It is perhaps the most evocative document in the long history of the Western exploration of the Arctic regions: a single sheet of paper, a pre-printed form with two handwritten messages written not quite a year apart. The first, full of optimism, describes the Franklin expedition’s achievements up through May of 1847, including the circumnavigation of Cornwallis Island, and ends with a forceful “Sir John Franklin commanding.” The second, written in a tight scrawl around the margins, tells of the death of Franklin (only weeks after the first record was made) and many other officers and men, the abandonment of his ships, and a plan to trek overland to the Back River.A facsimile of this record, brought back from the Arctic by Sir Francis Leopold McClintock, was reproduced in the Illustrated London News and Harper’s Weekly, and a fold-out facsimile was included in all editions of his book, The Voyage of the Fox in Arctic Seas, in 1859, a book which became a world-wide bestseller. The novelist Joseph Conrad credited this document with “letting in the breath of the stern romance of polar exploration into the existence of a boy,” and setting him off on “romantic explorations of [his] inner self.” It has been the subject of more speculation and analysis than any other piece of paper this side of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and yet it is far from yielding up all its secrets.
So what can we learn from this record? Well, we can learn the direct information it conveys as to the location of the ships and the disposition of the crew, and so forth. But we can also glean a great deal more. To give just two examples: First, as William Battersby has noted, the first note is entirely in the handwriting of James Fitzjames; this is unusual, as Franklin would ordinarily have signed these himself; a note tossed overboard earlier in the expedition was signed by him. We may infer from this that, for some reason, Franklin must have been unable to write the note himself; that he died only a few weeks later suggests that illness may have been the cause. Second: the years of the expedition’s wintering at Beechey Island are given as 1846-7, which is certainly in error; from the headboards at Beechey we know it was the winter of 1845-6. Why would Fitzjames have made such an elementary mistake, and made it in both the Victory Point document and in a second, identical form left a few miles away at Back Bay? This suggests that Fitzjames’s memory was clouded, a potential sign of lead poisoning. Those in the early stages of this condition have problems with forming lasting short-term memory, which progresses to difficulty with accurate recollection of the mid-range past. As Colin Field, an Australian pathologist with whom I’ve consulted on this problem, notes:
“I can imagine a situation where members of the expedition, and in particular the officers, will begin to show gradual problems with memory for recent information, as well as subtle but progressive deficits of organisational function. They begin to make subtle errors; forgetting where they have put things, or whether or not they have issued certain orders. As things progress they become more and more forgetful for events of the recent past. One of the earliest signs of memory deficit is the loss of ability to update, on a daily basis, the current day and date. Failure to be able to name the current day, month and year, and in some cases the current whereabouts, is one of the most telling early signs of all organic dementias, and it is for this reason that mental status examinations always include these orientation questions.”At the same time, lead poisoning would have no immediate effect on what’s known as “habitual” memory, including things such as how to tie one’s shoes or ascertain one’s position with a sextant. And indeed, we find in the second part of the note that the location of the record – “Lat. 69º37’42” Long. 98º41’” – is remarkably accurate.
But it’s the second note that gives us some of the most suggestive information about the fate of the crews, and the cause of their distress. There is a lengthy aside about how Sir James Clark Ross’s cairn was not found where it was thought to be, and a new cairn erected at the site – a curious waste of precious ink and time – and another possible sign of mental difficulties. The date of death of Franklin, June 11th 1847, is given, but no cause of death or indication of his burial site – another peculiarity. For the rest of the officers, we hear only of Irving and Gore; Gore we now know to have received a field promotion, as he is referred to as “Commander” – and also to have died, as he is referred to as “late.” This has given rise to speculation that Gore, who was in command of the party which left the original paper, must have reached Simpson’s cairn at Cape Herschel, returning with the news just in time to be promoted by Franklin as a reward. Of course, it is entirely possible that he was simply promoted as a matter of course after Franklin’s death when Fitzjames became Captain. With Lieutenant Irving, his name comes up only in the context of the description of the search for Ross’s cairn – and yet here lies a further mystery, as a body believed to be Irving’s was found not far from this very spot by Lieutenant Schawtka’s searching expedition years later. How could Irving, who was well enough to be scouting about in 1848 at the start of the southward march, have died near the very place where it began? Is this a sign of an attempted return to the ships at a later date?
Next, there are the overall casualty figures for the crews: 9 officers and 15 men. There were 24 officers on the two vessels, including the Ice Masters, and 105 men; this gives an officer casualty rate of 37% as opposed to only 14% among the ordinary seamen and marines – a remarkable ratio. Why did nearly twice as large a proportion of officers die? If we assume that lead poisoning was a key factor, we may attribute this to the officers’ consuming more of something – tinned food, in the Beattie theory, distilled water, in the Battersby solution – which impaired their health significantly. Alternatively, it’s been proposed that a large party rich in officers – perhaps a burial detail – was lost in some accident, skewing the overall ratio. Whatever the cause, the difference is far too large to be accounted for by random chance.
Finally, we have the enigmatic, and deeply unsatisfactory addendum in Crozier’s hand – “and start on tomorrow 26th for Back’s Fish River.” Was this the destination of the entire body of men who abandoned the ships? Or was it, as David C. Woodman has argued, simply a large detachment of men gone in search of food and possible Inuit contact to aid their less able comrades? Having reached that area, was the plan to ascend the river – a perilous journey filled with rough portages that Back, a famously able Arctic traveler, condemned as one of the most difficult journeys of its kind – or rather to track to the southeast in the direction of Repulse Bay, in hopes of meeting with Inuit or whalers?
These, then, are the central questions raised by the Victory Point record, and which may never be completely resolved until some further record or evidence is found. And yet, even in all its ambiguity, it continues to be a rich source of fascination, and the terrible irony between its two messages will always evoke what Conrad called “the tragic ending of a great tale.”
