Across Frozen Seas (8 page)

“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 particular 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.

My second session with Chris didn't go well at all. I had nothing to say and all he could do was repeat the same stuff he had said the week before. He speculated on the dreams' cause and why they had ceased. In some strange way, I blamed Chris for the loss of the dreams and that made me uncooperative. I didn't object when he suggested I leave early.

I didn't feel any better after the session, but I had some spare time so I went to the library to pick up a book on Franklin I had ordered the week before. It was a journal written by one of the officers from the expedition that had discovered Franklins first wintering site on Beechey Island. It was pretty dull and only told me stuff I had read a dozen times before. There were descriptions of the three graves of John Torrington, John Hartnell and William Braine, the foundations of the blacksmith's workshop and the pile of discarded cans. As I thumbed through it I began drifting away. I was thinking that there was not much point in going to see Chris again. Then my eye caught something. It was a brief footnote that I could have easily missed. It discussed the possibility that the ships had left Beechey Island in a hurry. That in itself was not remarkable. What was, was that one of the searchers had found a pair of gloves laid out to dry. They had been weighed down with a rock and forgotten in the haste to leave.

I was stunned. George's gloves, left behind in the
rush to take advantage of the open lead. It was a detail of my last dream that I could not have known from anywhere else. It was as if George were trying to talk to me. He was sending me a message: Don't
listen to anyone else. Only your dreams are true. No one else will understand.

Maybe there was hope yet! Maybe my dreams would come back. I tucked the book under my arm and rushed out to meet Mom in the car. I told her I wasn't going back to see Chris again. I put it very positively, saying he had been a great help, but that there was no point now that the dreams had stopped. On the drive home we chatted about school and sports, but my mind was in turmoil. I couldn't keep my eyes off the book. I was convinced that, in some way, that footnote was a message from George and I was almost too scared to hope that it meant that the dreams would return.

That night I dreamt again. This time I told no one. But I did follow one of Chris' suggestions—I wrote the dreams down. Not for him, but so that, if they stopped again, at least I would have something concrete to remember. The dreams were mine, and I was not going to risk losing them again until they had led me to the end, whatever or wherever that might be.

In nine days I will be fourteen. What a difference it will be from my last birthday when we left Beechey Island with such high hopes. Then I thought that we would be celebrated heroes by now. Instead, I am standing by the rail looking out over a grey wilderness of ice and snow. Neptune sits by my feet. He is my constant—my only—companion these days. I cannot help remembering what a difficult year it has been.

At first progress was slow as the ice was still heavy. Often we had to wait for an open lead heading in our direction, then we would cautiously follow it until we could go no farther. Twice the
Erebus
became trapped and we waited nervously to see if we should escape. Then, at last, we reached Cape Felix, the northernmost tip of King William Land.

This is where we are now, halfway between east and west and farther than any man has gone by ship before. A few miles south of us is the cairn at Victory Point
built by James Ross at the end of his sled trip from the east three years before I was born. Only sixty miles south of that is another cairn. This one was built only seven years ago by Simpson and Dease on their canoe journey from the west. That sixty miles is the last unexplored bit of the Northwest Passage. It seemed when we first arrived that our success was assured.

It was late summer but there was still a full twelve hours of light each day. The west coast of the island was blocked by heavy ice, so we set off down the east side, down Ross Strait. The bottom of the strait was unexplored, but we hoped it connected to Simpson's Strait and we could sail around King William Land. The ice was light and progress was good. It looked as if we would easily reach Simpson's cairn. But half way down the shallows beat us. After days of trying to find deep enough water to continue, the
Terror
grounded. It took a week and the removal of many supplies to refloat her. The stores we stacked neatly on the beach; who could say if we might have need of them one day? Then, sadly, we sailed back north to search for a way through the heavy ice to the west. For weeks we tacked back and forth following blind leads and watching the frozen waves of ice heave restlessly. Finally, on September I2 last year, both ships became beset and we resigned ourselves to a second winter frozen in an icy stranglehold.

As I stand here lost in my thoughts, I can hardly distinguish this last winter from the one before. Both are little more than a haze of cold and boredom. Seeley
spent much of the time away from the ships, so I was happy enough with my books. I am now big and strong enough to take part in sled hauling and I did manage a few short trips to visit our scientific camps. The main magnetic camp is set up at Cape Felix on King William Land. It must be on land since the sea ice moves. The work is of the most boring sort and consists of sitting watching a pendulum and a dip needle and recording their movements every hour. There must be no metal nearby and even our belt buckles must be removed for fear that they will interfere with the readings. What we discover will be of great interest since we are a mere hundred miles from the location of the Magnetic North Pole which James Ross visited in 1831.

Surgeon Stanley has become very adept at skinning and preserving birds and now has a sizeable collection. His assistant, Goodsir, is kept busy collecting and drawing all manner of creatures which he obtains with a dredge through holes in the ice. As our supplies are used, the extra space is soon filled with specimens and we continue to gather information at every opportunity.

George has returned to his gambling ways and we grow farther apart. This Arctic loneliness affects us all in strange ways. I find that I am withdrawing more into myself while many of the men become more querulous and rowdy. There have been a number of fights, and knives have been drawn, although no one has been seriously injured yet.

With the coming of spring and the end of the
winter storms, it was decided that two sled parties would set out to map King William Land. One would go down the west coast and complete the Northwest Passage. The other would work down the east and explore that region. Lots were drawn and we were all elated when the
Erebus
won the honour of completing the passage. On the 24 May, 1847 Lieutenant Gore, Mate Charles Des Voeux and six men set off on their historic journey. We all envied them and heartily cheered them on their way. Simultaneously, but with less enthusiasm, Lieutenant Little and Mate Robert Thomas led a team from the
Terror
in the opposite direction.

Both parties have been away nearly three weeks now. Mister Gores team was to move fast and he is expected back any day now. They were heavily laden with supplies to begin with, but planned to drop provisions at depots for future parties. As soon as they reached Simpson's cairn they were to return. Mister Little's trip is longer. He is expected to be away for some time yet. If there is no word of him by my birthday, we will send out a party to meet him.

As I gaze out on the colourless vista, I sense a presence behind me. Dreading that devil Seeley catching me unaware, I jump round. The figure in front of me is not Seeley, but almost as frightening.

Sir John is no longer a young man, and the voyage has taken a toll on him. He always appears confident and cheerful in front of the men, but he has lost weight and seems almost to be sagging under the burden of leadership. His face has taken on something of a grey pallor.

“Good day lad,” Franklin smiles faintly at me, “I did not mean to startle you. Are you keeping watch for Mister Gore?”

“Aye sir,” I stammer nervously. “His will be a great achievement.”

“It will be that.” The smile broadens. “To complete the passage is what we came for. But it is our scientific work that will live on long after our journey is forgotten. This stretch of water is of no use for commerce.” Sir John turns his gaze out over the ice. “I have spent many years in these lands. I have seen men starve and have almost died myself. No one will willingly come here with any hopes of profit. The only force strong enough to compel men to suffer in these latitudes is the desire to learn. To know what this world, so different from our own, is really like.”

Franklin falls silent and I have not the courage to interrupt his thoughts. Eventually he begins speaking again, but more to the barren wastelands than to me.

“It is a perilous journey we have undertaken and I have been plagued by black dreams of late. I see a lonely grave and I fear that it might be my own.”

I am horrified that Sir John, who has been the strength and driving force for us all, should be thinking this way. But I am too terrified to offer any comfort.

“That day we first met,” he says, “when I had that damned image made, I was suffering mightily from a cold. That very evening, I drifted into uneasy sleep on the couch beside the fire. My dear wife Jane was beside me embroidering the Union flag which I am to raise
on the completion of the passage. I felt a weight on my legs and awoke. I found the flag thrown over me for warmth. Poor Jane, she did not realize that the Union Jack is only draped over a corpse.”

After a moment's silence, Sir John seems to shake himself from his sad reverie and turns to me. “Do you still have your companion?”

It is a strange question and I try to answer as best I can. “George is below. He will be cleaning the....”

“No,” Sir John manages a wan smile as he interrupts me, “I recall when I first saw you that I was getting two sailors for the price of one. Is that still true?”

“Aye sir,” I reply, understanding at last. I pull Jack Tar from my pocket and hold him up. “Here he is.”

“Good lad. Keep him warm now, he is not dressed for these climes. You have another friend too I see.” Franklin reaches down to scratch Neptune's ear. A shout from the topmast stops him.

“Sled on the ice. South south east.”

Sir John straightens. “It seems Mister Gore is back.” With a last half-smile he turns and walks across the deck. He has only gone some ten paces when he stops. As I watch, his broad back seems to tense. He takes another half-step and stops again. One knee buckles and the large figure slumps to the deck.

For what seems like hours no one moves. Then Mister Fitzjames, who is coming down the bridge ladder, jumps the last few steps and rushes over. Soon there is a crowd around the fallen figure. Surgeon Stanley is called and Sir John is carried below. I am in a
turmoil. What has happened? Will he be all right?