Tuesday, January 19, 2010

This Day in Exploration History (Wilkes Claims Eastern Antarctica for U.S.)


January 19, 1840—Capt. Charles Wilkes, in the midst of one of the most significant scientific voyages in American history, sighted East Antarctica and claimed it for the U.S. Though not the first to discover Antarctica—that had occurred two decades before—he proved conclusively, by sailing and mapping 1,500 miles of its coastline, that it was a separate landmass.

Upon returning to American two years later, having circumnavigated the globe, Wilkes found both his achievements and his management style called into question by rival foreign mariners and domestic enemies who pressed a court-martial.

One particular charge—that Wilkes could not have possibly found this land mass—was, on the surface, buttressed when British explorer James Clark Ross claimed to have sailed across some of the land Wilkes had seen. In his attempt to establish national priority over France, whose explorer, Dumont D’Urville, cited the same January 19 date as the one when he had first sighted land, Wilkes then tried to backdate his discovery by three days.

It turned out that Wilkes’ mistake involving the land mass occurred because of the phenomenon known as polar refraction, which sometimes makes land below the horizon appear above it. (It also helped that the Australian who charged him with misrepresentation and mistakes, Sir Douglas Mawson, had made his own errors because of the same illusion.) It took 99 years, but eventually the Australian government put Wilkes’ name on the map of the land he explored. Moreover, two midshipmen backed Wilkes at his inquiry by claiming they had seen the same thing.


(Much of this international rivalry went for naught in the end, as the 1959 Antarctica Treaty made the continent an international zone--blessedly free of military operations, nuclear testing, and radioactive waste disposal.)

All but one of the other charges levied against Wilkes went nowhere, except for one. A court of inquiry found him guilty of exceeding the traditional maximum punishment of 12 lashes for individual miscreants. He had been conclusively—and, unfortunately, correctly—judged as a martinet.

An annoyed Wilkes took his lumps and went on special assignment in Washington to gather and summarize the results of his four-year circumnavigation of the globe. He had not been the first choice for this major expedition (believe it or not, he was the fifth), so this proud and flinty man was intent on making sure he achieved due recognition for his efforts. These achievements were extraordinary, including:

* 280 islands (largely in the Pacific) explored;


* 800 miles of Oregon mapped;


* More than 60,000 bird and plant specimens collected;


* Seeds of 648 species collected, later to be dispersed throughout the country;


* 254 live plants that would form the basis of the U.S. Botanic Gardens.

If only Wilkes had stayed on assignment in DC! But the outbreak of the Civil War found him acting in his usual peremptory fashion, nearly precipitating another conflict the Union did not need: with Great Britain.

Commanding the San Jacinto, Wilkes boarded the British mail ship Trent and arrested two Confederate emissaries, John Slidell and James Mason. The British were incensed, and though Northerners initially supported his actions, many had a change of heart after they reflected that a) Wilkes did not have permission from the government to seize the two diplomats, and b) the incident—with a neutral power having its ships stopped and men seized—was reminiscent of the impressment issue that served as a causus belli of the War of the 1812.

The Lincoln government released the two Confederates, largely defusing the tension that had developed between the Union and Great Britain. But Wilkes’ career was damaged irretrievably. Conflicts with the Navy Department later led him to publish rash letters in the newspapers.

For the second time, Wilkes had provided his enemies with a cudgel, as he found himself facing another court-martial, this time on grounds of disobedience of orders and insubordination. His sentence—a public reprimand and suspension from active service for three years—was reduced by President Lincoln to one year.

The hotheaded old sea dog returned to writing, dying in 1877. He is now interred in Arlington National Cemetery, though one doubts if his proud and angry spirit is at rest.

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