unknown wilderness which bore few signs of those who had gone there before them, and who had been lost there, or returned home beaten and incredulous at the stubbornness, complexity and confusing impermanence of the place. They all knew who these men were, and many paid silent homage to them.
“We pass through Ross’ mountains,” Vesconte remarked to Fitzjames and Gore, causing them to turn and look at the open channel still unwinding ahead of them.
Twenty-five years earlier, John Ross, sailing with Parry, had entered the Sound, then unconfirmed as the only true entrance to the Passage, but had turned back at what he believed to be a range of
mountains blocking his way ahead. These turned out to be nothing more than a solid bank of cloud, through which Parry himself sailed a few years later, eclipsing his former captain and taking up the baton of exploration, until he too withdrew a decade later, old and defeated and privately convinced that where he had failed no one would succeed after him.
The Terror moved closer astern and sounded her bell. Turning to study her through his glass, Fitzjames saw that the man upon her prow was signaling to landward. He looked where he pointed, and amid the ice there he saw a darker form.
Reid too had been alerted and he was the first to speak. “She’s a country ship come out in this year’s rush,” he said solemnly. “No rigging, no deck. She’s floundered and been carried in the pack, left high in the crush.”
“Are you certain of this, Mr. Reid?” Franklin asked him, relieved that they would not again be obliged to delay or alter their course.
“No need to turn, Sir John,” Gore said, expressing the thoughts of them all.
A few moments later the abandoned hulk was lost to sight.
These ice-locked wrecks were common enough on the edges of the Arctic, usually whalers too late or too careless in the forming pack, sucked into the drift, savaged and then spat out again, sometimes many years later and hundreds of miles from where they had been trapped and abandoned.
They continued due west until the sun began its late descent ahead of them, barely darkening the sky until it touched and then burned into the horizon. They moved closer to the ice-littered shore and dropped anchor. Watches were posted and their plans for the following days’ sailing were discussed over dinner. It had been decided that there should be no exchange of men between the two ships until the full 200-mile length of the Sound had been navigated. It was unlikely that they would become separated for long, but it was now important for the ships to begin to function independently of each other as soon as possible.
The following morning they sailed at first light. The wind for once was not with them, and until midday their progress was slow. They
remained within sight of the southern shore, only diverting from it when the ice there extended seaward.
In the early afternoon, Reid warned that the floe ahead of them was thickening and that if it showed any further signs of consolidating then they would be forced to abandon their coasting and seek out a safer channel farther north. Franklin flagged this message to Crozier, who concurred in the decision.
Less than an hour later the cry went up from the Terror that she had struck ice. She was 300 yards astern of the Erebus, following in her wake, and it seemed impossible to those on the leading ship that she could have struck some obstacle over which they themselves had passed. As they watched, several men, led by Thomas Blanky, made their way along the Terror’s bowsprit lines to inspect whatever damage she might have suffered.
“She’s run over a submerged berg,” Goodsir guessed.
“She’s still coming,” Vesconte said.
The Terror appeared to have incurred no damage, but they could neither see nor hear if she was still in contact with the ice, and several minutes passed before Blanky returned to the head, raised both his hands to the Erebus and then
“We pass through Ross’ mountains,” Vesconte remarked to Fitzjames and Gore, causing them to turn and look at the open channel still unwinding ahead of them.
Twenty-five years earlier, John Ross, sailing with Parry, had entered the Sound, then unconfirmed as the only true entrance to the Passage, but had turned back at what he believed to be a range of
mountains blocking his way ahead. These turned out to be nothing more than a solid bank of cloud, through which Parry himself sailed a few years later, eclipsing his former captain and taking up the baton of exploration, until he too withdrew a decade later, old and defeated and privately convinced that where he had failed no one would succeed after him.
The Terror moved closer astern and sounded her bell. Turning to study her through his glass, Fitzjames saw that the man upon her prow was signaling to landward. He looked where he pointed, and amid the ice there he saw a darker form.
Reid too had been alerted and he was the first to speak. “She’s a country ship come out in this year’s rush,” he said solemnly. “No rigging, no deck. She’s floundered and been carried in the pack, left high in the crush.”
“Are you certain of this, Mr. Reid?” Franklin asked him, relieved that they would not again be obliged to delay or alter their course.
“No need to turn, Sir John,” Gore said, expressing the thoughts of them all.
A few moments later the abandoned hulk was lost to sight.
These ice-locked wrecks were common enough on the edges of the Arctic, usually whalers too late or too careless in the forming pack, sucked into the drift, savaged and then spat out again, sometimes many years later and hundreds of miles from where they had been trapped and abandoned.
They continued due west until the sun began its late descent ahead of them, barely darkening the sky until it touched and then burned into the horizon. They moved closer to the ice-littered shore and dropped anchor. Watches were posted and their plans for the following days’ sailing were discussed over dinner. It had been decided that there should be no exchange of men between the two ships until the full 200-mile length of the Sound had been navigated. It was unlikely that they would become separated for long, but it was now important for the ships to begin to function independently of each other as soon as possible.
The following morning they sailed at first light. The wind for once was not with them, and until midday their progress was slow. They
remained within sight of the southern shore, only diverting from it when the ice there extended seaward.
In the early afternoon, Reid warned that the floe ahead of them was thickening and that if it showed any further signs of consolidating then they would be forced to abandon their coasting and seek out a safer channel farther north. Franklin flagged this message to Crozier, who concurred in the decision.
Less than an hour later the cry went up from the Terror that she had struck ice. She was 300 yards astern of the Erebus, following in her wake, and it seemed impossible to those on the leading ship that she could have struck some obstacle over which they themselves had passed. As they watched, several men, led by Thomas Blanky, made their way along the Terror’s bowsprit lines to inspect whatever damage she might have suffered.
“She’s run over a submerged berg,” Goodsir guessed.
“She’s still coming,” Vesconte said.
The Terror appeared to have incurred no damage, but they could neither see nor hear if she was still in contact with the ice, and several minutes passed before Blanky returned to the head, raised both his hands to the Erebus and then
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