Across Frozen Seas (9 page)

It is night and I am in my hammock, but I cannot sleep. It has been such a day of contrast that I do not know what to think. First Sir John spoke with me. Then he collapsed. Within hours Mister Gore and his party were back with the news that the Northwest Passage has been completed. He is rushed to Franklin's bedside. The great man has regained consciousness, but he is paralyzed down his left side and only occasionally aware of his surroundings. He is alert enough to realize the significance of Lieutenant Gore's achievement and promptly elevates him to the rank of Commander. It is almost his last act. Within the hour he lapsed into unconsciousness and, at ten o'clock this evening, Sir John Franklin died.

How could the heart of such a strong, noble man fail so suddenly? He had become the symbol of our endeavor. How could we fail with him at the helm? Now he is gone and we have yet another grave to dig. Although I only met him twice, his death only adds to my almost overwhelming sense of loneliness.

It is one of the few days recently when the cursed wind is not blowing through our bones. It has dropped
to a gentle breeze, but still we huddle in the lee of the sled to hide from it. There are nine of us scattered around a small fire which engulfs the last fragments of our supply boxes. The fire is precious, for there is no wood in this land, yet the circumstances warrant it. Eight of us are a sledging party from
Erebus.

George sits beside me. We are led by Captain Fitzjames who, since Sir John's death, is now second in command below Mister Crozier. Our aim is to meet with the
Terror
party under Mister Little. The ninth member of our sad circle is Henry Sait of that party. He sits across the fire from me. His cheeks are hollow and his eyes sunken and glazed. He is barely able to keep upright.

We have been out for three days now. This morning Mister Fitzjames, who was out in front, shouted that he had spotted something. It soon resolved into the emaciated figure of Sait. He was staggering all over and, when we brought him in, incapable of recognizing any of us. He was mumbling incoherently and looked close to death. It is for him we have built the fire. Its warmth, and some biscuits and brandy, have revived him somewhat. We are all eager to hear his story, although none of us think it will be to our liking. We lean forward expectantly as Sait tells his tale.

“At first we made good time,” he begins hesitantly. “Of course, we were disappointed not to be completing the passage, but we made light of it and joked of what we might find on our side of the island. The land was bleak and flat and the jagged rocks which make up the beaches hereabouts made walking on the land difficult.
We found the going much easier on the sea ice where it was flat, close in to the coast. The only trouble we had was in traversing a long inlet which was packed with a jumbled mass of ice. It was tiring work and it took us two days to cover only ten miles. Mister Little named the inlet Hardwork Cove.”

Sait's eyes lift to the horizon and he drifts off into some private reverie until Mister Fitzjames nudges him. Sait sips some tea and continues.

“There were some large islands offshore, which we took time to explore, but were of little interest. The coast continued southeast and the weather remained fair although the ice was becoming rougher and we had to go ashore frequently to pass open patches of water.

“After we crossed a large peninsula, our route turned southwest and we all felt we would soon be heading back up to the ships. We had reached our most southerly point when we were faced with a wide lead of open water. Since beach travel was so hard and as there was a collection of small islets offshore, Mister Little decided that we should head that way, examine the islets and try to pass the lead on the seaward side.

“We had barely gone halfway when a crack opened in the ice beneath us and the sled began to be drawn into the icy water. I was at the front and so I threw off the harness, but the rest of the men were pulled in. All managed to scramble onto the ice, but soaked to the skin and with no supplies, our predicament was severe.”

Sait hesitates again as if drawing strength to tell the rest of his tale.

“We made camp on the closest island in a makeshift shelter of rocks and snow. That night, Mister Little, who had spent a considerable time in the freezing water trying to help men out and save some supplies, died. We buried him in the morning as best we could. Before we had finished, the wind was up and it was beginning to snow.

“It was not much of a storm, but it trapped us for five days. Five others died before the wind eased and Mister Thomas and myself could leave. We followed the coast for days, hoping to find a supply cache left by Mister Gore. We lost all track of time and my companion began to rave about his wife and family back in England. At last he fell. We were walking along a low ridge when he just lay down in mid-step. I went over to help him up and found him dead.

“I don't know how long I staggered on. I do not remember much until I found myself beside your fire.”

Silence falls across our group like a shroud. Henry Sait sits gazing at the rocks at his feet and no one else feels the urge to speak. At last Mister Fitzjames says, “Set up the tents. We will camp here and attempt to find the body of Mister Thomas. Thank you, gentlemen.”

“What is going wrong George?” I ask as we move over to begin unpacking the sled. “Our luck seems to have left us along with Sir John. Seven men dead and one so weak he may not last long. Will any of us get out of this God forsaken place alive?”

“Don't talk like that Davy.” George is making an effort to lift my spirits. “It is bad luck all right, but
remember the dove when we set sail?”

“Yes,” I reply sadly, “but I also remember the man who fell from the mast—was that not an equally
bad
omen?”

“That was nothing. He got careless is all. You'll see. We're halfway there and still with supplies a'plenty to see us through. Come summer this damned ice will break open and we will be on our way home. It is a shame Sir John won't be able to take us, but Crozier's a good man. He knows the Arctic almost as well as Sir John and he will surely see us through.”

“I suppose so.” I know George is right; it is only a spell of bad luck, but I cannot get rid of the idea that things have changed for the worse.

“Anyway, let's get these tents up and some food made. I fear Mister Fitzjames will have some work for us to do come morning.”

We bend to the task before us, but the pitiful image of poor Henry Sait staggering alone through this unforgiving wilderness hovers before my eyes. Will that be the end for us all? My mind will not let go of some lines from Coleridge's poem. They seem to echo the last words of my poor friend Bill Braine:

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

The dreams were so real now that I hardly knew what was reality and what was not. In school I would drift off into recollections of the previous night and return surprised that the floes of shimmering blue ice were mere desks, the cliffs only blackboards and the grunting walruses simply teachers insisting on an answer to a question I hadn't heard. I just couldn't be bothered. The concerns of the real world seemed irrelevant compared to those in my dreams.

One day I was walking across the schoolyard with Wayne, one of my friends from the team. Sarah and a few other girls were walking toward us. I had never made any secret of the fact that I thought Sarah was beautiful, but she had never shown any sign of being interested in me. Her crowd was the school elite, and I was a long way from that social circle. As we passed, she looked straight at me, gave a smile that would normally have made my knees turn to jello and said cheerily,
“Hi, Dave.”

I just kept walking.

When we were past, Wayne nudged me hard and said, “What are you doing? I thought you were crazy about her. Why didn't you stop and talk?”

I just shrugged.

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess I didn't feel like it.”

Wayne shook his head, “Man, you're getting really weird,” he said and walked off.

The truth was, I really didn't feel like myself anymore. I was constantly thinking about my dream self. I really was getting weird. All I wanted was to sleep and dream. I stopped going out with my friends so that I could go to bed early. On weekend afternoons, I snuck away from whatever chore I had been assigned, curled up, and slept in an attempt to return to my other world.

Some nights would bring two or three short dreams, others just a single long, involved one. Either way they were always in order and always advanced the story. They also varied from simple images, which stood on their own, to complex dream-memories of things my waking self could know nothing about. Sometimes it even seemed like my dream self was keeping a sort of spoken journal. Whatever form my dreams took, every morning I could remember each one as if I had actually lived it.

I was becoming obsessed, and people were beginning to notice. Teachers commented and asked me if everything was okay at home. My parents asked if everything was all right at school. Even my friends gave me a hard
time about never doing anything with them. But I didn't care; my dreams were everything.

But I couldn't ignore the real world entirely. One day I came home around supper time. I was just reaching up to open the door when I heard Mom's voice from inside. It was loud and she sounded upset.

“But we can't go on like this,” she was saying. “You have to sell that business. It's not working.”

I stopped and listened even though I had heard this before. Dad had tried everything at one time or another: selling cars, real estate, landscaping. They were all failures and it was always Mom who spotted it first. Dad tended to always look on the bright side and blame the economic climate or unreliable suppliers.

His latest project was running the local franchise fried chicken place. It's called Fingers 'n Wings. He even had a secret batter recipe. It should have stayed secret. The stuff tasted like cardboard and it had the texture of partly-set carpenter's glue. The guys at school laughed at the place and wouldn't be seen dead there. So the only customers Dad got were the little old ladies who came in on “Seniors' Wednesday” to gum their way through a few soggy fries and maybe a donut. Even they didn't try the secret batter. The chicken place was the worst of Dad's ideas, and right now it wasn't doing well.

“There's not even enough money coming in to pay our debts, never mind buy groceries and clothes,” Mom continued.

“It needs a chance to build up a customer base. It's....”

“Its had three years,” Mom interrupted, “and you still only get six people on a busy night. Face it, the chicken place is a failure.”

That was the wrong word for Mom to use. I guess Dad felt she was calling him a failure and he got very defensive.

“I've built that place up from nothing,” he shouted. “This town needs a place like mine. It's just a matter of time.”

I heard footsteps coming toward the door and jumped back. The door flew wide open and Dad stormed past me as if I didn't exist. I went in. Mom was standing in the living room. Her back was to me, but I knew she was crying. I went to my room and closed the door quietly. I felt terrible. I was angry at Dad for making Mom cry. Sometimes the fights worked the other way around and then I felt angry at Mom for being unfair to Dad. The dreams were becoming more and more tense and now life at home seemed to be falling apart.

In the past, the fights had made me feel so helpless that all I could think of was running away. I never did, but I would lie in bed and plan how I would do it. I would plan what I needed to take with me, when would be the best time to leave so that they wouldn't find out, and where I was going to go. Eventually I would fall asleep and in the morning the fight would be over and the thought of going and living on the streets of Vancouver wouldn't seem quite so attractive. As I lay in my room this time listening to the silence, I began to think that escape was the answer, both here and in my dreams.

“Mister Young, be so kind as to bring my box of pens and ink to the tent.”

Captain Fitzjames is gesturing from the doorway of one of the large tents set up on a beach of jagged rock at Victory Point. Even this late in the winter, the endless, howling wind has swept bare the slightly higher places in this flat land. It has also sucked all colour out of the view. We exist in a world of monochrome; all is white or grey as far as the eye can see. In some senses, the land is more depressing than the sea. At least on the sea ice there are the pressure ridges to break the monotony. Were it not for them, it would be impossible to tell where the water ended and the land began.

Victory Point was named by James Ross as the farthest point west he achieved. It seems we shall get no farther either. It is April, 1848 and we have not moved in a year. The ice did not melt last summer and the ships are still locked fast. Food is plentiful but
scurvy haunts us and many are becoming weak. Leg muscles are painful after the least exertion; gums bleed and teeth loosen for no reason. Our daily exercise does no good and the lemon juice is not sufficient to keep the disease at bay for much longer. We need fresh supplies to halt the ravages of scurvy, and there is no game in this God-forsaken spot, so we are going south to hunt. The journals of Simpson and Back talk of plentiful deer and partridge in these regions. Perhaps when we return the ice will break and we can continue.