Across Frozen Seas (6 page)

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 He's been really quiet and withdrawn the last few days.”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.”

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.

“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?”