Frozen in Time (2 page)

Ah, Franklin!

To follow you, one does not need geography.

At least not totally, but more of that

Instrumental knowledge the bones have,

Their limits, their measurings.

The eye creates the horizon,

The ear invents the wind,

The hand reaching out from a parka sleeve

By touch demands that the touched thing be.

—Gwendolyn MacEwen,
Terror and Erebus

Ah, for just one time, I would take the Northwest Passage

To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea

Tracing one warm line through a land so wide and savage

And make a Northwest Passage to the sea.

—Stan Rogers, “Northwest Passage”

King William Island is one of the most desolate places in the world, a virtually featureless polar semidesert of limestone and mud interspersed with ice-water lakes. Located in the Canadian Arctic archipelago, separated from the north coast of the North American continent by Simpson Strait, the island is large—5,244.5 square miles (13,111 sq km)—but indistinct, rising to a maximum elevation of only 450 feet (137 metres). Yet the in-difference of the landscape stands in stark contrast to the island's dramatic history.

For it was here, in 1848, that the finely outfitted and trained British Arctic expedition commanded by Sir John Franklin ended in extraordinary tragedy. Not one of the 129 men came out of the Arctic to tell of their accomplishments or suffering, and both of the expedition's ships, HMS
Erebus
and HMS
Terror,
were lost, as were whatever written accounts of the journey that had existed. British and American searchers grasping to understand the disappearance were confounded by what little remained of the expedition. Sketchy stories told by the native Inuit, some artefacts, human remains and one tragic note found by nineteenth-century searchers are all that historians have been able to rely on for their reconstruction of events.

Walking along the gravel and sand beaches on a blustery and near freezing June day in 1981, members of an archaeological team from the University of Alberta surveyed a spit of land near Booth Point, on the south coast of King William Island, for human skeletal remains. They hoped their research would uncover clues to the events of the expedition's agonizing final days. They knew that some of the last survivors had crossed from here to a place on the mainland known as Starvation Cove, where the tragedy had reached its inevitable conclusion. The researchers were following the lead of one of the early Franklin searchers, an American explorer named Charles Francis Hall, who in 1869 recorded an Inuit account of a grave belonging to a member of the lost expedition:

After traveling about half an hour, the party halted on a long low spit, called by the natives Kung-e-ark-le-ar-u, on which the men… ‘knew that a white man had been buried.' This, however, was chiefly from the accounts which they had had from their people; only one of these had ever seen the grave. The spot was pointed out, but the snow covered all from view. A monument was erected, and its bearings… carefully noted.

The first day of survey work in 1981 failed to turn up anything. It was on the second morning, 29 June, that field assistant Karen Digby walked up to forensic anthropologist Owen Beattie and archaeologist James Savelle clutching what looked like a broken china bowl in her right hand. “I think this is something important. Is it human?” Digby asked as she handed the white skull bone to Beattie.

It was the first major discovery of their fieldwork, representing the starting point of Beattie's forensic investigation. Having marked the location of her find, Digby led the rest of the crew to the spot. Still visible in the sandy soil was the depression where the human skull fragment had rested, and, placing the discovery back in the depression, the researchers began the process of meticulously searching the finger of land for other remains.

At first, only a few fragments of bone were found. But after six hours of careful survey work, in which every inch of ground was covered, the researchers had discovered, photographed, mapped and then collected thirty-one pieces of human bone. Most of the remains were found exposed on the surface, others were hidden by occasional pockets of vegetation or had been nearly swallowed by the sand.

The texture of the bone illustrated the severity of the northern climate. Exposed portions were bleached white, and powdery flakes of the outer bone surface cracked and fell off if handled too roughly. Sharing the exposed surfaces were small and brightly coloured colonies of mosses and lichens, anchored firmly on the sterile white of the bone as if braced for another harsh winter. By contrast, the ivory-brown undersides of the bones, never exposed to the sun or elements, were found to be in extremely good condition, with all anatomical detail preserved. The researchers also discovered several artefacts at the site, including a shell button common in the early and mid-nineteenth century and a clay pipe stem like those carried on the Franklin expedition. The skeletal remains and artefacts were found over a 33- by 50-foot (10- by 15-metre) area, at the centre of which lay the remnants of what had been a stone tent circle.

One of the first and most important questions that forensic anthropologists ask when examining human remains is, “How many individuals are represented?” Carefully studying the remains, Beattie was able to determine that there were no duplications of bones or anatomical features and that the size and characteristics of the bones supported the theory that they belonged to a single individual.

The shape of the skull's frontal bone and characteristics of the eye socket revealed the remains to be likely of European ancestry. Heavy brow ridges and well-developed muscle markings on the skull and limb bones identified the skeleton as male. The skull sutures (the joints between the various bones of the skull that slowly disappear as an individual grows older) were still clearly visible, indicating that the individual was only twenty to twenty-five years of age at the time of his death.

To many, skeletal remains of a Franklin sailor would serve only as an intimation of a distant Arctic disaster. But to Beattie, the discovery of the Booth Point skeleton was as if one of the last of Franklin's crewmen to die had come forward through time to answer his questions. For there was evidence of metabolic stress, suggestive of serious dietary problems, in porous lesions on the orbital roofs of the skeleton. (Such lesions are associated with various anaemias, but most particularly with iron deficiency anaemia.) There was also the first physical evidence ever discovered that supported the long-held belief among historians that expedition members suffered from the debilitating effects of scurvy during their final months. Areas of shallow pitting and scaling on the outer surfaces of the bones were like those seen in documented cases of vitamin C deficiency, the cause of scurvy. Bone changes due to inflammation (called periostitis) of the thin, parchment-like skin adhering tightly to the surface of living bone, were also easily identified. Other bone changes showed the effects of haemorrhaging between this thin skin and the long bone surfaces. With scurvy, these subperiosteal haemorrhages and resulting bone remodelling can occur even during the physical stresses and strains of everyday activities.

The tremendous impact of scurvy was felt throughout much of the period of European expansion and maritime exploration, which started in the sixteenth century. The diet of the mariners of the age, who endured long voyages without fresh fruit and vegetables, made them particularly susceptible to the ravages of the disease. More Royal Navy charges succumbed to this scourge than died in battle in the eighteenth century. When British commodore George Anson led a squadron into the Pacific in the 1740s to raid Spanish shipping routes, for instance, he lost thirteen hundred men out of his entire two thousand complement to scurvy. In his account of that voyage, Anson's expedition chaplain, Richard Walter, provides a grisly inventory of the symptoms, including ulcers, rictus of the limbs, spontaneous haemorrhages in almost all parts of the body—and a bloom of gum tissue that enveloped what teeth had not already fallen out, producing a terrible odour. Walter also noted strange sensory and psychological effects. The smell of lotus blossoms wafting from the shore caused men to writhe in agony; the sound of a musket firing could be fatal to patients with advanced cases. The sailors also found themselves crying inconsolably at the slightest provocation and swept by hopeless longings.

Unknown until 1917 was the root cause: Scurvy is the result of a deficiency of vitamin C (ascorbic acid), which today can be effectively cured within twenty-four hours with the intake of large doses of the vitamin. In 1753, Scottish physician James Lind published his classic
A Treatise on the Scurvy,
in which he advanced the plausibility of such a treatment by providing experimental proof of the benefits of citrus juice as an antiscorbutic. The Royal Navy, which one critic would later damn as “a hierarchy as soul-chilling, as rigorous, as iron-bound, as any Brahmin caste,” initially failed to reform dietary regimens, however, with the result that the disease continued to wreak havoc. Only in 1795 did the Royal Navy heed decades of advice and begin enforcing the consumption of lime juice on its ships (giving rise to the term “limey”).

While slow to enforce the benefits of lime juice, the Royal Navy nevertheless moved swiftly to embrace a technology that it was convinced also had powerful antiscorbutic properties: tinned food. Prior to the 1810 introduction of tinned meats and vegetables, expeditions were reliant on dry foods that could be stored for long periods of time, such as salt beef and salt pork, biscuits, pemmican and flour. However, spoilage, insects and rodents played havoc with such stores—none of which had antiscorbutic properties. Therefore, the discovery of the value of preserving food in airtight metal containers offered a liberation of sorts. In theory, expeditions of ever-greater duration might now be planned, knowing that there would be a reliable onboard source of meats, vegetables, fruits and soups that would maintain their nutritive value throughout an expedition. It was this simple invention, tinned meats and vegetables, together with the navy's success with lime juice, that convinced the Admiralty that lengthy Arctic discovery voyages such as Franklin's were possible.

Yet, though tinned foods enjoyed a great reputation for warding off scurvy, their antiscorbutic benefits had not been proven, and, in fact, were grossly overrated. The nature of the canning process of the day, which required that tins be nearly immersed in boiling water or saltwater, destroyed any ascorbic acid they may have contained, so that their tinned meats, vegetables, soups and even fruits were virtually useless as antiscorbutics. Still, received opinion held that scurvy could be staved off on Arctic voyages by liberal diets of tinned meats and vegetables, along with a daily allotment of lime juice.

The skeleton found near Booth Point by the University of Alberta researchers in 1981 proved otherwise. It left little doubt that, during the final year of the Franklin expedition (and probably earlier), scurvy was a factor in the declining health of the crews and an important contributor to the expedition's disastrous outcome.

Other findings also preyed upon the minds of the researchers, however: the unusual distribution of the bones near the entrance of the tent circle, the fact that certain bones were present yet others were missing and the discovery of cut marks on the skeleton's right femur. Also noted by Beattie were the angularity of the cranial fragments and the identifiable convergence of fracture lines, indicating that the skull was forcibly broken. He paused over the evidence before him and briefly considered the possibility that this young sailor had suffered an end far more terrible than that described in the historic Inuit accounts—that Franklin's crew “fell down and died as they walked along.” Was this the first physical evidence found to support another Inuit claim: that in their final days, the sailors had been reduced to cannibalism?

The discovery of the bones at Booth Point would prompt, over the next five years, three further scientific expeditions into the Canadian Arctic. With each of these investigations, new leads would be pursued and unravelled, culminating in the exhumation of the preserved corpses of three of Franklin's sailors on Beechey Island in 1984 and 1986, allowing Beattie and his colleagues an unprecedented look into a world very different from our own. By opening this window into the past, they became the first to piece together accurately the events that led to the destruction of the greatest enterprise in the annals of polar exploration.

The discovery of a north-west passage to India and China has always been considered as an object peculiarly British.” With these words, John Barrow, Second Secretary to the Admiralty, announced that, at the end of the Napoleonic Wars, Britain was to embark on a great age of polar discovery. For in the nineteenth century, the greatest epoch of geographic exploration ever known, a primary British aim was to establish the existence of a Northwest Passage (the successful navigation from the Atlantic to the Pacific around America's northern extremity); another was to reach the North Pole. In a little over five decades, from 1818 to 1876, dozens of Royal Navy ships would reach the polar sea. In the process, the Arctic archipelago, that vast labyrinth of land and ice that lies to the north of America, was made almost entirely known.

In most respects, this age of marine exploration was a triumph of geographic and scientific advancement. Yet, despite an enormous investment of resources and manpower, the Royal Navy failed to achieve the two goals set for it by Parliament. When the last official British Arctic expedition returned in 1876 to newspaper headlines proclaiming “The Polar Failure,” no ship had succeeded in navigating the Northwest Passage and no one had yet reached the North Pole. Those prizes were left for others. It was not until 1905 that Roald Amundsen, a Norwegian, would complete the first successful navigation of the Northwest Passage; in 1909, the North Pole was claimed by Robert Peary, an American.

Is it possible that the forensic investigation of human remains from that era, specifically the Franklin expedition disaster of 1845–48, would provide some insight into this larger failure? Certainly the terrible fate of Sir John Franklin's expedition marked the nadir of Arctic exploration: a disappearance of two ships with all 129 of their men, which preyed strongly upon the British mind. Alongside the Franklin disaster, though, were numerous more routine exploration failures that, whilst lacking the sheer melancholic grandeur of the Franklin disaster, were just as frightful and inexorable. For one word appears time and again in their expedition narratives, a word that represents none of the usual suspects: neither ice traps nor perpetual darkness, marauding polar bears nor the minus 50˚F (-46˚C) cold—but simply, “debility.”

In his 1836–37 voyage of discovery, for instance, Captain George Back complained of the “languor,” “incoherency” and “debility” suffered by his crew. In 1848–49, Sir James Clark Ross similarly reported that many of his men were made “useless from lameness and debility.” Five years later, in 1854, Captain George Henry Richards also wrote of a “general debility” afflicting his crew; four years after that, in 1859, all members of Captain Leopold M'Clintock's expedition aboard the
Fox
were struck down by “debility.”

It is an endless catalogue strung together by one simple word.

At the outset, the Admiralty's John Barrow believed that the Northwest Passage was easily navigable and predicted this would be achieved in a matter of months. There was simply no conception of the impediment an ocean of ice would pose to Britain's exploration ambitions. Those hopes would first be set back in 1818, when Captain John Ross sailed into Lancaster Sound—the true entrance of the passage—only to adjudge it a bay, then compounded his blunder by naming the “bay” in Barrow's honour. Then in 1819, Barrow dispatched twenty-eight-year-old Lieutenant William Edward Parry with two ships, the
Hecla
and
Griper,
and a youthful crew to do that which, in Barrow's words, “Ross, from misapprehension, indifference or incapacity, had failed to do.”

Parry entered Lancaster Sound and, with a stiff wind behind him, bore westward. A vast, unexplored channel lay open before the two ships. The masts were crowded with officers and men the entire day. Parry, every bit the Regency gentleman, sought to conceal his own excitement, but did remark upon the “almost breathless anxiety… now visible in every countenance.” The
Hecla
and
Griper
blew past the precipitous cliffs and stratified buttresses of Devon Island to the north and, to the south, passed a series of channels to which Parry assigned names: Navy Board Inlet, Admiralty Inlet and Prince Regent Inlet. He saved for Barrow a particular distinction: naming the channel that lay due west after him. Thus, Lancaster Sound gave way to Barrow Strait.

Parry had blind luck on his side. His ships pushed rapidly west, cruising through a channel normally closed fast by ice, even in summer. When ice did finally obstruct his progress, he opted to overwinter at Melville Island, a rugged outcrop of 1,200-foot (370-metre) cliffs that he named for Viscount Melville, the First Lord of the Admiralty. Parry fully expected the ice to clear from the remainder of the passage the following summer. In fact, he had unknowingly breached the dominion of ice, a possibility that dawned on him during the depths of the polar winter, when the temperature outside plunged to minus 55˚F (-48˚C). He realized that he had taken an incalculable risk and secretly began to craft an escape, titled “Plan of a Journey from the North coast of America towards Fort Chipewyan, should such a measure be found necessary as a last resource.” He doubtless realized it would have been an exercise in futility. The nearest white men, Hudson's Bay Company fur traders, were more than 700 miles (1,130 km) away across some of the bleakest, coldest terrain on earth.

Parry, however, did just about everything right in the circumstances. It was 1 October, and he “immediately and imperiously” set about securing the ships and stores for the onset of the polar winter, a responsibility that had, he wrote accurately if immodestly, “for the first time devolved on any officer in his majesty's navy, and might, indeed, be considered of rare occurrence in the whole history of navigation.” Most particularly, Parry determinedly set about defending against scurvy. He sent out hunting parties and enforced a ruling that “every animal killed was to be considered as public property; and, as such, to be regularly issued like any other kind of provision, without the slightest distinction between the messes of the officers and those of the ships' companies.” In addition, Parry diligently seized upon two dietary reforms that had only recently been introduced by the Royal Navy: The lime juice—prepared from fresh fruit—he carried onboard was dispensed daily in the presence of an officer to ensure that the bitter concoction was consumed by reluctant sea-hands; also distributed were the stores of “embalmed provisions”—tinned meats, vegetables and soup. So new was the technology that no one had yet invented the can opener; the cans had to be cleaved open with an axe. (The Royal Navy had begun conducting trials with tinned foods in 1813.)

Parry had yet another plan: to keep his men so thoroughly occupied that they had no time to consider their predicament. Their days were filled with activities, but Parry's most useful tool for staving off monotony was a barrel organ for singalongs and bimonthly polar melodramas put on by officers in petticoats. His second officer even produced a newspaper called the
North Georgia Gazette and Winter Chronicle,
filled with bad puns and abominable poesy, but which had the “happy effect of… diverting the mind from the gloomy prospect which would sometimes obtrude itself on the stoutest heart.”

Despite Parry's best efforts, however, the living conditions the men were forced to endure were appalling. On 3 November, the sun disappeared below the horizon and did not return until 84 days later, just before noon on 3 February 1820, when a crewman spotted it from the
Hecla'
s maintop. By then, the temperature inside the ships was so cold that the theatrical performances could not be enjoyed by anyone, but most particularly by the cast of female impersonators. Large patches of skin were left behind any time the men touched a metal surface. Wrote Parry: “We found it necessary, therefore, to use great caution handling our sextants and other instruments, particularly the eye-pieces of telescopes.” The lime juice froze and shattered its glass containers. Even the mercury froze in the thermometers.

Rations, at least, were better than the more experienced hands were used to, as “a pound of Donkin's preserved [tinned] meat, together with one pint of vegetable or concentrated soup, per man” replaced salt beef weekly. Yet despite this measure and the daily allotment of lime juice, the first case of scurvy was reported on 1 January 1820. Parry tried to conceal it from the crew, and set about curing the victim by starting a tiny garden of mustard and cress on the warm galley pipes of the
Hecla.
The measure worked. Nine days later, the man boasted that he was fit enough to “run a race.”

Soon, however, illness gained a firmer hold: a quarter of the ninety-four-strong crew fell ill, half of them from scurvy—though even as the symptoms appeared, the worst of the crew's hardships were behind them. By May, ptarmigan were seen, and soon a brace or two were bagged daily for the sick. It was, wrote Parry, “of the utmost importance, under our present circumstances, that every ounce of game which we might thus procure should be served in lieu of other meat.” During the expedition's twelve months on Melville Island, the men would consume 3 musk oxen, 24 caribou, 68 hares, 53 geese, 59 ducks, 144 ptarmigans—totalling 3,766 pounds (1,710 kg) of fresh meat. To cap it off, when the snow melted, Parry noticed that sorrel grew in abundance around the harbour, and the men were sent out every afternoon to collect it: “Of the good effects produced upon our health by the unlimited use of fresh vegetable substances, thus bountifully supplied by the hand of Nature, even where least to be expected, little doubt can be entertained, as it is well known to be a never-failing specific for scorbutic affections.” In the end, Parry lost just one man to scurvy during his seventeen-month voyage. Relative to what might have been expected in such circumstances, the achievement was, wrote Parry, “a subject of wonder.”

Parry's expedition had become the first to overwinter in the Arctic archipelago. He also came closer to completing the Northwest Passage than any other person would come for the next three decades. He was tempted to push on to the Pacific. But, facing an impermeable barrier of multiyear ice, with depleted stores and the very real risk of being forced to spend a second winter in the region, he relented.

The expedition had encountered no Inuit during its long winter at Melville Island, but on its homeward journey, the crew finally met some natives on Baffin Island; one of those meetings would be laden with irony. One of the Inuit elders was, Parry noted, “extremely inquisitive” and observed gravely as a tin of preserved meat was opened for dinner: “The old man was sitting on the rock, attentively watching the operation, which was performed with an axe struck by a mallet.” When the tin had been opened, the man “begged very hard for the mallet which had performed so useful an office, without expressing the least wish to partake of the meat, even when he saw us eating it with good appetites.” Parry, however, insisted the man try some: “[He] did not seem at all to relish it, but ate a small quantity, from an evident desire not to offend us.”

Unfortunately, the elder's distaste for tinned foods was not shared by British authorities. After Parry's return, expedition surgeon John Edwards praised such supplies as “acquisitions of the highest value.” C.I. Beverley, the assistant surgeon on Parry's expedition, also produced a glowing endorsement of the expedition's tinned provisions, ascribing to them both the preservation of the general health of the officers and crew and the eventual recovery of one man who had been “attacked by the scurvy.” This assessment ended with a statement that encouraged ever-greater reliance on tinned goods: “I have every reason to believe that the anti-scorbutic quality of the vegetable is not injured in its preparation.” Yet this notion—that tinned foods retained powerful antiscorbutic properties—was entirely anecdotal. The comparative immunity enjoyed by Parry's men might, with hindsight, have been more accurately attributed to other factors, not the least of which was the amount of game shot and wild sorrel collected. Unfortunately, no mention of these measures was made. The British were enamoured of technology, and, after Parry's successful overwintering in the Arctic, the antiscorbutic benefits of tinned foods became accepted wisdom in the Royal Navy, a premise that would go untested and unchallenged for much of the next century. Indeed, starting with William Edward Parry's voyage of 1819–20, British Arctic expeditions used tinned foods first as a supplement, then, by the time of George Back's 1836–37 voyage, as a critical component of their food stores.