A second photograph of Harry Goodsir

One of the more unusual categories for early sitters for the Daguerreian camera is monophotic, meaning persons for whom there exists only a single photograph. It's possible, as some have speculated, that Beard's apparatus, used to photograph the Franklin expedition's officers, was used to make two of every subject -- but so far, we only have a second image for two of them: Fitzjames and Des Voeux. We can now add a third sitter for whom this was not to be his only surviving photograph: Henry Duncan Spens ("Harry") Goodsir .

The photo has survived in the collections of the University of St. Andrews, and is labelled "1842 Dr. Harry Goodsir." It's a remarkable photograph, not only for the very different pose struck by Goodsir, but by this date. The Talbotype (later, calotype) process had only been invented two years earlier by Henry Fox Talbot; aside from those he made himself, only a handful of photographs made prior to 1843 by this process survive to the present day. That a portrait of Goodsir is among them is not, however, merely a matter of good fortune.

The Goodsirs were an illustrious scientific family; Goodsir's eldest brother, John Goodsir, was the foremost British anatomist of his era. In 1843, only a year after this image was taken, Harry Goodsir assumed the post of Consevator of the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons in Edinburgh (a post earlier held by both his elder brothers). There had been considerable interest in the College, as well as at the University of Edinburgh, in the possible scientific applications of photography. The daguerreotype, in theory at least, was unavailable due to patent restrictions, but Talbot's calotype process was restricted only in England, not Scotland. And, as it happened, it was to be David Brewster, principal of St Leonard and St Salvator College at St. Andrew's University, who first brought the calotype to Scotland. Brewster was an expert in optics and spectroscopy, and among other things was the inventor of the kaleidoscope; he had corresponded extensively with Talbot, and may indeed have been the man to persuade him to permit free use of his invention in Scotland.

Under Brewster's influence, Robert Adamson, working with David Octavius Hill, opened the first portrait studio in Scotland in Edinburgh in May of 1843. As this Goodsir image precedes their establishment by at least several months, it's tempting to think that it may have been made directly under Brewster's tutelage, or even by him. There may, indeed, be still other photographs of Goodsir; I have heard rumors of a group portrait in which he is included, and with the spirit of experimentation then in the air, it would not be surprising if there were still others. Indeed, I think it very likely that Goodsir -- who was given a naval commission explicitly to serve as the Franklin expedition's naturalist -- was the officer in whose charge the Dageurreotype apparatus was placed. After all , in 1845, very few men, in or out of the Navy, could have claimed three or more years' experience with the newfangled science of "sun pictures."

Railway Engines at the Bottom of the Sea

Following up on an earlier post, since the area chosen for this year's summer search is where the first, crushed ship of Franklin's may lie, the question of how to locate and identify a submerged railway engine takes on new significance. As noted in my earlier post, railway expert Dr. Michael Bailey took the lead in the historical work for this expedition; I've since located a few resources on the 'net that add something to his account. I wish that the National Railway Museum would put something more detailed online! Nevertheless, their exhibition page, along with this article from the BBC News, give some sense of the immense logistical challenges. Happily, the channel where Franklin's vessel may be found is free from the very high currents that made this project so difficult.

The vessel, the "Thomas," a 700-ton barque, had sailed in 1857, just a dozen years after Franklin, headed for Nova Scotia. She didn't make it far, foundering in the Hebrides and taking her cargo of railway engines to the bottom of the channel. But what type of engines were they? Initial research seemed to indicate that they were small service engines. Yet the engines found were not the engines expected, which gave a lesson in the ability of above-ground archaelogical work solving an underwater mystery. As Bailey recalled,

"Initial research indicated that the Thomas had been carrying two small saddle tank engines packed in kit form by the manufacturers, Neilson & Co of Glasgow. But when the divers found a 5 ft driving wheel, we knew that couldn't be right."

Eventually the engines were identified as 4-4-0 broad gauge tenders, specially built for a Canadian railroad. Since the engines had just left the factory, historians were able to discover much about their original manufacture, as (unlike similar engines remaining in use) they were not modified in any way. In the case of Franklin's engines, the differences in their configuration and type, according to Dr. Bailey, are significant enough that if one is found, and its working parts are at all visible to the remote cameras, it should be possible to say which engine -- and thus which ship -- met its fate at that place.

Where to search for Franklin's ships?

With the news that the private search for Franklin's ships will be the only one this summer, the practical question of where to look for Franklin's ships is re-opened. Robert Grenier had planned to search in the vicinity of the Royal Geographical Society Islands, but apparently Rob Rondeau and his team plan to look much further north, in the vicinity of Larsen sound, scanning an area south of where the ships were reported abandoned in the "Victory Point" record of 1848. But what are the odds that something will be found there? The map above, which I obtained some years ago from Ice Services Canada, shows the mean surface water currents throughout the Canadian Arctic. If you look at the area in question, you'll see two currents -- one hugging the shores of King William Island and tending to the north and northeast, and another, heading south and southwest along the coast of Victoria Island. The ice, of course, is subject to other forces than current, and generally flows south/southwest through the channel, though younger ice along the coast of KWI can often follow the contrary current northward.

If we assume that one of Franklin's ships was crushed not far from the original abandonment, the debris from this wreck could then go in either direction. Material embedded in the ice would have tended south, while material caught in the current way well have scattered to the north. Only a heavy object -- such as the ship's modified railway engine -- would be likely to plummet to the bottom at the site of the sinking. Yet whether one ship was crushed at this point is debatable; there are clear accounts by Inuit eyewitnesses to the sinking of one ship, and as David Woodman points out, this must have happened later, and further south than the abandonment, as the Inuit almost never visited the northwest quadrant of King William Island -- a fact corroborated by the clear evidence that the large cache of materials near Victory Point was not disturbed by Inuit until after they heard about it from white men. The crushing of one ship, then, may well have occurred much further south, and indeed the RGS Islands are a likely site, as the ice floes here, compressed by the narrowing channels, are turned into a jumbled, upended mouthful of teeth that could easily masticate any matter sent through them.

We do, as it happens, have some material evidence of where debris might end up -- when Dr. John Rae was on Victoria Island, he discovered several large pieces of wood, parts of which were painted a distinctive yellow color used by the Royal Navy, which he only belatedly realized must have come from the "Erebus" or "Terror." Such a find, if it came from a crushed ship, strongly suggests that the vessel was nearer the Victoria than the King William shore, as otherwise the surface ice would not have brought it within Rae's sight.

One last tale -- and a more terrifying one it is than any of the ship's slow crushing -- is that one or both of Franklin's ships was trapped in an iceberg and carried out to sea. This idea, long championed by my good friend Joe O'Farrell, is based on accounts by passengers on ships far to the east, who saw, or seemed to see, an iceberg pass by in which were embedded two stranded ships. Such a tale might be easily dismissed, were it not for cases such as that of HMS "Resolute," which drifted, unpiloted, along the same general route as this iceberg would have had to take, ending up in the Davis Straits. If indeed this story holds any (frozen) water, then Franklin's ships would be far off in the North Atlantic somewhere -- perhaps even near where the Titanic kept its much later date with an iceberg.

There remain many Inuit tales of a ship, apparently deliberately anchored in relatively shallow water, with a boarding plank lowered and some sweepings or debris from the deck on the ice nearby. These stories are detailed and vivid, and were repeated with nearly all the same details to Schwatka in the 1870's and Rasmussen in the 1920's. It is this ship -- the "Ootjoolik" wreck -- which David Woodman has searched for so patiently, as it is far more likely to be at least partially intact. Outside of the channels of the scouring ice, it may well be in a state of preservation approaching that of the "Breadalbane" near Beechey Island, which vessel was found with its sails still hanging from upright masts.

Franklin Search Called off for 2009

According to the CBC, this summer's search for Sir John Franklin's ships has been officially called off. Apparently, despite the much-vaunted announcement of Harper's government last year that a three-year mission had been authorized, neither the Canadian Navy nor its Coast Guard could be persuaded to give priority to this project. To my mind, it's a sad and regrettable occasion when a government proves unable to persuade either its Navy or Coast Guard to effect its own stated plans and policies, and especially so here -- the news makes it sound as though the ministers in charge of these agencies have more to say about the matter than the Premier - and seems to suggest that affairs in Ottawa are "disjoint and out of frame" as one King of Denmark once said.

On the other hand, as Jonathan Karpoff has argued, there is something to be said that, treated overall, Government-funded expeditions have fared poorly compared with private ones. So many limbs of the octopus must be marshaled together for a Government expedition, and there is such complication in its internecine conflicts, that it acts too slowly, and corrects too late, much like the helmsman of the Titanic seeking to avert an iceberg. Whereas, the story goes, private expeditions can respond with alacrity to changed circumstances, and go where the going is good rather than being tethered to some three (or five) year plan.

Nevertheless, it's surely true that the more resources from any quarter that can be brought to the search, the better. The area to be searched is so large, and the resources needed even to reach it are so substantial, that both public and private searches are needed in order to maximize the odds of eventual success. This year, Rob Rondeau is hoping to get the support and permits needed to do dives of his own, while earlier searches of private persons, particularly those of David C. Woodman, have created a crucial framework upon which all such future work depends. No matter who (if anyone) claims the prize, their laurels will be in part due to the perseverance of those who searched before. I certainly wish all those who undertake such a venture, now or in future years, the best.

Landseer Lecture

I just arrived back late last night from my lecture on Sir Edwin Landseer's "Man Proposes, God Disposes," currently on display at the Yale Center for British Art. It was well-attended, and the audience was wonderfully diverse in every sense -- in age, in background, in interests, in expertise. I was especially delighted that my partner Karen Carr and my daughter Caeli were there, along with my dear friends Mary Cappello and Jean Walton (thanks, Jean, for the photo!). This painting, along with the rest of the Royal Holloway's touring collection, has been expertly hung and lighted, and has never looked better. It's also worthy of note that the frames, which were originally all glazed and made with specially-designed latches for removing and cleaning the glass, are now hung almost entirely unglazed, which offers a view long unavailable in their original home. Landseer's carnivorous canvas finally gets its due.

There is an enduring anxiety about these bears, one which was the subject of several questions after my lecture. One person in attendance, an alumna of Royal Holloway, offered her recollection that the painting was hung with a Union Jack -- reversed -- during exams, as though the mirror image would better defeat the harmful rays of the naval ensign in the painting. She vividly recounted the anxiety of those who sat near. What horror still exuded from them nearly 150 years after they were painted? I offered my own view that the bears, in all their muscular horror, were more or less stand-ins for fears of cannibalism.

And yet whether or not these bears were simply representatives of animal appetite -- or else subconscious representatives of the upgorged horror of the "last resource" was a matter of debate. Scott Wilcox, the YCBA's curator of graphic arts and an expert on panoramas, asked whether the bears might not offer the relief of resolution -- after all, if 'the bears did it,' then there was no further need to probe the scene in search of something far worse. Ultimately, many present felt that the bears could be both a potential guard against far worse images, and an embodiment of the very fear thus allayed -- and I heartily agreed with this view.

But why not judge for yourselves? This magnificent show runs through July 26th, and New Haven is an easy day-trip for anyone in the greater New York or greater Boston areas. These paintings, as a collection, will not travel again soon, and you may be surprised to find that even the most difficult to please of museum goers -- children -- will at once be drawn to Landseer's portrait of these astonishing creatures, and will be led by them through the rest of a gallery filled with an abundance of Victorian riches.

The Franklin Daguerreotypes III

It's remarkable how little it turns out we sometimes know about things we thought we knew well. So, while the question over whether or not Richard Beard made two original sets in 1845 is debated at William Battersby's blog, I'd like to continue the series here on the history and meaning of the images we do have.  I've included in this posting an image of the entire set of 14 images, as they are mounted in the collection of the Derbyshire County Archives in Matlock.  It's a version seldom seen, but one that recalls the significance of the event as a whole, and collectively reiterates the strange and ghostly qualities of these images -- the first and last any of the subjects would sit for -- of the officers aboard Franklin's ships.

What can we say about this quality?  In his seminal study Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes recalls the uncanny sensation he had when gazing at a different Beard daguerreotype:

"One day, quite some time ago, I happened on a photograph of Napoleon's youngest brother, Jerome, taken in 1852.  And I realized then, with an amazement that I have not been able to lessen since: 'I am looking at eyes that looked at the Emperor.'  Sometimes I would mention this amazement, but no one seemed to share it, or even to understand it (life consists of these little touches of solitude)."

It is that odd solitude -- the awareness that every photograph is both oddly living -- preserving the gaze of the subject in a way that almost seems, wizard-like, to peer back at you out of its frame -- and yet announcing, without even having to say so, the ultimate mortality of us all -- that makes the Franklin daguerreotypes especially rich.  Every one of them is a window, and a tombstone.

Which makes, I suppose, the mounting at Matlock a sort of cemetery, ranked in rows.  The order differs from that used by the engraver for the Illustrated London News, so I am skeptical that the mounting was done for their use.  It has the look of something assembled by a patient, diligent, but (in modern terms) untrained archivist, one who wished very much to gather, preserve, and state the significance of these images. "Sailed from England 19th May 1845 in Search of the North-West Passage" -- the inscription seems to suggest they still sail, and will always.  For how can they be "lost" when, before our eyes, we have them right here?

So what more do we see?  I invite readers to post their own responses here.  I'd be interested in further thoughts on Franklin, Gore, or any other of the men.  What do we see in them, and what do they reveal in us?

Man Proposes, God Disposes

One of the iconic images of the Arctic Sublime, it was painted by an artist who had never travelled to the north, and whose best-known paintings were of royal dogs and ponies -- Sir Edwin Landseer -- in the strange twilight of his career. When in 1981 it was shown in the United States as part of a Landseer retrospective, New York Times art citic Hilton Kramer singled it out as the most stunning of his works, comparing it with other darkest moments of the Victorian age:

"'Man Proposes, God Disposes'" is Landseer’s 'Dover Beach' and with that painting, at least, he joins the ranks of those disabused Victorian prophets whom we still have ample reason to admire and heed."

As one of the gems of the Royal Holloway Collection at the University of London, it's part of a touring show set up to allow renovations to its original quarters; from now through July 26th this magnificent, unparalleled collection of Victorian art can be seen at the Yale Center for British Art in New Haven, Connecticut. On June 25th, I'll be giving a gallery talk on Landseer's painting from 12:30 to 1 p.m.

So how did such a seemingly staid and sober artist such as Landseer, who, though renowned for his animal subjects, had always remained with the lines of domestic propriety, come to paint such a monstrous scene? In 1864, McClintock's news of the demise of Sir John Franklin's expedition was still fresh in the air, as was the controversy, ignited ten years earlier, over Dr. John Rae's evidence of cannibalism among Franklin's men. Such dark matter was inconceivable as the subject for a serious painting -- since Géricault's famous "Raft of the Medusa" (1818-1819) tastes, shall we say, were greatly changed. Maritime tragedies were meant to be seen through a spyglass dimly, distantly awesome and only alluded to by natural features; the storms of human malfeasance could cloud horizons but not confront the viewer's eye. Frederic Edwin Church had struck just the right tone three years earlier with his "Icebergs," which contained a lone, broken mast as a synecdoche of Franklin's tragic end: man made mast.

There's a mast in Landseer's painting too, with tattered remnants of a royal ensign clinging to its side -- but it's what comes before the mast that astounds. Two polar bears, their muzzles rippling with carniverous delight, are sitting down to a feast of dead explorers' bones. The bear on the right tosses a bone from a human ribcage, while on the left a second bear rips at the ensign. At that bear's side lie a broken telescope and lens-cap, its shattered state a metaphor of the blasted vision of the dead. When the painting was first shown in 1864, there could be no doubt of its intended subject. The Times spoke of "bones -- no need to ask whose," while the reviewer for the Illustrated London News was more impressionistic:

"Under the lurid sky of Arctic twilight, among the vast fantastic blocks of ice, green, or of livid pallor, save where faintly flushed with the long, level, rosy ray of the far-off dawn, we see over a hollow a solitary spar; and on the brink of this strange and awful grave -- for those are human ribs protruding, blanched and bare from summer heat or birds of prey."

Many felt it was in poor taste, and some of Landseer's private friends associated it with his increasingly difficult struggle with nervous anxiety. For much of the time before this painting, Landseer had been laboring, long and patiently, on the sculpted lions for the base of Nelson's Pillar in Trafalgar Square. The commission had used so much of his artistic and life-force that he was driven to nightmares, in one of which the lion pinned him to the ground, about to make a man-sized meal of him. Nevertheless, Landseer labored on, and perhaps in "Man proposes" found an outlet for this sense of being warily, wearily pursued by enormously powerful and relentless beasts.

Purchased some years later by Thomas Holloway, the British patent-medicine magnate, it took up a place of honor, as well as of anxeity, in the Picture Gallery in the Founder's Building of the Royal Holloway College. When the hall was used at term time for examinations, students were averse to sitting near it, so much so that it became a tradition for the porters to cover it with a cloth beforehand. And, curiously, it was in this same building that Anne Keenleyside, the forensic pathologist who first confirmed evidence of cannibalism from the bones recovered from NgLj-2 on King William Island, spent a postdoctoral fellowship, passing the hall on her way to and from her research without ever realizing how her work, and Landseer's strange vision, connected.

There are many other reasons to see the Royal Holloway -- Frith's Railway Station and Millais's "Princes in the Tower" among them -- but I would urge anyone who has the opportunity to see the Landseer. These bears do not often travel abroad, and there is nothing quite so chilling as seeing them there before you, only a few animal paces from your heart.

The Franklin Daguerreotypes, Part II

In my last posting, I gave some general background on the Daguerreotypes made of Franklin and his officers just before their sailing in May of 1845.  There, I hinted that there was something further to be learned.  With thanks to my esteemed friend Dr Huw Lewis-Jones of the Scott Polar Research Institute, who first observed this phenomenon, I pass along a vision recovered from the reflective bill of Lieutenant Graham Gore's cap (see detail, inset).  The image seems clearly that of a ship, indicating that Gore's portrait was taken at dockside.  Yet which ship is it?  It seems to me to be a view of the stern of some vessel, but without any sails or rigging clearly visible.  There seem to be masts, but one of these appears bent, and connected with another protrusion.  Could one of these be the smokestack of a ship's engine, and a plume of smoke the source of this connection?  If so, the vessel would seem to be either "Erebus" or "Terror."  And yet tellingly, a line seems to extend from the ship's stern (if so it is), as though it were towing another vessel.  If that's the case, the ship could be the screw steam sloop HMS  "Rattler," for it towed both "Erebus" and "Terror" as far as Cape Wrath off Scotland.  Unlike the discovery ships, which would have hoarded their coal for later, the Rattler would have been under full steam for the journey, and was far more likely to be exuding smoke during the photographic session.  Rattler was the first screw-propeller driven warship in the world, and had famously won a contest with the side-wheel steamer Alecto, proving her pre-eminence by dragging the Alecto backwards at a speed of 2 knots in March of 1845.  The propellor of the Rattler is on display in Portsmouth to this day.

 But what else can we learn from these Dauguerreotypes?  My acquaintance Bill Schultz, a collector of and expert on early photography, prepared a lengthy essay on them for the 2005 edition of the Daguerreian Annual.   Schultz specializes in military and naval images, and his commentary describes each officer's uniform in detail.  For example, Franklin is wearing "a Cocked Hat or Chapeau, bound with black silk, which would have four loops of gold bullion with two center loops twisted."  Gore, above, "wears the undress uniform of a Lieutenant according to the uniform regulation of 1843; his epaulettes have shorter braid (than those of a commander or captain) and would have been without any insignia on the strap or in the crescent."

Is there more?  Clearly, the photographer sent by Beard's firm chose at least two different settings, or allowed the officers to do so.  Most of the subjects -- Franklin himself, Crozier, Fitzjames, Gore, Fairholme, Couch, Des Voeux, Sargent, Reid, Collins, Stanley, Goodsir, and Osmer, posed before a cloth backdrop; judging by Gore and Fairholme, this studio was set up dockside.  The backdrop varies somewhat; in Goodsir's case, it seems draped or curtained, with light passing on either side, while with the others, it appears flat and opaque.  Only Le Vesconte seems to have chosen to be photographed aboard ship; he stands with the wheel visible behind him, and a coil of rope hanging from the mast.  In his hand he holds a book with a paper label on its cover, idnetified by Schultz as the ship's log.  Ah, what any of us would give to have that book once more in our hands!

There is surely still more to be learned from these images; the Daguerreotype process produces plates with an incredible level of detail, as the grain size was as little as that of a single silver halide crystal.  The originals, properly copied, could be blown up by a factor of hundreds, and yield surprising results.

Reproduced in the pages of the Illustrated London News and Gleason's Pictorial, endlessly peered at in hopes of some new insight, these memorial versions of the Franklin expedition's officers have a haunting quality -- for they were the first, as well as the last, we would ever have of these bold and tragic figures.

The Franklin Daguerreotypes

Among the most well-known images of the Franklin expedition are the daguerreotypes made of him and his senior officers just prior to their sailing in 1845.  And yet, though these photographs, and engravings based upon them, are very widely distributed, few people are familiar with the facts of their production, or know why they were made.  In this post, I'll give a bit of background on them, and show why, even 164 years later, they still have something to reveal to us.

The idea for having these photographs made was quite likely Franklin's own.  He took an interest in this new invention as early as 1840, scarcely a year after it had been announced to the world by Daguerre.  In the annals of the Tasmanian Journal of Natural Science are two letters addressed to Franklin, one by his old friend Dr. John Richardson, and another by one "Dr. Buckland," both from 1840.  Richardson extols this new invention "one of the most remarkable discoveries of modern times," and described the process in some detail.  Dr. Buckland's letter, which was enclosed with an engraving based on a Daguerreotype of Lord John Russell, who calls the process a novelty "not yet made known in London, but of the greatest importance to Science and Art."  He ends his letter with a curious observation: "You are aware that iodine is used in Daguerre's process for getting the solar drawing on his silvered plate. Who could have anticipated that the discovery of a violet-coloured gas in the refuse of kelp would lead to such important results?"

Given that Franklin was aware of this new technology far earlier than most, it's not surprising that he took measures to ensure that a Daguerreian apparatus was included among the instruments brought aboard "Erebus" and "Terror."  Obtaining this equipment was not as easy as it might seem; although Daguerre loudly proclaimed that he had given rights to his invention "to the world," in England the patent rights were apparently reserved.  Only two men, Antoine Claudet and Richard Beard, had had some claim to a license.  Beard, a coal-merchant who had taken to speculating in patents, obtained an interest in an American version of a  Daguerreotype camera, as it was in the United States that many technical hurdles with the process had been overcome.  The standard process was still too slow for portraiture; the sensitivity of the plate had to be increased, and a better means of collecting light devised.  Beard purchased the rights to a camera with a reflecting mirror that accomplished the latter task, and at once set about learning how to use it, taking lessons from John Frederick Goddard, a scientific lecturer at the Adelaide Gallery. Goddard showed Beard how to accelerate the developing process, and early in 1841 he and his partners opened the first photographic studio in London atop the roof of the Royal Polytechnic Institution in Regent Street.

Within a few months, the income from this studio rose to nearly £150 a month, far beyond anything Beard had anticipated, although before long Claudet opened a competing business in a glass house near St. Martin's-in-the-Fields.  When his income from studio portraiture declined, Beard sought out other areas of work, making some early landscapes, as well as journalistic images of everyday life in London for Henry Mayhew's magisterial London Labour and the London Poor.  So it was hardly surprising that, when word went out that a photographic apparatus was wanted for the new Arctic expedition, Beard proffered his services.

Beard's mirror camera had a singular feature which is not widely known: the mirror had a pivot, something like a modern SLR camera, and by turning it, the photographer could record two images on a single oblong plate.  This gave Beard the opportunity to choose the better of the exposures, or -- if both were satisfactory -- provide two Daguerreotypes and double his profit.  Which is exactly what he did with the Franklin images; one set was given to Lady Franklin, and another to the Admiralty.  In nearly every case, the sitter -- to whom photography was something quite new -- held the same static position for both poses.  Only in the case of James Fitzjames is there an obvious difference; in one image he is stern-looking; in the other -- having picked up a brass telescope -- he gives the faintest hint of a smile, the only one among the fourteen sitters.  Sir John Franklin himself looks ill -- he was said to have been recovering from the 'flu -- and uncomfortably stuffed into his uniform, and yet this has remained the iconic image of the man.

Lady Franklin's set eventually has ended up in the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge, while the Admiralty's set is on display at the National Maritime Museum. 

And what can we learn from them?  In my next posting, I'll reveal more; for now, suffice it to say that, with the downturned, shiny brim of the dress hat worn by some officers, there are "reflections" of another kind, images which reveal where the sitters sat during at least some of the session.

After these images were made, the apparatus was stowed aboard "Erebus."  It's possible that at some point in the expedition, images were made with it, although if so they are lost and would likely be damaged beyond recovery if found.  The challenges of sensitizing and exposing a plate, which required (at different stages) vaporizing both iodine and mercury, would have considerable in the Arctic climate; indeed there are no known Daguerreotypes of the frozen regions from this era.  The earliest photographs were to be calotypes, made on paper coated with silver iodide, and in fact among their earliest users was Francis Leopold McClintock -- but I'll save that for a future column.

The Missing Chronometer, Part 2

I just heard this morning from Jonathan Betts, who was most interested to learn of our discussion here, and offered some considerable additional background on the matter. I'll put his comments here in quotes:

1. "Erebus and Terror both took ten chronometers (don't have the source in front of me, but that much is known) and the receipt you refer to (ADL/D/18) is for nine chronometers supplied to Erebus from the Observatory on 10 May. Arnold 294 is not one of them, but that doesn't rule out the possibility of its either already being on Erebus, or joining them on the ship later."

2. "The chronometer ledgers are simply 'in and out' books for chronometers arriving and leaving the Observatory. If a chronometer left directly to a ship then we know where it went, but sometimes they were sent to naval bases (usually Portsmouth or Plymouth) and then we lose sight of where they went afterwards. The last entry for Arnold 294 on its ledger page before the "Lost..." entry, was it being sent with Commander Wickham on Beagle in June 1837. This was at a time when Beagle was being used as a kind of packet ship, usually delivering stuff to Portsmouth and Plymouth, so my guess is that Arnold 294 went to Portsmouth for issue to whichever ship needed it.

The chronometer in question is definitely Arnold 294, and that chronometer is stated in the Observatory ledgers as "Lost in the Arctic Regions with 'Erebus'."

3. "It is perfectly possible, as you said in your discussion, that this chronometer was issued to J.C.Ross on Erebus and that it was retained (or was supposed to be retained) for use on the following expedition, but got 'lost' during the refit at which point there was a cover-up of some kind. However the ships were said to have ten chronometers each and (as observed in your discussion) I cannot explain how the absence of Arnold 294 was not noticed at that point. Your correspondent Peter Carney postulates this scenario, stating that the officer whose responsibility it was... had a motive to maintain the fiction that it was still with the ship. But it would have required several officers to be complicit in such a crime which I find very difficult to imagine. Crozier was common to both expeditions and I suppose its possible he had agreed to transfer the chronometer and somehow it failed to make the transition for 'legitimate' reasons? Anyway, hopefully it will be possible to establish whether or not this chronometer was indeed with J.C.Ross & Crozier and then continue that line of conjecture if appropriate."

4. "A part of the "...Chronometer-box with its number, name of the maker..."etc., sounds like the Franklin relic we hold, which is from the chronometer by French, No.4214." (my comment: this corresponds with a note I found from Hall which implies that items specifically marked as state property were returned to the UK).

5. "Don't know who your contacts are that you refer to, but the NMM purchased the chronometer directly, but using funds kindly provided by the Friends of the NMM. The sale catalogue stated it had come from Franklin's expedition, not Ross's."

6. "The name the chronometer was given was Reynolds & Son, which may well not have been fictional as such a London firm was known in the mid-19th century, but it more 'convenient', as it meant only changing the first "Ar" and adding the rest, to provide the new name, which seems quite a coincidence for a legitimate company altering an object which is (whether they knew it or not) stolen property. I think in fact the conversion to carriage clock probably occurred around 1900 and was not part of any cover-up."

There's much to think on here -- I am deeply grateful to Mr. Betts for sharing this information with us.

So what more can we contribute? If anyone reading this has access to reliable information as to which chronometers went aboard "Erebus" with JC Ross, that would be one helpful point we might address.

Maps of the Canadian Arctic -- free!

Over the years I've written about and researched the Franklin expedition, among the toughest things to track down have been maps.  Historical maps, understandably, are the most difficult, and often require arrangements with rare book libraries, dealers, and others who have access to the originals.  But simply obtaining an accurate map, say, of King William Island -- accurate enough to plot the locations of Franklin finds, and make meaningful measurements of distances -- has always been a bit tricky.  In the old days, you could order maps directly from the Canada Map Office; a few years ago, they stopped providing them, and one had to order maps from dealers in Canada.  Then, most recently, these dealers themselves have begun to run out of stock, as the original print run of the maps was exhausted, with no plans to print more.

It was a frustrating situation -- that is, until recently, when I learned of Canada's GeoGratis map service.  In the past, this service only provided mapping data for high-end software unavailable at the consumer level, but it is now possible to download a high-resolution TIFF of any original topographical map.  The interface is a rather confusing one, and it's easy to be disappointed if you try searching for geographical features.  However, if you simply go directly to the topographical map key, known as the CanMatrix, you can move, zoom, and finally click on any map in the entire grid.  A few menus and a download of about 30 MB later, you'll be unzipping yourself a full, 55-60 MB topographic map, which you can zoom in on, edit, and use to your heart's content.  The small sample above, which shows the Royal Geographical Society Islands -- one site of the current search by Parks Canada,  is from map 67d, "Cape Felix," a stunning 1:250,000 scale topo map with a remarkable level of detail. What's more, there's a surprisingly open-ended license for these materials, which apparently allows all kinds of use, including the making of derivative products.  It's one of the most generous licenses for official governmental maps of which I'm aware.

So drop on by -- you will be amazed by the level of detail that's available!  It's a Franklin-ophile's cartographic dream come true.

Note on map above: © Department of Natural Resources Canada. All rights reserved