by Dan Simmons
Franklin had been in a sort of dread that during their travels on the continent they might run into that Roget fellow — Peter Mark, the one who gained some sort of literary attention by preparing to publish that silly dictionary or whatever it was — the same man who had once asked for Jane Griffin’s hand, only to be rejected like all the other suitors had been in her younger years. Franklin had since peeked into Jane’s diaries from that era — he rationalized his crime by thinking that she wanted him to find and read the many calfskin-bound volumes, why otherwise would she have left them in such an obvious place? — and saw, in his beloved’s tight, perfect hand, the passage she had written on the day Roget had finally married someone else — “the romance of my life is gone.”
Robert Hood had been making noises with Greenstockings for six endless arctic nights when his fellow midshipman George Back returned from a hunting party with the Indians. The two men arranged a duel to the death at sunrise — around 10:00 a.m. — the next morning.
Franklin had not known what to do. The corpulent lieutenant was unable to exert any discipline over the surly voyageurs or the contemptuous Indians, much less able to control the headstrong Hood or the impulsive Back.
Both midshipmen were artists and mapmakers. From that time on, Franklin had never trusted an artist. When the sculptor in Paris did Lady Jane’s hands and the perfumed sodomite here in London had come for almost a month to paint her official oil portrait, Franklin had never left the men alone with her.
Back and Hood were meeting at dawn for a duel to the death and there was nothing John Franklin could do but hide in the cabin and pray that the resulting death or injury would not destroy the last vestige of sanity in his already compromised expedition. His orders had not specified that he should bring food on the 1,200-mile arctic overland, coastal sea, and river trek. Out of his own pocket, he’d provided enough supplies to feed the sixteen men for one day. Franklin had assumed the Indians would then hunt for them and feed them adequately, just as the guides carried his bags and paddled his birch-bark canoe.
The birch-bark canoes had been a mistake. Twenty-three years after the fact, he was willing to concede that — to himself, at least. After just a few days in the ice-clogged waters along the northern coast, reached more than a year and a half after their departure from Fort Resolution, the flimsy vessels had started to come apart.
Franklin, his eyes closed, his brow burning, his head throbbing, half-listening to the uninterrupted stream of Jane’s chatter, remembered the morning when he’d lain in his heavy sleeping bag and squeezed his eyes shut as Back and Hood had stepped off their fifteen paces outside the cabin, then turned to fire. The confounded Indians and confounded voyageurs — equally savage in many ways — were treating the duel to the death as entertainment. Greenstockings, Franklin remembered, was radiant that morning with an almost erotic glow.
Lying in his bag, his hands over his ears, Franklin still heard the call to pace, the call to turn, the call to aim, the command to fire.
Then two clicks. Then laughter from the crowd.
During the night, the old Scottish seaman calling the pacing, that tough and ungentlemanly John Hepburn, had unloaded charge and balls from the carefully prepared pistols.
Deflated by the unceasing laughter of the mob of voyageurs and knee-slapping Indians, Hood and Back had stalked off in opposite directions. Shortly after that, Franklin ordered George Back to return to the forts to purchase more provisions from the Hudson’s Bay Company. Back was gone most of the winter.
Franklin had eaten his shoes and had subsisted on lichen scraped from rocks — a slime meal that would make a self-respecting English dog vomit — but he had never partaken of human flesh.
A long year after the forestalled duel, in Richardson’s party after Franklin’s group had separated from it, that surly, half-mad Iroquois on the expedition, Michel Teroahaute, shot the midshipman artist and mapmaker Robert Hood in the centre of his forehead.
A week before the murder, the Indian had brought back a strong-tasting haunch of meat to the starving party, insisting that it had come from a wolf that had either been gored to death by a caribou or killed by Teroahaute himself using a deer horn — the Indian’s story kept changing. The ravenous party had cooked and eaten the meat, but not before Dr. Richardson noticed a slight hint of a tattoo on the skin. The doctor later told Franklin that he was certain that Teroahaute had doubled back to the body of one of the voyageurs who had died that week on the trek.
The starving Indian and the dying Hood were alone when Richardson, off scraping lichen from the rocks, had heard the shot. Suicide, Teroahaute had insisted, but Dr. Richardson, who had attended on more than a few suicides, knew that the position of the ball in Robert Hood’s brain had not come from a self-inflicted gunshot.
Now the Indian armed himself with a British bayonet, a musket, two fully charged and half-cocked pistols, and a knife as long as his forearm. The two non-Indians remaining — Hepburn and Richardson — had only a small pistol and one untrustworthy musket between them.
Richardson, now one of the most respected scientists and surgeons in England, friend of the poet Robert Burns, but then only a promising expedition surgeon and naturalist, waited until Michel Teroahaute returned from a foraging trip, made sure his arms were full of firewood, and then lifted his pistol and cold-bloodedly shot the Indian through the head.
Dr. Richardson later admitted to eating the dead Hood’s buffalo robe, but neither Hepburn nor Richardson — the only survivors of their party — ever mentioned what else they might have eaten in the next week of arduous trekking during their return to Fort Enterprise.
At Fort Enterprise, Franklin and his party were too weak to stand or walk. Richardson and Hepburn seemed strong in comparison.
He might be the man who had eaten his shoes, but John Franklin had never …
“Cook is preparing roast beef tonight, my darling. Your favorite. Since she’s new — I am certain that the Irish woman was padding our accounts, stealing is as natural as drinking to the Irish — I reminded her that you insist that it must be rare enough to bleed at the touch of the carving knife.”
Franklin, floating on an ebbing tide of fever, tried to formulate words in response, but the surges of headache, nausea, and heat were too great. He was sweating through his undershirt and still-fixed collar.
“Admiral Sir Thomas Martin’s wife sent us a delightful card today and a wonderful bouquet of flowers. She’s the last to be heard from, but I must say the roses are beautiful in the foyer. Did you see them? Did you have much time to chat with Admiral Martin at the reception? Of course, he is not that important, is he? Even as Controller of the Navy? Certainly not as distinguished as the First Lord or First Commissioners, much less your Arctic Council friends.”
Captain Sir John Franklin had many friends; everyone liked Captain Sir John Franklin. But no one respected him. For decades, Franklin acknowledged the former fact and avoided the latter, but he now knew it to be true. Everyone liked him. No one respected him.
Not after Van Diemen’s Land. Not after the Tasmanian prison and the botch he had made of that.
Eleanor, his first wife, had been dying when he left her to go on his second major expedition.
He knew she was dying. She knew she was dying. Her consumption — and the knowledge she would die from it long before her husband would die in battle or on expedition — had been with them like a third party at their wedding ceremony. In the twenty-two months of their marriage, she had given him a daughter, his only child, young Eleanor.
A small, frail woman in body — but almost frightening in spirit and energy — his first wife had told him to go on his second expedition to find the North-West Passage, this trip by land and sea to follow the North American coastline, even while she was coughing up blood and knowing that the end was near. She said that it would be better for her if he were elsewhere. He believed her. Or at least he believed that it would be better for himself.
A deep
ly religious man, John Franklin had prayed that Eleanor would die before his departure date. She hadn’t. He left on February 16, 1825, wrote his darling many letters while in transit to Great Slave Lake, posted them in New York City and Albany, and learned of her passing on April 24, at the British Naval station at Penetanguishene. She had died shortly after his ship left England.
When he returned from this expedition in 1827, Eleanor’s friend Jane Griffin was waiting for him.
The Admiralty reception had been less than a week ago — no, just precisely a week ago, before this confounded influenza. Captain Sir John Franklin and all his officers and mates from Erebus and Terror had attended, of course. So had the civilians on the expedition — Erebus’s ice master, James Reid, and Terror’s ice master, Thomas Blanky, along with the paymasters, surgeons, and pursers.
Sir John had looked dashing in his new blue swallow-tailed coat, blue gold-striped trousers, gold-fringed epaulettes, ceremonial sword, and Nelson-era cocked hat. The commander of his flagship Erebus, James Fitzjames, often called the handsomest man in the Royal Navy, looked as striking and humble as the war hero he was. Fitzjames had charmed everyone that night. Francis Crozier, as always, had looked stiff, awkward, melancholic, and slightly inebriated.
But Jane was wrong — the members of the “Arctic Council” were not Sir John’s friends. The Arctic Council, in reality, did not exist. It was an honorary society rather than a real institution, but it was also the most select Old Boys club in all of England.
They’d mingled at the reception, Franklin, his top officers, and the tall, gaunt, grey members of the legendary Arctic Council.
To gain membership to the Council, all one had to do was command an expedition to the farthest arctic north … and survive.
Viscount Melville — the first notable in the long receiving line that had left Franklin uncharacteristically sweating and tongue-tied — was First Lord of the Admiralty and the sponsor of their sponsor, Sir John Barrow. But Melville was not an old arctic hand.
The true Arctic Council legends — most in their seventies — were, to the nervous Franklin that night, more like the coven of witches in Macbeth or like some cluster of grey ghosts than like living men. Every one of these men had preceded Franklin in searching for the Passage, and all had returned alive, yet not fully alive.
Did anyone, Franklin wondered that evening, really return alive after wintering in the arctic regions?
Sir John Ross, his Scotsman’s face showing more sharp facets than an iceberg, had eyebrows leaping out like the ruffs and feathers of those penguins his nephew Sir James Clark Ross had described after his trip to the south arctic. Ross’s voice was as rough as a holystone dragged across a splintered deck.
Sir John Barrow, older than God and twice as powerful. The father of serious British arctic exploration. All others there that night, even the white-haired septuagenarians, were boys … Barrow’s boys.
Sir William Parry, a gentleman above gentlemen even when among royalty, who had tried four times to force the Passage only to watch men die and his Fury squeezed and smashed and sunk.
Sir James Clark Ross, newly knighted, was also newly wed to a wife who made him swear off any more expeditions. He would have had Franklin’s job of commander of this expedition if he’d wanted it, and both men knew it. Ross and Crozier stood slightly separate from the others, drinking and talking as softly as conspirators.
That confounded Sir George Back; Franklin hated sharing sirdom with a mere midshipman who once served under him, and a womanizer at that. On this gala night, Captain Sir John Franklin almost wished that Hepburn hadn’t taken the powder and shot out of the dueling pistols twenty-five years earlier. Back was the youngest member of the Arctic Council and seemed happier and smugger than any of the others, even after suffering the battering and near-sinking of HMS Terror.
Captain Sir John Franklin was a teetotaler, but after three hours of champagne, wine, brandy, sherry, and whiskey, the other men began to relax, the laughter around him grew stronger and the conversation in the grand hall less formal, and Franklin began to feel calmer, realizing that all this reception, all the gold buttons, silk cravats, gleaming epaulettes, fine food, cigars, and smiles were for him. This time, it was all about him.
So it was a shock when the older Ross pulled him aside almost abruptly and began to bark questions at him through the cigar smoke and the glint of candlelight off crystal.
“Franklin, why in hell’s name are you taking one hundred and thirty-four men?” rasped the holystone across rough wood.
Captain Sir John Franklin blinked. “It’s a major expedition, Sir John.”
“Too bloody major, if you ask me. It’s hard enough to get thirty men across the ice, into boats, and back to civilization when something goes wrong. A hundred thirty-four men …” The old explorer made a rude noise, clearing his throat as if he was going to spit.
Franklin smiled and nodded, wishing the old man would leave him alone.
“And your age,” continued Ross. “You’re sixty, for God’s sake.”
“Fifty-nine,” Franklin said stiffly. “Sir.”
The elder Ross smiled thinly but looked more like an iceberg than ever. “Terror is what? Three hundred thirty tons? Erebus something like three hundred seventy?”
“Three hundred seventy-two for my flagship,” said Franklin. “Three hundred twenty-six for Terror.”
“And a draft of nineteen feet each, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“That’s buggering insane, Franklin. Your ships will be the deepest draft vessels ever sent on an arctic expedition. Everything we know about those regions has shown us that the waters where you’re headed are shallow, filled with shoals, rocks, and hidden ice. My Victory only drew a fathom and a half and we couldn’t get over the bar of the harbour where we wintered. George Back all but ripped his bottom out on the ice with your Terror.”
“Both ships have been strengthened, Sir John,” said Franklin. He could feel sweat running down his ribs and chest onto his portly belly. “They’re now the strongest ice ships in the world.”
“And what is all the nonsense about steam and locomotive engines?”
“Not nonsense, m’lord,” said Franklin and could hear the condescension in his own voice. He knew nothing about steam himself, but he had two good engineers on the expedition and Fitzjames, who was part of the new Steam Navy. “These are powerful engines, Sir John. They’ll see us through the ice where sail has failed.”
Sir John Ross snorted. “Your steam machines aren’t even maritime engines, are they, Franklin?”
“No, Sir John. But they’re the best steam engines the London and Greenwich Railway could sell us. Converted for marine use. Powerful beasts, sir.”
Ross sipped his whiskey. “Powerful if you’re planning to lay down rails along the North-West Passage and take a God-damned locomotive across it.”
Franklin chuckled good-naturedly at this, but he saw no humor in the comment and the obscenity offended him deeply. He often could not tell when others were being humorous, and he had no sense of humor himself.
“But not really so powerful,” continued Ross. “That one-point-five-ton machine they crammed into the hold of your Erebus only produces twenty-five horsepower. Crozier’s engine is less efficient … twenty horsepower, maximum. The ship that’s towing you beyond Scotland — Rattler — produces two hundred twenty horsepower with its smaller steam engine. It’s a marine engine, built for sea.”
Franklin had nothing to say to that, so he smiled. To fill the silence he signaled a passing waiter carrying glasses of champagne. Then, since it was against all his principles to drink alcohol, all he could do was stand there holding the glass, occasionally glancing at the flattening champagne, and wait for some opportunity to get rid of it without being noticed.
“Think of all the extra provisions you could have crammed in the holds of your two ships if those damned engines weren’t there,” persisted Ross.
Sir John Ross’s pale eyes gleamed coldly. “Victory was crushed like an egg by the ice, Franklin. Fancy steam heat wouldn’t have helped that, would it?”
Franklin looked around, trying to catch Fitzjames’s eye. Even Crozier’s. Anyone to come to his rescue. No one seemed to notice the old Sir John and the fat Sir John huddled here in such earnest, if one-sided, conversation. A waiter passed, and Franklin set his untouched glass of champagne on his tray. Ross studied Franklin through slitted eyes.
“And how much coal does it take just to heat one of your ships for a day up there?” pressed the old Scotsman.
“Oh, I don’t really know, Sir John,” said Franklin with a winning smile. He really did not know. Nor especially care. The engineers were in charge of the steam engines and coal. The Admiralty would have planned well for them.
“I know,” said Ross. “You’ll use up to one hundred fifty pounds of coal a day just to keep the hot water moving to heat the crew’s quarters. Half a ton of your precious coal a day just to keep steam up. If you’re under way — expect about four knots out of those ugly bombardment ships — you’ll be burning two to three tons of coal a day. Much more if you’re trying to force your way through pack ice. How much coal are you carrying, Franklin?”
Captain Sir John waved his hand in what he realized was a dismissive — and almost effeminate — gesture. “Oh, somewhere around two hundred tons, m’lord.”
Ross squinted again. “Ninety tons each for Erebus and Terror, to be precise,” he rasped. “And that’s when you’re topped off in Greenland, before you cross Baffin Bay, much less get into the real ice.”
