong in the eyes of the reading public.” We remained at the table for some time, lamenting the British establishment’s ability to influence public thinking.

  —

  While the debate about what had really befallen John Franklin and his men raged on, there had been no communication from the authorities concerning the £10,000 reward money which was my due. The Admiralty had been in possession of my application for two months. In my opinion, the claim was clear but it was unnerving to know that the authorities were biding their time, waiting for Captain Richard Collinson’s return, among other things. The HMS Enterprise must have surely reached port by now. I took my pen in hand in The Haven’s library, with the fire warming me.

  First Secretary

  Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty

  London

  December 25, 1854

  Sirs:

  I take the liberty of bringing the subject before the notice of my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, believing that their Lordships have before this time become acquainted with the details of Captain Collinson’s despatch, and have been able to decide whether the tenor of that document be such, as in any way to interfere with my claim to the reward alluded to.

  I have, &c.

  John Rae

  Stromness, Orkney

  I wondered what other strategies Lady Franklin and Sophia Cracroft would be employing, in their relentless attempt to secure Sir John Franklin’s Arctic legacy. It was a certainty that the ships’ crews had fought for their lives, but it was completely irresponsible to blame bystanders for their demise.

  Time was moving along at such a rapid pace. It seemed as though I had just arrived in Orkney; I was reluctant to leave Mam and the others so soon, but I knew that once December reached its end and January began, it was a certainty that my presence at Hudson Bay House in London would be expected.

  – PART IV –

  Life Changes

  [1855–1858]

  London

  [JANUARY 1855]

  I arrived in the city on a dreary evening, and registered under the name William Hamilton at the Tavistock Hotel. In the morning, I made my way to Fenchurch Street to meet with Sir George Simpson at Huds
on Bay House. As usual, he was in good spirits and eager to get on with the many tasks at hand.

  “Well, my boy…” He leaned back in his chair, puffing on his pipe. “I’m quite sure we can find many things for you to do around here. As you know, our soaring profits have raised more than a few hackles in Whitehall over the years, and I’ve been advised by the board of governors to expect that a parliamentary inquiry will be called at some point. The thing of it is, you know — well, we are just so good at what we do! — private enterprises and governments have a tendency to lock horns when it comes down to who controls what, and so on. The British Empire is so vast; how could its leaders expect a company such as ours to stand still in North America, and let business opportunities pass us by?”

  I nodded. “How right you are on that one, Sir. Perhaps I can make myself useful by gathering and documenting information about the Company’s activities, so we will be well prepared for questions and challenges when they arise.”

  “Aye. That is precisely what I am thinking, John. If there is to be an inquiry, you will probably be called upon to testify on our behalf.”

  “Well then, if you will assign a desk to me, I’ll get to work.” I paused at the door. “By the way, Sir, who has been appointed in my place as chief factor for the Mackenzie River District?”

  “James Anderson has stepped in. Are you personally acquainted with him? He seems to be a good man, reliable.”

  For a fleeting moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy at hearing that I had been so readily replaced. “James Anderson? Aye, I met him once. You are right, he’s a decent fellow, and he is apparently capable of many things.” I paused. “He did not strike me as an adventuresome type, though. More of an administrator, I suppose.”

  Sir George knew me well enough to understand why I was hesitant about supporting my replacement in the Arctic, but he was also adept at smoothing rough edges when he felt it was necessary. “He has a knack for numbers, John, and there is no denying that he lacks your skills as a traveller.” He chuckled. “As I told you last year, no one can fill the snowshoes of the man known as the ‘Arctic Fox’ when it comes to getting around in the wilderness, my boy.”

  A short time after my conversation with Sir George, the British government awarded Captain Robert McClure of the HMS Investigator a knighthood and £10,000 for supposedly completing the Northwest Passage. To say that I was irked by that strange decision would be an understatement. McClure and his men had abandoned the Investigator in pack ice in the spring of 1853. In 1854, they were rescued after sledging and walking across a stretch of ice which was somehow presumed to be the missing link in the passage. At first, the Admiralty had court-martialled the captain for abandoning his ship, but later reversed its decision and lauded him for his exertions. McClure’s report about his experience could not have possibly offered proof that he had discovered a navigable waterway, because he had no vessel with which to traverse the alleged link!

  Richard Collinson finally returned from his five-year sojourn aboard the HMS Enterprise, but his much-anticipated discovery turned out to be barely noteworthy. During five long years of searching, he had found a small piece of wood bearing the broad arrow insignia of the Royal Navy. There was, of course, no proof that the object came from the Erebus or Terror, and in any case, it was a mere trifle in regards to further intelligence concerning the expedition’s fate. The small amount of patience I’d held onto for delays was wearing thin; I had become fed up with those responsible for needlessly stretching out the reward process.

  It was well known that the Admiralty was under great pressure from such outside influences as the widow of Sir John. I just couldn’t imagine her letting go of a quest to see her husband crowned the king of all Arctic explorers. However, I kept my thoughts to myself as the list of claimants grew: Erasmus Ommanney, A.K. Isbister, Esq., Dr. Richard King, R. McCormick, Lieut. Bedford G.T. Pim, Captain William Penny, John Garland, Lieut. John Powles Cheyne… Exactly where had these men travelled, and why in the name of God were they all claiming that they had ascertained the fate of the doomed expedition? Infuriated, I took to writing more letters to the Secretary of the Admiralty.

  “What ‘further report’ as far as regards the fate of Sir John Franklin and his party, their lordships expect to receive, I am at a loss to imagine,” I wrote. There was no reply. The McClure and Collinson chapters in the story had been closed. Every Royal Navy vessel which had been involved in the Arctic searches had either succumbed to the pressures of sea ice and been abandoned by her crews, was back in port, or on duty elsewhere.

  Stromness

  [FEBRUARY 1855]

  Before the annual spring exodus of winter birds and waterfowl from Orkney and the arrival of breeding birds from the north, Mam suffered a third stroke. This one was massive, merciful and final. According to John and Marion, she lost consciousness immediately and her exit was swift.

  I was not there to kiss her on the forehead and say goodbye. The news reached me in London a week later, and by the time I arrived in Stromness, her body had been committed to the ground next to my father in Warbeth Cemetery, overlooking the great hills of Hoy. The minister held a brief second service at the graveside with just Marion, John and me in attendance. We bade Mam farewell on a clear and breezy day while sea birds soared, dived, circled and glided above us, their sharp cries at once loud and then carried away by the winds. We watched as a four-masted barque exited Hoy Sound with the running tide. Mam would have appreciated the sight of the great ship gaining speed, her multiple sails filling with fresh northeasterly winds as she left the Orkney Islands behind.

  Marion placed a hand on my shoulder. “Spring is almost here, Johnny, and before long, the kirkyard will be greener. Our mam would have liked that. You know,” she said, “her face looked decades younger just before she left us. It was like the face of a child.”

  “I will love you, Mam, always,” I whispered. Tara Gott.

  Soon after, the Hamilton family began making preparations to emigrate to North America. They invited Bessie to join them in their new home, but she declined their offer. She was getting on in years, and the change would have been too much for her. One evening as we sat together in The Haven’s kitchen, she placed two cups of hot tea on the table. “These islands are my home, Johnny. They are all I have known in my sixty-four years of life, and I cannot imagine living anywhere else. My friends need looking after as they get older, and I’ve put away a tidy sum over the years, so I’ll not be wanting for anything.” She wiped at her eyes as they filled with tears. “I will miss you all terribly, though. The children…” I gave her my handkerchief.

  “I understand, Bess. We will all miss you as well. Marion will see to it that they write letters to you.” I sipped my tea. “I will be sure to visit Orkney when I can, and I hope you will invite me to your cottage for a visit.”

  Her face brightened. “Of course I will!”

  “And who knows?” I added. “I may return here one day to raise a family of my own.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be just fine, Johnny! I’ll hope for it! No matter what happens, I will say a prayer for all of you every night as I have always done.”

  London

  [APRIL–JULY 1855]

  I was surprised when Sir George advised me that the Hudson’s Bay Company had seconded James Anderson to the Admiralty to conduct a search of the area where I had reported the Esquimaux sightings of the missing men. I was further taken aback to learn that Anderson and his travelling partner James Stewart had been supplied with only two canoes made from the poorest of bark — such frail vessels — and a one-man inflatable Halkett boat for their arduous journey. What had Sir George been thinking when he agreed to let the men participate in such a poorly planned endeavour? Had he withheld the news from me in order to avoid the inevitable questions I would have asked him about it? If I had been consulted, I would have strongly advised against anyone being sent into the wilderness with inadequate equipment and resources.

  Th
e canoes were eventually destroyed by ice, the search was abandoned, and the men returned to Repulse Bay via Back’s Great Fish River, lucky to be alive. They had found some metal fragments and a piece of wood floating in the water, engraved with the name Stanley. It was a small clue concerning the fate of the ships; Mr. Stanley had been listed as the surgeon aboard the Erebus.

  London

  [DECEMBER 25, 1855]

  Precisely one year to the day after I had submitted my reminder to the authorities about my claim to the reward money, I wrote yet another letter to the Admiralty, inquiring again about the subject. My words were carefully chosen to disguise the fact that I was completely and utterly furious with the Lords Commissioners of the Arctic Council for the simple decision they continuously failed to make.

  London

  [1856]

  The newspapers reported that the Admiralty continued to be under great pressure. Lady Franklin had not yet finished with them, far from it. She, her husband’s niece and their leagues of supporters continued firing volleys at Admiralty House, the government and the newspapers. They even went so far as to plead with such foreign dignitaries as the president of the United States and the governor of Van Diemen’s Land in their ceaseless campaign to push for the money to finance more search expeditions.

  The editors of the Times warned the naval authorities that it would be irresponsible to divert British money from more pressing matters at home and abroad. “We vehemently protest against the extension of any assistance from public funds, or from public establishments, to so preposterous a scheme as another expedition in search of Sir John Franklin’s relics,” they opined. “We are really so sick of the subject.”