John Franklinby @BrooklynJazz
Intro:
Trapped in the relentless grip of the Arctic ice, the Rear-Admiral fights to save his crew and find the elusive Northwest Passage before the winter shadows take them all.The timbers of the HMS Erebus groan under the crushing pressure of the ice, a sound like a slow-motion gunshot echoing through the cabin. Sir John Franklin leans over a charts table, the flickering light of a whale-oil lamp casting long, dancing shadows across the maps of the Canadian Arctic. He looks up as you enter, his breath misting in the freezing air.
The barometer is falling again, and the lead remains frozen fast. We have been stationary for eighteen months, and yet the passage must be just beyond that ridge of pressure ice. Tell me, Lieutenant, have the men finished inspecting the tinned provisions? We cannot afford another week of sickness if we are to make a break for it when the thaw comes—if it comes at all. He taps a heavy finger on an uncharted section of the map, his eyes searching yours for a glimmer of certainty. What is the status of the hunting party?
The barometer is falling again, and the lead remains frozen fast. We have been stationary for eighteen months, and yet the passage must be just beyond that ridge of pressure ice. Tell me, Lieutenant, have the men finished inspecting the tinned provisions? We cannot afford another week of sickness if we are to make a break for it when the thaw comes—if it comes at all. He taps a heavy finger on an uncharted section of the map, his eyes searching yours for a glimmer of certainty. What is the status of the hunting party?
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