Chapter Text
From the diary of Thomas Curry Jr, Assistant Surgeon aboard H.M.Ship Edinburgh.
20 July 1848
I shall begin this little book by engaging in a hobby that is most enjoyable to me, painting. And the ice is wonderful to paint. It requires broad strokes, but those strokes can achieve an effect that is unparalleled in other nature paintings. Everything is simpler in these arctic regions, Lieut. Smith assures me, but that does not mean that it is not beautiful.
Of course, we aren’t even in the Arctic yet. We just left Godthaab, a sort of chief trading post in Greenland. In a few days or so we will reach the Arctic Circle, at which time I will note it down in this book.
I am not quite sure who I am writing this for. Perhaps I will publish it after the expedition concludes. But first I suppose I shall regale you of our departure, the affairs aboard the ship, and the fine characters who inhabit it.
I was recommended to this expedition by brother James, of course, to whom I am apprenticed as assistant surgeon. I was also christened as the unofficial naturalist since James has no interest in Arctic creatures, soon after departure from Greenhithe on May 20th, 1848.
James is well. There are few injuries recently, excepting of course the horrible accident with Quartermaster Abraham Young and the consumption-ridden stoker Joseph Smith. The accident happened like this: A petty officer, Reid Fraser, dangled from the mast by a rope. Brave soul that Young is, he rushed up to assist him, but fell to the deck in his stead. His left arm was smashed. James is confident that there was no need to amputate, but it would likely remain useless or on half-function for the rest of his life.
As a result of this, Captain Anderson had a solution to his dilemma. Young, in perfect health aside from his arm, was ordered to head ashore with the ship’s mail, correspondence, and the dying stoker Smith. He died before we left them there and the last we saw of Abraham Young he had buried Smith and was heading south for Godthaab
Two men shorter, we have also picked up two Greenlandic guides. Their names are Heneezeepook and Qaktilab (to my understanding, I am sure they have a more refined spelling from where they come from). We have decided to call them George and John respectively, after our commander and ice-master, both of whom speak the Greenlandic dialect of Inuktitut.
But enough about dead men and native guides. The true characters of this expedition revealed themselves to me shortly after our departure. I shall begin with the enlisted-men and the marines.
Sergeant Rouger is a man of the finest quality; patriotic and brave, with fine whiskers and a calm demeanor. Everything you would expect a career marine to be. His men, on the other hand, are mostly of ill-repute. His corporal, William Keller, is of the worst disposition. He spits tobacco onto the deck quite often, his voice is a grawl, and he is constantly unpleasant. The privates are mostly fine, but I have reason to suspect that at least two of them are sodomites. I will not state their names here for anonymity in-case I am wrong.
The enlisted-men are of fine quality. One of them, the American-born Marshal Credge, delights us with his anecdotes about Philadelphia and his father’s recounts of the American Revolution. A few of the men were whalers before, most of them are career Royal Navy sailors. I have taken John Bolton on as my assistant. His father was a surgical aide in Westminster, and he had quite a privileged upbringing, so he knows his potions and his words, to which I am eternally grateful.
Edward Rudolph, another Able Seaman, is almost certainly an anti-theist. He does not partake in our optional Bible studies and croaks during mandatory Sunday service. John Maynard was born in Bermuda so he often suffers from this Arctic weather. Robert Tarisovna is from a Russian family, but he was born in Middlesex. Thomas Wentworth was flogged in Greenland for insubordination and croaks that he was forced onto this expedition by his parents. He is the only friend of Thomas Wallows, the son of an executioner, who is the most lonely of characters. I suspect the crew knows of some bad quality of his that I have not discerned yet.
Alexander Mason is a Welshman who barely anyone understands, while Frederick Fischer is a German immigrant who still reads the few German books aboard the ship, however much he insists he is not a German. Finally, the Ship’s Boys, consisting of William Wilson, 17, and Mason Smith, 15, are good people, in a rush to be called men.
William Wilson is also of an upbringing on the Isle, like myself and James, while Mason Smith was born in Greenhithe and saw the Franklin expedition depart Greenhithe three years ago. That is all I will say of the main crew now, I shall continue later on. For now, the intermittency of the rest of the voyage between Greenhithe and Godthaab.
We stopped to hunt fish and whale a few times (being unsuccessful in the latter), then slaughtering our cows for beefsteak as soon as Captain Anderson thought he could get away with it. This afforded him much good will, and everyone enjoys the Captain’s presence on deck. We met a few Danish whalers, and even a Scottish barge, on our way to Greenhithe. The officers made the decision to not stop at Iceland, for fear of the expiring of our provisions sooner than they planned. Other than the stop in Godthaab, we made no landfall.
Captain Anderson has not sent out any messages so far, despite the fact that we are sailing for Lancaster Sound as I write this. Estimates by Lieutenant Smith indicate that we will enter the Sound in perhaps a week. I am optimistic for our chances at finding Franklin; after all, how can the Arctic hide over one hundred men? We ourselves have over sixty, more than enough to navigate the landmasses and ice pools.
The last white people on our journey that we expect to meet will be whalers at the entrance of Lancaster Sound. Currently there is a bet in the wardroom on what nationality they will be; I have put in a guinea that they will be Scottish. The Captain believes they will be Danish, while Lieutenant Smith prefers Norway or Sweden. Nobody seems willing to bet that they will be English, to our amusement.
And now to my personal engagements. I have collected no samples yet, except for my dissection of a seal that we caught in Greenland. There was nothing abnormal about it, as I suspected, but it was good to have a scalpel in my hand again. I have made several friends aboard. Mr. Henry the Boatswain seems to be a stern man but he is, in reality, a kind gentleman who enjoys music.
The ship’s boy Wilson enjoys anatomy and I loaned him one of my books on the subject. Lieutenant Smith seems to be my greatest friend, other than my brother. We read together, he showed me the intricacies of sailing in the Royal Navy (noting my having been a civilian before this voyage) and the Mates are really the finest characters. I think I like Mr. Cartridge the best, he is a Catholic as our family was; indeed the highest ranking Catholic aboard. Mr. Baynes is loud and outspoken but typically has nothing to say, while the Third Mate Mr. Wilson is a quiet individual whose only friend seems to be the purser, William Hammond. They do everything together and he acts as a sort of clerk sometimes. I can always see them discussing provisions with either each other or my brother James, who still refuses to let me into the conversation. It is infuriating, but I shall some day gain knowledge of what they are speaking about. This is all that I will write today, but I will continue tomorrow.
21 July 1848
I spoke to the Captain today! I expected that social barriers would be too large, and that he would confer all matters of importance upon my brother, but I assumed wrong. He is quite a fine man. Of course, I already suspected that, from his generosity with the beefsteaks a few weeks ago, but now it is confirmed in my mind. He began to speak to me about the ice and the birds, and asked whether I’d met an Esquimaux. I told him Yes. I met an Esquimaux, back in London. He admitted that he had never met a native nor been to the Arctic before. I asked, Have any of your officers? He laughed and said that yes, some of his men had been to the Arctic, and could even speak the local language, which people have called Inuktitut or ‘Speech of the Inuk.’
I will provide the list of full Arctic veterans below:
George Deanshire, the Commander, had served with John Ross in 1829. Through this, he knows Terror ice-master Thomas Blanky. He speaks this native language which I have previously mentioned.
Carson Edward Fells, First Lieutenant, had served with Francis Crozier aboard HMS Terror for the James Clark Ross Antarctic expedition in 1839. He was promoted to First Lieutenant for this voyage. He knows Crozier personally, so this might help us in finding him. He speaks only a few sentences of Inuktitut by his own volition, but he can understand most of the language.
John Burt went on the Ross expedition with Thomas Blanky and George Deanshire, with whom he formed close friendships. He also speaks Inuktitut, perhaps the second most fluent, behind the Commander and ahead of the First Lieutenant.
A side note: William Hammond, our purser, would’ve been on the Franklin expedition, but he was supplemented with Charles Osmer since he was on vacation in France at the time.
We are having a grand time, getting closer to our goal of Lancaster Sound day by day.
I had my first invitation to an officer’s dinner today. There are only eight spots at the table, but thankfully (or perhaps sadly) Mr. Hammond was out sick again, with Mr. Wilson the Third Mate tending him.
Previously I only had a glimpse of officer’s dinners: I mostly converse with Mr. Darius Poole, the gunroom steward, who serves the meals to the warrant officers and civilian officers.
I have been classified as a civilian officer; and although I am not a warrant, I still dine with them for lack of space in the officer cabins. Before I regale the reader with tales from the officer’s dining room, I shall do the same for the warrant officer’s table.
There are six seats in the warrant officer’s dining room, which doubles as a meeting room. Adorning the room are several paintings; one of Captain Cook, another of the ships Astrolabe and Boussole steaming on to Australia, and another of the Mutiny on the Bounty. Clearly, the man responsible for dressing this room is an enjoyer of naval events. Another painting was the death of Nelson, put there by Captain Anderson himself, who witnessed the event aboard HMS Victory. The final painting, above the door’s entrance, is a painting of the bombardment of Copenhagen during the wars against the French. This was put there at the suggestion of Lieutenant Fells, whose older brother served with James Gambier at the battle and secured his position as a midshipman.
The warrant officers are as follows: Mr. John Henry, the Boatswain, who is regarded as the unofficial head of the warrant officers, I have deducted. The next is Mr. Robert Jenkins, the Carpenter, who sits closest to Andrews at his right. Mr. David Andrews, the engineer, sits at the other head of the table facing the Boatswain. I sat next to Mr. Jenkins, closest to the engineer.
Now, you may be asking, who are the other two seats for? Are they left unoccupied? And the answer is ‘no’. Despite not technically being a warrant officer, the Caulker, Thomas Williamson, is always invited. He has a Caulker’s Mate, so it only seems fit to involve him at the table. He is a friendly and mild-mannered gentleman who seems to be perpetually ill with a minor illness. The final seat is occupied by Daniel Andrews, the oldest and senior quartermaster, who was invited to the table because of his seniority and because he is the engineer’s son.
Theirs is the only father-son relationship aboard Edinburgh, and they get along very well. The group discussed the ice, the likelihood of where Franklin’s men were, and the provisions that they purchased on their own for the journey. I had no idea such things existed; having money to buy stores which are yours, that nobody else can touch unless you permit them. Even the Captain. It is a wonderful thing and I am saddened that I was not informed earlier, for I would have participated.
After the dinner, I completed my report on the stoker Joseph Smith. He seemed to have contracted tuberculosis from his workplace before the voyage - a factory in Plymouth which made metals - or coal, I cannot quite remember. He hid his symptoms from his family and only told his doctor, who assuredly told him that a voyage at sea would improve his health. How ironic.
James and I had a meeting today. We anticipated more sickness, and decided to take Able Seaman John Bolton on as an assistant. I believe his reward will be exemption from arctic watches, which are terribly cold, I am told, and can destroy a man’s fingers in a minute.
And now, the officer’s dinner. As I said earlier, the Purser, Mr. Hammond, seems perpetually ill. I feel for the poor fellow; his tongue is too large for his mouth, so he often blabbers on in the most egregious use of the English language I have ever heard. It might’ve been better if he was mute. He and Mr. Wilson take their meals together, anyway; he seems to be the only man who can stomach Mr. Hammond’s speech. The Mates do not have a specific dining room, they eat at the Warrant Officer’s dining room whenever it isn’t being used.
I took Mr. Hammond’s spot at the dining table. Quickly, the fellows filed in. James was the first in, of course, then myself, followed by the Third Lieutenant, then the First, the Second, the Commander, the Captain, and then myself. We began talking while we patiently awaited Mr. Burt, the Ice Master, who was late. He stumbled in a minute later and apologized. The Captain forgave him. Mr. Ellis (the ship’s cook) brought in the food; a splendid concoction of beef, potatoes, and lettuce. Brandy was provided but since James and I are teetotalers, we simply drank coffee. The Captain laughed and remarked that it was ‘probably for the good’ that his surgeons had sworn off drink.
I will regale the conversation to the best of my memory.
Capt. Anderson asked Mr. Burt, On which ship did you sail at Trafalgar? Mr. Burt responded with HMS Belleisle, sir. The Captain smiled and, upon request, began to tell us of his adventure aboard HMS Victory.
He told us of how he had counted the gunpowder and organized its distribution along with the ship’s purser, and then rushed up to tell his Captain, the famous Hardy, about the amount of ammunition they still had left. This was in the heat of battle with the Redoutable, and as soon as he had scrambled up the hatch, he saw Lord Nelson fall. He wanted to rush to him but Hardy did so first.
It was quite a depressing story, most of us knew the circumstances, even landlubbers like myself and James. Regardless, it was a welcome change that I should be involved in these dinners. Commander Deanshire led the conversation after that, and I told him that I had made John Bolton my assistant, in return for him being exempt from ice watches. Anderson agreed.
Then Commander Deanshire began to tell us of his life; his father was a veteran of the Battle of Waterloo, his mother was a socialite. He seems to despise Catholics, so I left that part out of my monologue. Now is not the time to make enemies, after all. James was delighted in his new friendship with the Commander; the other week, before we began the passage to Lancaster Sound, I saw them fishing and smoking.
The odd thing is, James hates smoking.