Across Frozen Seas

by John Wilson

  “Here Bill,” I say handing him my rum. “I have little taste for this stuff.”

  “Thank you,” he replies, turning from his conversation with three other Marines. “Will you join us lad?”

  “No,” I answer. “I think I will get a breath of air.”

  As I turn to the ladder I see Seeley glowering at me from a corner. I hurry up onto the deck.

  It is cold and quiet up here. There is little to see. It is overcast and misty and there are few lights on our ship. About half a mile away, I can barely make out the dim lanterns of our sister ship, the Terror. It is a lonely world we inhabit. I had expected that, and the cold, but not the noise. I had imagined the icy landscape as immobile and silent, but it is not so. The ice is always on the move, driven by hidden currents in the sea beneath. It groans and grunts and creaks and roars as it is driven against itself and the nearby shore. It is just as Coleridge described. Huge blocks are pushed up into the air in jagged peaks and crash down in a tumult of broken shards. Were we not in a protected bay, the waves of pressure that pass through the ice would crush our two reinforced vessels as if they were made of paper. We are safe, but the power of the ice is frightening nonetheless and we are all aware that we are at the mercy of the elements.

  The worst of it is the boredom. Unless I am going on one of the hunting trips, explorations, or to take magnetic readings, there is precious little to do. Every day that the weather permits us, we must exercise by running around the ship and by doing chores to keep the vessels and our shore camp shipshape. The officers have also organized numerous classes in reading and writing, a shipboard newspaper, The Beechey Times, and many theatrical productions. Even with all this, there is a lot of spare time. Every day I thank George for teaching me to read so that at least I can lose myself in the world of books. My only concern is that, if we must spend several winters like this, I will not have enough books to keep me going. Still, for the moment, that is not a problem.

  There is also another sort of loneliness weighing on me. We are locked in the grip of an empty land and all of us miss the society of home, but I never expected George to be lost to me. More and more, his spare time is spent in the company of a group of younger seamen, joking and gambling at dice and cards. In the busy streets of London we were inseparable, but here, thousands of miles from civilization, he has all but deserted me. I have no other friends here, except perhaps for Neptune, who continues to keep me company much of the time.

  I am so lost in thoughts of my loneliness and the ice that I do not hear the footfall behind me. All at once I am pushed painfully against the rail and a horribly familiar voice rasps in my ear.

  “What do you mean by giving your tot of rum to that damned soldier Braine?”

  I cannot answer for the pressure of the rail against my chest, but Seeley continues anyway.

  “It’s not friendly at this season of the year, and anyway, I’d have much more use for it.” Seeley turns me roughly around to face him. I draw in a deep breath and manage to gasp, “What do you mean?”

  Seeley’s laugh is harsh and cruel. His mouth, just inches from my face, reeks of stale rum and tobacco.

  “You don’t know?” he sneers. “The rum won’t do your friend no good because he’s dying. He has the consumption. Have you not heard that cough of his? Soon he’ll be coughing blood, if he isn’t already. Then he’s into the sick bay and from there it’ll be a cold coffin for him my boy. Then who’ll look after you and your cheeky friend?”

  The shocking news sends a shiver down my spine which has nothing to do with the cold night air.

  “You’re lying,” I shout and lash out with my foot. But Seeley avoids my blow easily and just laughs.

  “You think so do you?” he asks. “Well, you listen carefully to that cough. There’s others with it too—Hartnell in sick bay and young Torrington over on the Terror. They feed them the best food but it won’t do no good. Some say as how they’re coughing up bits of their lungs already. Won’t be long till we’re out there on that island digging two holes in that damned frozen ground, and it won’t be long ’til there’s a third one for Braine. You remember that, boy, next time you got some rum to go sharing out. You remember who’ll still be around when your friend is six feet under.”

  With a last laugh, Seeley pushes me back against the rail, turns and disappears into the darkness. It can’t be true! Yes, Bill has a cough, but most of us do, living in these dank quarters filled with the smell of the clay pipes everyone smokes. Bill’s cough sounds deeper than some, but that doesn’t mean that it’s consumption. Seeley is just trying to scare me and get an extra tot of rum. Still, I feel uneasy as I rejoin the festivities.

  The cliffs of Beechey Island loom over Neptune and me like a huge wall threatening to crush our puny bodies like ants. Below us, the white carpet of snow stretches away and becomes lost in the chaotic jumble of ice blocks. Out in the bay, all but invisible in the white wilderness, our two ships lie tilted at crazy angles like toys which have displeased a petulant child. Their decks are covered with canvas and walls of snow blocks protect their sides from the wind and almost hide their iron-clad hulls. Their position is marked most obviously by the large dark stain which covers the snow for a distance in all directions. Across the bay, the matching cliffs on Devon Island show black against the snow.

  Below us, and clearly visible in the cold air, are the tents and buildings of the shore party, our cache of cans, and the flickering flame of the forge where William Smith and Samuel Honey work making nails and iron sled runners. Also visible, slightly back from the camp, is a small party of men working to break the frozen ground. It is April, 1846, and they are digging a grave.

  “Well, Neptune.” The dog looks up at me with his sad eyes. “Seeley’s prophecy was true enough. Old Bill did have the consumption and now he will never leave this island. But at least he won’t be alone in this bleak place. Seeley was also right about Hartnell and Torrington.”

  I know it’s silly but I feel the need to talk to someone and, these days, Neptune is the only one who will listen.

  “Why did Bill hide his illness? Why did he go on that sledding trip to the magnetic camp? He could have said he was sick and stayed here. Maybe it was because Mister Fitzjames says the magnetic work is very important and will add valuable information which our scientists need to understand this strange phenomenon Maybe he thought that by denying his illness, it would go away. Maybe he knew his own end was near and didn’t want to give in. I don’t know what it was Neptune. All I know is that I miss him.

  “Eight men, seven haulers and an officer pulling a loaded sled over the ice. It is grueling work for fit men; it is brutal work for the sick. And Bill was already coughing blood, he could easily have been excused. I even tried to persuade him not to go the night before he left. Do you know what he said?”

  Neptune cocks his head to one side.

  “He said that he had to go, that it was what he came up here for. He even said that the walk in the fresh air would do him good. He told me to keep clear of Seeley ’till he got back.”

  Cold tears are coursing down my cheeks now. Neptune leans his big, friendly head against my leg as if to comfort me.

  “Ten days they were gone and Bill only lasted six. Then they had to tie him to the sled. I knew, as soon as I saw the hauling team was one man short, what had happened. Pneumonia, that’s what Surgeon Stanley said, but in combination with the consumption, there was no hope. Poor Bill. He was raving like a madman when I visited him in the sick bay, talking about home as if he were there. Funny thing though, just as I was leaving he went quiet. I turned and he was staring at me with those sunken, fevered eyes of his. Then he said something I shall never tell anyone but you. He said, ’I am sorry I shall not finish this adventure with you, but I will rest easier in my coffin than you will on this ship. We should not have come to this bleak land and I shall not be the only one to stay. You will walk a lonesome road before you escape the frightful fiend who dogs your footste
ps.’ Then he fell back on his pillow. The next day he was dead.

  “I don’t understand what he meant. Perhaps it was just a symptom of his madness, but it sent a chill through me that I still haven’t shaken off. You are my only friend now, Neptune. Bill is dead and George is more involved with his new friends than ever. Despite the fact that I am surrounded by over fifty other people, I am beginning to feel a loneliness creeping over me which scares me more than I can say. This voyage is not the adventure I thought it would be when we sailed from England a year ago.”

  As I scratch behind Neptune’s ear, I watch the small party of men below us continue their struggle to break the frozen ground.

  Breakup! An open lead of water has snaked into our little harbour and set us free. At least, it has set the Terror free, but it is only a matter of time before we too are able to sail again. All is chaos. We must rush to get our remaining supplies and equipment aboard. Fortunately, the scientific teams have already been recalled and we do not have to wait for anyone else to return. It will be difficult to leave Bill in this lonely place, but the exhilaration of moving again after so many months trapped in the frozen sea is overwhelming. And what’s more, it is my birthday, June 23, 1846.I am thirteen. An early lead through the ice is my present. Surely with this gift, we will complete the passage and be home by the time I am fourteen!.

  Already the men are out with the ice saws cutting a channel through to the open water. Everyone is ecstatic to be on the move again. Even Neptune is wandering about the deck wagging his tail. George has come over and thrown an arm around me.

  “The adventure continues Davy boy,” he says with his familiar mischievous smile. It is just like old times. “Mind you,” he goes on, “this lead has come at an awkward time.”

  “How so?” I ask. “Surely it just increases our chances of completing the passage this year.”

  “Yes,” he agrees, “but it has cost me a good pair of gloves. I wet them yesterday working on melting ice for fresh water and left them on a rock to dry. In all the confusion I completely forgot them. Maybe some other poor adventurer in years to come will visit this place and find a use for them. It is no matter; I will be so famous when we get home that I will be able to buy a hundred pair.”

  The cocky smile widens and we are brothers again. But there is no time to savor it. There is too much to be done if we are to take advantage of this opportunity.

  CHAPTER 9

  For all my fascination with the dreams, they scared me. Not just because the tension was beginning to mount, but because I had never heard of anyone else having a series of dreams as consistent, and persistent, as mine. Was this how madness began? Was my unconscious mind trying to tell me something by dredging up some long forgotten memory? Or was it just an insane fantasy put together, as Jim had suggested, from pieces of stories I had heard years before? I began to wish I could tell someone about all this; someone who would understand my dreams, be able to explain them, and reassure me that I wasn’t going mad. I craved the dreams but, the longer they lasted, the more I worried about what they could mean. I was becoming lonelier all the time, cutting myself off from friends at school and growing more distant from my parents. The loneliness was beginning to frighten me. I had to talk to someone, but who?

  I chose Mom for a number of reasons. No one at school would understand, my Dad was too preoccupied with his business to give me any time, and I had already tried talking to Jim. Mom had always had an interest in dreams. Dream therapy was one of the many things, along with pottery and Thai cooking, that she had taken classes in. I think she took courses to get away when things with Dad got too intense.

  “Its not natural,” she said when I told her how vivid and frequent my dreams were and how they seemed to be telling some kind of story. “I’ve never heard of anything like that before.”

  This wasn’t very comforting, but Mom did have one idea—she suggested I see her therapist in Saskatoon. He was her response to the latest crisis with Dad.

  “Chris might really be able to help,” she said. “He is very sensitive to all kinds of issues.”

  At first I was reluctant to go, but Mom said that Chris was up on the latest theories about dreams and could help me understand what was going on. Anyway, it was worth a try and I was glad for a chance to get out of Humboldt.

  The therapist’s office was on the second floor of a low building downtown. It had a small reception area with a single secretary and one door with the words, “Chris Penner, Family Therapist” on it. I don’t know what I expected to find behind that door, perhaps a leather couch, certificates on the wall. There were a few certificates, but no couch, just a couple of comfortable-looking chairs. One complete wall was a window that looked out over the town and made the room bright and cheerful. There was also a desk in front of the window with a bookcase on one side. In the back corner there were a couple of large cushions and a box of children’s toys and picture books.

  Chris ushered us in, sat down and chatted for a while about nothing in particular. When he started asking about the dreams, Mom answered for me until Chris gently suggested that she wait outside. I told him about the dreams and, to my relief, he seemed genuinely interested. When I had finished, he told me a bit about the importance of dreams in his line of work.

  “I am not a psychoanalyst,” he said, “but dreams have always interested me and I have found them useful in therapy sessions.

  “First of all, your dreams are nothing to worry about. People used to believe that dreams signalled mental instability, but we dismissed that idea long ago. In fact, dreams are perfectly normal. Every mammal, except, oddly enough, the duckbilled platypus, dreams every night. Humans are in “dream sleep” for about two hours a night and have about five dreams in that time. That’s almost one hundred thirty thousand dreams in an average lifetime. It’s a shame we don’t remember more of them.

  “Anyway, no one has determined exactly why we dream. It might be to stimulate brain development, or to replenish chemicals in the brain, or to help sort and store the information we gather during the day. Some researchers even believe that dreams are used to erase unneeded information, rather like deleting unwanted files on your computer hard drive. Whatever their purpose, they are not caused, as my grandmother used to tell me, by eating too much cheese.”

  Chris smiled before continuing.

  “The big question is, do they have meaning? Some say yes, that dreams are messages from our unconscious self and that we should take them seriously. Others say they are just random impulses from deep in the brain and that they mean nothing. I’m not sure who is right, but dreams do seem to reflect issues in real life, so perhaps they are an attempt to resolve problems which are bothering us when we are awake.”

  “Resolve problems?” I interrupted. “How can dreams do that?”

  “Well, if something is bothering you, you tend to think about it all the time. But your rational, waking mind might be too preoccupied to see the answer clearly. The dream process, which sorts through the information without these preconceptions, might just come up with the answer.

  “Now, these don’t have to be emotional problems; they could be anything, even a school assignment. There is a story about a famous geologist called Louis Agassiz. He studied fossil fish from all over the world. Once he collected a beautiful specimen which was very complete and well-preserved. The problem was that it was not clear; he could not distinguish details which should have been obvious. For a long time he puzzled over why this should be until one night he had a dream. In the dream he saw the fossil fish and watched as a surface layer was peeled off to reveal the perfect skeleton. The next morning, he took the specimen and gently chipped at it. A thin layer of rock fell away to reveal the missing detail below. His dream had solved the problem that had been bothering him.

  “There are many other examples of this process; writers, poets and artists often dream a story or a poem. It’s not magical; it’s just that they have been thinking a lot about their particul
ar problem and the dream process resolves their conflict while they sleep.”

  “But how does that explain my dreams?” I asked quietly. “I’m worried that I might be going mad.”

  “No,” Chris assured me. “Your dreams are definitely not a sign of madness, those kinds of dreams are very different. Your dreams are unusual in that they are very vivid and consistent, but they are still nothing to worry about. I think with some work we will be able to find out what is causing them. If you would like to come back next week, we can go into that more. In the meantime, why don’t you write down your dreams as soon as you wake up. Then, later on in the day, read them over and underline any parts which are obviously related to something that happened the previous day or even something you may have heard or done in the recent past. If you bring that along next week, we can look at it together. It might give us some clues as to what these dreams mean.”

  “OK,” I agreed as Chris stood up. “I’ll do that. See you next week.”

  We shook hands and I left. On the way home, I told Mom what had happened. She was a bit concerned at first, especially because Chris had asked her to leave, but I managed to reassure her that he had been really helpful. He had actually given me a lot of interesting information and certainly put my mind at ease. What I wasn’t sure about was whether he would be able to explain what was happening any better than I could. Like Jim, he seemed to think that the dreams were old memories being processed. I was pretty sure they weren’t, but I would try to do what he said before we met again the following week.

  That night I went to bed relaxed and expectant. I even had a notebook and pencil on my table. Nothing happened. I slept a long time and when I awoke the next morning I felt refreshed, at first. But, gradually, I began to realize that, if I had dreamt anything, I could not remember it. Almost instantly, sadness flooded over me. I was almost in tears. What if the dreams didn’t come again? I couldn’t stand that. What if I never saw George or Neptune again? Confused and upset by my violent emotions, I stumbled through the day, hoping that the dreams would return that night, but again I was disappointed. I felt lost and terribly alone. I hadn’t realized how involved I was in the dreams and how much I wanted to know what would happen next. Without them I was desolate. It was like coming to the end of a mystery novel and finding the last page ripped out, only a thousand times worse. I was a character in this novel and I would never know what happened to me. The whole week was a disaster.