On the Proper Use of Stars

by Dominique Fortier

  Nearly suspended above the hole, Adam, held by Tinker, who had firmly caught hold of his legs, finally came close enough to Jeremy that the latter was able to grasp his hand and slowly emerge. His lips were blue and his entire body was shivering. There was no question of going on. We pitched the tent not far from there, in a safe place, and succeeded in making a fire on which I brewed sweetened tea. We took off Jeremy’s soaking-wet clothes, which had frozen on him as soon as he emerged from the water. I realized at that moment that the bag he was carrying and which I had urged him to get rid of contained a good half of our rations.

  We had brought no change of clothes and those that we had on our backs were hardly less sodden than his. We wrapped him in a woollen blanket and rubbed him down as best we could.

  The shudders that ran through his body died down after a few hours but he had sunk into delirium and was murmuring incoherently, feebly beating the air with his arms as if to drive away a swarm of flies that only he could hear. Peddie urged us to continue rubbing him down in order to speed up the circulation of his blood, which doubtless was no longer irrigating the brain as it should, and we took turns at his side.

  A few hours later, through the wind which was again howling and snapping the tent canvas, I thought I heard barking. I went out and discovered three sledges, each one pulled by a dozen dogs, on which were perched six Esquimaux. I was happy to recognize Atsanik, Kavik, Ugjuk, and Kapilruq, who had visited us last winter and whom we had then seen as boisterous, rather entertaining children. It seemed to me that we had been saved.

  They urged us to climb onto their sledges but I refused to leave behind our tent, and we struck it quickly in order to carry it away with us. In the meantime they hitched Neptune to one of the sledges, beside their skinny, high-strung dogs, but instead of pulling with them, he shook himself, arched his back, and finally dropped to the ground, then was dragged across the snow by his fellow creatures, who did not slow down for something so minor. Ashamed, I asked, using signs, if we could stop long enough to free him. Our saviours seemed to think that I was getting ready to abandon him on the pack ice but I was able to make them understand that, actually, I wanted to put him on the sleigh with us. The man who was driving us roared with laughter, but the others seemed rather incensed. Nonetheless, Neptune was set down next to me and he spent the rest of the journey, which was brief, seated comfortably. We stopped less than an hour later in a sort of basin protected from the wind. There, while the women were wrapping Jeremy in furs and fixing for him a brew of dried herbs, the men began to construct two igloos that would serve us as shelters for the night.

  Little by little some sensitivity comes back, painfully, to my fingertips, and I am so tired that I can no longer see what I am writing. I must stop here for the night and continue tomorrow when I am rested.

  I spent the night between sleep and wakefulness, visited in my dreams by Sophia and by those Esquimaux who, I am convinced, saved our lives. Curled up on a blanket at the foot of my bunk where normally he does not sleep, Neptune has not got to his feet for fifteen hours. He is snoring. As for me, I am stiff with aches and pains, still unable to swallow anything save hot tea but ready to resume my narrative.

  I had already observed these rudimentary structures which the Esquimaux build but I had never taken part in their construction: I must confess that while their igloos appear to be primitively or even crudely simple, they nonetheless evince a form of genius. While the women were watching over Jeremy, Kavik showed us how to cut blocks of snow of equal size and secure them carefully in such a way as to create a perfect dome, from which the top is then removed, creating a chimney through which smoke may escape. It is nearly miraculous: the whole structure, from which the keystone, a crucial and essential component of any construction, has been removed, does not collapse and loses none of its solidity. Perhaps with the hope of impressing us, Kapilruq also showed us how to make a most respectable window using a translucent piece of ice.

  On the inside, these houses are strangely cozy. The atmosphere is muffled, bluish, similar to that which must exist underwater. An even more peculiar marvel, they provide very effective protection from the cold, and not only do they offer a bastion against the wind, they also preserve the warmth in such a way that at all times the temperature is around 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The Esquimaux light fires there with no fear of melting the walls or the roof.

  Regardless of DesVoeux’s scoffing I cannot help but be filled with admiration when I think that these men do not know cities, that they roam endlessly, constructing here and there short-lived houses of snow in a barren landscape where they are able to survive, lacking everything, at the mercy of the elements and of inhospitable nature, in this land abandoned by God.

  Once the igloos had been built, we took refuge therein to spend the night. I occupied the larger of the two, along with Jeremy, who, perhaps thanks to the concoction administered to him by the women, was no longer delirious and appeared to be sleeping quietly; with Peddie, who continued to keep watch over him; with the youngest of the women; and with Ugjuk, who I believed was her husband.

  While outside the dogs were barking and howling at the moon, Ugjuk and Atsanik invited us to share their meagre sustenance: dried meat of caribou, tough as leather, which had to be sucked for a long time before one could begin to masticate it – in spite of myself I had a thought just then for Sir John, and for the first time the words “the man who ate his boots” seemed to me not so much ridiculous as desperate – and a gruel based on seal fat, a preparation that was heavy and indigestible but hot, and so more than welcome. After the meal, our hosts conversed rapidly in their language, then Ugjuk wrapped himself in the skins that had been spread on the ground and went to sleep. Jeremy had opened his eyes and taken a few mouthfuls of gruel before being swallowed up again in sleep, soon imitated by Peddie who was lying beside him.

  Lying on my back I gazed at the fire glinting off the walls of snow, realizing that for the first time in three days I was not suffering from the cold, when I heard the rustling of furs. Atsanik had half risen, the lowness of the igloo making it impossible to stand, and came and lay down beside me. Surprised, I glanced, concerned, at Ugjuk nearby, a glance to which she responded with a smile. She then began to undress in silence, removing the skins in which she was clad as naturally and as gracefully as a lady taking off her gloves and hat when she comes home.

  Dumbfounded, I dared not make a move, and she stayed for a long moment looking at me, smiling, her breasts round like oranges (which she has no doubt never seen), her long black oily hair falling over her shoulder, her dark eyes staring at me without blinking. And then … My pen dares not trace the words that would be necessary for recounting what then took place, but for several minutes I forgot where I was – and that Jeremy had nearly died, that the lives of five men and another hundred were in my hands, that our rations and supply of coal were getting low, that the ice was not disappearing, that Sophia will never love me even if I return as a hero. And I slept a dreamless sleep for the first time in months.

  It took three days to get back to the ships. During the day, Atsanik paid no particular attention to me, but she came back and lay at my side in the night, contenting herself with curling up against me like a small animal, her nose buried in my neck.

  Fitzjames was preparing to dispatch a rescue expedition when we finally returned to the Terror and the Erebus. The Esquimaux were generously rewarded with two rifles, a lieutenant’s tunic with gold buttons, five tin cups, an axe, sugar, and rum, after they had refused, gesturing broadly, the tinned goods that we offered them. They saved our lives, and I do not know if I will ever see them again.

  “MMF.”

  It was not exactly a sigh, and it most certainly was not an exclamation of surprise; barely a slight discharge of air, actually, that marked a restrained amazement.

  Sophia did not look up from the newspaper she held, folded, in front of her, where she was reading a laudatory review of a play she had seen the we
ek before, which had struck her as rather mediocre. As she did every morning, she took her breakfast with her aunt in the room arranged for that purpose at the back of the house on Bedford Street. As these ladies were not the sort who believed that a healthy appetite showed a lack of refinement or was the sign of an unrefined soul, the table set for two was laden copiously with scones, toasted bread, ham, sautéed kidneys, scrambled eggs, mushrooms, a terrine of pheasant, and some leftover eel pâté – a still life that was lit up by the first rays of sunlight shining through the vast windows on all sides of the small dining room that was furnished simply and lined with orange trees in pots that scented the air with their perfume. Distractedly, Sophia dropped bits of sausage into the open mouth of Mr. Darcy, who was sitting at her feet.

  “MMF.”

  This time, the exclamation was impossible to ignore. Sophia raised quizzical eyes at Lady Jane, who was going through the post received the day before.

  Her aunt was shaking vigorously the missive she had in her hand, as if in the hope that the letters covering it would be reorganized by magic to form a new message more attuned to her mood.

  “Dear child, you’ll never guess who is getting married.”

  Pausing for dramatic effect, Lady Jane sipped some tea and patted the corners of her lips. Grimacing, she indicated the teapot to the maid who had entered carrying a dish of fruit with cream, and came back shortly with a fresh, steaming pot. Lady Jane waited until she had been served again before she dropped:

  “Mathieu de Longchamp.”

  Sophia felt a pang somewhere not far from her stomach. In an instant, her toast with pheasant terrine lost its flavour.

  “And who is the lucky woman?” she asked in a steady voice.

  “Geraldine Cornell.”

  At the name, Sophia saw in her mind a young girl with pink cheeks, bright eyes, and teeth already bad, dressed all in white, a perfect replica of dozens of young girls who had been presented to Her Majesty that year.

  “We are cordially invited,” resumed Lady Jane, this time using a falsely official and high-pitched voice, “to celebrate the announcement of the happy event at an afternoon reception to take place Thursday week at the home of the future bride’s parents, 14 Park Lane. I can reply right away that unfortunately we are otherwise engaged but that we offer the young couple our best wishes … ?” The interrogation was strictly for the sake of form. Obviously, her niece would have no desire to attend that reception. The mere fact of inviting her to it constituted a transgression of taste difficult to forgive.

  To her own surprise, however, Sophia heard a voice that was hers reply: “No, Aunt, let us go. I shall be pleased to see Geraldine again.” Then she took a sip of scalding tea and very nearly burned her tongue.

  13 August 1846

  FOR A WEEK we have been preparing to weigh anchor. The creak of the offshore ice, which is fissuring in the open sea, sometimes keeps us awake all night. It sounds as if a large animal were unfolding its numb limbs as it woke up. Crevices are beginning to form around the ships and we shall have to be careful that the chunks of ice, once they are separated, do not collide with or crush the hulls, which, although reinforced with steel, cannot withstand such assaults.

  The tarpaulins covering the decks have been removed, the masts put up again, the sails, which are deeply creased and musty-smelling from their stay in the hold, have been smoothed out. We leave behind us a shoreline strewn with rubbish, the sole trace of our stay in an immaculate desert which soon will be covered with the snows of autumn. We must make haste as soon as the way is free, and clear ourselves a road towards the west through the growlers. We will perhaps finally have the opportunity to test the powerful locomotive motors of which Sir John was so proud and that to date have been of no use at all to us.

  It is without regret that I shall leave this desolate winter and go back to sea; it, in one way or another, is always alive.

  18 September 1846

  69° 6’ N, 102° 23’ W, 17° F

  Take careful note of Today’s Date.

  This historic day shall be inscribed in our Memories: after 8 days spent navigating Peel Sound, we caught sight today of the point of King William’s Land, to the west of which opens the Passage, and we shall penetrate it in the Days to come.

  All is well on Board. Morale is good.

  Franklin sighed. Decidedly, he took no pleasure from writing, felt that he could never find the correct tone. The enthusiasm he was trying to express was not feigned but it was slightly premature, for it was possible that the maps indicating the mouth of the aforementioned passage might be as unreliable as the ones that he had had to rectify since the start of the voyage, some of which contained gross errors. Peel Sound itself was hardly sketched on most of the charts, which moreover depicted King William’s Land as an indistinct mass with vague outlines.

  It was obvious that to date no one had ever carried out a systematic reconnaissance of the region. Crozier had in fact suggested the ships sail around the headland towards the east so as to map methodically the coastlines, but Franklin had given him to understand that they had no time to waste plunging into a cul-de-sac while the Passage was doubtless within their reach.

  “But perhaps, precisely, it is not a cul-de-sac,” ventured Crozier. “The only maps showing the isthmus that joins this land to the rest of the mainland are riddled with errors.”

  “As far as I can see, my dear Crozier, you have taken on the mission of redrawing the Arctic entirely by yourself? Very well, I should not want to stand in your way, but if you have no objection, let’s first find the Passage which is the reason for this expedition, before undertaking any ambitious cartographic project.”

  Sir John had uttered those last words with the good-natured chuckle that made the majority of his officers see him as a kind of bland uncle but which Crozier had learned to decipher as the sign of an irrevocable refusal. He had insisted, however, for if Sir John was unaware of the dangers that lay in wait for the ships farther west, Crozier had been notified of the threat by John Ross, who had warned him specifically about the huge masses of ice which, seeming to come down directly from the North Pole, piled up with unprecedented violence in this strait where Franklin was preparing to launch the Erebus and the Terror. He went so far as to show Sir John the description of this dangerous phenomenon that Ross had put in his logbook:

  The pack of ice, which in the autumn of that year had been pressed against the shore, consisted of the heaviest masses that I have ever seen in such a situation. With this phenomenon, the lighter floes had been cast up on some parts of the coast in a most extraordinary and incredible manner, turning up large quantities of the shingle before them and in some places having travelled as much as half a mile beyond the limits of the highest tide-mark.

  Franklin was not moved in the least. “You, dear Crozier, are not accustomed to these travel stories. You must know, however, that while the essentials of what is recounted in them are true, it happens that a need is felt to embellish the events somewhat or to make them appear more dreadful than in fact they are. I myself, while I am most rigorous, have occasionally … But stop worrying now, we shall be back in England in time for the new year.”

  And so, unaware of the strait between Somerset Island and King William’s Land, the Erebus set sail towards the west, in accordance with the orders of Sir John Barrow, who, incidentally, spent that autumn day in 1846 at his club, where he lunched on a cutlet, potatoes, and peas.

  21 September 1846

  THERE ARE MORE and more ice floes; they drift slowly, sometimes turn, then come back and crash together. Virtually no water can be seen between the jagged slabs, greyish white in colour, that threaten to hold the ship in a tight embrace which it might well not survive. It is especially hazardous to clear one’s way through this shifting labyrinth, and the ice masters have a great deal to do to keep the Terror and the Erebus out of danger. The two vessels advance almost one behind the other, the first opening the way for the second. It is now nec
essary to find a safe place where we can wait for another winter to end.

  Sir John obstinately refuses to abandon even one of the steel cylinders that we loaded on by the hundreds, and during heavy weather we can hear their metallic cacophony in the hold. This despite the fact that it had been agreed we would jettison dozens at a time after we had inscribed the position of the ships as well as the general progress of the expedition on copies of a document requesting, in five languages, that whoever finds it be so kind as to dispatch it to the British government or to one of its emissaries or representatives.

  When I reminded him that the cylinders were valuable tools enabling anyone who found them to follow our progress, or even, should it be necessary, to retrace the route we had taken, he replied cryptically: “Indeed. Precisely.” Then he repeated, “Precisely. Precisely,” as if he had just proved some irrefutable truth, after which he agreed to explain his reasoning: “If we sow those cylinders without thinking, who can guarantee that they won’t fall into the wrong hands? Who can prevent the first Russian ship, should it discover them, from attempting to catch up with us or even to pass us? You must know that we are not alone in seeking the Northwest Passage and that our rivals share neither our scruples nor our sense of honour.” As he spoke those words, he looked extremely self-satisfied. I was speechless. Sir John is knowingly depriving us of the sole means of communication that we have for fear that our messages will be intercepted, as in some adventure novel. That explains at least why he was opposed to erecting a cairn on Beechey Island. And if those cylinders and the documents they contain are our sole means of communication, it does not mean, so far as I know, that they are in fact effective. Some of the tubes dropped by explorers’ ships have been found seven years after they were entrusted to the sea, in the unlikeliest spots on the globe. For it is undeniable that those steel cylinders are very small, even if they are thrown into the water by the dozen, and the ocean is very big. Had we dropped one every day since our departure it is unlikely that even one would have been recovered, but it struck me as no less stupefying that Sir John would contravene deliberately the express orders of the Admiralty – to say nothing of plain common sense – lest the title Discoverer of the Northwest Passage should be stolen from him.