Never heard of more
Henry Hudson, the great explorer, robbed of all new vistas and doomed to stare in eternal horror from the walls of London’s Tate Gallery, frozen by John Collier in that heart-stopping flashbulb moment of realisation, the nirvana of the nevermore.
He’d been all across the Arctic seas and discovered a great deal, though not a faster track to China, his original goal. Now he was cast away, with his teenage son John — not yet his age when he first set out to sea as a cabin boy — and a shaky cohort of lame and dying ex-crewmembers, in a small boat in peril of capsising under the weight of his own ice-encrusted stubbornness. It was June 1611. See the rest.
