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H.M.S. Terror, Whalefish Island, Greenland,
July 11, 1845
My Dear Malcolm,—
When next you receive post from me it will be in a batch, all post-marked from the Sandwich Islands and all beginning with a longing for your company. This is but the first of many, and I pray you do not find it wearisome, not now nor in the past nor two years' letters from now. I feel or at least I hope I will have more to share with you by the time I see you again than can possibly be encompassed in any number of letters!
We plan to leave Disko in a few days and so far it has all been very ordinary, if very crowded on and below these decks. It is good that we are so well-stocked; we have provisions to last us perhaps three years if we do well in our rationing and it is unlikely we will have need of it, as so far we are making good headway despite how weighed-down the ships are. Do you remember still how was the day-to-day on board a ship? I know it has been so long for you—longer than I can imagine! or that I can believe we have been apart—but I feel also in my heart that you cannot truly have forgotten. Though other and more important things have taken your time, and though you have learned so much that I can never know, still I believe you hold this knowledge dear, even if you do not think on it often.
Perhaps when next I see you, I will have earned my own sort of education. There is much opportunity for new science to be done here, and many men who hold in dear regard the opportunities to do so. It will be wonderful to see the creatures that God has blessed these Northern seas with. Already I have seen things I could not have imagined; but that is why He and not I am the Creator.
Even the fixture of the stars here is different; not that we see them any longer, as the nights grew shorter and now are gone entirely. Although now the Sun that shines on us both shines on me all of every day, it is somehow yet unbelievable that there is no darkness here—none! Then of course there will be times of no light at all; I suspect the darkness of days will be trying for the lightness of the soul. But still the Light of God is within us all and shall sustain us.
There is work to do—though I wish most dearly I could only converse with you (and this must stand for now as conversation)—From, your most affectionate friend,
John Irving
P.S.—I have written some of this also to my father, and included in my letter to him some sketches; should you wish to see them, I am sure he would be glad of your company.
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H.M.S. "Terror"
Beechey Island, January 20, 1846
My Dear Malcolm,—
I expressed to you earlier that I had my doubts about this camp, but actually it has become quite pleasant and nearly dear to me. While far more so than ashore the days feel nonetheless less regimented than aboard a ship, or rather while one is actually in motion. While I have been stationed in one place before that always felt like a secret holiday—you surely remember how it was—one's duty first of course but then there were foreign lands or at least unfamiliar towns to explore, the local people to interact with, but here there is only ourselves and the only "town" to explore is that we built. It is not much of course but it is ours, and I believe the men take some pride in it. We have not built a church of course but each Sunday Sir Franklin leads a service on Erebus; he is a good speaker, and steadfast in his belief, which is of great help to the men (and, I must admit, myself). When he speaks, there is no doubt God shall see us through
It is hard at times not to doubt. I know this will pass with the winter! When once again we are on the sea and not stuck in this ice; though the ice masters say it will happen again next winter, then we will know it is a thing with an ending and that this is not now truly and shall not ever truly be our home! In truth it reminds me somewhat of my time in Australia—the strange solitude, the mercy of the elements—and that in turn reminds me of my dreams there. Do you remember? While they seemed like idle fancies once I had come home they seemed such a deep want while I was there, and the wanting has come again.
To be here with you: and I know you left the naval life behind. But I think perhaps you might like it here, this strange place; and we then would be together, which of course is the depth of all I yearn for. My accommodations here, though large enough to befit my station, are not large enough for the absolute comfort of two men; yet I believe we would manage, tucked together like the mids we once were. It would not be so cold here, I feel, with your presence.
With that dream I leave you! But do not believe it is leaving you truly, as such a thing could never be.
Your most affectionate friend,
John Irving
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H.M.S. "Terror", King William Island
February 19, 1847
My Dear Malcolm,—
When I said I knew the winters would be long, I did not anticipate this. Although the sun begins again to shine, this time in the pack has begun to wear on the morale of the men. And, I must confess, on myself as well—I think I have perhaps read every book aboard "Terror" and am making headway into the works on "Erebus". We all seek to entertain ourselves in one way or another; never have you seen such a well-read crew!
Some of course have turned to vice in this time; neither you nor I would expect no less, however much we may hope for more. The drinking at least is limited, as there is worry our stores may not last our whole voyage. It is I feel a baseless concern; this winter in the ice was unexpected, but unlikely to be repeated; already there are signs of the ice lightening if nowhere near enough for us to move on. Still, I know it will be soon! The Lord tests us, but I am certain He means for us to succeed in our goal, and we shall pass this test.
But to speak of the temptations that the men fall to—I know you do not wish to hear it, but I fear if I do not write it out I will do nothing but think of it, and let it fester in my mind and, I worry, in my heart. I will not be offended, my dear friend, if you choose not to read it—There will be much more correspondence should you wish to move ahead!—Perhaps I will strike it out so you need not witness what I have.
The drinking, as I have said, is curtailed; the men however have no such compunctions about their smoking. While you know I am not opposed in principle, it is the constancy of it that worries me, although one can hardly blame anyone for this indiscretion as there is no tobacco that warms one enough to work against the cold here. It still strikes one at times although, as I have mentioned, we have adjusted, and I have at times found myself at times without hat or wig and yet perfectly warm! I suppose this is how the Esquimaux live—if even men accustomed to civilization can learn to live in this weather, those born to it have never known otherwise.
We do not have contact with them now; perhaps they have built their snow houses somewhere warmer. Can you imagine, to live inside of ice? A far cry from my time in the heat of Australia, or even of your dear small rooms in Cambridge, well-appointed and the fire stoked. Perhaps if we did, there would be more to do—to learn their language and their customs, their means of survival here—and less time for profligate behaviors. Though one would hope only to grow close to his fellow man, especially in circumstances such as these, I cannot help but worry that some have taken to one another in ways unnatural. I know of course it happens; I have both turned a blind eye to it in the past and of course counselled those who have stumbled into such actions, and I would think helped in the redemption of some. But again in these circumstances I worry that there is less repentance than there should be. There is at times less discretion than one would expect—these sorts of unnatural acts, if they must occur, should at least be hidden from the eyes of decent and God-fearing men. Don't you agree? The Lord of course sees them, but the rest of us should not. I have witnessed nothing myself, but there are rumors, and at times unmistakable sounds. They are discreet enough that for better or worse I do not know for how many souls I must pray.
I do not like to leave you on such a terrible note—I hate to leave you at all, both in this letter and in life. Please know there is goodness on these ships as well. I will write to you of it later, you have my word!
Even in these times, I am, Ever your affectionate friend,
John Irving
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H.M.S. "Terror", June 11, 1847
My own Malcolm,—
I hope you will forgive me for calling you my own. It is only that I need something steadfast to hold on to; and though it has been too long since I have grasped your dear hand, I feel nonetheless that you are the only earthly thing I can rely upon.
I know that God has not abandoned us, but I feel perhaps He in all his great and endless presence is otherwise occupied—in welcoming our good Lieutenant Gore to Heaven. And a yet greater gain for that good plane but a greater loss for us here on this earth—He has taken, too, Sir John Franklin.
I must not think of it that way: that they have been taken; instead I must think of how they have been brought home. (In that, I nearly envy them; though I look forward to our heavenly home, where we—we two! and all of God's good creatures—will be together once more; I also would like to see my earthly home once again. Sometimes, I must confess, it feels as if I will not.) But I must confess a thing to you. I hold fast the certainty that you know I would never lie to you, so you will believe me when I say to you that the way these good men died was not natural. I have written to you before of how there is no game to be found here, and you know that I do mean none. We have not even seen a bird overhead.
And yet… when Lieutenant Gore led a party in search of leads, he did not return to us. Those who did returned with the worst of news; there were no leads, and yet worse, they said he was (please forgive me these gruesome words) mauled to death by some bear. And my dear Malcolm—you have never seen, I believe, a Polar Bear in the flesh, but we had encountered them in our earlier winters. They are larger than any creature I have seen, and in movement even larger. The men who returned say this bear was larger still than that.
It came again. To our own "home" here on the ice. The Marines had set up to hunt it, and instead …
I cannot bear to write of it. Please forgive me. Know only that it was more than any man deserved to see, and far more than any man deserved to suffer. We shall hold a funeral tomorrow. Captain Crozier is now in charge of the expedition. He would never have asked for such a thing, by any other means and certainly not like this, but I think he will do the job admirably. He is not a godly man as Sir Franklin iswas, but he is decent and kind yet with a firm hand, and while he is not without his vices, who could say that any of us are. He was not afraid to oppose Captain Sir John when he felt himself in the right, and I think he will only steer us correctly now.
Forgive me if this is in any part difficult to read. It has been only a few hours. I needed to speak to you, as a true friend; I wish only that I could do so face-to-face. But this shall have to suffice. As you are to me, I am, ever your affectionate friend,
John Irving
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H.M.S. "Terror"
October 30, 1847
My Dear Malcolm,—
As "night" and "day" lose meaning here, I worry that so do "darkness" and "light." You know that I mean this in the spiritual sense; all the men here would know it, also. While no one is unkind to me, there are fewer men than I would like who will come and read the Bible with me, and with Franklin gone there have been no proper services on Sundays. It has been so many months! You may ask, how have I not mentioned this before, but in truth I have not cared to dwell on it. And of course I had my own prayers, and several good men to pray with, and some who come to listen to me each week. But you know that I am no minister. Though I believe I am on the right path, I am not suitable to lead. This is a great failing of mine, not that all men are called to it but simply that I cannot care for the souls here that go astray, even when I am better suited for the task than any other. Forgive me my vanity—in fact it is no such thing—I wish it were not the truth.
There is too much time. I think that is the problem. There is not enough to do anymore, and far too much time idle; never has it seemed to me there were so many men aboard one ship. You may ask then, why have I not written you so often? I feel my letters may have in fact decreased in frequency, for which I am sure you will be grateful when you receive them; although the way you say it is with fondness (and I suspect indeed with love) you have long said I have too much to say. Though it has been many years since I have heard your beloved voice, I can call to mind just how it sounds. Is it strange that I remember it still? When I read your letters I can hear it as clearly as if you read them to me. If that were true!—if instead of these well-worn pages I had you yourself. Such comfort you would bring me, even if it were only us two praying alone.
But in truth I have been finding things to do—there is still work to be done for officers. I have begun keeping track of the stores, and while fresh meat is now a distant memory we have sufficient canned food to keep us through at least one more year. I do not think we will need that much; I believe that God's light will warm this ice and let us free to pass come spring. It is perhaps strange that I think so little of the passage these days, it is only in writing to you that I remember our true purpose here. Perhaps it is that you are one of those I wish so much to return to.
If only all those here had those they held so dear; I worry that some do not, and that with no one to think on in fondness it has driven them to … I hardly dare speak of it, even only on the page. I would like to think you remember only the best of times at sea! Not, I am sure, that you will have forgotten the hard work, as it is so very much of what we do here; indeed, as I have said, I now wish there were more of it. But I am sure, that as none of us lead only perfect lives none of us have only perfect memories, and you remember the terrible things men fell prey to away from land and home and family. I know I am assured of your discretion when I tell you these things, that however lauded we may be upon our return from discovering the Passage, you will not use any of this to discredit us. We are only men, but we are largely good men. But there are some—there is one man, specifically, for whom I truly worry. He seems too eager to flout the laws of both the Navy and of God—I would say I hope you know to what I refer, so that I do not have to say it; but I hope that you do not. Thoughts of unnatural acts should not bedevil you; you should be content and pious and happy. I look forward to the day when I do not have to worry for the souls around me, as I will spend my time with you.
Your most loving friend,
John Irving
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"H.M.S. Terror" December 7, 1847
My Dear Malcolm,—
I do not know how to put it more simply than to say, I wish that things were easier! I know what you will say; that if I had a longing for the simple I should not have joined the Discovery Service; perhaps you will say that is something you have never known me to wish for, or at least not until I had grown old. I do not feel old now I fear at times that I will not live to be an old man at all. —there is nothing in this world as old as the ice. At times I nearly do not know how long we've been here. It grows ever more inconceivable to me that the Esquimaux people simply live here. There is no game. Our supplies as they stand will see us through until the ice warms and lets us through, but should that not come to pass… My dear friend, I do not wish to even think of it. I must not!; I must believe we will be shown through this darkness.
At times I do imagine it, living as the Esquimaux do. Their houses of ice are impressive to behold, not in any sort of grandeur but in ingenuity. For as long as I have now been here, I struggle to imagine that ice could keep one warm. But I think there is an appeal to it. To sleep on beds of furs inside curved walls, with only nature to keep us company … There is a solemnity and pureness to the world here that I think you could appreciate. I feel, at times, closer to God here than I ever have before.
Morale is not so far dampened as you might believe it would be. To my surprise, more men have come to me to pray together; I hope when the weather is so bad that passage from Erebus is not possible, they are gathered together there. There remain so few men on Terror. Those of us who have stayed do not, I think, benefit from it. There is some sort of camaraderie that has sprung from it, but somehow we all also are wary of it. The officers in particular I think: never have I seen Lieutenant Little look so harried, and even Lieutenant Hodgson, who is ever so keen to talk (I have told you he is a wonderful conversationalist!) has drawn more quiet. It seems nearly strange to me to call them by their proper names—we are to each other John and Ned and George—I suppose I feel I must hold to some sort of propriety with you! How long it has been since I called Kingston, George; and you, William, or indeed anything fonder. I hope you do not think because of this that my fondness for you has lessened; rest assured it is as strong as ever. At any rate, I feel it is that I need the structure this implies and requires. Things feel so different.
This is to some degree I do not wish to say " fault ", but in many ways the responsibility of, our Captain. He has taken it harder than the rest of us. This voyage was, I think, something more important to him than it may have seemed, and more important than to others of us, for reasons I would not speculate on. It is not suitable for me to speak of such things, even to you—perhaps when we are home, have these things resolved, and I have seen you again, I will tell you then. For now though we are here and, these things weighing heavily on him, he has taken to drink. Perhaps I should not tell you this either! But it is not speculation; this is something I know to be true. I wish I did not. I wish it were not true at all! I wish it did not impact things so. But as slowly as our other supplies may dwindle (and I am now the one who counts the stores on "Terror"), the captain's liquor supply moves more swiftly than the rest.
At least I have this accounting to do. While it spells out plainly the realities of our situation, to be able to focus on it manages to distract me from it nonetheless. It is easy to lose myself in columns of numbers in the ledger, and columns of boxes in the hold. Were it not for this, I would have only dreams and prayer to comfort me, and while they do much work, it is nonetheless good to have something earthly to hold onto. Soon, perhaps, I will be able to hold onto your hand.
Until I see you next, your affectionate friend,
John Irving
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"H.M.S. Terror"
8 December, 1847
My Dear Malcolm,—
The beast has come aboard the ship. I do not know that there is any way I can relay to you the fear of this. You will forgive me if this letter is difficult to read; I cannot control the tremor of my hand.
The damage to "Terror" herself is significant. I do not know that any man will be willing to leave the belly of the ship to fix it. I do not think that I could order them out.
I have nothing else to share. I worry that there will be nothing to share at all. I worry for all the things I have left unsaid—I hope I will return to tell those I love, I love them. If I see my loved ones only next in Heaven, I will wait there happily!
Here at the ends of the earth, I remain yours,
John Irving
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"H.M.S. Terror" January 8, 1848
My Dear Malcolm,—
The preparations for Captain Fitzjames' Carnivale continue! It is so good to see the men heartened again. And, as you may have suspected from how often I have written of it in only this last week, I myself am looking forward to it greatly. Any misgivings we have about leaving the relative safety of the ships has been truly overshadowed by the excitement. Christmas was a more sober affair this year but the first sunrise will be a true celebration of life. Though the sun will not show itself for long, to be reminded that it exists and will rise again, that is a cause for merriment indeed.
Did I tell you yet that Hodgson and I have settled on our costumes? (The letters you have sent that contain "You have spoken of this before"—I know you mean that I repeat myself! And I am sure you will find it true of these, as well; but I seal each one as soon as they are finished, so I cannot look back on them any more than if I had sent them to you immediately. Is that foolish? The pretense makes me feel better even as I watch the bundle of envelopes inscribed with your name grow.) He is to be Marie Antoinette; I am unsure how the wig he pulled from the trunk even fit into it! And beneath it was packed a pair of golden wings, so he has talked me into going as an angel. It is teasing of course, but not unkindly, and it should be easy enough to fashion myself a halo to match. He is prevailing upon Little to choose a costume as well, but the man seems steadfast against it. It is a shame, as he could perhaps more than the rest of us use a little fun. He is, you will recall, standing in place of Captain Crozier on all official matters, and I believe plans to stay on ship with him rather than attend the Carnivale at all. We had all hoped the Captain would be well enough to join us, but he is still quite ill. Perhaps he will be feeling well enough tomorrow to attend for at least a short while. The men have spent all day putting up the tent for Carnivale. Or rather, tents, as there are many sails lashed together to create many connected rooms. The insides are painted and decorations hung and there are tables ready to be laden with what food we can spare. I went to see it earlier and it is an impressive spectacle by torchlight. That is of course the only way to see it, though we all look forward to seeing it in the light of day.
If only you could attend, my joy would be complete. What would you dress as? Perhaps you could be an angel as well; it would bring me great happiness to match with you in this, as in all things. And in all things I am, your most affectionate friend,
John Irving
Malcolm,— Too often now I have written to you of tragedy. This may be the worst. We do not yet know the number of the dead. So very near to the day dawning again, the tent burned with all inside. Many of us escaped. Many of us did not. That this happened was no accident. Perhaps man was not meant to find this passage.
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April 21, 1848
My Dear Malcolm,—
It is becoming clear to me that you may never see these letters after all. I should leave them behind. We must carry only what we need; and yet, I feel I cannot leave them. It would feel too much like leaving you. Is this dramatic? Tomorrow we leave behind these frozen ships we've made our homes for too long and begin a march of nearly 800 miles. There is little that seems dramatic in the face of the journey ahead of us.
We have packed with us many things I suspect we shall not need; desks, tea sets, etc., but it feels as if, should we leave them, we leave behind our identities as civilized Englishmen. We should be that to the last! I confess, I do not look forward to this journey. None of us do of course, this was not a thing we had intended when we stepped foot onto "Terror" and "Erebus". We all of course were united in our goal of finding the Passage, for country as well as (I am sure for many) our own personal glory. I myself, as you know, joined this expedition hoping for promotion. How silly that dream seems now! How silly much of this seems. This is not a land we were meant to see, I am sure of it now. I hope only that it is glad to be rid of us, and speeds us on our way.
I have said to you before how close to God I feel here. It still is true. But the Esquimaux believe in other gods, and at times I wonder if they are not here as well. I know that this is blasphemy, and I am not glad of these thoughts, any moreso than of any other sin. We are removed here from many of the temptations of man, it is true, but to be so far removed from other men is itself a danger. I do not think that we have left decency behind, but we have developed our own strange habits here. Things are different. When men speak of ghosts, it is difficult to discourage them. Captain Crozier believes that on our way we shall encounter the native people here and they shall help us. I hope it is true; however foreign and strange these people may be, I think it shall be good for all of us to see new faces. To be reminded that a world outside these ships exists, and there are good men in it. I hope to see them. I hope so many things. I hope to see my loved ones again, and you know of course you are included in this company; at times, it is only the need for your dear face and voice that sustains me. I shall carry these letters with me on this journey, and I will carry the certainty that you care for me in return.
I do not know what lies ahead. I will admit I am afraid. There is no shame in it. Will the world I return to be very different? Or will I be very different upon my return? Either way, I think, you will still know me when you see me—I think we know each other in our souls. If I do not return, that is how we will find each other in Heaven. I will wait for you there; I hope it is very long before I see you. Live a full and happy life, even if I cannot!
This may only be dramatics—you may see me in a year's time, having read these, and laugh at how very serious I have been. I cannot wait to hear your laughter, and if I close my eyes I can hear it even now. But I must not keep my eyes closed; I must be clear and ready for the journey ahead. It will be long, but we will make it. I believe this. I must believe it.
Until I see you again, I remain your,
John Irving
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13 May, 1845
Burnfoot
To my dear friend—
I am sorry I could not come to see you off in Greenhithe! I hope this letter finds you in my stead, and finds you well.
It has been too long since I have seen you, and it pains me to know that it will be years yet. I hope with all my soul that you will return triumphant. While I have faith that no harm will befall you, I confess I have at times my doubts as to the success of your Expedition. Again, please do not think it is for any lack of belief in you—such a thing could never enter my heart or mind, not as now, and as it never has. It is only that I worry that such success is not possible—that those who have made this their mission beforehand have failed only because God has not seen fit to make this Passage for men to find. That perhaps there is nothing there but ice.
But with that, I hope only for your success! If there is such a thing, it is your Expedition that will find it—you may not think yourself the thing that will make the difference, but such is the esteem I hold you in. The prior attempts have not had you; this one does; and that could make all the difference!
I suppose also that you will encounter Esquimaux while you are there, the Native peoples of the seemingly inhospitable land you venture toward, and I know you will have success bringing to them the Word! Through whatever barriers may come between you, your love and goodness will shine through. (I know, my John, you will say I hold you in too high of an esteem—I do not believe there is such a thing.)
Reading this over, I worry the last thing you hear from me will strike a minor key. I could strike it out and begin again, but it has never been in me to lie. To you, I do not think I could; there should be no deceit between us. There is nothing I could have to say that I could not say to you, however many years have separated us, and however much distance. Do not think there is not more I would say! There is, and always—but I should send this off, lest I send it too late and it does not reach you at all. If I cannot see you off, my words, at least, shall.
Yours, as always, humbly and with greatest affection,
Elphie