Graves of Ice

by John Wilson

  I understood Davy’s life better now that I was more familiar with the rougher elements of society — people such as Bill. I didn’t put Davy in the same category as Bill, but I did resent that he was increasingly spending time with the likes of the old sailor and his rough cronies, gambling at crown-and-anchor and drinking rum. More and more I spent time with William, talking of his adventures in the Navy, or confiding my worries to Neptune. I also came to know Mr. Fitzjames better, and even Sir John occasionally deigned to converse with a lowly cabin boy.

  Every Sunday Sir John led a church service on deck. During these, he often talked of the importance of what we were engaged in and how our endeavour matched the great achievements of Parry and Ross. He was a very religious man and utterly convinced that God was on our side and smiling upon our work. He even agreed — at Mr. Fitzjames’s urging, I suspect — to spend an evening telling us tales of his adventures on the Coppermine River. Of course, I knew of poor Lieutenant Hood slowly starving to death because he could not stomach the lichen that they scraped off the rocks to eat; of Dr. Richardson being forced to shoot the voyageur that he suspected of plotting to kill them for food; and of Mr. Back’s heroic journey to find help, but it was a particular thrill to hear the tales from the mouth of The Man Who Ate His Boots himself.

  One day, as the hours of sunshine lengthened and the weather warmed, I was clearing away the dinner dishes for Sir John and Mr. Fitzjames in the Great Cabin.

  “Well, young man,” Sir John said to me as the two men sat back to enjoy a glass of port. “How have you enjoyed your first year as a sailor?”

  “Very much, sir,” I said, nervous as I always was on the rare occasions when the great man spoke to me.

  “Do you remember when you approached me on the dock at Woolwich?” Mr. Fitzjames asked.

  “Very well, sir,” I said. “It seems like only yesterday.”

  Mr. Fitzjames chuckled and Sir John asked, “So the boredom of inactivity does not trouble you?”

  “It does a bit, sir, but my clerk’s desk was boring as well and I never came face to face with a great white bear in Woolwich.”

  Sir John laughed. “Well said. You were lucky to survive the encounter, I hear.”

  “I was, sir.”

  “Good lad.” Sir John was in a jovial mood, his cheeks glowing from the warmth, good food and wine. “You come from a naval family. Do you plan a future in the service?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, although in truth I was by no means so certain.

  “Well, I owe your father a great debt. Had he not bayonetted that Frenchman on the old Billy Ruffian, I should not be here now in charge of the greatest expedition ever to leave England’s shores.” Sir John paused for a moment. “Or had the chance to eat my boots.”

  Sir John and Mr. Fitzjames guffawed and I joined in nervously. “In any case” — Sir John wiped his face and went on — “I shall be glad to provide a reference and a quiet word in an important ear should you require it.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. It’s an honour to serve with you.” Since Sir John was being so talkative, I was bold enough to ask a question that had been on my mind for some time. “When can we expect the ice to release us, sir?”

  “That’s a question we would all like answered,” Sir John said, “although I suspect it’s one only God knows the answer to. Certainly not for some months yet. What is your opinion, James?”

  Mr. Fitzjames sucked his teeth thoughtfully for a moment. “Perhaps in June if this mild weather continues. Our exploring parties are certainly out much earlier than we could expect, according to Parry and Ross’s journals.”

  “Will Mr. Gore’s party be back soon?” I asked. William had joined the exploration party heading east along the coast of North Devon. He had been gone some time and I looked forward to his return. Friendship with William was much less complicated than with Davy and I’d grown fond of the gruff marine and his stories.

  “Any day now if they haven’t run into difficulties,” Mr. Fitzjames said.

  “Will we complete the Passage this summer, sir?” I asked, encouraged by the relaxed atmosphere.

  “I think we shall. God willing, of course,” Sir John answered. “Mr. Fitzjames, do you agree that the channel to the south that Mr. Gore discovered last autumn, and which was so kindly named after my dear wife Jane, will provide the route we seek?”

  “I think Lady Jane Franklin Strait will lead us in exactly the right direction, sir,” Mr. Fitzjames replied. “However, it is so narrow that I fear it will not open until late in the season.”

  “No matter.” Sir John waved a hand dismissively. “We shall spend our time exploring Wellington Channel. It appears to head some distance north and might connect to an open ocean in that direction. I do not personally hold with that idea, but we will add more lines to the chart. Then when my wife’s strait clears of ice, we shall head south, complete the Passage and head for home.”

  He turned from Mr. Fitzjames to me. “Are you eager for home yet, young George?”

  “I am eager for the warm lands of the Sandwich Islands,” I said with a smile.

  “Indeed,” Sir John said. “I am as well, although I do not think Mr. Fitzjames will be joining us there.”

  I looked up at Mr. Fitzjames.

  When he saw my puzzled expression, he said, “I have requested, and Sir John has kindly agreed, that I and a small party be put off on the shores of Russia. We will return home overland. It will be a wonderful adventure and I shall be back in London with our great news before the ships arrive.”

  “May I come with you?” I blurted out. Both men laughed. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “That was unforgivably presumptuous of me.”

  “No. No,” Mr. Fitzjames said hurriedly. “In fact, I have had thoughts along similar lines. You are an intelligent boy and would be of use in my venture. I am sure I can arrange it.” He looked at Sir John.

  “Of course,” Sir John said, “although you will be depriving me of a fine servant.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “But we must complete this task first,” Sir John continued. “And to do that, we —”

  “Sled returning!”

  A shouted voice from the deck above cut short our conversation.

  We hurried out on deck and peered over the rail into the Arctic twilight. The sled was already close to the ship. It was coming from the east, so it had to be Mr. Gore’s exploration team. I was happy that William was back and looked forward to the tales he would have.

  At first all I could see were bundled, hunched figures straining forward against the weight of the sled, which was piled high with supplies, tent, stove and sleeping sacks.

  “They’re one short,” Mr. Fitzjames said.

  I hurriedly counted the toiling figures — seven. The hauling team had set out eight strong. Something had gone wrong.

  Men clambered over the side of the ship to help their comrades. It was only when the sled was manoeuvred alongside that I saw a frozen body atop it, and only when the body was brought aboard that I recognized it as that of William Braine.

  “Oh no,” I gasped.

  William looked peaceful but horribly thin. His body was frozen solid, like a statue carved in impossibly white stone.

  “Take him down to the sick bay,” Surgeon Stanley ordered. “We will prepare him for burial there.”

  I watched as my friend’s corpse was man-handled down the hatch. I couldn’t stop the tears.

  “He was your friend, the marine?” Mr. Fitzjames asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I warned him not to go. I said he could beg off the exploration party. He had been losing weight and his cough was getting worse. He shouldn’t have gone.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Mr. Fitzjames said. “I’m sure he knew what he was doing.”

  A bundled figure approached and stood in front of us. “A sad event, Mr. Gore,” Sir John said.

  “Indeed, sir,” Mr. Gore agreed. “Braine collapsed when we were a
t our farthest from the ships. He was coughing blood. I can’t imagine how he managed to get so far. In any case, it was obvious he couldn’t go on. We camped and he lay delirious for three days, after which we were trapped for a further three by a blizzard. We returned with all haste.”

  “Very good, Mr. Gore,” Sir John said. “See to the care of yourself and your men. You can report fully to me later.”

  It was hard getting over William’s death. His Royal Marine companions took great care over his burial, allowing me to stamp out the details of his sad fate on the copper plaque affixed to the coffin lid. We had to work fast. When we brought his body on board to the warmth, it rapidly became obvious that his remains were not in the best condition. That and the attention of the rats to his body gave us good reason to work fast. Nevertheless, we took care, dressed him in his best clothes and laid his favourite red kerchief over his face.

  We buried him deep, beside Torrington and Hartnell. Another grave.

  It was a sad trilogy of headstones that marked our sojourn at Beechey Island, and although there were good times and optimism after that spring of 1846, there was also a horrible inevitability to every event. It seemed that nothing we attempted completely succeeded. I tried to remain optimistic, but as the weeks wore on, I began to see us as mere toys at the whim of a cruel and uncaring nature.

  Davy was no help to me in my sorrow after William died. “Should never have gone off sled hauling,” he commented. “Won’t catch me doing that if I can help it. It’s brutal work.”

  I continued to avoid Davy and his gambling friends. I spent more time with Neptune. His friendship was unconditional and I could tell him all my worries without fear of some harsh comment.

  Chapter 9: Hope Destroyed

  King William Island, 1846–1847

  As Mr. Fitzjames had predicted, spring came early and mild that year of 1846. When the ice released us in early July, we sailed up Wellington Channel in search of open water. The going was slow. Leads opened and closed around us, forcing us to go where they led. Our steam engine grumbled and hissed and kept our engineer, John Gregory, busy when it broke at the most inconvenient times.

  When it did, everyone piled onto the ice and man-hauled the ships forward. At other times, we had to break out the ice saws and cut our way through to open water. It was many weeks’ work to progress the 150 miles north up Wellington Channel, but it was most welcome after the boredom of our enforced winter idleness.

  On August 6 we were finally beset at 77 degrees north. We lingered for some days at this northerly point for Mr. Fitzjames to take magnetic readings. While doing so, many of the crew climbed a nearby hill to gaze upon what some had thought would be open ocean. It was not. The first time I gazed upon that scene, it was with horror. As far as the eye could see, huge slabs of ice, some greater than 10 or 12 feet in thickness, lay tossed about at all angles, like the discarded playthings of some giant impetuous child. The power of nature to create such a mountain range of ice left me speechless. How could we possibly manage if these forces were turned against us?

  The way back south was uneventful and we crossed over to Lady Jane Franklin Strait without difficulty. The strait was open, restoring our confidence, and we sailed down with lighter hearts, thinking God was offering us easy passage. It was only later that we recognized it as a temptation of the devil.

  In September we arrived at the north end of King William Island. As there was no way down either coast — the east side being too shallow for our draft and the west too ice-clogged — we prepared for our second winter. With no safe land harbour, we cut docks into a large, stable slab of several-year-old ice and linked our location to a camp at Cape Felix, the most northerly tip of King William Island, by a trail over the ice.

  The mood was low. However, we were convinced we were faced with only one final hurdle that we would overcome with ease in the summer of 1847 and be through to Bering’s Strait and the warm Pacific Ocean before that year was out.

  We lay at the limits of the known world. A few miles south of Cape Felix lay Victory Point, named by James Ross when he reached his farthest distance west in 1830. On the south shore of King William Island, a mere 60 miles south of Victory Point, was the cairn at Cape Herschel built by Simpson and Dease in 1839. All we needed to do was traverse that 60 miles from Victory Point to Cape Herschel and we could claim everlasting fame as the discoverers of the Northwest Passage.

  Not being on land, the winter of 1846–1847 was harder than our time at Beechey Island. A magnetic camp was established at Cape Felix, but it was a hard journey over rough and continually changing ice to get there. On board ship the officers organized theatricals and lessons in the arts and sciences, Sir John encouraged us with his Sunday sermons, and Bill hunted rats, griped and complained. Davy gambled and drank more than before and was prone to fits of sudden anger. I spent more time with faithful Neptune, repeating the stories my father, William Braine and Davy had told me.

  Just as we were beginning to see a few hours of daylight each day, two men died: Josephus Geater of a mysterious illness that baffled both Surgeon Stanley and Mr. Goodsir; and Thomas Tadman in a fall from the bowsprit onto the ice. Davy merely commented that Tadman was drunk, which may have been true.

  My boredom that winter was eased by being assigned to help Mr. Gore build and modify our sleds for the coming spring explorations. “Different sleds for different purposes,” Mr. Gore used to say. “The Hudson Bay men and the Esquimaux use light dog-drawn sleds. Fast, but no use for scientific work where you need to carry equipment and samples of what you find. That requires larger vehicles, and it is our goal, young George, to create a sled big enough for our scientific work, but not so heavy that the men hauling it will break down from the strain.”

  Mr. Gore was always tinkering, shaving down a support here, modifing a runner there. He talked continually as we worked, sometimes to me, sometimes to himself and sometimes to the sled. “Our task would be easier if we simply had to travel over flat ice, but hauling over these damnable ridges puts such a strain on the sled frame. Hold that beam there young George while I hammer this nail in.” I did as he ordered. “There, that’s a good boy,” he added, patting his finished work — all Mr. Gore’s sleds seemed to be male. “Now you’re much lighter.”

  As May drew on, Mr. Gore was selected to lead a party consisting of Mr. Des Voeux and six men down the west coast of King William Island to Cape Herschel. He was to have the honour of completing the Northwest Passage and fulfilling a dream that had propelled men into these unforgiving lands since the days of Frobisher and Hudson.

  While Mr. Gore headed for glory, Lieutenant Little and Mr. Hornby were to take a second sled down the east side of King William Island. Their task would also be important, proving whether or not King William Island was attached to the land to the east. It was hoped the two parties would meet on the south shore of the island, perhaps even at Cape Herschel itself.

  Mr. Fitzjames prepared messages giving our position and a brief history of our doings so far, for the explorers to place in tin cans under piles of stones as they progressed. The plan was for both parties to first head for the magnetic camp at Cape Felix. From there, Lieutenant Little was to head down the east coast of King William Island and Mr. Gore down the west.

  On May 24 the two sleds were seen off with much fanfare, good wishes and cheering. Sir John, although he had been unwell and confined to his cabin for several days, came on deck and made a speech befitting the historic moment. He said that Gore and Little would be forging a vital link in the chain that bound our great empire together.

  Each sled had been christened and its name emblazoned on a handmade flag that fluttered from a pole at the stern. To my delight, Mr. Little had chosen Bellerophon, the warrior after whom my father’s ship had been named. Mr. Gore had selected Orion, the hunter.

  I stood at the rail watching those laden men struggling to haul their burdens over the ice until they were mere tiny dots. By then most of the rest of the crew
had returned to their duties. The only other group nearby were Davy and his friends.

  “Do you wish you were going with them?” I asked Davy.

  “Why would I wish to be working like a slave when I can be cozy and warm here on board ship?”

  “For the adventure,” I said. “The excitement. The glory of completing the Northwest Passage.”

  “Glory?” Davy muttered. “Ain’t no glory in working yourself to death tied to hundreds of pounds of useless equipment. The glory’s in the fame and fortune that awaits us when we return home. Then you’ll hear stories about what I done here that’ll make what them officers’re doing look like a Sunday walk in the park.” Davy waved his arm at the horizon where the two groups of slowly receding figures were still occasionally visible amongst the ice.

  I was shocked at his cynical attitude. How could his heart not soar at what we were achieving?

  “We should be turning for home,” Bill said.

  “Home?” I exclaimed.

  “Aye, home. Ain’t no way through this damned ice. This ain’t no place fer God-fearing men.”

  “It’s as well you’re not God-fearing, then,” Davy said with a laugh. Bill grunted and fell silent.

  “We can’t go home,” I said. “That would be a failure. As soon as the ice releases us, we must head west and complete sailing through the Passage.”

  Bill snorted at that.

  “You have to admire young Georgie’s optimism,” Davy pointed out. “If he were in a prison cell, he’d spend half a day hammering on the locked door before turning and saying, ‘Oh well. No matter. I ain’t tried the barred window yet.’”

  Several men laughed and I felt my face flush. “You don’t deserve to be heroes of the Northwest Passage,” I shouted. “You’re nothing but cowards.”

  I meant the words for Bill and the others, but anger flashed in Davy’s eyes. He spun to face me, his mouth twisted. “Call me a coward again and you’ll feel my blade through your ribs,” he growled. Then he stalked off.