This morning, DesVoeux came in while I was questioning one of them.
“Is this the way to write Terror, sir?”
DesVoeux answered before I could open my mouth: “No, imbecile, you’ve put two Rs where it only takes one.”
I looked at him, shocked, but he seemed serious. So the handsome dandy is illiterate. I should have suspected. Once he had turned his heels, looking smug, I explained to the men that as far as I was concerned, I would rather that we continued to write Terror with two Rs.
Just then, the very names of the ships, familiar creatures whose slightest nooks and crannies I knew, struck me as an ill omen. Through what aberration, through what grim irony had a vessel that was making ready to spend months in total obscurity been given the name of the Greek god of darkness?
For two or three days the sun has shown itself for only a few minutes then disappeared on the horizon straightaway like a bird shot down in mid-flight. The thin bright disk heaves itself with difficulty above the white line that marks the meeting point of sky and Earth, stays there suspended for several seconds, nearly trembling, surrounded by a feeble halo of greyish light, then immediately plunges again after it has brushed against the snow for a moment, not to reappear until the following day, even more briefly.
7 January 1846
Today, scarcely six months after weighing anchor in the port of Greenhithe, we buried our second dead man. If it is true, as certain savage peoples maintain, that one is not at home in a land until one’s dead have been entrusted to it, we are now bound forever to this inhospitable bit of island as I would never have chosen to be.
It took the better part of a day before we could dig in the frozen ground the grave wherein we laid the body of John Hartell. I must confess that when I was told of his demise it took several seconds before I could recollect his face. It gave rise to a feeling of shame. True, he was a member of the Erebus crew, but in the end those men are all under my responsibility as well as under Sir John’s. I told myself that I would have been a mediocre father. What will I ever know of it?
It was a most sober service. The crews of the two ships gathered around the grave, Sir John read the 23rd Psalm in an unsteady voice before delivering a few words about Hartell, of whom he said that he was an excellent sailor, a courageous young man full of life. At that moment I could not help wondering if he had known who was meant when he was notified of the young man’s death – indeed, if he knew now as he was offering his eulogy.
A few men were weeping silently under the grey sky. We observed a minute’s silence in memory of the deceased, then we set about covering the body with stones, after which the men went back to their ships with a heavy tread. If henceforth this land to which we have given one of our men belongs to us, we belong to it as well.
John Torrington’s grave was dug forty-eight hours later, to the right of the first. He had suffered from a persistent cough since our departure, a cough that was resistant to the treatments with camphor and eucalyptus lavished on him by MacDonald, who was concerned about seeing it spread through the crew, and that had worsened since we’d arrived at the Arctic Circle. Torrington had spent the past week confined to bed, and when I went to see him, he had the feverish eyes of one who sees death drawing near; he was holding a blood-stained handkerchief over his mouth.
I went myself to announce his passing to Sir John, who put his head in his hands and, for a long moment, said nothing. Then he asked me how old John Torrington was, and if he had a family in England. I knew, having asked the question of Little a few hours earlier, that he was not married, but that his parents were still alive and that they were destitute. He ran his hands over his face and asked me if I thought that he could use the 23rd Psalm for the ceremony again, for he had not anticipated another. He added, as if it were self-evident, that he would hasten to remedy the situation. That remark caught me up short and I wondered for a second if he had lost his mind and imagined that he could bring the dead back to life, but soon I realized that he was instead offering to find a new passage that would be suitable for a burial service. I merely nodded and he did likewise. As I was leaving his cabin, I saw him consulting his Bible as if it were his most urgent duty. But who can say where lies the true duty of men, and who knows if the words that he may find there will be able to restore the serenity of those to whom he will read them …
There now stand upon Beechey Island two identical graves, two minute crosses under the immensity of the sky, on a desolate scrap of land that seems to have been intended from time immemorial to become a cemetery. It would be hard to say whether these flimsy sentinels are guarding the boats or defending the windswept island where they are planted.
23.1
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
23.2
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
23.3
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
23.4
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
23.5
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
23.6
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
ONCE THE PORTUGUESE monasteries had been inspected – a visit that inspired Lady Jane to compose a number of heartfelt pages on the relationship between Gothic architecture and light – the travellers headed for Madeira, and from there to the West Indies and then the United States. In New York and in Boston, as was her habit, Lady Jane missed neither a museum nor a natural or historic site, whether significant or of no consequence, and she visited as well a number of universities, libraries, even factories, hospitals, and prisons, covering with notes the small writing pads brought along for that purpose. She also used the opportunity to climb Mount Washington, in New Hampshire, an ascent of some 6,300 feet, which she accomplished alone, accompanied by a guide, while Sophia and Fanny, who did not share her passion for heights, treated themselves to less perilous strolls along the lake bordered with spruce trees where their hotel was nestled.
After that, Lady Jane took it into her head to go and meet her husband, whose ships would undoubtedly appear shortly on the west coast of America. For a few moments, she considered the possibility of embarking with Sophia (Fanny, exhausted, insisted on going back to England at once) on a vessel that would round Cape Horn before heading up towards California, but instead she chose the land route, which allowed her to follow the itinerary travelled by Alexander von Humboldt, an explorer of the sort that Lady Jane favoured: noble, well read, voluble, he shared his observations and hypotheses in accounts that were utterly clear, written in a style that was always brisk and nimble. If Lady Jane Franklin had allowed herself to imagine what man she might have dreamed of being, she would have been obliged to admit that she would not mind slipping into the skin, not of her rubicund spouse, but of the fiery von Humboldt. Thus this part of the voyage, which was said to be of legendary difficulty, took on a particular appeal from the fact that it corresponded – inaccurately, alas – to the route followed by von Humboldt and Aimé Bonpland. Crossing the isthmus of Panama was uneventful: clouds of midges pressed against the mosquito netting of their sedan chairs, but very few were in fact able to get inside. Lady Jane’s epidermis was used to their bites, unlike Sophia’s, which was covered with rose-colored swellings to which a series of a foul-smelling poultices had to be applied. Only once did she spy a scorpion, which one of the guides hastened to flatten with his foot, murmuring words that could have been an incantation; howler monkeys threw branches and fruits at them from the treetops, but she was never able to make out anything of those creatures save long elastic tails as they fled squawking through the leaves; and of the brigands feared, heralded, nea
rly hoped for, not a trace. She who had always refused to follow anyone at all now went nonetheless happily along the trail left almost fifty years before by a tremulous old man, working on his magnum opus, entitled simply Kosmos.
If the first stages of the journey were magnified by Lady Jane’s intoxication at the thought of setting foot (most often metaphorically, for rarely did she feel the need to descend from her sedan chair, in which it was so easy to raise the curtains to admire the landscape) in the tracks left by the larger-than-life explorer who was, so to speak, showing her the road to follow, Lady Jane looked forward to the last leg with a genuine feeling of elation, for she had every hope of being reunited with her illustrious spouse, home from a triumphant expedition. She had even pictured herself rounding the fearsome Cape Horn on board the Erebus, which would take her across the Atlantic to return at Sir John’s side to England, where she too would arrive as a conqueror. At the very least she was expecting to find on the West Coast some word about her husband, whom whalers or traders could not have failed to catch sight of in the Polar seas. But of the expedition of Her Majesty’s Navy there was no news, and for the voyage home, Lady Jane, in the company of her niece, embarked upon a ship filled with dull businessmen, politicians, and a good many chilly old ladies.
Back at Bedford Place, making the best of it, she took up her London activities where she had left them. Along with the status of hero’s wife went a certain number of absolute demands, not the least of which was to offer her visitors – whose numbers would multiply over the coming weeks – an interior at once beyond reproach and always surprising, implacably British in both spirit and nature, that would also evoke the adventure, even the heroism with which its occupants were familiar, a delicate balance that Lady Jane excelled at preserving thanks to a thousand and one connections, private as well as professional.
Among the latter, Mr. Thompson, whom Lady Jane and Sophia never called anything but Mr. T., was indisputably the most prominent tea merchant in London. This designation seemed far too common, though, to apply to such a refined individual, and he preferred to call himself a “broker in rare essences.” It was said that he turned down more clients thanhe deigned to accept and that among the rejected – obviously displeased – were certain members of the royal family, condemned to sip the dull blends of Mister Twinings that had plagued their mothers and grandmothers before them. While she could not claim to be the wealthiest or the most highly born of Mr. T.’s clients, Lady Jane was nonetheless one of those he favoured, going so far as to present his elixirs himself. He enjoyed her curiosity and her enthusiasm for all things new and he marvelled at her knowledge of geography, anthropology, and botany, knowledge most surprising in a woman, even through she was the wife of the most celebrated explorer in the land. Of course, Sir John himself was part of Mr. T’s interest in Lady Jane. Always on the lookout for novelties and rare articles, he had begged the famous captain to be so kind as to bring him samples of the small aromatic plant called “northern tea,” whose leaves gave off the fragrance of mint, which the coureurs de bois chewed to freshen their breath and drank as a decoction for treating colic. For Mr. T. also liked to think of himself as a kind of herbalist, and while he placed tea well above all other plants, he did not look down on certain ones that had especially interesting properties. Sir John seemed to him then a fellow discoverer. It is true that the broker in rare essences, whose constitution was rather feeble, had never stepped onto the deck of a ship – nor, consequently, on foreign soil – but his emissaries brought to him, along with the silks, the medicinal plants, and the thousand and one varieties of tea that he offered to his pampered clientele, supplies of stories about the distant lands visited and their customs, so that he sometimes had the impression that he had personally surveyed Cathay or Bombay. When he proposed to the elegant London ladies the scented teas which he sold to them for a small fortune, he was close to believing that he, too, was taking part in the greatness of the Empire.
This morning he was especially pleased with the treasures he would reveal to Lady Jane. For in addition to the insipid Earl Grey – named for the former Prime Minister, who had been presented, by way of thanks for some favour or other, with the bergamot-scented leaves everyone was inexplicably infatuated with – and the delicate jasmine tea of which Lady Jane always kept a stock to quench the thirst of ladies whose palates were not adventurous, and which Mr. T. himself delivered in porcelain jars decorated with serpents and dragons, he had brought three boxes made of precious wood.
He opened the first with tremendous caution to reveal some grey-green leaves that gave off a sweet but strangely heady fragrance, somewhat reminiscent of the earth after rain and of the unopened buds of flowers.
“Allow me to introduce the white tea of Fujian, in the county of Zeng Huo in China. A splendid spot … Hills with steep sides and rounded summits that resemble kneeling giants trying to stand to touch the sky. This tea is harvested only a few days a year, at the beginning of May, by young virgins with a delicate touch. It is usually reserved exclusively for the imperial family.”
“Mmm,” noted Lady Jane as she breathed in the aroma from the box. “It seems to me that I sampled it at Lady Cheswick’s. Could it have been you who sold it to her?”
“Certainly not,” the merchant retorted, outraged that his marvel should be compared with some concoction or other. “I do not know where that lady purchases her supplies but I can assure you that this tea, a genuine nectar, is to be found on only four or five tables throughout the land.”
“Yes,” replied Lady Jane, who was in the habit of agreeing with the person with whom she was speaking, even when they thought that they were in the middle of an intense debate, as soon as the matter seemed to her to have been resolved or no longer interested her, as was rather frequently the case. “But I find it a little … a little bland. Show me what else you have.”
Mr. T. let the matter drop. With much ceremony, he set the first box down beside him and opened the second, which contained leaves of a more assertive green and gave off an intense vegetal aroma.
“This is the Yun Wu, a green tea from the province of Jiangxi. Its name means cloud and mist. It was picked at the top of Mount Lu, which has nearly impenetrable slopes and a peak that is constantly draped in rolls of mist. As the old Chinese proverb has it, where there are clouds and fog we are assured of finding good tea. Its leaves are then dried in the sun without being subjected to any form of fermentation, which enables them to conserve their perfume intact. Allow me …”
He pinched a few leaves between his thumb and forefinger and dropped them into a small, squat cup without a handle, then poured in some water. The plant-like aroma became more pronounced, as if a miniature swamp were coming to life and exuding delicate scrolls of steam. Mr. T. breathed in delightedly while Lady Jane drew back imperceptibly in her chair. Something about this tea was not altogether proper; it seemed to her oddly indecent. The merchant insisted she admire the rich jade-green hue.
“This nectar has been enjoyed by the imperial court since the Song dynasty,” he pointed out. “Do smell.”
Overcoming her reluctance, Lady Jane stretched out her neck, inhaled once. The powerful, nearly musky aroma provoked a hiccup which she suppressed as best she could. Taking out her handkerchief, she asked to be shown a black tea. Mr. T. sighed, then picked up the third box and opened it. From the contents came a spicy, perfumed aroma that was at once sweet and pungent.
“Oh!” she said, already won over. “What is this?”
“A unique blend from the East Indies that is called chai, a skilful assemblage of black teas to which have been added, in proportions kept secret for generations, pepper, cinnamon, star anise, ginger, cardamom, and other spices. It is generally drunk with hot milk and a good quantity of sugar. Let me give you some to taste.”
He spooned the mixture of leaves and spices into a new cup, and ceremoniously added a little milk and two squares of sugar before presenting the drink to Lady Jane.
&n
bsp; “I must warn you, Lady Jane, this is extremely strong. People have told me that it sometimes causes palpitations in ladies, and therefore is more appropriate for gentlemen, whose tastes it matches more closely.”
Lady Jane was no longer listening. Eyes closed, she was savouring the exquisite infusion that scarcely pricked her tongue and warmed her throat delightfully.
“Dear Mr. Thompson, I should like to purchase your entire stock. Alice will pay you.”
—
AT FIRST ONLY THREE OR FOUR sailors with nothing to do attended the lessons given in the common room, where Crozier had arranged some crates in a row as seats. Soon, however, the volunteers were more numerous. A big strapping fellow called Paterson, pressing Crozier not to make fun of him, asked to be taught to read. Another made it a point of honour to demonstrate that he could identify all the letters of the alphabet (a word that for some reason he pronounced alphabeet) but acknowledged that he did not know how to write them. Others were curious to learn the principles of physics, optics, the laws of astronomy and magnetism – subjects on which Crozier enjoyed holding forth. Others still spent those few hours consulting the technical and scientific works that had been brought on board in their hundreds. But oddly enough, it was the novels and books of poems that enjoyed the greatest success. These men, who had previously considered fiction to be a pastime that was good enough for entertaining women (unless it was putting pernicious ideas into the brains of young girls), were fighting over The Vicar of Wakefield and meditating on the poems of Lord Tennyson – one of whose virtues, and it was not the least, consisted in the fact that he was a nephew of Sir John. During those precious minutes when the lower decks were bathed in a pallid light, the corner of the usually cluttered and overpopulated room took on the appearance of a scriptorium.
On the Proper Use of Stars Page 4
