Finding John Rae Page 9

  As I lay on the hotel bed, I fretted about the absence of my friend Sir John Richardson at the meeting. Was he really too busy with his family to miss such an important gathering of the Arctic Council? It stung that he had not made an effort to meet with me on my return from the Arctic, since we had spent a good deal of time together searching for the missing Franklin party.

  Then suddenly, I recalled that he had been unknowingly exposed — first-hand — to the last recourse, during the terrible 1819 to 1821 overland expedition along the shores of the Coppermine River to the Polar Sea. In that moment, I understood why he had avoided the meeting.

  Dr. John Richardson, among others in the British travelling party under the command of Lieutenant John Franklin, had been tricked into consuming considerable amounts of human flesh by a murderous native, Michel Terrohaute, when food provisions were depleted. John Richardson, a gentle and pious man, had been forced to execute Terrohaute when no one else intervened. He never spoke of it to me, but I suspected that the memory of those two dreadful experiences surely haunted him. It stood to reason that the fresh news about members of John Franklin’s party consuming the flesh of their fallen must have driven him into a terrible state of melancholy. My own feeling of having been rebuffed by him was quickly replaced by a wave of sympathy for my friend.

  As the hours passed and autumn darkness set over London, I thought of the earlier discussion with my employer, Sir George Simpson. There were things I wished to talk to him about at this difficult juncture in my career with the Hudson’s Bay Company, but he was right: I needed to take some time away from it all. While I was in the Arctic, I had managed to save a decent sum from my salary because there was nothing of interest to spend it on over there. Perhaps in the new year I would have a clearer perspective on where I wanted to be and how I wished to proceed, both personally and professionally.

  After several hours of reflection in the Tavistock Hotel room, I was too exhausted to bother with lighting the lamp and reading. My thoughts shifted from the immediate past to the near future: getting the nasty business with Lady Franklin out of the way the next day, walking the streets of London in the evenings for exercise and peace of mind, reading in quiet corners of the university library, and then sailing home to Orkney. After much thought and reflection, I was finally able to drift off to sleep.

  Spring Gardens, London

  [OCTOBER 24, 1854]

  After taking a late lunch in my room, I exited the Tavistock Hotel and stepped into the cold glow of London’s late October light, when the sun hangs low in the sky and casts long, dark shadows across the city. I had taken extra time to bathe and donned somewhat formal attire, in an effort to appear citified for the meeting with Lady Franklin. I was certain my efforts would not be enough to her liking, but what did it matter when she was probably angry with me anyway?

  The morning newspapers had published new articles and editorials about yesterday’s scandalous news. I was relieved to ascertain that my own character was not under attack; the so-called savages of the north, however, fared poorly in the opinions of the writers.

  It grieved me to read about the unreliability of native peoples. How could anyone presume to judge the hearts and minds of others when they do not know them, have not passed even one day in their company? On the other hand, it was every newspaper editor’s job to attract readers to current news, stories and debates. Londoners certainly enjoyed their gossip, and there could be no doubt that my return from the Arctic with such unsettling news was giving people much to discuss.

  I left Russell Square and walked along Bedford Place, past the stately home of Sir John and Lady Franklin. The mistress of the house was not in residence, because she preferred to oversee the business of searching for her lost husband from her rented Spring Gardens apartments, in full view of Admiralty House. Her move to that location with her husband’s niece Sophia could not have been coincidental. The two women were well positioned for keeping an eye on the daily comings and goings of their neighbours. It may bear repeating that I was not looking forward to this meeting with John Franklin’s widow. Despite her feminine appearance and demeanour, I had always been aware of something fierce in her, and I felt with certainty that she would not hesitate to cast aside any obstacle which blocked her chosen path.

  A tall, expressionless butler opened the door to her apartments. He took my coat and hat. I had left what remained of the relics in a trunk locked in my room at the hotel. I followed the man along a wide hallway to the library where tall, multi-paned windows overlooked tired, late-season gardens. Despite the dreary time of year, however, the room was filled with light. I recalled being in this room with Lady Franklin in 1852, discussing the details of my next expedition for the Hudson’s Bay Company and search for the missing ships. Sir John Richardson had been there as well, along with Miss Cracroft. The two women were curiously inseparable; they seemed to function as one person, which made me feel somewhat befuddled when a conversation was underway. It was difficult to understand who I was really speaking to, whom I should address, with whose eyes I should make contact.

  The library was quite cluttered this time. As the years passed and the great mystery remained unsolved, the room itself seemed to have become a more frantic space. Maps, open books and documents covered every table surface, even portions of the floor. Perhaps Lady Franklin intended for me to observe the room in that condition to emphasize the fact that despite the British government’s earlier declaration that all Franklin Expedition members had perished, and regardless of the physical evidence I had brought home from the Arctic, she still believed that if the search were to continue unabated, her husband could be found alive.

  A small writing table beside the window was piled high with papers. A scuffed-looking pen and inkwell were in place, ready for the next volley of letters Jane Franklin would probably fire off to her long list of targets in her quest to find her husband. I wondered if there was any truth in the rumours that Jane herself had penned the words to the ballad “Lady Franklin’s Lament.”

  I admired the rhythm and sentiment; the poem reminded me of shanties sung by the fishermen I liked to follow around when I was a boy in Orphir:

  With a hundred seamen he sailed away

  To the frozen ocean in the month of May

  To seek a passage around the pole

  Where we poor sailors do sometimes go.

  Through cruel hardships they vainly strove

  Their ships on mountains of ice were drove…

  I was taken aback when Lady Franklin’s petite, aging figure swept into the room wearing full mourning attire. It was widely known that she had refused to dress in mourning clothes after the British government officially declared all of the men dead. Sophia Cracroft came in behind her. I was even more surprised to see Sir John Richardson, who was so conspicuously absent at Sunday’s meeting, enter close behind them, followed by one of the servants carrying a tea tray. I rose from the chair and performed a bow in the direction of the ladies. Lady Franklin did not offer me her hand. I briefly caught Sir John’s eye but he looked away.

  “Lady Franklin,” I began, “I wish to extend my deepest condolences for the tragic loss of your husband and his men. Sir John Franklin was a courageous man.” She stared at me in reply. I nodded at the niece and addressed Sir John:

  “It is good to see you today, Sir. I trust you are well.”

  “I am well enough, Dr. Rae.”

  Gone were the amiable smile, the easy manner and familiarity, the feeling of rapport between the two of us. This was the man who had sent a book containing the sonnets of Shakespeare to me from London, to help drive away times of mental boredom when I was wintering in the Arctic. I am certain that we were both aware of each other’s dismay at meeting under such uncomfortable circumstances. When we were all seated, Lady Franklin turned to face me. Her white crepe head covering emphasized the melancholy expression on her face; her appearance confirmed that she had finally recognized her husband was deceased.

>   “Dr. Rae, I shall not mince words with you this time.” This time? When did you and Miss Cracroft ever mince words with anyone, Lady Franklin?

  Her niece added, “You have returned from the Arctic with an appalling report.”

  “I have,” I agreed, addressing her aunt. “The news is indeed distressing. It was never intended to reach public ears, I can assure you — ”

  Lady Franklin’s grey eyes lit up with anger. “Do not speak to me about what should or should not have happened! You have taken to heart the useless words of savages and declared them to be truths! In the eyes of God and your countrymen, your allegations are false and unpardonable!”

  Sophia Cracroft attended to serving tea, carefully pouring cups for all present and leaving mine to the last. I glanced at Sir John, who sipped from his cup, staring into the middle distance. It struck me as ironic that John Franklin’s niece was seated in a chair positioned under a wall-mounted map of Van Diemen’s Land, where Sir John had been appointed as Lieutenant-Governor of a large British penal colony over a decade earlier. Franklin’s six-year tenure in that strange land had ended without warning, when he had been replaced and called home to Britain. There had been rumours of disagreements with the local government, and of overspending during the Franklins’ time of service in the colony. Something about the erection of numerous statues, arguments over administrative matters, along with the creation of elaborate and expensive social programs for female convicts. There had been murmurings about Lady Franklin and her husband’s niece undertaking costly expeditions to climb mountains and so forth. Of course, it was all hearsay.

  Lady Franklin continued: “I have held vigil for my husband for nine long years. I know him better than anyone on God’s earth. Even you are aware of his impeccable record and moral superiority during times of great hardship. He would never, ever, stoop to such depravity.” She glanced at her niece, who added: “Nor would he ever allow his men to do the same.”

  “You have lost your mind,” Lady Franklin declared. “Even if you publicly admit to your foolish belief in the words of savages, it is too late now. The damage has been done, and you alone must be held accountable for all of this nonsense.”

  “Lady Franklin, I understand the depth of your sorrow — ”

  She leapt from her chair, a furious blush washing over her pale face, her fists balled at her sides. “You — Doctor Rae — understand nothing! You have been living among those natives for too long. You have always been an outsider here in London. How dare you presume to know realities beyond your own primitive Scottish borders, or anything about how devout and educated Englishmen think?”

  “Dr. Rae, who can say with certainty that your Esquimaux friends didn’t murder our men, steal their property and then sell it to you?” hissed the niece.

  I shook my head. “I am disappointed to hear those harsh and shameful thoughts coming from seasoned travellers such as you, Lady Franklin, and you, Miss Cracroft,” I retorted.

  I had come to the meeting expecting a challenge, but I bristled at this personal attack on my Orcadian origins. Not so long ago, Jane Franklin and Sophia Cracroft had showered me with flattery, hoping I would set aside my many other responsibilities and devote all of my time to searching for the lost expedition. Now I was being accused of uncivilized and, even worse, untrustworthy conduct.

  At that moment I realized it was futile for me to remain in that hostile room, attempting to defend myself against such vicious attacks. I placed my hands upon my knees, preparing to rise. “I stand by my report. It is most unfortunate that the authorities have inexplicably chosen to disseminate confidential information to the British public.

  “To be honest,” I continued, surprised that despite my usual reticence about engaging in confrontations, a spirited rebuttal came to me so readily, “this circus of accusations is quite regrettable, a terrible disservice to the great numbers of courageous Royal Navy men who have perished in the Arctic. The Esquimaux and I have reported the truth. I too am deeply concerned that the information has been released to the public.” I glanced again at Sophia Cracroft, who sat motionless and frowning, teacup in one hand and saucer in the other, with her generous skirts arranged perfectly around her. “I suggest that you consider questioning the motives of the authorities. Ask them why they passed along my private report to the Times. To divert public attention from other, pressing British military activities abroad, perhaps.” I clasped my hands together. “The current war in the Crimean Peninsula comes to mind…”

  Sir John Richardson cleared his throat, placed his teacup and saucer on the table and stood up, making it clear that he wanted to be somewhere else — anywhere, at this time. He bowed to Lady Franklin and her niece, briefly nodded in my direction and, wordless, he left the room. As I watched him leaving, it occurred to me that his swift exit was a clear enough message that he was taking the Admiralty’s dismissive side in the conflict. As much as he was turning his back on me, though, he wasn’t offering a helping hand to Lady Franklin in that tense moment. Her scowl followed him.

  Just as Sir John left, another man entered. His long, intelligent-looking face, curly brown hair, sharp eyes and wide brow were familiar, but in the heat of the moment I could not think of his name. He removed his tall hat and took Richardson’s empty chair in response to a flustered, welcoming gesture from Lady Franklin. She collected herself, straightened her skirts, and offered a weak smile to the new arrival.

  “Dr. Rae, meet the celebrated novelist and champion of British social justice, Mr. Charles Dickens.” There was no handshake, no greeting, just a vague nod of heads.

  Dickens stood and stepped towards me, his expression serious. “Dr. Rae, my dear friend Lady Franklin has requested my presence here today. She believes it is important for me to meet you personally and advise you of her — of our — concern about the veracity of your very damning, public report.”

  I wondered just how long these two people had been close friends, and if there were some kind of mutual plan afoot. I could not resist asking an impudent question: “Mr. Dickens, have you been following this story for the last nine years? I have been unaware of your involvement in discussions about the mystery.”

  His reply was crisp. “Dr. Rae, I believe you have been far away in an alien land for a very long time. I should be surprised if you were kept abreast of anything of much consequence in this country. I can assure you that I have remained well informed by Lady Franklin and numerous sources over the years.”

  Lady Franklin interrupted: “Charles dear, Dr. Rae shall not be staying for very long today, so rather than stretch this into an historical discussion, perhaps we should address our immediate concerns.”

  “Very well.” Dickens approached the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He leaned forward and peered outside, as if he were inspecting something of interest in the dying gardens below. He turned around and faced me: “My good man, you should know that I have taken the plight of poor Lady Franklin and her fellow sufferers very much to heart. I must do what I can to question your sources of information in this mysterious, so-called private, report.” He cleared his throat. “As a result of spending so much time in such a remote part of the world, it is unlikely that you have heard of my popular weekly journal, Household Words.”

  My back stiffened at the mention of his journal, realizing that the dissemination of widespread publicity against the Esquimaux and me was on the minds of Lady Franklin, Miss Cracroft and Mr. Dickens. “Of course I have! Correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Dickens, but is it not the one featuring gossip and matters pertaining to the management of domestic staff, in addition to the analysis of the social misdeeds of British citizens?” It is not in my nature to be sarcastic, but I could not help myself.

  Dickens’ eyes widened. He glanced at Lady Franklin, who in turn looked to Miss Cracroft, at a loss for words. Dickens’ rebuttal was swift. “I am insulted, Dr. Rae! My weekly journal is much, much more than you imply! Household Words has a conscience, for heaven’s sake
! We publish writing of exceptional quality. We explore essential human matters concerning health, education, welfare and social justice. It is a widely read and highly respected publication. By coincidence, I have last week’s issue here…” He reached for his bag. I raised my hands, to stop him from extracting a copy of the periodical and giving it to me. “Not just now, thank you. I have enough books and papers at this time.”

  Jane Franklin’s voice suddenly became something approaching a shriek. “Dr. Rae! Mr. Dickens and I remain unconvinced about the reliability of the native testimony you documented about my husband, his ships and his men. Will you at least have the courtesy of responding to Mr. Dickens’ concern about your report?”

  “Lady Franklin, I should point out that there was no mention of names in the Esquimaux testimony because, naturally, the natives did not know the identities of any of the men they saw. No one knows when or how your husband died. I have made my position on the whole matter clear to Sir James Graham and the members of the Arctic Council. Yes, I do trust my sources. The Esquimaux have never given me a reason to doubt the intelligence they pass along to me. I will always stand by the veracity of my report, every word of it. To say I am disappointed that its contents have been made public knowledge is an understatement.”

  No one responded to what I had just said, so I moved towards the door. “Good day, Lady Franklin. Good day, Mr. Dickens. Miss Cracroft.” Sophia appeared at my side as I reached for the door handle. She glowered at me and spoke through clenched teeth.

  “You will pay for this folly, Dr. Rae. I promise you will pay dearly.”

  “Wait a moment!” Jane Franklin had leapt from her chair. She took up her black skirts and rushed towards me. Her eyes looked startled, panic-filled. “Where are my husband’s belongings? His award, his crest, his plate, his…” she paused, shaking, “… his silver cutlery. Where are our things? Do you have them?” She saw that I carried no satchel, and she lifted a trembling hand to her lips. In that moment, when she dropped her mask of anger and defiance and revealed her grief, I felt sympathy for her.