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Authors: Robert Edric

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At noon, his face and hands blackened by coal, Fitzjames reported that they were ready to make the attempt. Their whistle was sounded, accompanied by a plume of steam through their rigging, pleasingly solid and white against the spreading cloud of their smokestack.
They backed away from the ice and then steamed toward the clotted channel.
The first ice they encountered they pushed effortlessly away from them, the impact cushioned by their bow wave and then by the ice’s rapid dispersal along their sides. They steered toward those parts of the channel where ice and open water existed in equal measure, and where there was sufficient room for the displaced ice to flow astern of them. After an hour of bulling and nosing in this fashion they had pushed themselves over three miles into the cracked skin of ice which now lay from horizon to horizon all around them.
 
On the 1st of September another man was lost to them, a seaman on the
Terror
called David Leys.
At the time, the two ships had been sailing west, probing the ice for weaknesses in the hope of locating another passage south.
Because there was little loose ice in the water, they were occasionally accompanied by both boat and foot parties, whose task it was to explore any promising-looking channels without the ships themselves having to divert from their course. David Leys was one of six men from the
Terror
who had been landed at dawn on the 1st. Progress over the level sea ice was good, and those crossing it were able to explore far ahead of the ships.
Leys had been walking with his friend Samuel Crispe, both of
them eighteen, when they had been directed inland to investigate a dark mark on the ice. Crispe had been the first to reach this, the two men having raced, but he found it to be nothing more than a trick of the light. He had turned to shout to Leys, but his companion was nowhere in sight.
He ran back to where he and Leys had been racing side by side, and in places he was able to make out their footprints in the powdery surface. Following these to a point at which they vanished, Crispe saw that the ice here was ridged in a series of low steps, most of them little more than a few inches high, and as he searched across these he felt a sudden tremor, and ahead of him he saw a fissure appear, opening up two or three feet before slamming shut with a sudden rasp of air. He panicked and ran back to the others still moving parallel to the shore. He led them back to where he had last seen Leys and showed them the ridging in the ice, trying unsuccessfully to locate where he had seen it suddenly open and then reseal itself. He ran one way and then another calling for his friend. One man returned to the water’s edge to signal to the boats, while the others continued to search for the missing man.
A boat came ashore containing another dozen men, and these joined in the search, parceling out the ice and crossing it at regular intervals before re-forming and starting again.
After two hours of looking, however, it became clear that they were not going to find Leys, and they gathered back at the boat and speculated on what had happened to him. Crispe remained inconsolable and wept for his friend as they rowed away.
Franklin gave the order for them to lie off alongside the ice in case Leys somehow reappeared during the night, and they again set out a line of marker lanterns.
Leys did not reappear, and following a brief prayer the expedition sailed without him the following day. At Fitzjames’ suggestion a small cache of food was landed ashore along with a container in which their sailing plans were sealed. It was a forlorn hope, but it was a place renowned for its forlorn hopes and impossible rescues.
The next day they sighted land ahead of them and were convinced
that they had approached the western coast of the strait they were still hoping to follow south. Certain that this could not have been the northern reaches of a continental peninsula, another Boothia, they acknowledged that what they had sighted was a previously uncharted island. They were encouraged by its appearance because it suggested to them—as did any substantial body of land with an eastern aspect—the strong possibility of open water and a sheltering coast.
In this they were not to be disappointed, and six hours after the land was first sighted they found themselves at a distance of less than a mile from its narrow shore and high cliffs, and sailing due south along a broad and open channel which was barely disturbed by the powerful and ice-laden currents they had encountered farther east.
They anchored that night in sight of land for the first time in six weeks, confident that they had at last found their true course.
Vesconte applied for permission to take a surveying party and spend a day ashore, but this was denied him. It was Franklin’s intention to follow this open water south as quickly as possible, so that if any emergency arose they might at least be within marching distance of the continental shore when they were next frozen in.
He sent for Reid and quizzed him about the likelihood of them now being in a strait as broad and as navigable as Prince Regent’s Inlet. But Reid, unwilling to speculate on anything other than that which they had already encountered, would only confirm Franklin’s belief that they were in a major waterway and that if they followed the land’s eastern shore then they would, in all likelihood, avoid the worst of the strait’s winter ice. Privately, he imagined they might repeat the experience of the Rosses, except whereas they had found their way blocked, they themselves would encounter unenclosed and navigable waters.
By the end of that week they had sailed a further 140 miles, their progress only occasionally delayed by ice grounded on the shore and by unexpectedly powerful currents and undertows which ran against them, forcing them back toward the thickening mass of ice at the center of the channel. They were concerned by the extent of
this, by its configuration and antiquity, and driven closer they watched as this mass turned black and mountainous in the dusk, casting its shadows over the gradually narrowing channels which surrounded it.
The farther south they sailed, the more often they were forced toward this intimidating mass, turning less and less frequently toward the ever more distant and shrouded shore.
O
n the 25th of September they sailed into a sea of both fixed and floating ice which filled their every horizon, and from which, they all finally accepted, they were unlikely to emerge or be released until the following summer.
They congratulated themselves on the distance they had come, Vesconte calculating that they had sailed approximately 240 miles—three-quarters of the way between Barrow Strait and the continental shoreline.
Their immediate concern now was to find their second winter harbor. At a conference aboard the
Erebus
it was decided that they would take advantage of what little open water remained to them to explore the surrounding ranges and islands of ice in the hope of finding an enclosed bay in which they might anchor and await the freezing of the sea around them.
Both ice-masters cautioned against a hasty choice, pointing out that if they prepared themselves well enough, they might continue drifting in the forming ice for a further month. Soon, Reid and Blanky argued, King William Land would be within reach to the south and the ice-drift might yet take them much closer to this.
Both men had studied the condition of the surrounding field for several hours before the conference, and both had come to the conclusion that the ice was now present in such an ancient mass, and in such a large and unrestricted body of underlying water, that it
might continue to drift much later into the season than had previously been recorded farther north or east.
Crozier was the first to argue against this suggestion, soliciting the support of his own officers for finding a safe anchorage while the opportunity still existed. Reluctantly, Irving and Hodgson agreed with him, only Edward Little showing any enthusiasm for a prolonged drift exposed to the vagaries of the ice.
Fitzjames, Vesconte and Gore were with Reid.
Returning to the
Terror,
Crozier remarked coldly to his officers that his own argument for seeking harbor was already lost. He criticized Little for not having supported him, but then restrained himself when he saw the pain the young lieutenant was still enduring. Above them, a bloated gibbous moon looked ready to grow full, and flared like a sun in the icy haze through which it shone.
 
“You catch me red-handed, James.” Harry Goodsir spun in his seat and held up his hands, both of which were red from fingertip to wrist. His shirt sleeves were rolled above his elbows and his forearms too were smeared the same color. In the dim light of his cabin, it looked at first to Fitzjames as though his friend had recently concluded a particularly bloody operation, or perhaps the skinning of one of his growing number of trophies prior to curing and mounting it.
“What is it?” he asked.
Beside him stood William Bell, junior quartermaster, who had been sent by Goodsir to fetch him upon the conclusion of Franklin’s conference.
Goodsir turned a small cask to face Fitzjames, revealing that it was filled with Cayenne pepper.
“So?” Fitzjames said, confused.
“I was alerted by Mr. Bell here,” Goodsir said. “We owe him our thanks.” Bell bowed slightly, his eyes darting from one to the other, and asked if he might go now.
“You wanted me to see our pepper?” Fitzjames asked when the two men were alone.
“That might be stretching a point, James.”
“Meaning?”
Instead of answering, Goodsir pulled forward into the light three small tin trays, upon each of which was piled a mound of the vividly red powder.
Growing impatient, and anxious to get to his bunk after eighteen hours on duty, Fitzjames dipped his finger into the nearest of the trays and carefully dabbed it on his tongue. The taste was indeterminate, but not that of Cayenne pepper, against which he had been bracing himself.
“That, I believe, is red lead,” Goodsir said. “As indeed is all this upon my hands and arms. Unlike brick dust and powdered mahogany, red lead is known far and wide for its staining qualities.” He smiled broadly, revealing the same across his teeth and gums, giving his open mouth the appearance of a wet gash. He licked his teeth and rubbed them with his fingers, but this did little to remove the stain.
“How?” Fitzjames said, testing the contents of each of the other trays.
“Simple. Cayenne pepper, or so I am informed by the redoubtable Mr. Bell, is a rather costly provision. We carry a great deal of it to disguise the taste of the pickled and preserved meats which might—and here let us be charitable to the provisioners—become somewhat beyond their prime.”
“And our supply has been adulterated, bulked out with these other substances?”
Goodsir gave a single sharp nod.
“Is it dangerous?”
“I don’t know. All I
can
say for certain is that it will reduce the efficacy of the pepper in disguising the taste of the meat.”
“Do we know who provided it?”
Goodsir tapped the name stenciled on the cask.
“Have the same firm provided us with much else?”
“I’m afraid so. Much of it, I hasten to add, of considerably better quality.”
The two men sat and looked at each other, suddenly conscious of their helplessness in the situation.
“Might the lead or the brick or the mahogany have any toxic effect?” Fitzjames asked eventually, realizing Goodsir’s true concern.
“So far it would appear not. I imagine it might first reveal itself in some form of bowel disorder, and to my knowledge nothing of the sort has been reported.”
Both men knew that it was not a complaint that was likely to be made public until it became too severe to be endured.
Goodsir explained that he had devised an effective method of sieving out most of the impurities from the pepper and that he had instructed Bell to deliver the rest of their stock to him the following day.
Relieved that even this partial solution to the problem had been found, Fitzjames rose to go, but was stopped by Goodsir, who had something else to show him. He pulled a sack of flour from where it had been concealed in the shadows, and at the sight of this, Fitzjames felt a sudden chill run through him.
“Surely not the flour, too?”
Goodsir hesitated and then scooped a cupful from the sack and tipped it on to his desk.
“But it’s so cheap,” Fitzjames insisted. “So vital.”
“And it can be made cheaper still. Watch.” Goodsir scraped up a small quantity on the handle of a spoon and tapped it into a test-tube. He then took down a bottle from the rack above him and let a single drop fall into the tube. “Hydrochloric acid,” he said. There was an immediate and vigorous effervescence and milky bubbles rose to the rim of the tube, where they burst as they spilled over.
“Chalk,” Goodsir said. He calculated that they had lost a fifth to a quarter of their flour by this adulteration. Both men were aware that a reduction in the daily bread ration would be considered an ill omen in the eyes of the crew. Normally, it was the last of their foodstuffs to be denied them, and to lose it before any other less popular provisions would cause alarm.
In the past, shipwrecked whalers had lived for up to three months eating only two pounds of bread each day and whatever they could scavenge or hunt. On occasion flour had been so cheap and plentiful that it had been carried as ballast, a large proportion of this becoming
inedible as it was contaminated by seepage. There was a bank off Peterhead harbor known as the flour bank because so much had been dumped there by returning whalers, and when coastal storms scoured the bottom, the whole of the harbor was said to turn as white as milk.
 
The following days were spent in preparation for their continued drift in the gathering ice. This course of action was viewed by some as an unhappy compromise, particularly by those anxious to locate a safe harbor away from the unpredictable excesses of the winter build-up, and also by those who had never before participated in an unassisted drift, but who had heard the haunting tales of others caught beyond reach of a harbor.
They stripped all but their topsails. Their boats were slung in their davits and each was provisioned and sheeted and ready to be launched in a hurry. Their fore- and main-spars were loosened and then doubled-rigged against the possibility of a collision. Their sea anchors were tested and inspected, and the ropes of their mooring hooks doubled in length and thickness. Auxiliary winches were bolted to the prows of both ships ready to help them warp through the ice when sailing finally became impossible, and as far as they were able under those new conditions, their engines were overhauled and their boilers fired.
By the late afternoon of Thursday the 28th of September they were ready to release their lines and abandon themselves to the drift.

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