Finding John Rae

by Hamilton, Alice Jane;

  “In fact,” he continued, “it thoroughly delights me to see a fellow Scot exceed English expectations in the arts and sciences. The English can be quite a foolish lot. Full of their own importance, in my opinion. You were the recipient of the Royal Geographic Society Founder’s Gold Medal in 1852, is that correct?”

  “Yes. I surveyed and charted a stretch of the North American coastline.”

  McIntosh grinned. “The gossips reported that although you were in Great Britain when the award was bestowed, you absented yourself from the ceremony.”

  “Aye, that is true,” I replied, surprised that he knew such a trifling detail. “I was at home in Orkney with my family, and on a fishing excursion with a small group there, actually. To be honest, being awarded the medal was a great honour, but I have a tendency to feel somewhat awkward at formal occasions. I find the atmosphere a bit on the fussy side, and London was a long way to go for an hour-long ceremony.” We both smiled at that remark. I sipped the tea slowly, breathing in the soothing vapours.

  “One more thing, if you don’t think me too nosy,” he said. “I heard that McGill University in Montreal, Canada, conferred an Honorary Doctor of Medicine degree upon you last year.”

  I nodded, embarrassed now.

  “Congratulations, Sir,” he said. “Tell me, were you able to be present for that ceremony?”

  “It, too, was a great honour, but I was travelling in the Arctic at the time.” I felt sheepish. Thus far, my record for turning up at special occasions was less than impressive.

  “John, you are a level-headed man with an enviable reputation. I trust that the terrible news you learned from the Esquimaux is, in fact, true. I will wager that you never intended for it to become public knowledge.”

  “Thank you, Gerald, for your confidence in me. I tried to prevent the news from being released — ”

  He interrupted me, displeasure clouding his cheerful expression. “The Arctic Council and Parliament have made a mess of it all, John. They never really understood what they were up against in the Arctic. Such a shame. So many lives lost to no purpose.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree, Sir.”

  I have spent more time in solitude with my own thoughts than in easy conversation with others and, sensing this, Gerald led our discussion with enthusiasm. No doubt he was feeling quite energized by the notion of harbouring an unexpected fugitive from public scrutiny. The story, as he may have perceived it, was a jolly good one but I could also see that he possessed an empathetic character and that along with being a bit too earnest, he was well-meaning.

  “As you know all too well, John, Lady Franklin has fostered nothing short of a public frenzy about the mystery of the missing Franklin Expedition. She is quite simply driving everyone mad with her obsession. Of course, the loss of the ships and men is tragic, and I do sympathize with her, but now that your Arctic findings are being released, I fear she will try and turn the situation around to her own advantage. She would certainly not be above casting suspicion on your report about cannibalism by questioning your professional credibility as a man who consorts with natives, not to mention the integrity of your sources. Her priority will be to clear her husband’s good name and consign him to the annals of British exploration history as the best there ever was. And who knows what other mischief she will get up to? My unsolicited advice to you is to ignore her, if you possibly can.” He cleared his throat and sipped his tea.

  I put my teacup and saucer on the table, rose again and began to pace, pausing at the window. The image of my body hanging from a hastily constructed gallows flashed across my mind. I silently admonished myself for momentarily entertaining such a ridiculous and dramatic thought.

  I turned to face him. “For years I have sympathized with Lady Franklin’s plight, but the Admiralty and the politicians weren’t the only ones she pestered over the years. She wouldn’t leave me alone either.” I paused, uncertain about the wisdom of making a disparaging comment about her to someone I did not know well, or indeed, to anyone at all.

  I reached into my pocket and felt the edges of the envelope, anxious to open it privately somewhere, wondering if it contained a letter from her. “I won’t be surprised if I hear from Lady Franklin soon,” I said. “She will not have pleasant words for me. To be honest, it has been difficult for me to remain patient in my dealings with her…” I hesitated about saying anything more to my companion.

  “Whatever you say in this room today remains here, John. Your words will go no further than these four walls.”

  “Well,” I offered, “Jane Franklin never seemed to notice that as a chief factor for the Hudson’s Bay Company, I was tasked with many other responsibilities, including overseeing the fur trade business in the Arctic. Planning, mounting and leading every survey expedition took at least a year, which she felt was far too long. Why, in 1848, she even tried to join Sir John Richardson and me on a long search expedition to find the missing men, but to my great relief, my colleague dissuaded her from coming with us.”

  “How extraordinary!” Gerald exclaimed. “We’ve got to at least give the woman credit for being fearless! Can you imagine what it would have been like to climb icy mountains with her? How very awkward!” he shuddered.

  “You know,” I said, “Jane Franklin went as far as to visit my elderly mother in Stromness three years ago, although I am quite certain that she had little interest in my family. I am convinced it was an attempt to gain attention from the press, the public and from the authorities in London.”

  Gerald looked amused. “No doubt most Orcadians were none too pleased with her arrival! Such a persistent and nervous disposition. Tell me, was her omnipresent companion Sophia Cracroft with her?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Oh, my.” Gerald frowned, and drew from his pipe. “Your poor mother.”

  “Aye, my poor mother. The two women probably think of Orcadians as primitive, simple creatures. Hardly the equals of the sophisticated circle of people with whom they surround themselves,” I added.

  “Orkneymen are made of superior stock. Just consider their strong Viking roots. They are a proud, unsinkable lot, in my opinion.”

  I took measured steps back and forth across the room, because walking had always felt more natural to me than sitting. My nerves were frayed, so I felt an even stronger impulse to keep moving. I stroked my beard and attempted a half-joke: “I suppose in the eyes of Lady Franklin and her London society crowd, I am not just a half-savage Scot, like you, Gerald. I am a two-thirds savage Scot who ‘went native’ in the Arctic, and became a fully-fledged hairy beast at that!”

  He chuckled at the notion.

  “John, have you heard the story about Lady Franklin and the ghost?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Apparently Lady Franklin and her niece were visited by a retired sea captain here in London, who claims that the ghost of his deceased daughter appeared before her living siblings one night with the news that Sir John is alive and trapped in sea ice near Victoria Island. The apparition declared that she had seen him and the missing ships.”

  “Good God! If I weren’t a scientist, I should shiver at that one!” Jane Franklin hadn’t a clue about what a real ghost is. I had seen far too many of them in my Arctic travels as a physician, fur trader and explorer: the cold, the hungry and the dying. Their stricken faces and dull, sunken eyes would be forever etched in my memory.

  My restlessness was building. This thoughtful companion meant well, but I felt too unsettled to remain in the room and engage in conversation with the crowds calling my name below. It was time for me to leave the Royal Society, although I had no idea of how to escape unnoticed.

  “Thank you very much, Gerald, for your kindness and hospitality, but I must really take my leave now and disappear somewhere in this crowded city. I will need time to collect my thoughts, and…”

  A brief shadow of disappointment swept across Gerald’s face, but he quickly recovered his countenance of good cheer, and he
was gracious about my abrupt announcement. He rose and waved a hand towards the locked door. “Of course, I do understand your discomfort, John. You have weathered a terrible gale during your recent sea crossing, and I fear you have been dropped into a tempest at home.”

  We shook hands. “Come with me,” he said. “I will call for my carriage so you may be swiftly delivered to a destination of your choice. No one will know where the driver has taken you.”

  “Good sir, I can walk. My bags are at a hotel in Covent Garden. I think I will move to another place of lodging today. Travelling on foot is no hardship — ”

  “I will not hear of it, John. My driver will help you pick up your things in Covent Garden and take you wherever you wish to go. That blasted crowd is not going to disperse anytime soon. Come, make your exit from the rear of this building, away from prying eyes. I shall personally escort you.”

  He unlocked the reading-room door and requested the immediate delivery of his carriage to the rear. We stood together beside the window for a moment, out of the crowd’s sight. Shouts and chattering rose from below; I winced as I heard my name being called. We used the servants’ staircase to reach the exit. Gerald’s driver was waiting, reins in hand, as instructed. The sky remained a dark, leaden grey, but the rain had stopped, at least for now. Gerald paused before closing the carriage door, looked me directly in the eye and offered a broad smile of reassurance.

  “I have not seen you on this day, John.”

  “Good day to you, Gerald, and God bless you for this.”

  The driver snapped the reins and we disappeared, unnoticed, into the crowded streets of London. We picked up my things from the Covent Garden Hotel and proceeded in the direction of another hotel, in the Russell Square area. Once we were on our way, I retrieved the mystery envelope from my pocket, curious to see whom the feminine handwriting belonged to, and what message it held. I was not surprised to discover who had authored it:

  Lady Franklin

  4 Spring Gardens, London

  Dr. John Rae:

  Lady Franklin requests that you join her for tea at her rooms in

  Park Gardens, on Tuesday, October 24th, at four o’clock p.m.

  Please reply to this invitation at your earliest convenience.

  Sincerely,

  Sophia Cracroft

  The last two people on earth I wished to see were the widow of Sir John Franklin and her husband’s niece, Sophia Cracroft, but it would have been unfair to ignore them altogether, and it was an appropriate gesture for me to personally offer my sympathies. It was highly doubtful but I hoped Jane Franklin would grant me just a few moments to explain my belief in the Esquimaux testimony, and that she would somehow accept that I had never intended for the report to be published. I knew, however, that the chances of her believing the words of the Esquimaux, or listening to my side of the story, were slim at best. Nevertheless, I decided that as soon as I reached my new lodgings, I would dispatch a reply to Miss Cracroft, accepting Lady Franklin’s invitation. For the most part, it is wiser to stand your ground and defend your position in the face of criticism than to run away from it.

  Gerald McIntosh’s carriage driver delivered me to a spot behind the university, next to the rear entrance of the hotel. I was in no mood to pause at the hotel pub for a meal and visit with Sam the pubmaster, as was my usual custom. The staff at the Tavistock knew me well; I was a quiet guest, and I always paid a good reward in exchange for discretion and privacy. I greeted Neil, the manager, at the reception desk, and asked him if we could speak in private. He led me into his office and closed the door.

  He looked uncomfortable, embarrassed. Like many others, he was surely shocked and dismayed to hear that a number of Franklin’s starving men had been forced to resort to such desperate measures in an attempt to prolong their lives. He probably wondered — although he would never ask it directly of me — if the story were really true. He was a good fellow, but I had neither the energy nor the desire to discuss the matter with him or anyone else at that time. Perhaps he felt the same way. Rather than pretend that this was a morning like any other, I decided to make a brief reference to the awkward subject and end it right there.

  I looked down at him; he was almost a foot shorter than me. “Neil, I presume you have read the news about the fate of the Franklin Expedition in this morning’s papers?”

  He lowered his eyes to the desk and nodded. “Yes, Sir, I have.”

  “You see,” I continued, “the most distressing elements of the report were supposed to remain private. It is deeply unfortunate that they have become public knowledge.” He nodded in agreement.

  “Neil, I wish to stay here anonymously for at least ten nights, and with this morning’s news, I am sure you can understand why. Would you please record my name as William Hamilton on your list of lodgers?”

  “Certainly. Will you be taking your meals in your room then, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Yes. I should like a room on the top floor, with a view to the Square, and a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door. And one more thing. Please bring me hot water, extra soap and drying cloths.”

  I had decided to use the surname Hamilton, because my sister Marion was married to John Hamilton of Hoy, Orkney, and the name was hardly uncommon in London. I chose the name William for a personal reason. Nine years earlier, while I was busy working in the Arctic and just months before the Erebus and Terror sailed out of Stromness, my beloved older brother, William Glen Rae, shot himself through the head with his rifle. He had not been much of a correspondent, but I had heard that he seemed to have settled in well with his wife and four children at his newly established Hudson’s Bay Company depot in Yerba Buena, California, a Spanish settlement which became known as San Francisco two years after his death. Will was four years my senior, a giant of a fellow who could make me dissolve in tears of laughter anytime he pleased. As a boy, I followed him everywhere, sometimes to his chagrin. I could never understand why William, my hero, would take his life — all because he had been unfaithful to his wife. Was there more to the story than we had been told? I would always mourn the loss of Will. I wanted to feel him near me, even if only in name.

  Neil excused himself for a few moments, and returned with a key. “It is done, Sir. I shall personally assist you with your bags, if you will follow me.”

  I clutched the satchel as I followed the manager up the stairway. Neil had said, “It is done.” The simple phrase struck me at that moment, and I thought of Orkney.

  “Tara Gott,” I said.

  Neil turned around. “I beg your pardon, Sir?”

  “Just a little catch in my throat.”

  Once I was alone, I removed my hat, overcoat and boots, opened the window to admit the cool late-October air and poured kettles of steaming water, delivered by Neil, into the tub. I vigorously scrubbed my skin until it was pink, as if to remove the stains of my humiliation. Afterwards, I reclined on the bed and closed my burning eyes.

  I had invested more than twenty years of my life in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company and the Crown, forging new trails and lining the pockets of my employers and countrymen. By and large, I believed I had conducted my business with integrity and respect for others, on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. It was no secret that the Company and the British government had their petty differences of opinion about how to administer their expanding interests in North America. It was natural for governments and private enterprises to disagree on matters of land holdings, profits, leadership and so on. I had never been much concerned about these sorts of things, but now that the Admiralty had turned its back on me, I did not know who I could trust in high places, other than Sir George. I turned onto my side, drew my knees to my chest, and wept bitter tears of anger and injury, the first I had shed since William’s untimely death. I tried in vain to shut off repetitive thoughts and let sleep take over, but my mind refused to be still.

  Members of the Arctic Council had scarcely met my eyes at Admiralty House, as if an unpleasan
t odour clung to my clothes. It was well known that a number of them had come perilously close to starving to death during their own Arctic expeditions. Had they simply forgotten about the terrible pain and confusion which accompany extreme cold and hunger? Or that it can drive a person mad? A perfectly rational man can lose his mind as starvation robs him of his flesh, his organs, his thoughts. Sir John Franklin himself, the brave Arctic hero praised by Englishmen as “the man who ate his boots,” had published a book describing his own experience of extreme deprivation in 1821 near the Coppermine River, and his miraculous rescue by the Yellowknife natives.

  In my view, there was a critical difference between the members of the Arctic Council and the unfortunate men of the Erebus and Terror: no one I met with at Admiralty House had, in fact, reached the final stage of starvation. This good fortune applied to me as well. On one journey when an early winter had set in and there was no wildlife to be trapped, shot or caught for food, I experienced the pain of my body consuming its own fat and muscle tissue before I was able to reach a Hudson’s Bay Company depot. After that episode, I returned to Orkney for a rest. I will never forget the shocked look on my mother’s face when she gazed upon my altered form. She clenched her teeth, and announced to our family and neighbours that I was thereafter not permitted to set even one foot in the Arctic ever again! Mam was a wise woman and a wonderful mother, but her five sons were never very good at listening to her admonitions.

  Had my own deprivation gone on longer, I would have perhaps known first-hand the panic that settles in after a long period of being cold, lost and wasting away. Could any of my countrymen — regardless of their education, religion or beliefs — be absolutely certain that they would never resort to extreme measures in order to prolong their lives? Rescue could, in fact, be just moments away. For the surviving men of the Franklin party, there had been months and years of prayers but no rescue or release from the agonies of certain starvation.