Finding John Rae

by Hamilton, Alice Jane;

  A Royal Navy document retrieved by one of McClintock’s men from a stone cairn at Victory Point — on the northwest coast of King William Island — proved to be of great value in piecing together the mystery of the party’s disappearance. In May 1847, Lieutenant Graham Gore of the Erebus had noted on the standard-form document that although the two ships were beset in ice, there was no great cause for concern. He had added, “Sir John Franklin commanding the expedition. All well.” But the men’s situation must have dramatically deteriorated after the note was cached in the cairn.

  By the following year, all was clearly not well. On April 25, 1848, the document had apparently been retrieved from the cairn and annotated in the margins by a member of the crew: “Sir John Franklin died on the 11th June 1847; and the total loss by deaths in the expedition to this date has been 9 officers and 15 men.” What on earth had caused so many deaths — including the commander — in two years? It was unfortunate that the author of the note provided no information about what had killed the men. Perhaps the reasons for such a great number of deaths in a short period of time had been as much of a mystery to the men of the Erebus and Terror as it was to others when the record was found and published.

  If that melancholy news were not disturbing enough, the next line quoted in the Times was bone-chilling in light of what had been previously revealed to me by the Esquimaux I had interviewed. According to the annotated document, the Erebus and Terror had later been “deserted” by the crews. Terror captain Francis Moira Rawdon Crozier had then begun leading one hundred and five “souls” south, in search of rescue: “— and start (on) to-morrow, 26th, for Back’s Fish River.” I pressed my palm to my brow and sighed. “Back’s Fish River,” I said aloud, recalling the Esquimaux’ stories about seeing marching Kabloonans in 1854.

  Those poor Royal Navy men had indeed been trying to get to the mouth of Back’s Great Fish River in 1850, just as In-nook had told us, with Francis Crozier in command. I recalled my difficult meeting with Sir James Graham at Admiralty House. He asked me if I had any ideas concerning the identity of the officer found under the overturned boat at the place where many men died, and I had replied that I did not. In the absence of a body, it was pointless to engage in conjecture about who may have been the last of the British men to fall. Identities were of no consequence anyway, because at the end of a torturous attempt to reach safety, all of them had suffered unspeakable hardship and perished.

  Sir John Franklin, commander of the expedition, had died in June 1847, when John Richardson and I were in the Arctic searching for the ships and men. At least he had been spared the agony of that terrible death march. How I wished Sir John Richardson and I — or anyone at all — had managed to save them. Waves of melancholy washed over me, and I was once again reminded of the darkness in my heart.

  Her Majesty awarded Captain McClintock £3,000 and a knighthood. I was sorely disappointed when a short time later, he suddenly declared himself to have been the first person to ascertain the fate of the Franklin Expedition. To my horror, Sir John Richardson publicly agreed with him, as if my findings had never happened. What in God’s name caused the Admiralty to forget the truth, which was my own discovery in 1854, and for which they had awarded me £10,000?

  When I read that McClintock’s absurd announcement went unchallenged, I was even more infuriated. It was disappointingly clear that a member of the Royal Navy stood much taller than anyone else in the eyes of the Crown. There was nothing to be done about politics in London, however, and by then my eyes were looking ahead to life as a married man who would one day — soon, I hoped — be the proud father of a good number of little Raes.

  Toronto

  [JANUARY 25, 1860]

  A tremendous snowstorm was well underway when I slipped a gold wedding ring onto the slender finger of Catherine Jane Alicia Thompson at St. James Cathedral. The cavernous church was icy cold, but our mutual joy warmed the group of family members who gathered there to witness our marriage ceremony. Just over two years had passed since Kate and I first spotted each other — in that very building — on a sunny October morning.

  After the reception, we lay in each other’s arms in a grand suite at the Rossin House Hotel on King Street, watching the snowflakes swirling outside the hotel window. We laughed about how my life had now changed from sleeping in self-constructed snow houses, with howling winds and –50° temperatures outside.

  “You know,” I mused, “I liked living in the Arctic wilderness. There were periods of utter silence, broken by the sounds of ice cracking, the calls of migrating geese, the howling of wolves, barking foxes, thundering hooves of migrating caribou many miles in the distance. The Esquimaux say they can hear hissing and crackling sounds made by the aurora borealis.”

  “Really? Is it possible that northern lights can be heard?”

  “I’ve listened for it, Katie, but I’ve never heard it myself. Quite extraordinary, when you think about it. I wonder if they have a heightened sensitivity to sound, because their survival has always depended on it.”

  Kate stroked my beard with the back of her hand. “Tell me about walking on snowshoes, dear. They resemble paddles more than shoes to my eyes, but you have travelled hundreds of miles on them. What did it feel like to walk on top of the snow, Mr. Arctic Fox?”

  “You can sprint when the load is light and the snow is soft enough, but you have to be careful about where you place the shoes with each step. If the surface is crusty, it’s easy to lose your balance, and the strands of fine leather mesh can snap occasionally. I made my own snowshoes under the guidance of the natives. Come to think of it, Kate, we are both skilled at sewing. You produce award-winning needlework, and I have been known to work well with leather and beads!”

  She half sat up, her sea-glass eyes twinkling. “But how on earth can a person walk on paddles?”

  I laughed. “You’ve seen my snowshoes. The tips of them are turned up, for traction. You set off at a steady pace by pushing off with your toes, and lifting up the front of your feet. The rest just seems to follow along. Someday, you can try it for yourself. We’ll have a race against one another!”

  “Oh, I think I would be terrible at doing that! You’d just leave me lying at the starting line, on freezing clouds of snow!” Her face turned serious. “Tell me, though: what was it about walking on snow and ice for thousands of miles in the far north that you loved so much? At least, enough that you waited until now to settle down?”

  I looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “I am not sure I can describe it, really.”

  “Try anyway.”

  “Well, I think a long day’s march on snowshoes is about the finest exercise a man can take, Katie. For me, the feeling of moving forward at a fast pace is exhilarating.”

  She giggled. “Does it make you feel strong?”

  “Yes, and healthy, alive. The further I walk or travel on snowshoes, the more rhythmic it becomes, and I can cover long distances before any sort of fatigue sets in. My body seems to recall a set of instructions when I’m moving like that, and I lose my sense of time.”

  “What do you think about?”

  “To be honest, I don’t think about much at all. The past doesn’t exist when I’m walking on the snow, nor does the future, come to think of it. The moment is on my mind, along with how to navigate the next bend, where rocky obstacles may be hiding under layers of snow, the position of the sledge I’m dragging behind me, all those sorts of immediate things. I am more alert when I’m on the move; my senses are heightened to what’s around me. When I’m not travelling alone, my habit is to think about the others travelling with me, listening to the sounds of their breathing, checking on them, so I know where they are and the condition they’re in.”

  “And when the weather’s especially harsh?”

  “D’you mean when it’s blowing a gale and the ice is driving needles into your eyes?”

  “Yes. What kinds of thoughts are you having then?”

  “Placing o
ne foot in front of the other, and keeping my head down as much as I can without falling on my face.”

  “Do you think you draw pleasure from physical hardship, John?”

  “Aye, I suppose I do, love. Stretching beyond my limits of endurance is like a drug for me, as strange as it may sound.”

  She kissed me then, and suddenly, I was thinking about nothing else at all.

  London

  [APRIL 1860]

  “John dear, our European honeymoon has seemed like a most wonderful dream.” Kate was gazing out the window of our hotel room in Kensington, watching the continuous parade of horses, carriages and pedestrians flowing by.

  “You know, I never felt settled in Hamilton,” she said. “When my parents told me we’d be moving to Canada West after Papa’s retirement, I was miserable. This side of the Atlantic is where I feel at home. Everything over there seems so new and boring, so lacking in character and history…”

  “Well, North America is still undergoing major settlement, Katie. But I agree with you. Although I like having family nearby in Hamilton, there’s an absence of antiquity in the buildings and on the streets. I wonder if we should consider settling over here. I don’t know about living in London…” I kissed her. “How about Orkney?” I held my breath and waited for her response. She pulled away, surprised.

  “Orkney?” she cried. “John dear, from everything you’ve told me about the Orkneys, I can only picture a place that’s wild and remote! I think of the wind blowing everything sideways, and you say there are hardly any trees. I know you had a happy childhood there, but it sounds so bleak. It’s one thing to visit for a holiday in fine weather, but I just can’t imagine myself adapting to that sort of life…”

  I realized that I had taken the discussion a step too far. My sister Marion’s words from six years earlier floated up from my memory and pricked my conscience. “I suppose my longing to return to Orkney sounds selfish.”

  “Orkney may be lovely during the summer months, but I can’t imagine living there when the gales of winter set in.” Her expression brightened. “London’s so lively and colourful with all the carriages, the shops, the theatres. We’ve only just returned from our honeymoon, darling. There’s no rush to make decisions just yet, is there? Let’s take some time to think about all the possibilities.”

  – PART VI –

  Enterprises & Family Life

  [1860–1880]

  London

  [MAY 1860]

  A few weeks later, a familiar face greeted me when I entered one of the reading rooms at the Royal Society in Somerset House. Gerald McIntosh heaved his generous body out of a leather wing chair and waved me over.

  “Good Lord, if it isn’t my old friend, John Rae!”

  As we shook hands, I apologized for not replying to his letter. “Gerald, these past few years have been busy, indeed. I’ve been travelling and assisting my brothers with their business in Canada West. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Of course I forgive you, John! Come, have a seat. It’s good to see you. My heavens, you look well. Your retirement from the Hudson’s Bay Company must be agreeing with you.”

  He held up his pipe for emphasis, but I could see that now it was empty of tobacco, most likely on doctor’s orders. “I still participate in the odd expedition for them,” I replied, “and for other organizations. I lead the occasional hunting party in North America as well, which I enjoy.”

  “Good, good! Work keeps us honest, I always say. Now, let’s catch up for a few minutes. I’m sure you are aware that Lady Franklin and her supporters are still tirelessly pushing to convince the authorities that Sir John officially discovered the missing link in the Northwest Passage…”

  I sighed. “Gerald, Captain McClintock’s report of last year — and the testimony of the Esquimaux — clearly indicated that the Erebus and Terror sailed south on Victoria Strait, to the west of a potential passage — ”

  “Hold on, John. It is now quite certain that the ships were trapped by pack ice and never did manage to achieve the goal, but tell me, do you think they may have passed an entrance to the link before they reached Victoria Strait?”

  “Aye, I suspect they did, but the entrance may have been filled with ice at the time. The conditions can change dramatically from one year to the next. My own exploration of the area between the Boothia Peninsula and King William Island revealed the distinct possibility of there being such a route, which may at times be free of ice for part of the short summer season. I charted the co-ordinates on a map.”

  He looked astonished. “Have you told anyone of this?”

  “I informed the first lord of the Admiralty in 1854, but he and the official cartographers expressed no interest in discussing my findings. The co-ordinates I submitted were excluded from being recognized on the Admiralty’s maps.” I waved a dismissive hand, because I was loath to resurrect the topic. The series of events following my return from York Factory could not be altered. In addition, I did not wish to discuss my disastrous Iceberg project with anyone but those who were closest to me.

  “John, I hope you will forgive an aging mathematician and amateur historian for being so forward, but there is something about the discovery of the passage that confuses me.”

  “Feel free to ask me questions, Gerald, but be warned that I may not have the answers you are looking for.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Do you know that five years ago, the government paid £10,000 to Captain Robert McClure and awarded him a knighthood for discovering the missing link in the Northwest Passage?”

  “Aye, I am aware of it.”

  “Well, I’ve always felt the story of his discovery was confusing, because he had left his ship behind. It is my understanding that the link was meant to be navigable by boat. Is that correct?”

  “That was the objective all along. The Admiralty made it absolutely clear that the passage was meant to be navigated by a sea-going vessel. When I charted its possible location in 1854, I did not have a boat in which to sail it. It is ironic that a year later, Captain McClure was rewarded for walking — not sailing — across a proposed link, the existence of which has yet to be proved.”

  “What a bloody shame, John.” He leaned forward again. “Since a link has yet to be navigated by a vessel, would you consider trying to sail the route, just for the satisfaction of being the first to complete the passage by boat?”

  My heart skipped a beat before I answered his question. “No, Gerald. I have other interests now. A few months ago, I married a lovely lady I met in Toronto. We would like to start a family, either here in London or perhaps in Orkney. I am too busy to consider such a time-consuming undertaking.”

  “You’ve married! Well, isn’t that good news!” He reached over and shook my hand with gusto. “Who is the lucky lady, may I ask?”

  I didn’t want to bring up the name of Kate’s father, in case rumours about his hatred for me had somehow reached London. “Her name is Catherine — Kate.”

  “Congratulations to you both, John. The love of a good woman is the highest form of praise a man can ever hope for in his life.”

  I changed the subject. “How are you faring, Gerald?”

  “Oh, I am now retired and tired. Bored. Fat and disgruntled with my physician for nagging at me, I suppose. Other than that, I have no complaints. The society rooms are too crowded now.” He waved a hand to indicate that most of the reading room chairs were full. “There are discussions about moving to a larger building, possibly sharing space with other scientific institutions. I rather like it here, but the decision lies in the hands of the board of governors. I had a seat on the board for a time, but removed myself because of petty differences among the members.” He sighed. “The meetings were tiresome and rather unproductive, I’m afraid.

  “You know,” he added, “it still bothers me that you have been so undervalued in the minds of the British establishment, although I suppose you don’t hold a great number of them dear to your heart anyway. I
n my opinion, your achievements have been nothing short of remarkable, John.”

  “I appreciate your kind words, Gerald. I am sure I will never quite understand how the clumsy government machine operates, particularly concerning its vast overseas interests. So secretive and unreachable, and many important decisions are made behind closed doors with little input from the citizenry.”

  “Aye, I agree. We elect our leaders to make decisions in the best interests of the nation, but we seem to have no control over their actions.”

  The fact that the failed Franklin Expedition was now being hailed as the finest British achievement in Arctic history irked me to no end, despite my efforts to ignore it. “There is talk of Sir John Franklin being immortalized as the discoverer of the Northwest Passage,” I said.

  “Aye, it’s all quite a mess, isn’t it?”

  Gerald cleared his throat and briefly studied the pipe he was holding, as if he regretted not being able to fill it with tobacco and light it. He placed it on the table beside him and rubbed his hands together. “John, I think Great Britain is in dire need of a symbol of a successful British enterprise right now — a heroic figure whose memory will outshine all others in the history of Arctic exploration.” He leaned forward.

  “In my personal opinion, that hero should be you, not John Franklin. Knowing what I do about your history in the Arctic, I believe you have accomplished far more than anyone else over there.” He sat back. “There you have it, my friend.” Both flattered and embarrassed, I felt heat rising in my cheeks.