Barrow, however, remained convinced that Parry could do no wrong. With the strong support of Sir Humphry Davy of the Royal Society, he therefore entrusted him with an attempt on the North Pole. The other man of the moment, James Clark Ross, was appointed as Parry’s second-in-command. Also on board were Ross’s friend Francis Crozier and a new assistant surgeon, Robert McCormick, who would go on to play an important part in Ross’s subsequent adventures.
The expedition reached Spitsbergen in June and from there the men headed off on reindeer-drawn sledges, aiming to make about 14 miles a day on their way to the Pole. They continued north, travelling by night and resting by day to avoid snow blindness. Unfortunately, the reindeer proved less than ideal for towing the sledges and were later killed and eaten; and by the end of July the party’s progress had slowed to one mile in five days. The decision was taken to turn back. A loyal toast was drunk, and the standard they had hoped to run up at the Pole was hoisted.
Even though they hadn’t achieved their goal, Parry and his men had scored a considerable achievement. They had reached a new furthest north of 82.43°, some 500 miles from the North Pole, a record that was to stand for nearly fifty years. As for Ross, he had survived forty-eight days in the ice and had shot a polar bear. Yet the fact remained that another attempt on the North Pole had failed, leading The Times to state in a prescient editorial: ‘In our opinion, the southern hemisphere presents a far more tempting field for speculation; and most heartily do we wish that an expedition were to be fitted out for that quarter.’ That, however, was to be a long time coming.
On his return in October 1827, James Ross was promoted to commander, but, with no immediate prospect of further work, was stood down on half-pay. Thanks to his uncle, however, he didn’t have to kick his heels for long. Just a few months later John Ross, who had been cold-shouldered by Barrow and most of the Admiralty after the Croker’s Mountains fiasco, won financial support for a new polar expedition from his friend Felix Booth, the gin distiller. One of the conditions Booth imposed was that Ross should involve his nephew – a condition that the bluff and curmudgeonly John swiftly agreed to, even though he hadn’t asked James first. He even promised that James would serve as his second-in-command. Fortunately for everyone, James, now in the prime of life and in need of money, accepted.
Booth agreed to invest £18,000 of his gin fortune in fitting out Victory – not the legendary flagship of Lord Nelson, but an 85-ton steam-driven paddle-steamer, previously employed on the Isle of Man–Liverpool ferry service. Ross’s idea was that because the Victory was not wholly dependent on sail power, it would be able to push its way more easily through the thicker ice. The principle was sound enough, but the crew began to have trouble with the engine the morning after they left Woolwich. Even with it working flat out, they could only make three knots. Before they had left the North Sea they discovered that the boiler system was leaking badly (one of its designers suggested they stop up the hole with a mixture of dung and potatoes). And they were still within sight of Scotland when one of the boilers burst – as did John Ross’s patience, on being told the news: ‘as if it had been predetermined that not a single atom of all this machinery should be aught but a source of vexation, obstruction and evil’. In the winter of 1829 they dumped the engine altogether, to general relief.
Despite these teething problems, they went on to have their fair share of success. John Ross, perhaps a little sheepishly, sailed Victory through the non-existent Croker’s Mountains and out the other side of Lancaster Sound. En route he mapped the west coast of a peninsula to the south, which he named Boothia Felix, shortened later to Boothia, but still the only peninsula in the world named after a brand of gin. They made contact with the local Inuit, to the benefit of both sides. One of the Inuit was particularly impressed that Ross’s carpenter was able to fashion him a wooden leg to replace one he’d lost in an encounter with a polar bear. The new leg was inscribed with the name ‘Victory’ and the date.
Their greatest achievement was still to come. On 26 May 1831, two years into what was to be a four-year expedition, James Clark Ross set off on a twenty-eight-day expedition by sledge across the Boothia Peninsula, with the intention of pinpointing the North Magnetic Pole. Just five days later, on 1 June, he successfully measured a dip of 89°90'. He was as close as it was possible to get to the Magnetic Pole. ‘It almost seemed as if we had accomplished everything we had come so far to see and do,’ John Ross later wrote; ‘as if our voyage and all its labours were at an end, and that nothing now remained for us but to return home and be happy for the rest of our days.’
The raising of the Union Flag and the annexing of the North Magnetic Pole in the name of Great Britain and King William IV should have been the prelude to a hero’s return, but the capricious Arctic weather refused to cooperate. The ice closed in and the expedition’s survival began to look increasingly precarious. As the prospect of a third winter trapped in the Arctic turned into reality, elation gave way to bitter resignation. In June, James Ross had been triumphant. Just a few months later his uncle John wrote with feeling: ‘To us, the sight of the ice was a plague, a vexation, a torment, an evil, a matter of despair.’
It was worse than anyone could have expected. Had it not been for their close contact with the local Inuit, and the adoption of a diet that was rich in oil and fats, they would surely have perished. Indeed, it was to be nearly two years before the Rosses and their companions, ‘dressed in the rags of wild beasts . . . and starved to the very bones’, were miraculously rescued by a whaling ship. This turned out to be the Isabella from Hull, the ship that John Ross had commanded fifteen years earlier. The captain of the Isabella could scarcely believe what he saw. He had assumed that uncle and nephew had both been dead for two years. So many had despaired of ever seeing them again that there was national astonishment when they sailed into Stromness in the Orkney Islands on 12 October 1833. When they arrived in London a week later, their reception was nothing less than triumphal. Their remarkable fortitude in surviving four years in the ice, their scientific achievements and their skills as explorers were all praised and celebrated. This near-disaster, far from deterring future expeditions, ensured that the Arctic would remain a potent target for the Admiralty’s ambitions and, years later, would profoundly change the course of many lives.
John Ross, now rehabilitated, was awarded a knighthood. His moment of triumph was, however, marred by an unpleasant falling-out with his nephew over who should receive credit for the discovery of the North Magnetic Pole. James claimed sole recognition, for pinpointing its position. His uncle insisted that if he had known his nephew was intending to go for the Pole, he would have accompanied him. To official eyes, it was James who was the coming man. Alongside his prickly and impulsive uncle, he appeared dependable and decisive – a safe pair of hands. At the end of 1833 he was promoted to post captain and given the task of conducting the first-ever survey into the terrestrial magnetism of the British Isles.
He had barely begun the work when word came of twelve whaling ships and 600 men trapped in the ice in the Davis Strait, between Greenland and Baffin Island. The Admiralty agreed to a rescue mission and, predictably, turned to James Clark Ross to lead it. He chose a ship called Cove, built in Whitby, and picked Francis Crozier as his First Lieutenant.
As Ross and Crozier made their way north from Hull to Stromness and into the North Atlantic, the Admiralty looked around for suitable back-up vessels, should extra effort be required. Of the two bomb ships that had been converted for Arctic travel on Parry’s expeditions, one, HMS Fury, had been dashed against the rocks on Somerset Island, and the other, Hecla, had been sold a few years earlier. That left HMS Terror, one of the Vesuvius Class, built in 1813, with plenty of active service behind her; and the as-yet-untried and untested Erebus.