Four men step forth from the shadows

 

It has happened only twice before -- that the unknown bones of the men of Sir John Franklin's lost 1845 expedition have stepped forth to reclaim their names. And, as with previous such occasions, their recovery has been the work of many hands -- of Dr. Douglas Stenton, with his indefatigable efforts to obtain DNA from the skeletal elements he has studied and link it to living descendants -- and of historians and genealogists, such as Fabiënne Tetteroo and Kaitlyn Gorsalitz, who have labored to trace this inheritance down the centuries --and the odds are long. An unavoidable element of chance -- good and bad -- attends all such efforts;  there are relatives whose line omits crucial steps, or is not lineal -- and there are many gaps in the historical record. We take it for granted today that a person will have some certification of their being, but for much of the past such records can be sparse upon the ground. I highly recommend Ms. Gorsalitz's blog, "A Long Blank," and her detailed account of the complex process of tracing down the candidates whose DNA samples led to this most recent round of matches.

So now we are blessed with four identifications all at once -- an unprecedented figure -- sufficient that it begins to clarify the course of events, showing us a glimpse of the efforts made by the survivors of the Franklin expedition to reach home, or -- that lacking -- send some word that could beckon help. Three of the new identifications, all from sites in Erebus Bay, are men of the Erebus: David Young (Boy, 1st class), William Orren (Able Seaman), and John Bridgens (Subordinate Officers' Steward). Young was perhaps 20, perhaps 21; Bridgens 29 or 30, and Orren nearly 40, all of them among the lesser ranks of men aboard "Erebus." History often has a bias: the records of officers, along with their relations and descendants, are more readily found. We have relatively few letters from ordinary sailors that have survived -- fewer may have been written, and they were less likely to be preserved and archived. But the testimony of a bone, unlike that of a letter, is absolute: here, there was a man, and these his remains.

Which brings us to the fourth man, Harry Peglar, who has now been definitively identified as the skeleton found near Gladman Point, many miles to the south and east of the others. We know a good bit more about him, not only thanks to historical records, but to the singular bundle of papers he carried on his person. Originally thought to have been written in German, they turned out to be written in English but backwards -- backwards in letter order, rather than mirror-backwards. They fascinated early Franklin scholars such as Richard Cyriax, and I've written two papers about them myself. Among them was Peglar's certificate of service, a precious record to any seaman prior to the Navy's implementation of 'continuous service" records, for otherwise his seniority and pay would not be recognized.

And yet the greatest surprise of all is that the bearer of Peglar's papers has now been definitively identified as Harry Peglar himself! The body, when found by Francis Leopold McClintock, was thus decribed: "'the dress appeared to be that of a steward or officer's servant, the loose bow-knot in which his neck-handkerchief was tied not being used by seamen or officers... - the blue jacket with slashed sleeves and braided edging, and the pilot-cloth great coat with plain covered buttons." Since Harry Peglar was in fact a very senior seaman -- his title was "Captain of the Foretop" -- such dress seemed inconceivable. Research, undertaken with the assumption that Peglar must have passed his papers on to a steward who was a friend, has shown  several candidates -- but now we know it was the man himself.

Among the notations in Peglar's papers, there is one that stands out: "The Terror Camp Clear" (or, as he wrote it, "Eht Rorret Pmac Raelc"). Inuit testimony speaks of a "tent place" near Terror Bay, and of a ship which sank there quickly, in deep water, and if indeed that was HMS Terror, it would make sense for its crew to have camped nearby. All of the remains identified at Erebus Bay, including the prevous ID's of John Gregory and James Fitzjames, are men of the Erebus. This map shows the locations of their remains, as well as Peglar's at the Borden coordinates NdLe-16. If, having cleared out a camp at Terror Bay, the men of that ship retreated to the east, it would make sense that Peglar would have been part of the march. And if, as David Woodman has suggested, the boats at Erebus bay were not being used for long hauls, but to ferry supplies to and from Erebus (which in this scenario would have been anchored nearby), it makes sense its crew would predominate. It's also worth noting that, some years ago when I traced the reported provenance of silver forks and spoons with scratched initials upon them -- officers' utensils apparently having been distributed to the men -- nine of the twelve spoons recovered at Erebus Bay were those of men from Erebus.

All of this suggests, then, not only that the two crews remained for some time as coherent organizational units, but that Peglar's narrative may not only refer to the preparations for leaving ship, but perhaps even to events afterwards. The passages that echo the service for the burial of the dead ("Oh death whare is thy sting?") and speak of "The Grave at Comfort Cove" are, suggestively, written on the other side of the same leaf as "The Terror Camp Clear."

One last note: it had been generally assumed that the body could not be Peglar's because it was wearing a steward's coat (which had cloth-covered buttons) and the neckerchief was tied in a steward's manner rather than a sailor's -- so it was thought that a steward who was a friend of Peglar was the man. Now that we know it was Peglar himself, we can only speculate: it's conceivable that at some point he might have been appointed as a steward, though such a switch would have been most unusual. And yet, with the loss of an additional twenty-one men since their first winter at Beechey Island, it's entirely possible that one or more stewards aboard Terror were among them, and Peglar their replacement.

Or perhaps, in the hurry to leave the ships, Peglar had scooped up an extra jacket from the slops with no care for what sort it was -- Inuit described men wearing many layers of the same sort of clothing -- or perhaps, given that he was close to at least one if not two men serving as stewards, he deliberately wore his dead shipmate's coat. The sailor's bow-knot was, in part, designed not to tighten if it were to be caught on the rigging -- but surely Peglar knew by this time that he would no longer be climbing up the yards, so perhaps he adapted a bit of fancy. If so, it's a touching detail -- now that we know it was him all along.

HMS Erebus: From Dockyard to Discovery

People's Collection Wales, Creative Archive License

The Pembroke Dockyard was once one of the chief ship-building yards in the British Isles; founded in 1814, it eventually built and launched more than 260 ships. Of course, it's just one of those that stands out to all of us who've been captivated by the history of the Franklin expedition, and that's HMS Erebus. Laid down in 1826, she was originally equipped with two mortars -- one 13-inch and one 10-inch -- and saw brief service in the Mediterranean before being re-outfitted as an exploration vessel for the Antarctic. As with her older companion HMS Terror, her origin as a "bomb" vessel made her well-suited for such service -- the broad beam and heavy construction, combined with a relatively shallow draught, seemed ideal for navigating through ice-infested waters. She served well under the command of James Clark Ross, and when, late in 1844, a new search for the elusive northwest passage was to be undertaken, she and her consort seemed the ideal choices once more.

Pembroke Dock Heritage Centre

But for a moment, let's turn back to her launching in 1826 -- for it's this occasion whose bicentenary will be celebrated in the upcoming exhibit HMS Erebus: From Dockyard to Discovery, at the Pembroke Dock Heritage Centre. Located in what was originally the chapel of the dockyard, the Heritage Centre will be host to a selection of artifacts recovered by Parks Canada's underwater archaeology team between 2014 and 2017 -- artifacts which were, as part of the agreement with the UK that transferred ownership of the ships to Canada -- sent to the National Museum of the Royal Navy, from which they are now being loaned. It will be a striking re-union, the first time any materials associated with Erebus have returned to her port of origin in these two centuries.

And I'm very happy to say that I'm going to be part of the opening weekend for this extraordinary exhibit! On Sunday, June 7th, I'll be delivering a talk, "From Land’s End to the Ends of the Earth:  The Eventful Career of HMS Erebus." The first phrase of my title is quite deliberate -- the name of Pembroke comes from the Welsh Penfro meaning 'land's end' or 'headland -- and of course will encompass both her Antarctic and Arctic voyages, as well as the archaeological work that's been done on the wreck site, and all that we've learned from it so far. The exhibit will be open to the general public on June 8th.

I hope that some of my readers here at Visions of the North, who've been kind enough to give it more than 2.4 million views over the seventeen years I've been writing it, will find their way to this exhibit -- and I hope we'll all have an opportunity, wherever we are, to raise a glass to this extraordinary vessel on the anniversary of her launching.

Lost as Where We Are

 Many years ago, it was music that brought me to the story of the Franklin expedition -- Mícheál Ó Domhnaill's version of "Lord Franklin." And now, in a poetic turn, it's the Franklin story that brought me back to music -- in this case, Eric Vieweg and Shawn Tavenier, who as "The Golden Low" have just released an extraordinary two-LP set, Lost as Where We Are, that draws its inspiration from that famously ill-fated undertaking. And, this time, it's not just the simple elegy of a mournful tune, but a lovely, lively engagement with the hearts and minds of Franklin and his men, a kind of musical journey from the high hopes of their sailing from Greenhithe, through to the lonely graves at Beechey Island, and on to the last stumbling steps of the sledge-haulers on the shores of King William Island.

It all began, of course, on May 19th 1845, when, as Eric and Shawn put it, "we said goodbye to friends and relations / and to the grass under English skies," and thus the songs begin. Next comes a meditation on "What's Left Behind," followed by my favorite track, "Anniversary." This song takes it chorus from a line on John Hartnell's grave marker, "Consider your Ways," and turns it into an extended meditation on mortality and meaning -- but it's not a mournful one. Indeed, the tune is so catchy that even my non-Franklin-obsessed friends find themselves humming along in the car. Not since Stan Rogers has the story come alive in such a way; these songs not only memorialize the past but capture something of the mood of moment, here among us "tardiest explorers."

The story continues through the many stages common both to life and expeditions -- "The Problem with Progress," "Wilderness Tips," and "Starting to Change" -- and then to the final and eventually the ghostly journey from ships stranded in the ice. Even the odd Franklin relic gets a song, with "Rusty Copper Hinge." The final track, "Warm of the Morning," reflects both on the loss of the men and the endless curiosity of those who've search for the rhyme and the reason of it all -- "you question all that's created / well, having the answer can be overrated." The final lines are the most evocative: "I'll hold below with my good companions / out in the darkness, you'll hear us singing."

I was honored when Eric and Shawn asked me to contribute some liner notes! If you'd like to get hold of this on vinyl; you can order copies directly from the Record Centre in Ottawa. Or, if digital music is more your groove, the album can be purchased and downloaded directly via Bandcamp. Either way, clear your decks, turn down the lights -- if you're anywhere near where the 'Blizzard of '26' deposited its drifts, have a look out the window. Then drop the needle and listen.