Finding John Rae Page 4

  Ouligback looked at me and then looked away. His expression spoke of pity, disgust and fear. “Ablooka, do you know the Esquimaux word for what we call this… strange practice?”

  “I think so,” I replied. “Quaq?” I winced when I spoke the ugly word, because I knew that within the belief system of the Esquimaux, any sign of cannibalism was considered to be the mark of a great threat, a malevolent creature of chaos, the collapse of unity within a group, a good spirit gone bad. There would be no place for the offending soul among the stars, where all the others dwelled. There would be no visits with departed relatives via meteors shooting through the aurora borealis — just complete and utter banishment.

  Ouligback looked down at his hands and nodded.

  “Mar-ko…”

  “Yes, Ablooka. All of them are saying the same thing.”

  I slumped in my chair. We had heard enough. There was only one more question to ask. “Were any living Kabloonans seen again?”

  “No.”

  Repulse Bay

  [AUGUST 1854]

  We concluded the interviews with our Esquimaux visitors, and after hosting a feast for all, we bade them farewell. During a long period of exhaustive meetings, I had collected enough testimony to prepare a formal report for both the Secretary of the British Admiralty and for my employer, Sir George Simpson, Governor-in-Chief of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

  The report contained descriptions of what the Esquimaux had witnessed near and on the west and south coasts of what they referred to as a large island — in all likelihood King William Island — during the winter of 1849 and the spring of 1850. There was a reference to kegs filled with black powder, which I assumed to be ammunition, along with a large quantity of what sounded like ball and shot, as well as goose bones and feathers strewn about the cooking site. Some of the bodies had been buried in shallow graves, probably while the remaining men had enough strength to do so. Others were in tents and a few lay under the overturned boat, including the body of the mystery officer with the telescope and double-barrelled shotgun. The Esquimaux who visited the men’s final encampment collected compasses, guns, watches and other pieces of equipment, not knowing what the objects were used for but believing that they were interesting and perhaps even of some value.

  My report included the grim evidence of cannibalism at the dying men’s final encampment, along with a reference to the mutilated state of the corpses and the human remains in the kettles. I wrote that “our countrymen had been driven to the last resource — cannibalism — as a means of prolonging existence.” I drew a sketch of some of the relics the natives brought to me, including the crests on the silver forks and spoons found with the men’s bodies, for the Council to review. I concluded the report with an added note about how my party had fared during the winter months, explaining that we “passed the winter in snow houses in comparative comfort, the skins of deer shot affording abundant warm clothing and bedding,” to provide contrast to the appalling conditions the Royal Navy men had endured. This comment may have been awkward for the officials to read, but I hoped it would wake them up to the fact that this sort of tragedy should never have happened at all.

  On completion of the investigation, I reached the only conclusion which made sense to me: there were no wandering survivors, and all members of the Franklin Expedition had indeed perished. I finished my report in early August, and affixed my signature to it:

  “I have, &c., John Rae, Chief Factor, Commanding Hudson’s Bay Company’s Arctic Expedition.”

  Then I prepared a second document, itemizing the list of relics I had acquired from the Esquimaux, feeling confident that descriptions of the objects and their markings, along with my own sketches in the report, would end any lingering doubt about the fate of Sir John Franklin’s lost expedition. I wrote “Urgent” and “Personal and Confidential” in large letters on both sides of each envelope. I wrote a letter to my sister Marion, telling her that all was well with me, and advising her that I would travel to Orkney as soon as I had completed my business in London. The full report and accompanying list, along with my letter to Marion, were immediately dispatched in a locked box to York Factory, where a Hudson’s Bay Company ship filled with furs was waiting to set sail for London.

  I also composed a letter to the editors of the London Times, intentionally omitting any mention of cannibalism, to spare the dead men’s families and loved ones from knowing what had happened to many of the bodies. I simply stated that local people had seen the bodies, and that as far as we knew from their testimony, the Royal Navy men had died from starvation. I sealed the envelope, and tucked it into my personal writing chest for later dispatch to London.

  After I completed these writing tasks, I retreated to my Repulse Bay quarters and scrubbed every inch of my body with hot water. I stood in front of a mirror, shaving blade in hand. I had not seen my own image for many months. I never shaved during expeditions, because thick facial hair provides protection from insects, wind burn and frostbite. I am not sure why, but I decided not to remove the bulk of beard growth just yet. Maybe I wasn’t quite ready to make the transition to gentrification. Too much unfinished business, perhaps.

  I slowly ran a hairbrush across my head, through curls that used to be shiny and reddish brown, but which were now in the process of dulling to an unappealing brownish grey. Deep lines fanned out from the skin around my eyes. It should not have surprised me to see how the effects of age and more than twenty years of living in such a harsh climate had taken a toll on my youthful appearance, yet I felt disappointed with the image in the mirror. The changes were an unwelcome reminder that I was no longer a young man, that the time would soon come when I would be less suited to the challenges of living and journeying in the frozen spaces of the Arctic. The notion of taking a fair and good woman as my wife and mother of our children had been entering my thoughts more frequently as the years marched along. If I waited too long to return home and settle down, I would be too old and long in the tooth to find a mate.

  A number of capable men who worked for me at our Repulse Bay headquarters volunteered to winter over and prepare for another journey in the spring. They had discussed the idea amongst themselves, and surmised that it might be possible to mount another expedition in 1855, to find more evidence, bodies, and perhaps one or both of the ships. While I appreciated their enthusiasm, I countered that we simply did not have enough time to make proper preparations for another journey so soon. A responsible explorer tries to eliminate as much guesswork as he can when planning an expedition, and I took my duties as both a leader and a scientist seriously. The weather and an abundance of animals to kill were always unpredictable, but reliable equipment and an adequate stock of dried food supplies could mean the difference between life and death. If we did not have enough pemmican to last us through times of deprivation while we travelled, the consequences would be disastrous.

  Furthermore, I explained that it was necessary for me to take the objects I had collected from the Esquimaux and return to London with them before the Arctic winter set in. I also figured that seeing the relics with their own eyes would surely convince the authorities to look harder for the two remaining British search vessels and the American ship and crew searching the region. It was essential that they be advised of my findings.

  As I packed the Franklin Expedition artifacts into a trunk for my journey to York Factory and England, I asked God to bless the souls of all the unfortunates who had lost their lives in the failed search for the Northwest Passage. I prayed for the doomed men’s families and loved ones, who would soon be informed that unless some sort of miracle had occurred, any remaining hope of finding even one survivor was lost.

  Hudson Bay, North Atlantic and England

  [AUGUST–OCTOBER 1854]

  I arrived in York Factory to the news that my mother had suffered a stroke at her home in Stromness, Orkney. My sister Marion and her husband John were taking good care of her, I was confident about that, but I was impatient to get
to London and then back to Stromness. When I closed my eyes, I tried not to picture the lively spirit of my dear mam being trapped inside a prison of disability.

  There was much business for me to complete before my own early September departure for England aboard the SS Prince Rupert. I turned my attention to overseeing the secure storage of Company boats and equipment in preparation for the long Arctic winter. After that, I was busy with administrative matters, such as performing the final calculations of wages the Hudson’s Bay Company owed to the men who had served with me on the Boothia expedition. In early spring, we had begun our expedition from Repulse Bay with a party of twelve men from the Arctic region. It quickly became clear that seven of them were unsuited to the harsh overland travel conditions, and I had been forced to send them back to our headquarters. On reflection, I was surprised that Ouligback, Mistegan and I managed to make it even as far as the western coast of the Boothia Peninsula, given our greatly diminished capacity for efficient travel.

  The men from our original travelling party arrived at York Factory to collect their wages. There were grumblings about the meagre sums received by those who had been dismissed, but it was very simple, of course: one should only be paid for work completed, unless there are other mitigating circumstances. Beads and Johnston were given full payment for the time they had spent preparing and travelling, despite the infirmities they suffered along the way. A bonus for the two grateful young men was the fact that we carried them with us — sometimes on our own backs — and did everything we could to bring them home alive.

  Jacob Beads lost three toes to frostbite, but he was fortunate; he could have fared far worse. James Johnston was improving as well, gaining much-needed weight and growing stronger. He declared that the life of an explorer was not for him; I shook his hand, and agreed wholeheartedly. Words such as “explorer” and “expedition” may sound romantic to some young and energetic minds — including my own, as a free-spirited child in Orkney and ship’s surgeon at the age of twenty — but months and years of deprivation and hardship wear heavily on even the strongest bodies and spirits. In truth, few men are physically and mentally suited to that wild sort of life.

  I told Ouligback and Mistegan that after meeting with the authorities in London, I would do my best to inform them about any plans for further exploration. If the Admiralty accepted the geographical coordinates and information I had collected on this journey, perhaps the Hudson’s Bay Company would consider seconding me again as the leader of another search expedition. There was also the matter of completing a survey of the North American coastline, including the rest of the Boothia Peninsula. I was still employed as chief factor of the Mackenzie River District, but I was beginning to wonder just how long I wished to continue working for my employers. I had a sense that a new chapter in my life would unfold before long.

  At York Factory, Ouligback, Mistegan and I shook hands and, with a heavy heart, I bade my interpreter and guide farewell. When an expedition ends, it is always difficult to say goodbye to one’s trusted companions, and this time was no exception. I had worked closely with the highly regarded Esquimaux interpreter William Ouligback Senior, Mar-ko’s father. I had great respect for him. With the exception of one odd but brief estrangement between myself and his son William Junior on our journey, we had functioned together as if we were each an extension of the other. Now I was alone again, with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  As poor luck would have it, the departure of the Prince Rupert from York Factory was delayed by two weeks of infuriating, early-season freezing in the northern regions of Hudson Bay. Now that the news about the fate of the Franklin Expedition had been dispatched to the Admiralty and to my employer Sir George Simpson, I was impatient to set sail for England. There would be questions about my report. I was prepared to answer them, and then return to Orkney as soon as possible to see my ailing mother.

  God must have listened to my prayers, because just when it seemed as though the Prince Rupert would be stuck at York Factory until the following spring, whalers sent good news from the north. Rising temperatures and winds from the southeast had moved the ice blocking our exit. The captain received clearance to set sail immediately.

  The hazards of storms at sea are very similar to the dangers on land: fierce winds, paralyzing cold, blindness, the loss of balance and disorientation place all living beings in great peril. In many ways, part of the voyage home to Britain was no less diminishing than dragging a heavy sledge through a blinding blizzard for days on end. Our North Atlantic crossing was gruelling, and there were times when the conditions at sea were dangerous to the point where I wondered if we would make it home to London at all. A voyage which should have taken twenty-one days stretched to more than thirty due to violent, persistent storms which almost sank us. Four of the Prince Rupert’s mainsails were ripped to shreds. A lifeboat was knocked loose from its fittings and very nearly washed away; crew members tasked with mending the sails were sometimes thrown from their high perches, landing with a sickening thud on the ice-lashed decks. One poor young fellow was tossed into the sea when the ship listed heavily to starboard. The crew frantically cast ropes to the lad, but saving him was impossible because the frigid, turbulent water quickly exhausted him. He did not have the strength even to grab the knotted end of a rope.

  Every man aboard a ship feels a terrible sense of grief when a soul is lost at sea, but in the midst of a raging storm there is no time to think, let alone reflect on a tragedy. We said a prayer — each man in his own way — for the lost sailor, regretting that he could not be given a proper sea burial. We were all busy, focused on emerging on the other side of the storms relatively intact. I was fully occupied in the infirmary, tending to the injured and sick and not immune to queasiness in my own stomach either, sometimes retching into a bucket while I stitched wounds and bound broken limbs. It was a great relief for all of us when the ship finally approached the southwest coast of England. A Royal Mail vessel pulled up alongside the Prince Rupert, and I handed the agent the letter I had composed for the editors of the Times. Tara Gott, I thought. An old Orcadian phrase for it is done. As soon as my letter was published, the news would quickly spread throughout the public domain.

  – PART II –

  Under Attack

  [1854]

  Southeast England

  [OCTOBER 22, 1854]

  We limped into port at Deal early in the morning on Sunday, October 22nd. The moment the Prince Rupert’s anchors were set, a tender approached the ship and a message marked “Urgent” was delivered to me: “Proceed to Admiralty House in Whitehall immediately upon arrival, to meet with First Lord Sir James Graham and members of the Arctic Council.” I was not surprised to be summoned to such a meeting straightaway. No doubt the Council members had been anxiously awaiting my arrival with the full testimony and the Franklin party relics.

  The carriage journey along the dirt roadway from Deal to London felt as though it lasted forever. While we rumbled and bounced through the quiet villages of Kent, impatience — my lifelong companion — overtook me. I had no appetite for enjoying the gentle countryside and the beauty of the view because, by then all I could think about was the news and objects I had brought with me from the Arctic, and the discussions which lay ahead in the meeting at Admiralty House. I was relieved to be the only passenger, for I was exhausted and in no mood for engaging in light conversation.

  The relics I had procured from the Esquimaux were carefully packed inside the large satchel on the seat beside me, alongside my bag and the case containing my violin. I examined the list of the satchel’s contents, wondering for the hundredth time what had gone through the minds of those poor sailors during their long, wretched search for a rescue party that never arrived. As a scientist and physician, I am not generally given to thoughts of the supernatural, but I found it difficult to shake the feeling that I had intruded upon the spirits of others, that I was invading their privacy. Perhaps it was the other way around.

&nbs
p; I had managed to identify some of the markings on the items. I had seen a list of the officers and crew of the Erebus and Terror a few years earlier, but few of the names remained in my memory. I wondered if the Royal Guelphic Order of the Hanover Crest bearing the motto “Nec aspera terrent, G.K. III., MDCCCXV” was the property of the expedition commander, Rear Admiral Sir John Franklin, since the award was usually conferred upon officers of the highest ranking. Sir John was a celebrated explorer, author and veteran of the Napoleonic wars. There could be no doubt that a circular plate bearing the name Sir John Franklin and the initials “K.C.B.”, Knight Commander of Britain, belonged to him.

  I surmised that a silver fork engraved with the initials “H.D.S.G.” might have belonged to Harry Goodsir, the assistant surgeon aboard the Erebus but, of course, I could not be certain of this. A silver tablespoon with a crest and the initials “F.R.M.C.” caught my eye, because I was familiar with the name of Terror Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier. He was known to be a man of great sturdiness, determination and grit, a veteran of expeditions to both the Arctic and Antarctic. I imagined that he would have waged a fierce and stubborn battle against the elements. There was also an assortment of officers’ silverware, some bearing crests and other initials I could not decipher.

  I was intrigued by the remnants of what had once been the Student’s Manual. Who had brought the Student’s Manual aboard one of the ships? What was he studying? Was he as young as I had been during my early days as a medical student at the University of Edinburgh? My heart was heavy at the thought of his being prevented from completing his course and living his life.