F
ranklin’s orders were to proceed along Lancaster Sound to its confluence with Barrow Strait in the west, and with Prince Regent’s Inlet and the Gulf of Boothia to the south, and there to adopt a southwesterly course through whatever navigable water lay in that direction until he reached the mainland coast, whereupon he was then to turn west and continue to the Pacific by way of Bering Strait.
Due west through Barrow Strait would bring the expedition into those unrewarding waters explored twenty-five years earlier by Parry; turning south into Prince Regent’s Inlet they would be following in the wake of the Rosses. Neither route led to the Passage, both terminating in land-locked water and impenetrable ice.
Having arrived at the confluence of Lancaster Sound with Barrow Strait, Franklin made a decision which was uniquely his own, and prior to entering the more turbulent waters of the Strait he called Crozier and his senior officers together to inform them of what he now intended to do.
Pinned to the wall of his cabin was a map upon which Vesconte had drawn the line of every known coast and waterway so far charted, the bulk of these already behind them, the area ahead largely blank except for the few known headlands and bays which had already been visited and plotted. Under orders from Franklin to resist the urge to speculate, Vesconte had avoided adding anything other than that which had been first located and then afterward confirmed. Parry’s islands lay 200 miles ahead of them, still the farthest
west ever reached at that latitude. The west coast of Baffin ended abruptly south of 72 degrees. The east coast of the Boothia Peninsula extended to 70 degrees, but its far coast remained invisible except around this same latitude, where it had already been visited by James Ross fifteen years earlier. Elsewhere there was only emptiness, given some definition by the mainland coast far to the south. It was into this uncharted white space—even following a direct course, a distance of 300 miles, although more likely to be double this once they were forced to begin weaving amid the ice, land and open water in that direction—that all thoughts turned upon seeing the map, and as the men gathering together waited for Franklin to address them.
“Guesswork, gentlemen,” he began, rapping his cane and silencing their speculations. “We cannot even say for certain whether or not the Boothia Peninsula is a solid land mass connected to the mainland—in which case Prince Regent’s is nothing but a giant blind alley—or whether it is broken at some point along its length by a single or by many channels. Ross failed to establish this, and if we ourselves choose this course then we might have great cause to regret his failure. We know it is filled by the spring pack, but so too is the western approach.” It was clear by the peremptory manner in which he made these opening remarks that he had no intention of turning south into the Inlet.
Crozier was the first to his feet. “But surely navigable by us along a good deal of its length,” he said, masking his anger at the realization that his own opinion had not been sought in advance of Franklin announcing this decision.
“Certainly,” Franklin said quickly. “We might even penetrate as far south as we have already come west. Our problem then would be that we might be caught and be forced to winter in some particularly active part of the pack. It is not my intention to gamble all upon an unfortunate first winter when we are provisioned for at least three and are still at leisure to make our calculations based upon something other than the necessity to avoid ice-damage.”
Crozier became impatient with these explanations. He had accompanied Parry on his final disappointing search and was
convinced that their best chance of success now lay in continuing westward, changing their course to the southwest only when the ice in that direction became too much for them.
Franklin allowed a minute of open speculation before resuming: “Permit me to read you our orders, gentlemen. Afterward I will tell you what I intend to do and hope that I can persuade you of my reasons.”
The ten men tried to make themselves more comfortable in the confined space.
Franklin took out a leather satchel, unfastened its bindings and spread its contents on the table at their center. There was a thick sheath of papers and he searched these for the sheet he wanted.
“Clauses five and six concern us here,” he said. “Five is founded upon the knowledge that Parry has sailed four times through Lancaster Sound and Barrow Strait, finding both to be navigable. The whalers themselves have come this far and suffered no harm. Indeed, so convinced is the Admiralty of the openness of these waters that they speculate upon some extension following directly through to Bering itself.”
Upon hearing this, Fairholme said, “Surely not. Surely they must realize the impossibility of that?”
Others nodded their concurrence.
“I think they do. Hope, I believe, has temporarily triumphed over experience, for they go on to say that rather than exploring any channel north or south from Barrow Strait, we are to sail through the latter along the latitude of seventy-four degrees and fifteen minutes until we reach Cape Walker.” Franklin indicated the dismembered finger of land at 98 degrees west, immediately beyond which lay the map’s large empty space.
“And from there?” Fitzjames asked.
“Here the gentlemen of the Admiralty become a little less specific, I’m afraid.” Franklin returned to his papers and read from them. “From the point ninety-eight degrees west we are simply required to steer to the south and the west toward Bering in as straight a line as is permitted by the ice or any unknown land. Surely it is nothing more than any of us expected.”
“Our only course,” Crozier said confidently, ready now to argue for their continuation westward.
“It would certainly seem so,” Franklin said.
“And clause six?” Crozier asked.
“Clause six would tend to agree with our own consensus of opinion that the best prospect of the Passage does indeed lie in this direction. It points out that the ice in the far west at Cape Dundas and around Melville Island appears to be fixed and heavy and thus presents less of a hazard to navigation in the open channels among it.”
“Parry’s first under his own command,” Crozier said.
“I believe so. You see our predicament. Parry continued west and found the ice so thick and extensive in that region that he was barely released from it after a long and difficult winter spent within it.”
“Which is no reason why we ourselves should not test it again now. Twenty years have passed. There may no longer be any ice in that quarter,” Crozier said, again rising to his feet to add emphasis to his argument. Several others rose alongside him.
“I agree, gentlemen. But what I cannot accept is that now is the time to be starting out on a journey in that direction. If we had been in this position a month ago I would have been in favor of making the attempt. At least then we might have had the time and opportunity to turn back before we were caught or at least to find a safe harbor in which to winter. If we sail now I fear neither of these opportunities would exist.”
John Irving was the first to speak. “Then is it your intention to winter the ships close to where we are now?”
“It is,” Franklin said firmly.
“Even after having come so far, and so easily?” Crozier said. “Even while the water remains open to us? Surely not.”
“Let me read to you the concluding remarks of clause six,” Franklin said, and waited for silence. “These suggest that if a permanent obstruction—ice or land—should be encountered to the southwest of Cape Walker, then we are to consider the alternative of passing between Cornwallis Island and North Devon if Wellington Channel is open.”
A moment of stunned silence met this remark. Several turned back to the chart and studied it.
“North!” Edward Little said. “They suggest we sail north from here? But what will that achieve? Surely they must be aware of the fixed ice in that direction.”
“I believe they are, Mr. Little,” Franklin said.
Crozier joined his lieutenant at the chart. “Then they want us to sail on a useless errand simply to satisfy themselves that it cannot be done.” He slapped his palm on the table.
“And in doing so we eliminate a full quadrant for those who might come after us,” Franklin said calmly. “Surely it is the nature of all exploration and probing in this place that we move forward only by first eliminating all the blind alleys and false turns that we cannot help but make in our first groping forays. You and I have stumbled often enough in the darkness and over blank charts in the past, Francis.”
“Which is why I want to waste as little time as possible doing it again.”
Franklin resealed his orders and waited again for them to fall silent.
Realizing that to argue any further would only create bad feeling between his commander and himself, Crozier asked him to outline his intentions to them in greater detail. Acknowledging this conciliatory gesture, Franklin reassured them all that he was as convinced as they were that the continuation of the Passage did not lie to the north.
“Cornwallis Island,” he announced, replacing the chart on the wall with another which showed the island in greater detail. “For obvious reasons, its southern shore is well-enough charted. It is my intention to explore north along Wellington Channel and pass beyond the northern shore of the island—assuming of course that it
is
an island and not simply a small piece of someone’s imagination set adrift amid this fearful waste of ice and howling darkness.”
They all laughed at this, even Crozier, and Franklin knew that they were once again with him.
“‘Our nightmares are not their nightmares,’” Crozier said, repeating the well-worn phrase of Sir John Barrow with which they were all familiar.
“Precisely,” Franklin said. “We are here, gentlemen, and we are here alone. They, on the other hand, must inhabit their offices and their salons and every now and again visit a traveling light-show or panorama upon which to feed their imaginations.”
“Bravo, Sir John,” Graham Gore called out.
Uncharacteristically, Franklin bowed in acknowledgment, the gesture soliciting further calls and applause. “Not so fast, Mr. Gore. I daresay that upon our return we too may be reduced to the status of sideshow exhibits.”
“But what a sideshow,” George Hodgson said, rising and standing as though he were posing for a bust of himself.
“Indeed. But let us not get carried away so soon with our speculations. It is my intention, in the days of sailing remaining to us, to travel as far north along Wellington Channel as the ice will allow. And when we can go no farther we will turn south and return via the west coast of Cornwallis. It is also my intention, again depending on the condition of the ice, and the speed with which the coming winter closes in on us, to find a safe harbor in a sheltered bay on the south shore of either Cornwallis or Devon Island.” He stopped speaking and waited for their comments.
“How far will we get?” Fitzjames asked him, coming to the chart and examining it more closely.
“Your estimate is as good as mine.”
“Seventy-six degrees, seventy-seven?”
“Possibly. Like a great many others who have come before us, we can never truly know where we are going until we arrive there.”
Vesconte, who had so far said very little, rose, called for their attention and announced that he for one was only too delighted to be sailing in a straight line for the Pole.
“And why might that be?” Fitzjames asked him, prolonging the joke.
“Because it occurs to me,” Vesconte said, “that if we are all to
get some feature or other named after us, then our best chance of finding those discarded, ignored or unwanted by others lies in that direction.”
“Vesconte Island,” Fitzjames said. “How about you, Mr. Hodgson, Mr. Irving?”
“Mount Irving,” Irving said, suggesting to them all that he had already given the matter some consideration.
It was a great relief to Franklin to see that the uncertainty and disappointment of a few minutes earlier had been dispelled. He saw that Crozier still harbored doubts about the merits of what he had proposed, but knew that the point of divisive confrontation was passed. He unlocked another of his cabinets and took out a bottle of Madeira, suggesting that a toast be drunk to their first foray into unsailed waters. Afterward, it being Saturday, they drank their regular toast to wives and sweethearts.
Later, as Crozier and his officers prepared to leave, Franklin took him to one side and asked him if he still had any serious reservations about the plan he had outlined.
“I cannot deny that I am disappointed that we will make no further progress to the west this season,” Crozier said. “But I agree that a journey north might prove valuable for the reasons stated.”
“And that we will be in a strong position to embark upon a full season’s exploration next year?”
“That, too,” Crozier admitted. Glancing quickly around them to ensure that he was not overheard, he added in a low voice, “Parry is convinced that no navigable route lies directly to the west. Pushing so hard year after year broke his ships and his spirit. His loss of heart and disillusionment on his final voyage was terrible to see. I have great respect for the man, and for the Rosses too, but none of them will ever return to resume their searches.”