Finding John Rae Read online

  “I’ll do my best, Sir.”

  During the inquiry, we expressed our concerns to the committee, explaining why it would not have made sense to change the natives’ way of life by persuading them that their lot would improve with a transition to agriculture and resettlement under foreign rule. We predicted that the forced implementation of such systems would do far more harm than good to British relations with the Indians and Esquimaux, and we emphasized the negative impact that cultural assimilation would have on business overall. We even went so far as to query why no natives had been consulted concerning the matter and its potential outcome. The committee’s explanation was simple: the people were apparently too undeveloped to know what was best for them.

  I explained why the Hudson’s Bay Company’s system of working with the natives had been successful. I pointed out that we gave them fair treatment, acknowledged their humanity, and we employed a sensible system of reciprocity in all of our dealings with them. I testified that our methods of doing business in the Arctic had beneficial effects for all concerned parties.

  A member of the committee asked, “What say you about the allegation that Company employees gave alcohol to the natives?”

  “The practice of distributing spirits to them was discontinued long ago,” I replied. “It was a mistake ever to allow it to happen. As we all know, a small amount of alcohol may be useful for medicinal purposes, but anything beyond that clouds the mind and interferes with making sound decisions.”

  The inquiry was still underway when notice was served that Upper Canada’s colonial legislature had passed into law the “Gradual Civilization Act,” meaning that the process of assimilation would begin regardless of any debates or inquiries in London. Sir George was confident that the Company would weather changes in the political landscape. My heart was heavy with concern for the future of the native peoples and their way of life, but I had no power to influence the changes to come. With my participation in the inquiry completed, I departed for North America.

  Hamilton

  [AUGUST 1857]

  The finished Iceberg, resting on a crib in the railway yard, was indeed a sight for sore eyes. I was disappointed to have been away during the later stages of her construction, but eager to move forward with planning an Arctic expedition in the early spring of 1858. When we climbed aboard the vessel, I hugged my brothers. “Tom, Dick, you have done far more than a fine job with her. Congratulations and thank you. You have served the Iceberg well. Now, the celebration begins.”

  We had not told anyone outside the family about my Arctic plan for the ship. All others knew was that I had decided to put her to work as a Great Lakes cargo vessel. If we did make it to the frozen north and the expedition succeeded, her mission would soon enough capture the attention of the public.

  On August 9, 1857, we launched the Iceberg to great cheers and applause from an admiring audience on the pier. She was a splendid sight to behold, with her slender, polished frame holding three masts, each sprouting an array of new canvas sails. We were a crew of four, including Tom, Dick and our brother-in-law John, and I soon forgot about my disappointment in the delays and interruptions as I piloted her around Hamilton Bay and beyond.

  She was a lovely creation: everything I had dreamed of and more. Smooth, steady and fast, she responded to the lightest touch of the wheel, coming about again and again, without a moment’s hesitation. There were no adequate words to describe the pride I felt in being at the helm of such a fine ship. When we fired up the steam engine, the propeller shaft spun effortlessly, affording us additional power for times when the winds dropped, for outrunning storms and for slipping around ice blockages when we reached the Polar Sea. As we sailed around Lake Ontario on that beautiful summer day, I fell hopelessly in love with the Iceberg.

  Lake Ontario, between Welland and Kingston

  [AUGUST 17, 1857]

  As had befallen the Erebus and Terror, fate has the power to interfere with plans in a most cruel and punishing manner. Less than a week after we launched the Iceberg, I hired her out to carry a load of coal from Cleveland to Kingston. Battered by monstrous waves in a fierce storm, she never made it across Lake Ontario. Broken, she bucked, snapped, groaned and rolled over, before sucking all hands down to the lake bottom with her. My lovely creation was suddenly gone and I felt shattered. I had sunk more than £2,000 of the reward money into building her. My Arctic plan had suddenly disappeared, taking the money down with it. Shortly after the ship was lost, I sank into a state of profound melancholy.

  Hamilton

  [OCTOBER 1857–FEBRUARY 1858]

  Family members gathered around me in Hamilton during that bleak and bitter time, offering me nourishment and soothing words, but I was inconsolable. I withdrew into a dark, cold place and stayed there, lying in bed all day, walking the neighbourhood streets after sunset. Sometimes during my nocturnal wanderings, I experienced hallucinations. My grief at the loss of the Iceberg and the death of my Arctic dream caused me to lose my grip on reality. Caught in a dreamlike state, I imagined that I was reaching out from the bank of a roiling river, trying to grasp the arm of a man who was being dashed about like a rag doll on the rocks in the rapids, spun into swirling eddies, disappearing, reappearing and gone from sight again. I repeatedly grabbed his wet, limp hand and held on with all of my strength, to no avail. Seven years after the tragedy of losing Albert One-Eye in the rapids of the Coppermine River, I was hallucinating that terrible event over and over again. I was too ill to tell the difference between my memory and imagination.

  Nakka, Albert… Nakka!

  Nakka. Nakka! I’m sorry. I’m sorry!

  The illness caused my grieving mind to envision watery images of my Esquimaux friends standing on an enormous iceberg, smiling and waving to me as they drifted away from me. I was heartbroken to be leaving them. But somehow I knew they would be all right, although I was sailing towards my own certain death. Tavvavusi! Goodbye! I sobbed as they faded from sight.

  In yet another terrifying vision, I believed I was driving a team of dogs through a blinding blizzard, desperately trying to avoid running them into danger. Everywhere there were crevasses, cliffs, open water. The dogs were going to tumble or drown, and I was going to perish along with them.

  Qimmiq ikajuq! Ahu! Dogs, stop! Help!

  I deserve this! I shouted in the dream.

  At one point, Tom informed me that I had been outside, walking in my sleep. Startled neighbours had come timidly out of their homes and watched me as I called out commands, wild-eyed, dressed in deerskin and wielding an imaginary whip above a team of invisible sled dogs. He said they were afraid to approach me when I was like that. During those sleepwalking episodes, I seemed to become someone else, not the quiet doctor who lived with his brother and family. At first, I did not believe him, because I had no memory of what I had done.

  I was prescribed a course of medicine to calm me, stop the nightmares and put an end to the sleepwalking. The tonic helped smooth some of the edges, but my days and nights were filled with darkness. I had no desire to eat, to write letters, to listen to music or engage in any kind of human interaction. I lost myself and became a thin, pale shadow, not caring whether I lived or died.

  Hamilton

  [MARCH 1858]

  One morning, Tom entered the kitchen as I sat half-dressed at the table, staring at the vapours rising from a steaming mug of tea. His wife and children had gone to the market; the solemn silence of the home was measured only by the ticking of a grandmother clock in the hallway.

  “Johnny, listen to me.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his voice strained. I didn’t want to look at him, let alone hear his voice. I covered my ears with my hands.

  “It’s been seven months,” he shouted. “The good Lord knows you’ve been through hell and back during these past few years, but I have to tell you something, and you must listen to me. It’s well past time for you to start living again. Your mood is contagious. Helen and the boys are afraid to laugh, to dist
urb you in your fitful and melancholy state. We are all terrified you’ll walk in your sleep again and frighten our family, the neighbours, and everyone else out there. And I’m sorry to say this, but I can hardly leave the house quickly enough in the mornings, just to get away from you, my brother who used to be so bright and full of spirit.”

  A flash of irritation came over me. “Are you saying you want me to leave, Tom? Is that what you are telling me? Of course, I will do just that, right this minute,” I snapped. I jumped up from the chair and shoved it aside.

  He took a deep breath and sighed. “Sit down now, Johnny. Sit and listen to me. Something has got to change. You must pull yourself out from under this dark cloud and get on with life. Can you imagine Papa and Mam looking down on you these past months, shaking their heads in disbelief? John, we Raes do not quit. Everyone experiences setbacks, failures, disappointments. Look at me! Richard and I have trouble enough on our hands with trying to keep our ships in use. It’s not easy. Dick has worked hard to find his way back from his own despair, and I am proud of him. You can’t just give up on life when things go wrong.”

  “William quit.”

  “That is surely the point, John! William quit, and we all — especially you — suffered horribly because of it. When life dealt him a hard hand, he chose the easy way out, because he didn’t have the courage to face his losses and get on with things. You are the bravest man I know, so why are you giving up? For God’s sake, brother! Are you going to roll over and surrender to bad luck the way William did? I, for one, would never forgive you if you did. I promise you that.”

  My eyes began to fill. I turned my head away so Tom wouldn’t see the tears. I tried to say something, anything, but words failed me.

  “Johnny, you are my best friend in the world. You have always been there for me, and I’d do anything for you. You were my hero, my older brother, the famous surgeon, scientist, hunter, the explorer who walked, sailed and sledged more than ten thousand miles in the Arctic, a courageous man who never gave up on anything he set out to do! We’ve lost enough in this family already, wouldn’t you agree?”

  His tone softened. “It seems as though you’ve gone somewhere and you’re not coming back. Whenever you went away, I always believed you’d come back because you were stubborn, strong and brave. Now, I don’t know… and it frightens me.” Tom wiped at his own eyes.

  “Damnit, Tom!” I brought my fist down hard on the table. It sounded like the report of a gun, and then, just as suddenly, the ticking of the clock was once again the only thing breaking the silence. We did not look at one another after my outburst of temper. Eventually, Tom turned around and straightened his back.

  “I want you to come and look at something with me. Have the bath you so desperately need, shave, get dressed in clean clothes and meet me at the front door in thirty minutes.”

  “What on God’s earth are you chattering on about? Have you lost your senses?”

  “No. I may be many things, John, but crazy I am not.”

  Forty-five minutes later and much against my wishes, we were standing at a nearby corner, in front of a handsome stone house with a flagstone chimney. Large leaded-glass windows looked out onto views of a leafy garden. It was not a large home, but it projected the same kind of elegance as a stately mansion.

  “It’s for sale, Johnny, and I swear it’s got your name on it.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about? I’ve never owned a house. Why would I start now when everything has just fallen apart? Everything’s temporary, Tom. Everything. A snow house melts into the ground. A stone house crumbles with age. A ship sinks in a storm.”

  He stood fast, his expression firm, resolute. “Is there any harm in looking? You’ve got the time…”

  “All right, I’ll look at it, but that’s all. Would that make you happy? I’m not in the frame of mind to make any commitments, you know. As I just said, nothing lasts anyway.”

  “Aye, but let’s just have a poke around. There’s nothing to be lost by looking.”

  —

  One month later, I purchased that stone house at the corner of Bay and Nelson Streets. It was attractive enough, and Tom had put forward a compelling argument. He was right. The Raes should never quit, and it was time for me to concentrate on getting well enough to rebuild my life. I set up a small medical clinic in one of the ground-floor rooms. It took time, but eventually I grew stronger, recovered some of my former vitality and became known once again as the quiet, cheerful doctor. Neighbours slowly began to visit me for their ailments.

  I re-entered the world of news and invention by subscribing to the London Times and Hamilton Spectator, along with assorted scientific and medical journals from overseas. I picked up my pen again and wrote articles for such prestigious periodicals as Nature and the Royal Geographical Society newsletter. I delivered lectures about my experiences with the Esquimaux to assorted interest groups. I took some pleasure in being a founding member of the Hamilton Association for the Advancement of Literature, Science and the Arts, for which I served as vice-president and then president.

  I learned that there had been no communication from Captain McClintock, who had sailed for the Arctic aboard Lady Franklin’s steam yacht the Fox in July 1857. Was something wrong? Had the vessel become beset in ice? Had they found anything related to the Franklin Expedition? I was curious but tried not to dwell on the recent past, knowing that those kinds of thoughts could resurrect the terrible darkness within me.

  One day, a letter from London arrived in the post. I was surprised to see that it was from Gerald McIntosh, the King’s College professor who had so kindly taken me under his wing at the Royal Society on the day the dreadful news of my Arctic discoveries was released to the public. His handwriting was much like the man himself, large and generous. He wrote that he had acquired my Hamilton address from Sir George Simpson. He advised me that he was planning to retire from teaching soon, that he had often wondered how I was getting along, and he hoped the arrival of his letter would find me well and cheerfully occupied in Canada West.

  He mentioned that he and his wife had seen the play The Frozen Deep at the Royal Gallery of Illustration in Regent Street. It was authored by a man named Wilkie Collins, but heavily edited by his friend Charles Dickens, for the purpose of extolling the virtues of men in the Royal Navy. In the letter, he gave me his assurance that despite silly rumours, the character of a scheming Scottish servant had nothing to do with me. I was grateful for Gerald’s kind thoughts and words, but I was still recovering from my illness and didn’t wish to think about Charles Dickens or Wilkie Collins, or his play at that time. I finished reading the letter and tucked it away.

  United States

  [JULY 1858]

  An invitation to accompany Sir George Simpson and fellow Scot, Edward “Bear” Ellice, on an expedition through the northern United States turned out to be an excellent tonic for what had ailed me. A man of great intelligence, political power and enterprise, “Bear” and I journeyed well together, departing from Toronto by rail and travelling to Minnesota, where we joined Sir George on a riverboat and travelled down the Mississippi River. The 4,500-mile journey took my mind far away from the intrusion of any melancholy thoughts and kept my spirits aloft.

  – PART V –

  Love, Courtship & Marriage

  [1858–1860]

  Toronto

  [OCTOBER 1858]

  Upon my return to Hamilton, I was pleased to receive another invitation, this time to deliver a lecture to students of Natural Sciences at the University of Toronto. The requested topic was a personal favourite, and one I knew well: Patterns of Migratory Birds in the Arctic Region. I sorted through my overflowing boxes of papers and notebooks, most of which I had not touched for years. The process of preparing for the lecture by reviewing my meticulous notes and maps was quite satisfying. I looked forward to sharing my knowledge — and a generous portion of anecdotal material about my own observations and experiences in the frozen n
orth — with a youthful and energetic audience.

  After the lecture was over and I had answered many questions — most of which concerned my Arctic adventures, not birds — I was escorted to the spacious apartments of the Dean of Natural Sciences. Dr. Kitson was a genial and methodical man with silver hair, an easy smile and striking blue eyes; I liked him right away. After we finished a fine meal of roasted duck, fried potatoes and blood pudding, my host and I relaxed together in front of the fire, exchanging notes about ornithological matters and generally enjoying each other’s company.

  I was in no hurry to leave Toronto on Saturday morning so I decided to spend the day walking, exploring the city’s lively neighbourhoods, and taking a lengthy stroll alongside the rocky shores of Lake Ontario. I felt better than I had in some time. When Dr. Kitson extended an invitation to me to stay another night, I readily accepted his kind offer.

  On Sunday, I attended services at St. James Cathedral, a short walk from the university. It was an impressive structure, distinctly Gothic in design, with soaring ceilings, splendid buttresses and exquisitely stained glass windows. The day was bright and mild. Warm breezes drifting across the lake from the south brought unseasonably warm temperatures, which Hamiltonians often referred to as an “Indian Summer,” the reason for which I never quite understood. My closest guess was that the expression had something to do with a longer harvest period, as well as more fish and game to catch for hungry families facing a long, harsh winter.

  On that warm October morning at St. James Cathedral, the voices of the choir and congregation joined together in song as members of the clergy slowly processed up the centre aisle towards the sanctuary. When I turned with the others to watch the procession, I was struck by the profile of a slender, petite young woman across the aisle and one row behind mine. She was dressed in green, which suited her colouring very well. An unruly strand of curly red hair had broken free of its ties under her stylish hat, which appeared to be slightly off-centre, and I smiled at the thought of the whole affair — hat and hair — tumbling from atop her head with even the slightest movement. There was something exceptional about her posture, her bearing, the way the corner of her mouth appeared to be slightly upturned, as if she was on the verge of smiling.