“I promise you this, my love.”
Kate was still weeping, struggling to hold on to my gaze. “Please say a prayer with me, Katie. Let’s say it together, even if we don’t much feel like it right now.”
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want;
He maketh me lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside the still waters…
In a halting voice, she joined me in reciting Psalm 23, not once but four times, each repetition for a lost child. That simple act gave us comfort, and in spite of our inexplicable losses it helped us to grow even closer to each other, to rise above the pain as best we could and get on with the job of living.
London
[FEBRUARY 1870]
As time went on, Kate slowly picked up the threads of her busy life. The daily routine of household care and management seemed to give her a sense of purpose and comfort, and she eventually resumed her habit of taking long walks in the parks. Her mother and sister remained with us, and they encouraged her to join them in performing charity work and other activities, while I escorted them all to the theatre — we enjoyed it tremendously — as often as I could. I continued to be hired for surveying projects, speaking engagements and consultations, which kept my mind alert and active. I walked to and from every meeting, sometimes accompanied by Kate along the way.
London
[JUNE 1870]
We humbly beseech thee O Father that we may be honest and true in all our dealings, and gentle and merciful to the faults of others, remembering how much gentleness and mercy we stand in need of ourselves; That we may earnestly try to live with true faith, honour and love, and in charity and goodwill with all our fellow creatures…
I winced as I read aloud part of a prayer written by Charles Dickens. Kate listened, her sewing in her hands. “Katie, doesn’t it strike you as odd that a man who publicly expressed his disgust with the innocent Esquimaux, actually penned a prayer beseeching all men to live ‘in charity and goodwill with all of our fellow creatures’?”
The prayer was published in the newspapers following Dickens’ death from a stroke at the age of fifty-eight. What a prolific and admired author he had been! He had preached compassion in his writings, but it pained me deeply to recall that in Household Words his claim to respect and love others had excluded people whose skin was of a darker hue, whose customs and spiritual beliefs were different from those of the white man.
On the one hand, Dickens drew attention to the plight of poor children in vermin-infested orphanages. This effort was noble, indeed. He also expressed great pity for the poor heroic men of the Royal Navy, who were caught in an epic struggle for survival in a hostile land. How right he was!
In my view, however, Dickens’ unforgivable error occurred when he repeatedly asserted that people with dark skin and unfamiliar customs were sub-human. On this subject, his writing was downright irresponsible. Naturally, his reputation as a champion for the afflicted remained intact, just as he wished. I wondered if he had ever experienced second thoughts about his attacks on the Esquimaux and regretted them. I told Kate that although I felt a twinge of guilt about it, I did not feel saddened by the news of his death.
London
[JULY 1875]
During the summer of 1875 and shortly after Lady Franklin’s death, Kate and I paid a visit to the dimly lit chapel of St. John the Evangelist in Westminster Abbey to view the marble bust she had commissioned in honour of her late husband, Sir John. When we entered the chapel, we looked to our left and were greeted by an extraordinarily handsome and flattering rendition of Sir John Franklin’s countenance. A carving of a ship trapped in ice formed the base, and there was an inscription composed by the poet laureate of England:
NOT HERE: THE WHITE NORTH
HAS THY BONES; AND THOU,
HEROIC SAILOR-SOUL, ART PASSING
ON THINE HAPPIER VOYAGE
NOW TOWARD NO EARTHLY POLE.
— ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, 1875
Kate stood back to look at Franklin’s face. “His expression appears to be so strong and self-assured, doesn’t it, John?”
“Aye, my love.” I recalled my conversation with Gerald McIntosh: “The history books will see to it that he is remembered as a hero.” In many ways, Sir John had been heroic, a veteran of fierce battles at sea and on land, including the treacherous push to open the Great White North on behalf of the British Empire. His failures would be written out of history; I supposed they didn’t really need to be recorded there anyway.
I had won many battles against the elements, but I was certain that British historians would have little interest in my accomplishments. Their collective memory of me would centre on one thing: my distressing report on the terrible fate of the last survivors of the Franklin Expedition.
Kate understood the nature of my thoughts in the chapel that day. She placed her arm around my waist and leaned into me.
“You, John Rae, are a hero, and don’t you ever forget that.”
Burlington House, Piccadilly Wing
Piccadilly, London
[JUNE 3, 1880]
Nullius in Verba — Take Nobody’s Word for It. This was the motto of the esteemed Royal Society. In my view, it was a bittersweet expression, considering the numbers of Londoners who did not take my word for it when I returned from the Arctic in 1854 with the tragic news about Sir John Franklin and his party.
I had been a member of the Royal Society for more than thirty years. On that bright day in June, I was summoned to Burlington House on Piccadilly to affix my signature to a document confirming that I had now been elected a Fellow of the storied institution. It had been almost twenty-six years since I took shelter from the press under the wing of Gerald McIntosh in a Royal Society reading room at Somerset House. The society had moved to the other building in 1867, but the memory of that distressing October day was as fresh to me as if it had taken place just yesterday.
Kate and Emily stood at my side as I signed the document. “Mama would have loved this so,” Emily whispered. Kate put an arm around her sister’s waist, and held her close. I found myself wishing that Gerald could also be with us. I had last seen my feisty old friend in November of 1866. He had been suffering from a nasty cold, and he complained that his physician was making far too much of a fuss about the whole thing. I reminded him of the importance of following his doctor’s orders, but he assured me that he would be perfectly fine. I was saddened to learn that he succumbed to pneumonia just two weeks later. I missed him. No doubt he would have been delighted and amused to see his fugitive friend honoured like this.
My wife was even lovelier now, dressed in a plum-coloured damask gown with a delicate white lace collar. She touched the silver locket I had given to her on our tenth wedding anniversary, ten years earlier. Inside the locket were the inscribed words:
MY DEAREST LOVE, KATE
FOREVER IN MY HEART AND SOUL
JOHN
“I think my father would have been very proud of you on this day, dear.”
“It’s a nice thought, Katie.” I did not mention my true feeling that I cared not a whit about what her father would have thought.
– PART VII –
Messenger from the North
[1881–1886]
Kensington, London
[JUNE 1881]
As was my custom during my daily walk, I stopped at the Kensington Post Office and retrieved some letters, along with a package which had been forwarded to me from York Factory by the Hudson’s Bay Company. I settled on a bench in a nearby park and sifted through the various senders’ addresses: Kirkwall, London, Edinburgh, London and Hamilton. The package from the Arctic intrigued me; it looked, felt and smelled like dried deerskin, and it was bound in leather ties. The address read: To Doctor John Rae, Hudson’s Bay Company, Great Britain.
I cut through the leather strips with my pocket knife. As the wrapping gave way, I was surprised to discover four intriguing objects: a length of dried caribou hide, white f
eathers which were probably from a snow goose, a string of blue beads, and a round, flat stone. How delightful, I thought, as I turned the stone over in my hand and observed letters carved into it in English: REPULSE BAY.
I unfolded the caribou skin. On one side, the hair was a soft, reddish brown. On the other, there was a message, again in English. The faded letters appeared to have been carefully drawn using the blood of an animal:
Dear Doctor Rae
I send this to you in spring time on HBC ship, to give to you.
I do not know where you live. My mother died. Her name was Atuqtuaq. You saved her life long ago. I wish to meet you.
Yours truly
Irniq
Repulse Bay
How curious, I thought. An errant goose feather fluttered like a leaf to the ground. I bent down, picked it up, returned it to the package along with the other contents, and walked to a nearby library. I found an empty desk in a corner, reopened the parcel and looked at the signature again: IRNIQ.
Who was Irniq? I wracked my brain, trying to think of the hundreds of Esquimaux I had treated as a doctor and explorer during my twenty-three-year residency in the Arctic region. There had been many of them, from the very young to the very old. I could not recall their faces, let alone their names, although the name Atuqtuaq sounded vaguely familiar.
I examined the threaded beads. A slender string of dried ligament connected them, with a carefully tied knot at each end. I had seen those intricate types of knots before, and recalled tying them over and over again with clumsy results until I eventually got them right.
I lifted the stone and the beads to my nose and smelled them. Their wild, faintly fishy scent had survived the sea journey from the Arctic. Suddenly, I longed to be in Repulse Bay again, to meet and laugh with my old acquaintances, to share food, watch them dance, listen to their drums, their songs and stories, even if I didn’t know what most of them meant. I looked up at the library’s ceiling, clasped my hands behind my head, stretched my legs out in front of me. After some thought, I decided to make an inquiry before telling anyone about the package.
The next morning, I requested a meeting with the president of the Royal Geographical Society. I had known Richard Johnstone for many years.
“Well, John, it is nice to see you. I catch sight of you at meetings and events, but it has been a while since we last engaged in a real conversation.”
“It is good to see you as well, Dick. How are Mary and the children?”
He frowned. “Ah, as well as can be expected I suppose, given that all four girls — the twins included — are currently in the process of becoming young women. Their temperaments seem to change by the minute. Lord knows what we will be facing during the next several years! My long-suffering wife will be the one to bear the brunt of it, I expect.”
His expression softened. “Tell me, how is your lovely Kate? Mary assures me that her exquisite needlework is the talk of the town. It is inspiring to know that she donates it to charities, along with her prize money.”
“She is well, Richard. We do enjoy our life in London. Kate encourages me to set off to the Orkneys when I feel the need to stretch my legs in the wilderness, but she also likes to join me there for the occasional holiday when the weather is warm. There is much for us to see and do here in the city, and I’m glad for my associations with members of the scientific community.”
“I understand, John. You were raised in a unique northern space. You can take the child out of its birthplace, but you cannot take the birthplace out of the child. Now, to what honour do I owe this visit from you?”
I cleared my throat. “Well, as you know, I often have some small project of interest in the works.”
“Small?” He laughed. “Do you refer to engaging in expeditions all over the North Atlantic and North America as minor activities?”
“Aye, your point is well taken, but you will likely agree that this one is just a trifle in comparison. I am curious to explore some Esquimaux names, with a view to understanding their origins and meanings. For example, an Esquimaux child may receive a name after having a notable experience or displaying a particular talent for something. A young man who has had an encounter with — perhaps even killed — a polar bear, may from then on be known as Nanuq, polar bear.”
Richard listened with interest. “As you know,” I continued, “Arctic explorers often assign English names to their Esquimaux aides. In my case, I named a most trusted guide and friend ‘Thomas’ after my younger brother, Thomas Rae. In hindsight, I wish I had taken the time to learn the man’s true Esquimaux name.”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms across the desk. “How may I be of assistance to you, John?”
“Do some of your documents and correspondences contain Esquimaux names along with their meanings? It is a bit of a shot in the dark, but you never know…”
“Would you like to have access to our Polar Region archives?”
“Yes, indeed I would, if it’s no trouble.”
He waved a hand towards the door. “Good, then. I’ll get the key and let you in.” Before long, I found what I was looking for.
Atuqtuaq. Meaning “singer.” Irniq. Meaning “son.”
The humiliating aftermath of my return to London with scandalous news about cannibalism had caused me to bury many fond memories of my time spent with the Esquimaux, but now with the arrival of the package, I felt as though I were there again. I placed the other objects in my bag and walked home with the stone in my pocket, turning it over in my fingers, feeling its smoothness, the narrow lines of the carving. Eventually, I picked up my pen and composed a reply to Irniq. I did not know if I would actually send it to him, but after giving the idea some thought, I realized just how much I missed the companionship of people I had once known and been fond of. I felt comforted by the idea of having even a small connection with one or more of them as I journeyed through old age, because it was a certainty that I would never return to the Arctic.
June 18, 1881
To Irniq,
I am pleased to receive your package from Repulse Bay. Thank you for sending these gifts to me. I am sorry to hear that your mother, Atuqtuaq, is dead, but glad to know that I once saved her life. I will say a prayer for her.
I am married and live in London, England. I am very happy here with my wife. Her name is Kate. Every year I travel to Orkney, north of the Scottish mainland, where I was born. When I am there, I hunt and fish. I am too old now to travel to the Arctic.
Do you know William Ouligback Junior? Do you know Thomas Mistegan? If you wish to write to me, this is our mailing address: 4 Addison Gardens, London.
I wish you and all of your relatives well.
Sincerely,
John Rae, M.D., LLD.
London, Great Britain
“Kate, I need your opinion about something.”
She was sitting by the fire, her hands casting tiny stitches onto a length of cloth. “What is it, dear?”
“Yesterday, I received a package from York Factory. It was sent by an Esquimaux. It was quite a surprise, since I’ve not been in contact with any of those people for so long.”
She put the needlework down. “How does this person know where you live?”
“He doesn’t, but he seemed to be able to write enough English, or have some help with it, to write to me in care of the Hudson’s Bay Company.”
“What was in the package?”
I showed her the deerskin wrapping, the stone, feather, length of hide and beads. She wrinkled her nose when she smelled the dried skin. She looked at the stone. “Repulse Bay,” she repeated. “My mother died,” she read. “I cannot possibly pronounce her name correctly.”
“I’m not sure how to say it, either. I was never any good at their language, even though I made several weak attempts to learn it.”
She looked at me, her eyes soft. “You saved this woman’s life. Do you remember anything at all about it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. I
treated so many men, women and children during my time there. I stopped by the society and looked up the meaning of her name: singer. The Esquimaux people often sing and dance in a ritualistic manner. It sounds and looks as though they are communicating with spirits. I think I told you about the extraordinary art of throatsinging…”
She nodded. “Yes, you tried to explain the sounds that come from deep within the throat — not a growl, but more like a strong vibration, as if it is a stringed instrument.”
“That’s it, or at least the closest I can come to describing the sound. Perhaps Irniq’s mother was a throat-singer, a storyteller. I could never understand the messages expressed in throat-singing, but when an interpreter was nearby, he would occasionally translate some of the meanings to me: Seal hunter drowned off ice floe. Son of… father of… sister of… forever committed to the stars and meteors, to the dancing lights of the aurora borealis, to the moon and the sun and the sea.”
“And the name of the person who sent you the package?”
“Irniq. It means ‘son.’”
Kate resumed sewing. “Well, he has taken great trouble to find you. Do you think you should reply to him?”
“Yes, I do. Would you have a look at this letter I have written, and tell me what you think of it?” I stood beside her chair as she read. She smiled up at me. “It’s a good reply, darling. You have expressed your wish to learn more about him, and I must say that I am growing quite curious, too!” I leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
“Good. I’ll send it off in the morning.”
Finding John Rae Page 22
