Synopsis: What Ever Happened to Henry Hudson?

hudson didnt die when cast into the ilfeboat..and modern research into the real events.. as well as historical relating of the story splNOVEL NUMBER 4
“What Ever Happened to Henry Hudson?”

We had planned to go to Newfoundland last summer, a driving trip, just me and a friend and our kids. Somewhere along the way, the plans got swayed- and swayed way off target!
So there we were in James Bay in August! How did the plans get so changed, I found myself wondering, as I stared at the bleak flat great white nothingness. I do believe that things happen for a reason, but at that point, I couldn’t see where this made any sense! There was NOTHING in James Bay, I decided. No reason to be here, nothing to photograph, except perhaps the sky, but nothing worth visiting.
The locals told us about the village across the river, a water taxi ride away, and we decided to go, the boat ride would at least be fun. The village, at first view, seemed to be just like Moose River, except this one had a factory, hence “Moose Factory”, but otherwise, the government issued shed-type houses were all as mundane as the village we had traveled from. There was one slight spark of interest, when we saw a little graveyard and a white church in the trees. We wandered in the direction of the steeple, and found a historical village with wood and stone houses, very different from the homes with TeePee smoke houses in their back yards.
And then there was the Plaque, of course. That plaque that started the thought, and ended with this whole dredging up of history and story and unknown details of lives gone by.

And now, here I am, about to land in Newfoundland, early morning flight, cheapest fare, local bus into town to my hostel. This was the trip we’d planned in the first place, but here I am alone now, researching deeper than I’ve ever thought I’d care about Canadian history. It’s just crazy. Here I am on a whim, a belief, a meandering consideration that there might be something to my hunch. All because of that plaque that in a few short descriptive sentences opened a door that I can’t for the life of me get closed again, no matter how hard I try.
But there is so much that has happened since then.
First, let me impress on you how much I hate history! Particularly Canadian History.The way they stuffed it down our throats in grade school, and then again in High School, dehydrated and pickled it to reduce it to its lowest possible denominator. Canada has no history, I was sure, when the tedious dry text was force-fed to us year after year.
“Henry James Hudson set sail in the year 1610 to attempt to find a North West Passage through to China, but failed in his attempt.” That’s all I could recall from that text and the lessons in Grade 10. I didn’t even remember that much until that day when I saw the plaque.
“Henry Hudson was forced to winter in James Bay. In the spring of 1611, there was a mutiny and Hudson and 8 of his men were set adrift, never to be heard of again”
“WELL!” I said aloud to my son, “Just look what is says there!”
“What?” he asked. He showed no real interest. The old canons had got his attention.
“Cast adrift!” Look! The plaque says that he was cast adrift with 8 men into the arctic waters! They NEVER Told us That part of the story in MY history class!”
“Uhuh. Sure. Look, Mom, a real canon! Will it explode?”
But my mind was off. 8 men? Cast adrift in the icy waters of the Arctic? The story began to fill me with images, scenarios, and then, questions! The plaque had no further details. It faced me there, planting this seed of curiosity, a painful seed to absorb, and yet nothing else! I felt the frustration of not knowing. Why was there a mutiny? Which 8 men? Where were they cast adrift? Did anyone ever try to find them? Did they really perish, or could they have survived?
The long trip back was busy with the kids and dragging our belongings, but my mind raced and percolated with the unanswerable questions. I tried to focus on the trip and push the questions to the back of my mind, but they would flood me at times when I wasn’t focused on other things. While I was driving I would get images of 8 men in an icy boat, struggling to survive in the Arctic. Or just as I was dropping off to sleep, the thoughts would flood me with images and questions anew.
I mulled things over for the days remaining of our trip and thought that in time they would fade away into memory.
Once back in Toronto, life was busy, the normal routine, work, home, food, books, news. But once I’d downloaded my photos of the journey, the plaque began to haunt me once more. The photo was clear, and there were the words once more: “Cast adrift” and the haunting returned.
It was less than a month before the dreams started. I stopped being able to sleep a full night, and would awake early, about 4, struggling with the images of the dream: the men freezing in the boat, the starvation, the discomfort, the boat in an icy fog. I felt the pain of the men, the entrapment of the barren arctic, even though it had been spring. The images would stir me awake even before the sun, or during a Sunday afternoon nap.
I began to search to see what I could learn about the actual details of the mutiny, hoping that knowing more would help to settle my troubled mind.
I found a website with the details of the ship, the people cast away, including Hudson’s own son, an 18 year old, named John. For some reason that detail hit me more deeply than the others. What was Hudson’s son like? Why had he been on the voyage in the first place? What was his feeling about his father? Were they allies?
I thought of my own son, just 12, but already beginning to rebel against life, rules, his father. And yes, it was 1610, not present tense, but still, did he take his son along to teach him how to be a man? Was he dragged along for misdemeanors? Were they amicable or did the son resent being taken along?
I felt the questions piling up, overwhelming me, taking over my daily life. I had never liked History, never paid much attention in the high school years. The teachers had been so tediously boring. The obsession they had with dates and names and things they could test, they had never instigated story-telling, or questions, or even an ounce of curiosity in me. I passed through those classes like a zombie.
But now, here I was obsessing about a history story! Why would one little plaque in the bleak village of James Bay start this insane questioning and searching for answers? It would have been funny if it hadn’t started to destroy my life. Sleep was never easy, and never solid. There was some deep intensity of desire to know they truth, but how could I? There was no where to find out! But I began looking anyway.
I went in search of books about that period in history, books about the exploration of the Arctic, of ocean currents, of tides and ice patterns and land masses recorded at that time. It was a time of great interest, since I knew nothing and had never cared before. Suddenly the information meant something. Suddenly I wanted to scrounge out the slightest detail, the most curious facts and figures all made sense, and made me sleep better!
Miraculously I found that the ship’s log of Hudson’s last voyage is still in print, and I ordered it and awaited in anticipation for the answers it would perhaps present!
I was certain that someone somewhere had already been in this place I was in, had already obsessed about the life or death of this great Canadian figure. I didn’t really think of him as great. Hadn’t ever thought about him at all, in fact, until I saw that plaque and he had a life, a story, a mystery and emotion. I had to follow this to know more.
While I awaited the book, I read other things, searched the internet, found details of interest. One site had a list of all the men on the lifeboat who were cast away with Hudson, along with their skills, and state of health. This one interested me since it filled in much of the picture.
Deep inside the conviction began to grow.
“How could Hudson have died? How could he have just drifted out to sea? He was a ship’s captain. He knew the oceans well. This was his 4th voyage to Canada. And he was an industrious man, and had men with skills on board! They would surely have made every effort to sail to shore, jumping ice blocks, catching on trees, something?
I sent away for ocean currents maps from the government files, requesting and details that would spefically relate to the 1600’s. And then I waited. What would come next would have to wait for the research to arrive.
I began to make up scenarios in my head, playing out the details, feeling the emotions of the men, and thinking of their families back home, of the cause of it all, the day it started, the long hard winter they’d already spent before being cast away. The thoughts filled in the gaps and I felt pleasure in imagining the realities, even without proof. But where this would end, I had no idea. I just prayed that the books would present details that would put my mind into a state of calmness about it all.
The maps began to arrive first. They showed the rustic un-refined map of the coastlines, with details from 1609 to later that century. There were many details missing, and place names had changed considerably since that time. I found the translation of old maps to present ones quite frustrating, unable to be sure of the exactness of the old maps. But it was all I had to go on. I needed to know exactly where the casting away occurred. I had to know at which point of Hudson Strait or beyond, they were cast out into the icy arctic waters. It would tell so much of the story if I could know that with relative certainty.
The map of ocean currents came a few days later. There it was, perhaps changed somewhat in 400 years, but the currents, as I’d suspected, would direct icebergs (and boats!) to the northern coast of Labrador, or perhaps even Newfoundland.
If the men had been cast aside after the strait, they would certainly have been forced in the direction of Labrador. But where were they cast out?
There was some detailed information about a stone being found in Northern Ontario, which may or may not have been legitimate. Someone found a boulder with the words “H.H, Captured, 1612 carved into it. This didn’t fit with my thoughts and instincts of the story, and instincts were the strongest force I had going for me at this point. I’ve long ago stopped questioning my instincts. They are strong when something is important, so I knew I had to follow this thread of an idea until I knew why my head was so obsessed.

The book arrived at last, and I set aside all other duties that week to read all I could of their journey. It was hard going, the book. Everything was written in olde englishe, and no one knew how to spell in those days! The text was fine and hard to read, and my eyes began to complain. My brain kept me going though, and I struggled through the text.
There was much to plough through before I could get to the information I needed. The text had many versions of what happened on that journey. There were enemies in his midst, and Hudson’s version of the journey only held up until he was cast out. The rest of the account was written by the instigator of the mutiny, so I questioned his honesty, of course! The text began to get interesting. Details of the mutiny at last!
The mutiny had happened because they had been stranded in that cold bleak James Bay all winter! I thought of James Bay and how empty and meaningless it felt when I was there. The huge nothingness, the sky and water and dense thickets. There was endless nature, but nothing of great interest. Perhaps in their day there had been fish, or wildlife, or at least caribou and moose. We hadn’t seen any wildlife at all, and the summer visit was the least eventful trip of my life. Except for the plaque. I thought about what it would have been like in winter. No running water, no warmth, and they had no buildings. The trees are so small it would have taken immense work to have enough wood to build a house. They must have struggled. I felt for them, those poor british un-prepared boys and men, struggling to survive, chasing dreams.
But I understood them. The travel urge is a genetic factor I believe. Some people have it, some don’t. Some can manage to live a life around it, finding ways to take journeys in between work activities. Some have to make travel their whole life. They are the unfortunate ones. They are trapped inside their existence, driven by some inner force to make them search for something unattainable, something that stops them from ever settling down in the society of their own. Like Sisyphys of the Greek myth, they are destined for all eternity to roll their lives forward, only to be dragged back again, and then on to a new quest.
Such a disease must have afflicted Hudson. 1610 wasn’t his first voyage to the west. It was his 4th! He had tried and failed and tried again to discover a pathway through the Arctic to the orient. His job was to explore for England, but his obsession to discover was what sent him back again and again to search out the route which he truly believed existed. But that winter, he pushed his men too far. They didn’t turn round in time. Winter perhaps came early, the ice began to thicken, to lock into place for the winter. And there they were, stranded at the inner point of James Bay. I thought about how long our winters are, with our heated houses, our cars, and supermarkets and televisions. James Bay is 3 days drive North of where we live. The winters up there must be painfully derelict, empty, harsh winds, cold and empty. 400 years ago, they must have been life threatening at the very least! No heat, only their boat supplies for survival, nothing to do, fear of Natives attacking, hunting to eat, no vegetables, and of course, only fire for heat. Not an easy experience even today, let alone back then. I felt a warmth of appreciation for my house and our Canadian heating systems!
I read on in the book. There were no details of their winter in the arctic. The book was purely a sailing log of life at sea, dates, depths, locations of the ship for future use. I felt discouraged. How was I to know more about that time? Why was I so obsessed about it? When would I let it drop?
I read about the members of the ship, and how mutinous moods had shown themselves before they even left British waters. How obsessed with this journey must Hudson have been to keep returning to Canada, with crew who were less than sound? I couldn’t help but wonder about the sanity of a man who would take such a risk, particularly back in those days.
The book was Hudson’s own log of the journey until the point where the mutiny occurred, and I felt an eerie closeness to his words, even though they were dry ships details. I was comforting to have at least some factual accounts of the voyage, to quell the questions inside me.
I read greedily, wondering what I would find at the end. I forgot to sleep, staying up later and later to complete this journey of my own. I knew about travel, and obsession was akin to travel obsession. This was where I felt a connection with this man who drove his whole ship into the ice for a long winter, driven to get to the other side.
I read on. The winter ended, they set sail, and a few days into the journey, Hudson let it be known that he wanted to continue on with the quest. They had come this far, had survived the long winter, now they should continue on in the search for the Northwest Passage. And I could see his point, could totally get the sense in that. They had come half way, why go back and start again? Just move on and go farther than they had ever managed before.
But I could also see the point of the crew. The workers who did the hard labour, they were worn thin. They had frozen and nearly died, had missed their families all year, and home was the only place they were willing to go. And so, the mutiny occurred. Tensions of the winter grew. That climate was harsh enough to strike evil into their hearts, and drive them to tie up their captain, threaten him with death, and eventually throw him into a lifeboat with his supporters and a few really sick men, and leave him to float to his death.
I shuddered at the thought of the experiences these men went through. They perhaps had been given a few days supplies, perhaps some fresh water. Perhaps they could have melted some ice with their body heat, to be able to drink it. But that would mean someone would have had to freeze themselves, in order to make water for the others. Who knew how long they drifted, and how much they were able to cope with the supplies they had along.
And even though it was May, it was the Arctic, and the ice was still melting. The weather was perhaps warm by day, but what about at night? How many days could they have survived without fire? They were already stricken with illness and struggling from a winter in James Bay!
I thought about the easy possibility of them reaching land. They were either in Hudson Strait, or they were beyond the strait out into Arctic waters. In either case, the currents would take them to land! They could have reached the shore within a day if in the Strait, or within 2 or 3 days if they were out in the Labrador current. I thought about the possibilities of each, and wondered how I would be able to know further details.
The story became my obsession, and I stopped focusing on my own life. My son, John was constantly pulling me up, reminding me of things, pulling me back to attention while I was driving. There was a mild insanity to this obsession, and how could I overcome it, other than follow it through until I put the story to rest.
I was blocked for a few days, uncertain of what to do next. There were still so many unresolved questions. I could surmise the answers, could put the clues together and make solid assumptions, but how could I know for sure? My assumptions always offered varied options. For example, they could have been shot by the men before being thrown overboard, or they could have frozen to death, or they could have all caught the illnesses of the sick ones in the boat. There could have been disentary or starvation, dehydration or any number of other illnesses that in 1610 would have meant certain death in those conditions.
I thought about the size of their boat, and whether they were give oars, whether they were strong enough to row, whether there were ice floes which flooded their boat, storms that rocked them into misdirection, or tipped them overboard into hypothermic waters. There were certainly plenty of ways they could have died.
But something in me, something deeper than common sense, told me that they were able to make it to land. Hudson was an experienced captain! He knew the ropes, knew the waters and the weather. He was also an extremely proud and driven man. He must have been. He would never have stood up to his men if he weren’t. And so it all fell into place gradually.
CHAPTER
1610
Wee had set saile for the northe upon this 18th year of my life. I am a seasoned traveler by this journey, since I have accompanied my father on two voyages prior. The weather has been fair, and the voyage is comfortable. There was some unreste with one of the crew earliere, but father, my father Capt. Hudson, made a wise decision and left the one who was the cause of the trouble at a port to the north of England, off the shores of Scottlande.
Father is a stern man, loude, boisterous at times, (particularly when he’s had his share of the stoute). He has bade me accompany him on these journeys in hopes that I shall followe in his footstepes, but I fear I am not the man for the job. I have not his courage, his driven passions for the worke. I am yet younge, and he believes a change will come that turns me into the man he is, but I am more my mother’s son, I would say. This sailing life is not for me, although traveling I do appreciate for its adventure and excitement!
The route is longe and arduous at times, when the sea rises its tempeste against us, throwing our weight about like a childe would toss a balle. The crew, myselfe included, suffer greatly at such times, and much of our provisions end up throwing themselves overboard when our innards must reject that which we have eaten. On such days, I despise the world, I despise the journey, I despise my own body for betraying me. The most arduous of issues during such tempests, is the energie that my father seems to gain from the experience. Whilst we are all tossed to the decks in despair, he seems to absorb the very energie of those waves. He proves the seas incapable of breaking his spirits, shows himself to be the great captain that he is, when the very laws of nature cannot breake his spirites!
At such times I glance at him from my position of ill humour and weak spirits, and I find only that my utter soule despises him. There is no one on this Earthe who I despise more when his massive voice booms forthe like the cannons from the decks, and the sea itself daren’t disobey his order! I do declare that the blood of Poseidon flows through his veins, and calms the swells to allow us passage. Perhaps he has God on his side, I would say he must, for there is no other possible way that he could still be standing at the helme upon this day, but for that supernaturale force that holds him there. Were he not my father, I would never have known him as human. And certainly, I do not have his bloode, since the forces in him I am never deserving of. I cower in the bilge, awaiting my deathe whilst the ship rocks and rolls about my head. Certain death is all that I can be sure of, whilst my father is emblazoned with passion at the challenge that Nature has set forthe.
Upon this day, however, the seas are calm, wide expanses of blue-greene, unbroken except for the odd swelle that grows beside the ship as we pass. I am at pease now, with the waters.
I wonder where this vouyage will take us this time. Will we complete his yearning and discover the Northwest Passage through these frozen wastelands to the North? There is a bleak existence for those who choose to make this place home. I shudder at the remembrance of last season’s crossing, when the peoples of the new land came upon us and made us all fearefull for our lives. Should be manage to pass through these waters this time, what shall we find on the other side? Will there be the orient, as Father oh so desperately wishes, or will we must yet another land cross, with even harsher climates and more terrifying savages? I pray in silence each day and night that we might discover this route this season, and be done with all this travel, so that I might return to England and begin my own life as I see fitt.
We are in site of lande at last, and I feel waves of reliefe since the seas are calmer once we have crosed the larger bodyes of the oceans. The site of lande is a celebration indeede, and we revelled heartily that night undere the greye moone. There was much to be thanikful for, since it was a longe journeye and the seas had been harde on us this crossinge. I felt the heate of the liquide as it flowed downe my throate and into my bloode. The warmness of my cheekes was evidente, since the crewe began to assail me and cajole at my youthe and newness to this life. They accepte me for the most parte, but I am never shur if that be due to my fathers ranke, or for my own merits as a man onto himselfe.
The channel narrowed the next daye and we were into the strait where the ice floes are many and the going sometimes treacherous. We were later arriving this yeare, and my father was calme but perhaps ruffled beneathe his exterior controle of manner. I watched him from a distance, wondering how he felt inside, wondering if he ever knew feare or doubte. I woulde give much to have his strengthes. He wavers not, not in ice floes, not in seas of torrents, not in the face of savages about to stryke. I had seene him surmount countlesse obstacles in my times abourd ship with him. We were never close, and never will be, I feare, but, for all my misgivings and hatred for the man, I do respecte him.
His flaminge red haire is billowing in the winde today, and his beerd is increasing in growthe now that we have been a fortnighte at sea. I shall always be overjoyed that the gods blessed me with my blonde locks. To have his vikinge colours, his striking harsh nose, the eyes of the eagles we have seen on our earlier sails here. I deteste him moste when his eyes turn to steele and his gaze is directed downe the line of his face and the receiver is entraped in his beedy blacke burning expression.
It was seldome that one of the crewe would stand up to that gaze. He would dissolve them into fear if they should question his position, and the more they questioned, the harder he controlled. His eyes blazed black and deep against his red colouring, driven more red by the windes and rains of the passage. His life was one of controle and hardship, and he seldome had time for community or conversation. His son was purely another member of the crewe in his minde, and he was unlikely to show me any favours or treate me with much emotion abouve disdaine. After all it was mother who pushed to have me along on this journeye. She had too many mouthes to feede, and I was but another. Father might teache me to be a wage earner, and that I have become, since I needs must pull my weight aborde the vessele, and these handes have seen many a daye or nighte of harde labour.
The winds blew gentle this morninge, and we have begun picking our passage through the ice floes in searche of a waye through to the north. This strait has familiarity from last last yeares adventures. I recall the night we were set upon by savages and awaited our faite, only to have Father face the whole band of them, bringing them to their knees with his red hair, and opening up a waye for us to race back to the safetye of the shipe. I was loth to venture ashore again, since the fear of that nighte left scars that kept my sleepe unsettled for a monthe or two after.
As we saile around the coaste, searching for a gap in the lande, there is a tensione in the crewe. I feel it, and it emanates even from my father, although his mask does not show it. The Northwest passage, the reason for his madness, his driven belief that it existes, is why we are all here, why we have come, that one opening will make our lives make sense. But the dayes dragged on. The views seemed to open up, through the springe fogge, and we watched with baited breathe. Would todaye be the daye that our hopes would be rewarded?
But no, as the sun rose, melting away the fogge, the landmasses loomed in the distance, ever onward, ever more solid. We all felte it as the season shewed signes of waning. There was a bite in the aire, and the mornings were not juste miste but froste. We couldn’t turn arounde without something changing our lucke.
Then Father decided it might be that the opening was to the southe, and since we were all but dashed with the repeated disappointmentes, we allowed the change and went forthe with him, to the southe. The dayse grew shorter and we must peere in the neare darkness to finde the landmasses, and also to avoid them, since there were often rockes and debrees in the wateres aheade.
The weathere was no longer ours friende, and i”m tryinge not to mention the obvouse since Father is so sure of himselfe, so unwilling to consider the negatives. His obsession dive teh ship..sends us to the brink of riske, tells us who we are, where we go, what we are able to attaine. But negatives, or perpahs reailsms, there is no one aboard who has the courage to stand afore him and state that this shipe must be turned now, and homeward is the time.
The crewe is looking to me now. Theye seem to believe that I hve a hold over my Father, that I among all of the men, have the ability to make my father question the reasoning of his wayes. But I have not. I am but his sone, and not even his favourite at that. I am the one who sits quietly bye, who does his bidding, his servant boye at best, and not the one who can offer direction or even curbe his temper. I serve only to worsen a bad momente. My loyalties to him are such that I will not cross him in order to save my own skin. Shoulde his temper be caste twards me, I should melt into the ships deckings, perhaps from feare , perhaps from embarassment at the crewe witnessing my cowardice.
And so I quietly stand bye, awaiting my fait, knowing full well that if I am not the one to turn him arounde, then we must stay on course, and accepte his judgemente.
The nightes are particularly colde now, and the men huddle togehtere when on watch for rocks and unfathomly massive icebergs. There is always the riske of being sunk by one of the solids of the deepe, but we holde our breathes and sail past, making our innards as thin as we possibly can, in the hopes taht the sides of the ship will do the same.
The men are stirring and restless now, fearefull that we will not escape the ever-thikcening iceblocks. There is not much to be done, since it is up to Father to make the decisions, but we point to the icefloes becoming more solide, hoping that it has also come to his attention.
He is solid as the ice, and waves his hand to go forward. His obstinacy and inflexibility begin to turn the men against him, although every one of them save perhaps two have already been full loyale to his judgemente thus far into the journey. I worry about the turne of events should they all turne. What would be the end of things should my father become the enemie of the men? And yet they are all generally of the same minde that return to Englande with naught to showe would be the ende of things, since this is the 3rd voyage oute, and the governmentes are not more interested in footing te costs of such journeys that bring about no results.

RESEARCH:::

In
NOVEL NUMBER 4
“What Ever Happened to Henry Hudson?”

We had planned to go to Newfoundland last summer, a driving trip, just me and a friend and our kids. Somewhere along the way, the plans got swayed- and swayed way off target!
So there we were in James Bay in August! How did the plans get so changed, I found myself wondering, as I stared at the bleak flat great white nothingness. I do believe that things happen for a reason, but at that point, I couldn’t see where this made any sense! There was NOTHING in James Bay, I decided. No reason to be here, nothing to photograph, except perhaps the sky, but nothing worth visiting.
The locals told us about the village across the river, a water taxi ride away, and we decided to go, the boat ride would at least be fun. The village, at first view, seemed to be just like Moose River, except this one had a factory, hence “Moose Factory”, but otherwise, the government issued shed-type houses were all as mundane as the village we had traveled from. There was one slight spark of interest, when we saw a little graveyard and a white church in the trees. We wandered in the direction of the steeple, and found a historical village with wood and stone houses, very different from the homes with TeePee smoke houses in their back yards.
And then there was the Plaque, of course. That plaque that started the thought, and ended with this whole dredging up of history and story and unknown details of lives gone by.

And now, here I am, about to land in Newfoundland, early morning flight, cheapest fare, local bus into town to my hostel. This was the trip we’d planned in the first place, but here I am alone now, researching deeper than I’ve ever thought I’d care about Canadian history. It’s just crazy. Here I am on a whim, a belief, a meandering consideration that there might be something to my hunch. All because of that plaque that in a few short descriptive sentences opened a door that I can’t for the life of me get closed again, no matter how hard I try.
But there is so much that has happened since then.
First, let me impress on you how much I hate history! Particularly Canadian History.The way they stuffed it down our throats in grade school, and then again in High School, dehydrated and pickled it to reduce it to its lowest possible denominator. Canada has no history, I was sure, when the tedious dry text was force-fed to us year after year.
“Henry James Hudson set sail in the year 1610 to attempt to find a North West Passage through to China, but failed in his attempt.” That’s all I could recall from that text and the lessons in Grade 10. I didn’t even remember that much until that day when I saw the plaque.
“Henry Hudson was forced to winter in James Bay. In the spring of 1611, there was a mutiny and Hudson and 8 of his men were set adrift, never to be heard of again”
“WELL!” I said aloud to my son, “Just look what is says there!”
“What?” he asked. He showed no real interest. The old canons had got his attention.
“Cast adrift!” Look! The plaque says that he was cast adrift with 8 men into the arctic waters! They NEVER Told us That part of the story in MY history class!”
“Uhuh. Sure. Look, Mom, a real canon! Will it explode?”
But my mind was off. 8 men? Cast adrift in the icy waters of the Arctic? The story began to fill me with images, scenarios, and then, questions! The plaque had no further details. It faced me there, planting this seed of curiosity, a painful seed to absorb, and yet nothing else! I felt the frustration of not knowing. Why was there a mutiny? Which 8 men? Where were they cast adrift? Did anyone ever try to find them? Did they really perish, or could they have survived?
The long trip back was busy with the kids and dragging our belongings, but my mind raced and percolated with the unanswerable questions. I tried to focus on the trip and push the questions to the back of my mind, but they would flood me at times when I wasn’t focused on other things. While I was driving I would get images of 8 men in an icy boat, struggling to survive in the Arctic. Or just as I was dropping off to sleep, the thoughts would flood me with images and questions anew.
I mulled things over for the days remaining of our trip and thought that in time they would fade away into memory.
Once back in Toronto, life was busy, the normal routine, work, home, food, books, news. But once I’d downloaded my photos of the journey, the plaque began to haunt me once more. The photo was clear, and there were the words once more: “Cast adrift” and the haunting returned.
It was less than a month before the dreams started. I stopped being able to sleep a full night, and would awake early, about 4, struggling with the images of the dream: the men freezing in the boat, the starvation, the discomfort, the boat in an icy fog. I felt the pain of the men, the entrapment of the barren arctic, even though it had been spring. The images would stir me awake even before the sun, or during a Sunday afternoon nap.
I began to search to see what I could learn about the actual details of the mutiny, hoping that knowing more would help to settle my troubled mind.
I found a website with the details of the ship, the people cast away, including Hudson’s own son, an 18 year old, named John. For some reason that detail hit me more deeply than the others. What was Hudson’s son like? Why had he been on the voyage in the first place? What was his feeling about his father? Were they allies?
I thought of my own son, just 12, but already beginning to rebel against life, rules, his father. And yes, it was 1610, not present tense, but still, did he take his son along to teach him how to be a man? Was he dragged along for misdemeanors? Were they amicable or did the son resent being taken along?
I felt the questions piling up, overwhelming me, taking over my daily life. I had never liked History, never paid much attention in the high school years. The teachers had been so tediously boring. The obsession they had with dates and names and things they could test, they had never instigated story-telling, or questions, or even an ounce of curiosity in me. I passed through those classes like a zombie.
But now, here I was obsessing about a history story! Why would one little plaque in the bleak village of James Bay start this insane questioning and searching for answers? It would have been funny if it hadn’t started to destroy my life. Sleep was never easy, and never solid. There was some deep intensity of desire to know they truth, but how could I? There was no where to find out! But I began looking anyway.
I went in search of books about that period in history, books about the exploration of the Arctic, of ocean currents, of tides and ice patterns and land masses recorded at that time. It was a time of great interest, since I knew nothing and had never cared before. Suddenly the information meant something. Suddenly I wanted to scrounge out the slightest detail, the most curious facts and figures all made sense, and made me sleep better!
Miraculously I found that the ship’s log of Hudson’s last voyage is still in print, and I ordered it and awaited in anticipation for the answers it would perhaps present!
I was certain that someone somewhere had already been in this place I was in, had already obsessed about the life or death of this great Canadian figure. I didn’t really think of him as great. Hadn’t ever thought about him at all, in fact, until I saw that plaque and he had a life, a story, a mystery and emotion. I had to follow this to know more.
While I awaited the book, I read other things, searched the internet, found details of interest. One site had a list of all the men on the lifeboat who were cast away with Hudson, along with their skills, and state of health. This one interested me since it filled in much of the picture.
Deep inside the conviction began to grow.
“How could Hudson have died? How could he have just drifted out to sea? He was a ship’s captain. He knew the oceans well. This was his 4th voyage to Canada. And he was an industrious man, and had men with skills on board! They would surely have made every effort to sail to shore, jumping ice blocks, catching on trees, something?
I sent away for ocean currents maps from the government files, requesting and details that would spefically relate to the 1600’s. And then I waited. What would come next would have to wait for the research to arrive.
I began to make up scenarios in my head, playing out the details, feeling the emotions of the men, and thinking of their families back home, of the cause of it all, the day it started, the long hard winter they’d already spent before being cast away. The thoughts filled in the gaps and I felt pleasure in imagining the realities, even without proof. But where this would end, I had no idea. I just prayed that the books would present details that would put my mind into a state of calmness about it all.
The maps began to arrive first. They showed the rustic un-refined map of the coastlines, with details from 1609 to later that century. There were many details missing, and place names had changed considerably since that time. I found the translation of old maps to present ones quite frustrating, unable to be sure of the exactness of the old maps. But it was all I had to go on. I needed to know exactly where the casting away occurred. I had to know at which point of Hudson Strait or beyond, they were cast out into the icy arctic waters. It would tell so much of the story if I could know that with relative certainty.
The map of ocean currents came a few days later. There it was, perhaps changed somewhat in 400 years, but the currents, as I’d suspected, would direct icebergs (and boats!) to the northern coast of Labrador, or perhaps even Newfoundland.
If the men had been cast aside after the strait, they would certainly have been forced in the direction of Labrador. But where were they cast out?
There was some detailed information about a stone being found in Northern Ontario, which may or may not have been legitimate. Someone found a boulder with the words “H.H, Captured, 1612 carved into it. This didn’t fit with my thoughts and instincts of the story, and instincts were the strongest force I had going for me at this point. I’ve long ago stopped questioning my instincts. They are strong when something is important, so I knew I had to follow this thread of an idea until I knew why my head was so obsessed.

The book arrived at last, and I set aside all other duties that week to read all I could of their journey. It was hard going, the book. Everything was written in olde englishe, and no one knew how to spell in those days! The text was fine and hard to read, and my eyes began to complain. My brain kept me going though, and I struggled through the text.
There was much to plough through before I could get to the information I needed. The text had many versions of what happened on that journey. There were enemies in his midst, and Hudson’s version of the journey only held up until he was cast out. The rest of the account was written by the instigator of the mutiny, so I questioned his honesty, of course! The text began to get interesting. Details of the mutiny at last!
The mutiny had happened because they had been stranded in that cold bleak James Bay all winter! I thought of James Bay and how empty and meaningless it felt when I was there. The huge nothingness, the sky and water and dense thickets. There was endless nature, but nothing of great interest. Perhaps in their day there had been fish, or wildlife, or at least caribou and moose. We hadn’t seen any wildlife at all, and the summer visit was the least eventful trip of my life. Except for the plaque. I thought about what it would have been like in winter. No running water, no warmth, and they had no buildings. The trees are so small it would have taken immense work to have enough wood to build a house. They must have struggled. I felt for them, those poor british un-prepared boys and men, struggling to survive, chasing dreams.
But I understood them. The travel urge is a genetic factor I believe. Some people have it, some don’t. Some can manage to live a life around it, finding ways to take journeys in between work activities. Some have to make travel their whole life. They are the unfortunate ones. They are trapped inside their existence, driven by some inner force to make them search for something unattainable, something that stops them from ever settling down in the society of their own. Like Sisyphys of the Greek myth, they are destined for all eternity to roll their lives forward, only to be dragged back again, and then on to a new quest.
Such a disease must have afflicted Hudson. 1610 wasn’t his first voyage to the west. It was his 4th! He had tried and failed and tried again to discover a pathway through the Arctic to the orient. His job was to explore for England, but his obsession to discover was what sent him back again and again to search out the route which he truly believed existed. But that winter, he pushed his men too far. They didn’t turn round in time. Winter perhaps came early, the ice began to thicken, to lock into place for the winter. And there they were, stranded at the inner point of James Bay. I thought about how long our winters are, with our heated houses, our cars, and supermarkets and televisions. James Bay is 3 days drive North of where we live. The winters up there must be painfully derelict, empty, harsh winds, cold and empty. 400 years ago, they must have been life threatening at the very least! No heat, only their boat supplies for survival, nothing to do, fear of Natives attacking, hunting to eat, no vegetables, and of course, only fire for heat. Not an easy experience even today, let alone back then. I felt a warmth of appreciation for my house and our Canadian heating systems!
I read on in the book. There were no details of their winter in the arctic. The book was purely a sailing log of life at sea, dates, depths, locations of the ship for future use. I felt discouraged. How was I to know more about that time? Why was I so obsessed about it? When would I let it drop?
I read about the members of the ship, and how mutinous moods had shown themselves before they even left British waters. How obsessed with this journey must Hudson have been to keep returning to Canada, with crew who were less than sound? I couldn’t help but wonder about the sanity of a man who would take such a risk, particularly back in those days.
The book was Hudson’s own log of the journey until the point where the mutiny occurred, and I felt an eerie closeness to his words, even though they were dry ships details. I was comforting to have at least some factual accounts of the voyage, to quell the questions inside me.
I read greedily, wondering what I would find at the end. I forgot to sleep, staying up later and later to complete this journey of my own. I knew about travel, and obsession was akin to travel obsession. This was where I felt a connection with this man who drove his whole ship into the ice for a long winter, driven to get to the other side.
I read on. The winter ended, they set sail, and a few days into the journey, Hudson let it be known that he wanted to continue on with the quest. They had come this far, had survived the long winter, now they should continue on in the search for the Northwest Passage. And I could see his point, could totally get the sense in that. They had come half way, why go back and start again? Just move on and go farther than they had ever managed before.
But I could also see the point of the crew. The workers who did the hard labour, they were worn thin. They had frozen and nearly died, had missed their families all year, and home was the only place they were willing to go. And so, the mutiny occurred. Tensions of the winter grew. That climate was harsh enough to strike evil into their hearts, and drive them to tie up their captain, threaten him with death, and eventually throw him into a lifeboat with his supporters and a few really sick men, and leave him to float to his death.
I shuddered at the thought of the experiences these men went through. They perhaps had been given a few days supplies, perhaps some fresh water. Perhaps they could have melted some ice with their body heat, to be able to drink it. But that would mean someone would have had to freeze themselves, in order to make water for the others. Who knew how long they drifted, and how much they were able to cope with the supplies they had along.
And even though it was May, it was the Arctic, and the ice was still melting. The weather was perhaps warm by day, but what about at night? How many days could they have survived without fire? They were already stricken with illness and struggling from a winter in James Bay!
I thought about the easy possibility of them reaching land. They were either in Hudson Strait, or they were beyond the strait out into Arctic waters. In either case, the currents would take them to land! They could have reached the shore within a day if in the Strait, or within 2 or 3 days if they were out in the Labrador current. I thought about the possibilities of each, and wondered how I would be able to know further details.
The story became my obsession, and I stopped focusing on my own life. My son, John was constantly pulling me up, reminding me of things, pulling me back to attention while I was driving. There was a mild insanity to this obsession, and how could I overcome it, other than follow it through until I put the story to rest.
I was blocked for a few days, uncertain of what to do next. There were still so many unresolved questions. I could surmise the answers, could put the clues together and make solid assumptions, but how could I know for sure? My assumptions always offered varied options. For example, they could have been shot by the men before being thrown overboard, or they could have frozen to death, or they could have all caught the illnesses of the sick ones in the boat. There could have been disentary or starvation, dehydration or any number of other illnesses that in 1610 would have meant certain death in those conditions.
I thought about the size of their boat, and whether they were give oars, whether they were strong enough to row, whether there were ice floes which flooded their boat, storms that rocked them into misdirection, or tipped them overboard into hypothermic waters. There were certainly plenty of ways they could have died.
But something in me, something deeper than common sense, told me that they were able to make it to land. Hudson was an experienced captain! He knew the ropes, knew the waters and the weather. He was also an extremely proud and driven man. He must have been. He would never have stood up to his men if he weren’t. And so it all fell into place gradually.
CHAPTER
1610
Wee had set saile for the northe upon this 18th year of my life. I am a seasoned traveler by this journey, since I have accompanied my father on two voyages prior. The weather has been fair, and the voyage is comfortable. There was some unreste with one of the crew earliere, but father, my father Capt. Hudson, made a wise decision and left the one who was the cause of the trouble at a port to the north of England, off the shores of Scottlande.
Father is a stern man, loude, boisterous at times, (particularly when he’s had his share of the stoute). He has bade me accompany him on these journeys in hopes that I shall followe in his footstepes, but I fear I am not the man for the job. I have not his courage, his driven passions for the worke. I am yet younge, and he believes a change will come that turns me into the man he is, but I am more my mother’s son, I would say. This sailing life is not for me, although traveling I do appreciate for its adventure and excitement!
The route is longe and arduous at times, when the sea rises its tempeste against us, throwing our weight about like a childe would toss a balle. The crew, myselfe included, suffer greatly at such times, and much of our provisions end up throwing themselves overboard when our innards must reject that which we have eaten. On such days, I despise the world, I despise the journey, I despise my own body for betraying me. The most arduous of issues during such tempests, is the energie that my father seems to gain from the experience. Whilst we are all tossed to the decks in despair, he seems to absorb the very energie of those waves. He proves the seas incapable of breaking his spirits, shows himself to be the great captain that he is, when the very laws of nature cannot breake his spirites!
At such times I glance at him from my position of ill humour and weak spirits, and I find only that my utter soule despises him. There is no one on this Earthe who I despise more when his massive voice booms forthe like the cannons from the decks, and the sea itself daren’t disobey his order! I do declare that the blood of Poseidon flows through his veins, and calms the swells to allow us passage. Perhaps he has God on his side, I would say he must, for there is no other possible way that he could still be standing at the helme upon this day, but for that supernaturale force that holds him there. Were he not my father, I would never have known him as human. And certainly, I do not have his bloode, since the forces in him I am never deserving of. I cower in the bilge, awaiting my deathe whilst the ship rocks and rolls about my head. Certain death is all that I can be sure of, whilst my father is emblazoned with passion at the challenge that Nature has set forthe.
Upon this day, however, the seas are calm, wide expanses of blue-greene, unbroken except for the odd swelle that grows beside the ship as we pass. I am at pease now, with the waters.
I wonder where this vouyage will take us this time. Will we complete his yearning and discover the Northwest Passage through these frozen wastelands to the North? There is a bleak existence for those who choose to make this place home. I shudder at the remembrance of last season’s crossing, when the peoples of the new land came upon us and made us all fearefull for our lives. Should be manage to pass through these waters this time, what shall we find on the other side? Will there be the orient, as Father oh so desperately wishes, or will we must yet another land cross, with even harsher climates and more terrifying savages? I pray in silence each day and night that we might discover this route this season, and be done with all this travel, so that I might return to England and begin my own life as I see fitt.
We are in site of lande at last, and I feel waves of reliefe since the seas are calmer once we have crosed the larger bodyes of the oceans. The site of lande is a celebration indeede, and we revelled heartily that night undere the greye moone. There was much to be thanikful for, since it was a longe journeye and the seas had been harde on us this crossinge. I felt the heate of the liquide as it flowed downe my throate and into my bloode. The warmness of my cheekes was evidente, since the crewe began to assail me and cajole at my youthe and newness to this life. They accepte me for the most parte, but I am never shur if that be due to my fathers ranke, or for my own merits as a man onto himselfe.
The channel narrowed the next daye and we were into the strait where the ice floes are many and the going sometimes treacherous. We were later arriving this yeare, and my father was calme but perhaps ruffled beneathe his exterior controle of manner. I watched him from a distance, wondering how he felt inside, wondering if he ever knew feare or doubte. I woulde give much to have his strengthes. He wavers not, not in ice floes, not in seas of torrents, not in the face of savages about to stryke. I had seene him surmount countlesse obstacles in my times abourd ship with him. We were never close, and never will be, I feare, but, for all my misgivings and hatred for the man, I do respecte him.
His flaminge red haire is billowing in the winde today, and his beerd is increasing in growthe now that we have been a fortnighte at sea. I shall always be overjoyed that the gods blessed me with my blonde locks. To have his vikinge colours, his striking harsh nose, the eyes of the eagles we have seen on our earlier sails here. I deteste him moste when his eyes turn to steele and his gaze is directed downe the line of his face and the receiver is entraped in his beedy blacke burning expression.
It was seldome that one of the crewe would stand up to that gaze. He would dissolve them into fear if they should question his position, and the more they questioned, the harder he controlled. His eyes blazed black and deep against his red colouring, driven more red by the windes and rains of the passage. His life was one of controle and hardship, and he seldome had time for community or conversation. His son was purely another member of the crewe in his minde, and he was unlikely to show me any favours or treate me with much emotion abouve disdaine. After all it was mother who pushed to have me along on this journeye. She had too many mouthes to feede, and I was but another. Father might teache me to be a wage earner, and that I have become, since I needs must pull my weight aborde the vessele, and these handes have seen many a daye or nighte of harde labour.
The winds blew gentle this morninge, and we have begun picking our passage through the ice floes in searche of a waye through to the north. This strait has familiarity from last last yeares adventures. I recall the night we were set upon by savages and awaited our faite, only to have Father face the whole band of them, bringing them to their knees with his red hair, and opening up a waye for us to race back to the safetye of the shipe. I was loth to venture ashore again, since the fear of that nighte left scars that kept my sleepe unsettled for a monthe or two after.
As we saile around the coaste, searching for a gap in the lande, there is a tensione in the crewe. I feel it, and it emanates even from my father, although his mask does not show it. The Northwest passage, the reason for his madness, his driven belief that it existes, is why we are all here, why we have come, that one opening will make our lives make sense. But the dayes dragged on. The views seemed to open up, through the springe fogge, and we watched with baited breathe. Would todaye be the daye that our hopes would be rewarded?
But no, as the sun rose, melting away the fogge, the landmasses loomed in the distance, ever onward, ever more solid. We all felte it as the season shewed signes of waning. There was a bite in the aire, and the mornings were not juste miste but froste. We couldn’t turn arounde without something changing our lucke.
Then Father decided it might be that the opening was to the southe, and since we were all but dashed with the repeated disappointmentes, we allowed the change and went forthe with him, to the southe. The dayse grew shorter and we must peere in the neare darkness to finde the landmasses, and also to avoid them, since there were often rockes and debrees in the wateres aheade.
The weathere was no longer ours friende, and i”m tryinge not to mention the obvouse since Father is so sure of himselfe, so unwilling to consider the negatives. His obsession dive teh ship..sends us to the brink of riske, tells us who we are, where we go, what we are able to attaine. But negatives, or perpahs reailsms, there is no one aboard who has the courage to stand afore him and state that this shipe must be turned now, and homeward is the time.
The crewe is looking to me now. Theye seem to believe that I hve a hold over my Father, that I among all of the men, have the ability to make my father question the reasoning of his wayes. But I have not. I am but his sone, and not even his favourite at that. I am the one who sits quietly bye, who does his bidding, his servant boye at best, and not the one who can offer direction or even curbe his temper. I serve only to worsen a bad momente. My loyalties to him are such that I will not cross him in order to save my own skin. Shoulde his temper be caste twards me, I should melt into the ships deckings, perhaps from feare , perhaps from embarassment at the crewe witnessing my cowardice.
And so I quietly stand bye, awaiting my fait, knowing full well that if I am not the one to turn him arounde, then we must stay on course, and accepte his judgemente.
The nightes are particularly colde now, and the men huddle togehtere when on watch for rocks and unfathomly massive icebergs. There is always the riske of being sunk by one of the solids of the deepe, but we holde our breathes and sail past, making our innards as thin as we possibly can, in the hopes taht the sides of the ship will do the same.
The men are stirring and restless now, fearefull that we will not escape the ever-thikcening iceblocks. There is not much to be done, since it is up to Father to make the decisions, but we point to the icefloes becoming more solide, hoping that it has also come to his attention.
He is solid as the ice, and waves his hand to go forward. His obstinacy and inflexibility begin to turn the men against him, although every one of them save perhaps two have already been full loyale to his judgemente thus far into the journey. I worry about the turne of events should they all turne. What would be the end of things should my father become the enemie of the men? And yet they are all generally of the same minde that return to Englande with naught to showe would be the ende of things, since this is the 3rd voyage oute, and the governmentes are not more interested in footing te costs of such journeys that bring about no results.

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