by John Wilson
Seeley hesitates as if contemplating a response. Then, with a mumbled curse, he lets us go, pushes us harshly to the deck, and slouches off. The tall man helps us up.
“You boys keep clear of that one,” he says. “Seeley’s trouble.” He stops talking and coughs harshly into a grubby handkerchief. Recovering quickly, he continues, “If he bothers you again, come and tell me. My name’s Bill Braine.”
With that he turns and pushes his way across the crowded deck. George and I return to the rail. My ears are still ringing, but at least we escaped a beating and are still in the fresh air, not below in the damp darkness and clutter of supplies, surrounded by the smell of cramped bodies and the scuttering rats.
“One dark night,” says George quietly as we look out over the scattered, glittering ice floes, “that devil will find himself over the side in the freezing water.” This is some consolation, but it is just bravado. This is Seeley’s world and not the London streets; it is going to be a long voyage with him as our enemy.
Just then we hear a hoarse, panicked shout. “Look out below!”
Instinctively, we turn and look up. One of the sailors at the top of the mainmast has slipped. He is suspended by one hand from a sail rope as his companions scatter out of the way below. With horrible fascination we watch as he hangs thirty feet above the hard deck, shouting for help. Another sailor is inching his way along the spar. He is almost there, reaching out a hand, but he is too late. With a last cry of terror, the sailor loses his grip and falls.
For a moment no one moves, then everyone rushes forward. The ships surgeon, Stanley, is close by and pushes through to crouch over the still form. After a brief examination he rises and shakes his head.
“Carry him below,” he orders a group of men. “There is nothing we can do for him now but sew a shroud.”
As the limp bundle disappears, the mood of the ship changes. Men clamber down from the masts in silence and go about their chores. Our first casualty has sobered us all.
I turn to go back below and feel Neptune brushing against my leg. He too has sensed the change. He seems to have taken to me and accompanies me at my duties whenever possible.
“Hello, old boy,” I say softly, scratching his ear. “Let us hope that is the worst of our misfortune.”
I am lying in a hammock, swinging gently to the rhythm of the ship. It is hot and stuffy and dark. The smell of unwashed bodies and burnt oil from the lamps is almost overpowering. My hammock is in a row of others, hung so closely together that we almost touch when we swing with the roll of the ship. Any space on the floor is stacked with crates of supplies and equipment, making it almost impossible to navigate in the darkness. And it is always dark between the decks. The only fresh air comes from the small hatch at the top of the ladder leading up to the deck, and it is usually kept closed. The only light comes from the foul-smelling hanging lamps. They smoke and sputter, but give little more than a dull glow.
The heat is unbearable. It is supplied through a system of pipes which run from our steam boiler. It is nice not to freeze, but the alternative is to suffocate and to suffer the continual drip of condensation from the walls and deck above. The warmth also encourages the rats which swarm over everything, eating anything they can get their teeth into: shoes, socks, furs. Periodically we must evacuate to allow a foul mixture of sulphur and arsenic to be burned to drive them off and kill them. It does make a difference for a while, but soon they are back as plentiful as before.
In spite of the other inconveniences, my hammock is comfortable. I have learned how to relax into its shape. I have even mastered the art of holding the stub of a candle in one hand and a book in the other. In this way I have been devouring the ship’s library. My reading skills have improved to the point that I no longer need George’s help or the lessons which the officers are giving those of the crew who wish to improve themselves.
I have finished reading now. Apart from the snores and grunts of a lot of men sleeping close together and the creaking of the ship’s timbers as she pushes on, it is quiet. I am just thinking how strange all this is when I hear a voice close to my ear.
“Don’t you ever talk back to me again,” it threatens.
I don’t even have a chance to turn before I am falling. I crash onto the pile of supplies on the deck below. My left arm painfully catches the corner of a crate and I cry out. All of a sudden there is a confusion of noise: shouts, curses, and yells.
From above George’s voice calls, “Davy, what just happened?”
The end of my hammock is hanging free in the dim light before me. It has been neatly sliced through with a sharp knife.
“Someone cut through my hammock,” I call back. I know who, but I will not say with all these men listening.
“Then sleep on the deck and shut up,” a voice calls out of the darkness.
Carefully cradling my sore arm, I crawl into the most comfortable spot I can find among the crates and try to ignore the rustling of the rats close to my ear.
As things settle down again, I feel a warm shape nestling in beside me.
“Neptune,” I whisper, “I guess I’ll be sharing your bed tonight.” Together we drift off into an uneasy sleep.
CHAPTER 7
The dreams were coming thick and fast now and I was losing the distinction between that world and my own. A tremendous gap was developing between my days and nights. During my waking hours I went through the motions of my “real” life. I didn’t really care what happened. I was continually getting into trouble at school for not paying attention, not to mention my falling grades and incomplete assignments. In hockey I was spending a lot of time sitting on the bench because I was missing passes and shooting the puck as if the entire end zone were the goal. The only place where no one seemed to notice my preoccupation was at home. Mom and Dad were so wrapped up in their own problems that they didn’t seem to notice me. But they did hear me.
One night while we were having dinner, I was thinking about the hammock dream I had had the night before.
“What?” asked my Dad, breaking the silence. He sounded puzzled. I must have looked confused because he continued, “You just said, ‘I’ll be sharing your bed tonight.’ What did you mean? Whose bed?”
Slowly it dawned on me that what I had said to Neptune in the dream I had said out loud while I was remembering it.
“Nothing,” I said hurriedly. “It was just a dream I had last night. I was remembering it and must have spoken out loud.”
My Dad looked unconvinced and I was afraid he was going to ask me more about the dream. It wasn’t that I was consciously keeping the dreams a secret, but to tell the truth I would have to tell the whole story and I didn’t want to do that, at least not then. Fortunately, Mom spoke first.
“What’s the matter with your arm dear?” she said in a worried tone. It was only then that I realized that I was rubbing my arm where I had struck the crate when my hammock was cut.
“It’s nothing,” I repeated. “I just banged it at school today.”
That seemed to satisfy them and we lapsed back into silence. But the incident worried me. The dreams were becoming too real. My arm was not sore where I had hit it in the dream but, like talking out loud without noticing, my massaging it seemed to suggest that my dreams were beginning to impose themselves on my daily waking life. Maybe they were not just a story my mind was making up while I slept. Maybe there was something suspicious about them.
I was beginning to worry. After the dinner table incident, I resolved two things. Firstly, to be more careful about what I let slip in front of other people. I might get away with saying something dumb in front of my parents, but the guys at school wouldn’t let me forget it so quickly and the last thing I wanted was a reputation for being weird or talking to myself.
Secondly, if the dreams persisted, I would have to talk to someone about them. They were just too strange to dismiss and perhaps they meant something. I didn’t want them to stop but, on the other hand, I didn’t want to �
�go crazy” either. For the moment though, I would wait and see where they were leading me.
The next day, Jim came to visit. He didn’t get into town much, especially in the winter, so I guessed he had come to see me. When I got back from school, he was in the kitchen with Mom. They didn’t hear me come in.
“Sometimes I wish he was interested in the farm. Then we could move out and be close to you.” Mom sounded tired.
“The farm’s been good to me, but it’s not the life for everyone,” Jim responded. “How are things between you?”
There was a pause before Mom answered.
“Not good, Jim. The business isn’t doing well and that adds a strain. I think it’s affecting Dave too. He’s been really quiet and withdrawn the last few days.”
I didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. Next, Jim would begin talking about my dreams and I didn’t want that. I dropped my bag loudly in the hall and went into the kitchen.
“Hi, Jim,” I said as cheerfully as I could.
“Dave, you’re back,” Mom said as she stood up. “Is that the time already? I have to go out and get some groceries for supper. I’ll see you later, Jim. I won’t be long.”
Kissing me on the cheek, a habit I have never been fond of, Mom picked up her bag, put on her coat and left. Jim looked up at me from his seat at the table.
“There’s some tea in the pot,” he said. “Should still be hot.”
“No thanks,” I said, but I did grab a pop out of the fridge and sat down.
“So, how are you?” Jim asked.
“Fine,” I replied.
“Any more dreams?”
“A couple,” I said as casually as I could manage. Then, to move the conversation away from them, I talked about my reading on Franklin.
“I can’t believe how dumb those guys were. McClintock said that the boats Franklin’s men were dragging weighed hundreds of pounds and were full of useless junk like cutlery and curtain rods. They could never have made it across the Barren Lands with all that stuff.”
“If that’s where they were going.”
“What do you mean? They left a note saying they were going there.”
“Not exactly.” Jim took a sip of tea. He was settling into a story. “The note of 1848 says only that they are going to Back’s Fish River. People have always assumed that they were going to continue south from there across the Barren Lands to try to reach a Hudson’s Bay post. But Crozier and Fitzjames weren’t stupid. They had Back’s journal with them. They knew how impossible that trek would be with over one hundred sick men.”
“So what were they trying to do?” I was being pulled into the story despite myself.
“Hunt. They probably had scurvy and the only way to cure that is to eat fresh food. Both Back and Simpson talk of the abundance of wildlife at the mouth of the Fish River. If they could restore their health, then they could return to the ships and escape when the ice broke up that summer.”
“So why didn’t they?”
“That is a very good question. We know some of them returned to the ships, because Irving’s grave was found there and he was alive when they headed south. Re-manning the ships also explains the apparent junk they took with them. They didn’t plan to travel with the stuff, it was cached against their return in case the ships sank.
“In 1848, they probably sailed at least one of the ships south. No one will ever know exactly what happened, but Inuit stories talk of survivors alive as late as 1850.”
“Why didn’t they adopt Inuit ways? Later explorers did.”
“Yes, but for Franklin’s men it wasn’t possible. There is no evidence that they even met any Inuit in the early years, and even if they had, the total indigenous population of the area was probably less than that of the crews. If they had tried to live there, it would have put an intolerable strain on the hunting and both Inuit and sailors would have died. Perhaps at the end one or two did meet up with the Inuit and live with them for a while, but they didn’t make it back to civilization.”
We sat in silence, contemplating the lonely fate of Franklin’s men.
“But surely they could have been smarter and adapted more?” I said finally. “They seem to have been very inflexible.”
“In some ways they were, but don’t judge them by the standards of today. The technology simply wasn’t there. The Victorians didn’t send a man to the moon, not because they were dumb, but because the technology didn’t exist. Suppose when Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon that his lander had broken down and the only way he could escape was to drive one of those little moon buggies over the Sea of Tranquillity. If the buggy is not suitable for the terrain, he dies. Suppose we then discover moon creatures who have specialized vehicles for moving easily over the moon’s surface. Would we then call Neil Armstrong stupid for not adapting to ways he knew nothing about?”
Jim poured himself another cup of tea while I thought about that.
“Making clothes from Caribou hides, or catching seals through the ice are very complex skills that take years to learn. Franklin’s men did the best they could. Sure, they made mistakes, and they had more than their share of plain bad luck, but I very much doubt if an expedition today, placed in the same location and given the same resources as Franklin, would fare any better.
“Anyway,” Jim continued, looking at his watch. “I have to head off now if I want to get home before it gets too dark. I don’t drive as fast as I used too.”
Jim stood up and stepped toward the door. Then he turned and looked at me.
“Dave,” he said. “If you ever need to talk, about anything, not just the exploration, you know where I am. Okay?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Thanks.”
CHAPTER 8
It is Christmas and we are in the ice off Beechey Island, three months into our first winter in the Arctic. George and I are sitting on some tea chests finishing our Christmas dinner.
“Well, Davy, it was not the feast of the ghost of Christmas Present, but it was better than biscuits, bread and salt meat.”
To mark the occasion we have all been given some of the eight thousand cans of Goldner’s Patent Preserved Meat and some of the canned soups and vegetables that are normally reserved for the officers and the sick.
“Yes,” I agree, “it tastes well enough, but I almost broke my tooth on that lump of solder in the meat. And I hear that some had to be thrown out because the cans were blown and the food rotten.”
“True enough,” answers George. “When we return, Mister Goldner will get no more Navy contracts. But a change in taste is as good as any banquet, as they say, and it is certainly better than black bread soaked in London drain water.”
George looks at me and I cannot help but join in his laughter. Things have certainly improved for us since those days on the street. Later there will be theatrical entertainment and Lieutenant Gore will give a recital upon the flute, but for now everyone is content finishing off the meal and the extra tot of rum we have been issued. A sailor is hard at work on the hand organ in the corner and Jacko, who turns out to be Miss Jacko, is dressed in a blanket, frock and trousers made for her by the crew. She stands atop the organ and dances wildly to her favourite tunes.
Even Neptune seems content now, sitting at my feet, well-fed on scraps. This is unusual since he has been miserable ever since we left England. He mopes about getting in everybody’s way or sits sullenly watching us all go about our work. The night the ice blocked us into our winter harbour here at Beechey Island, he sat on deck howling mournfully for hours and getting on everyone’s nerves until I dragged him down to the mess deck where he lapsed into soft whimpering. It is strange behaviour.
“Well,” says George, standing, “I think I will go and find a game of cards. Will you join me Davy?”
“No,” I reply. “Cards are not to my liking. I think I may read some.”
“You read too much. Come and have some fun.”
“Do you remember who it was that taught me to read?”
I ask.
“Aye. Well, maybe that was a mistake,” George’s voice suddenly becomes harsh. “You have become altogether too serious of late. I play cards for fun and if I can line my pockets with a few extra pennies for when we return, so much the better.”
With that, George turns and finds his way over to some men who are huddled over a barrel against the far wall. I cannot deny it any longer; my friend is changing. The longer we are at sea, the less he reads. I have finished all Mister Dickens’ books and have read many of the journals of the earlier explorers. I have tried to share my discoveries with him, but all he seems interested in doing is playing games of chance with his new friends. I am beginning to feel lonely. Reaching behind me, I bring out a copy of Lyrical Ballads by the poets Coleridge and Wordsworth. It is my first taste of poetry and much of it I do not understand. One poem however, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Mister Coleridge, tells a good story. I open the book at random and my eye falls on these lines:
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!
I close the book and stand. A few men are still finishing off their rum. I do not care for it and find my way over to where Bill Braine sits. He continues to guard us against the menacing Seeley, although George needs him less and less as he spends more time with his card-playing friends. I have seen Bill and Seeley in conversation and am sure that Bill is repeating his earlier warning. Despite that, Seeley continues to torture us at every opportunity. After he cut my hammock, I managed to avoid him for a time, but that has become less easy now that we are stuck here in the ice.
