Undelivered letters home recovered from the remains of the Franklin Expedition

Edited by Bob Armstrong

“Canada hopes to finally solve one of the Arctic’s greatest mysteries this summer: finding the remains of two ships lost in the doomed 1845 Franklin Expedition to find the fabled Northwest Passage.” – The Telegraph (U.K.), July 1, 2011

“While searchers have not yet found the remains of the Franklin Expedition’s ships, HMS Erebus and Terror, a cache of papers discovered in a wax-stoppered bottle yields a tantalizing view of daily life in the doomed expedition.” – The Telegraph (U.K.), July 1, 2013

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19^th of May, 1845

Dearest Mother

The departure from Greenhithe was frightfully exciting, though trying for the men. We had our vessels almost fully loaded when Sir John arrived at port and discovered a dreadful error on the part of The Admiralty. It seems our Expedition had been assigned the wrong ships. Sir John soon put things to rights and in short order I was securely ensconced in my cabin on HMS Terror. What an ill omen it would have been had I put to sea aboard the Happy Thought!

Your loving son, Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley

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1^st of June, 1845

Dearest Mother

Do you remember last year when Uncle Algernon told me that a sea voyage would make a new man of me? (This was the evening when he so generously offered to rub me down with goose fat and teach me the sport of Greco-Roman wrestling.) Well, it has come to pass.  I am a new man. Your son, Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley, has become a bounder.

I know that you and Father both warned me to keep away from bounders, rotters, and cads, but I think you would change your mind if you met my cabinmate Reginald Butterworth. He’s a bounder and he’s a capital fellow. And the nephew of a Baronet, no less. Butterworth says bounders are simply misunderstood by people who feel threatened by our cravats and our unrestrained language, which I admit can be d—ed shocking. He swears, however, that bounders do not deserve to share in the richly earned opprobrium heaped upon rotters and cads, who he says are all douchebags.  Butterworth has such a way with words. I believe the douchebag is a recent French invention. Perhaps Grandmama can bring one back from Vichy so that I can better appreciate my cabinmate’s bon mots.

Your loving son, Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley

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10^th of June, 1845

Dearest Mother

Today began with a great to-do on the Quarterdeck. I was awakened by sprightly dancing and gay laughter. When I reached the deck I found many of the men wearing petticoats and Butterworth brandishing a paddle on the bare bottom of one of the cabin boys.

“Not to worry, old sport,” he said. “This is a time-honoured Royal Navy tradition that occurs whenever a ship crosses the Equator.” That put my mind at ease.

Your loving son, Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley

PS: Today we spotted Greenland.

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8^th of December, 1845

Dearest Mother

Rum luck today, I’m afraid. A few of the deck hands came down with a bad case of the Ague, characterized by much coughing and expelling of bilious humours. Sir John, being a good Christian as well as a man of Science, ordered his personal physician to see to the sick men. Unfortunately, the common English sailor is so steadfast in his Ignorance, that the men had to be physically restrained before the physician was able to bleed them. Terrible idea, thrashing about when one has a scalpel held to one’s jugular.

Worse still, we were unable to give the men a Christian burial at sea, as the surface of the ocean is now quite frozen. Terrible shame, as Butterworth has a lovely singing voice and I had looked forward to a few good Hymns.

Your loving son, Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley

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22^nd of September, 1846

Dearest Mother

Excelsior! Following his most recent astronomical Observations, Sir John has declared the Expedition a success. We are now in the Northwest Passage. All aboard the ships are confident that China lies just beyond that large, flat, white island that stretches out to the horizon in all directions.

Your loving son, Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley

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14^th of March, 1847

Dearest Mother

The state of our food supply grows increasingly parlous. Yesterday we ate unrecognizable pieces of leathery animal flesh cooked with colourless and tasteless roots utterly lacking in nutritive value. Our last good English meal.

Good old Butterworth helps me to keep my mind off of our difficult situation. Ever since I hurt my back helping Sir John pack his harpsichord into his emergency survival kit, Butterworth has been offering me daily massages. Bit of an odd duck though. He asks me before bed if I would like to be “tenderized.”

Your loving son, Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley

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2^nd of April, 1847

Dearest Mother

Resourceful thinking by Sir John has resolved one of our most vexing dilemmas: the shortage of space in the aft cabin that serves as our makeshift morgue.

Your loving son, Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley

PS: Before I return, please tell Cook not to use the expression “tastes like chicken.”

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10^th of June, 1847

Dearest Mother

I hope my previous letters have not caused you disquiet. I remain in good hands under the leadership of the brilliant Sir John Franklin, who today made the decision to abandon ship and continue on foot to the nearest post of the Hudson’s Bay Company. While we were filling the sleds with the emergency silverware, Sir John was struck by the kind of inspiration that has characterized his Naval and Exploratory Career. It took some time, but Butterworth and I were able to fashion a hat made entirely of tin to prevent the scheming French from reading the Great Man’s mind.

Is it any wonder that the Royal Navy rules the waves?

Until we meet again, I remain your loving son,

Junior Midshipman Archibald Ponsonby-Cholmondeley.