Having returned to Philadelphia, Kane flung himself into the writing of his new book, which he finished in a matter of months. Arctic Explorations: The Second Grinnell Expedition in Search of Sir John Franklin, 1853, ’54, ’55 was a sumptuous production, embellished with steel engravings based on Kane’s sketches—several of which are reproduced here—and enlivened by his vivid prose. “The thermometer had fallen . . . to -49.3,” he wrote of one outing, “and the wind was setting in sharply from the northwest. It was out of the question to halt: it required brisk exercise to keep us from freezing. I could not even melt ice for water; and, at these temperatures, any resort to snow for the purpose of allaying thirst was followed by bloody lips and tongue: it burnt like caustic.” Sales of the two-volume set topped 65,000 in the first year alone.

But the strain of writing at top speed undermined the author’s already fragile health. Lady Franklin, Sir John’s indefatigable wife, implored Kane to lead one last search for her husband. This was beyond him now, but he agreed to join her in England, where they would plan an expedition to be commanded by someone else.

At Kane’s insistence, Fox had sworn off spiritualism—a renunciation made easier because she feared being unmasked as a charlatan. Here, again, the lovers were kindred spirits; for Kane was a faker, too—a weakling passing himself off as a swashbuckler. Had the public scrutinized his second Arctic expedition more closely, they might have noticed what a squeaker it was: Three of his 20 men died, and the ultimate retreat could easily have ended in disaster.

The two illusionists considered themselves re-engaged. Only days before he sailed for England, they called in witnesses and said impromptu vows. Assuring Fox that this was a valid marriage, Kane promised they would do it over, formally and in church, when he returned. They seem not to have consummated the marriage before he left, but Kane’s will included a special bequest of $5,000 to his brother Robert, intended for Fox in case of her husband’s death.

Kane had to cut short his stay in England. His condition had worsened, and a warm climate was prescribed. He traveled to Cuba, where on February 16, 1857, he died. Grief was so urgent and widespread that the roundabout process of transporting his remains to Philadelphia developed into a new phenomenon: the multi-city funeral procession, by boat and barge and train and carriage, with the route lined by mourners—a precursor to the rites for Abraham Lincoln eight years later.

After Elisha’s death, the Kanes rallied around his memory. In particular, they tried to shield him from the taint of spiritualism, as personified by Maggie Fox. They refused to credit the marriage and balked at paying her the earmarked money. Only 22 years old, Fox was left in an awkward position. Calling herself Mrs. Kane, she built a shrine to the explorer in her bedroom and repeatedly asked his friends if he’d left any messages for her. He hadn’t. She begged Robert Kane for her bequest, which he doled out in dribs. She sued, but the case was dismissed, and the Kanes stopped payment altogether. Deepening the insult, the family fed information about Elisha to a friend who wrote an adoring biography—without giving Fox so much as a mention.

To vindicate herself—and make some money—Fox authorized publication of The Love-Life of Dr. Kane, a collection of Elisha’s letters to her. But her timing was off: The book came out in 1866, by which point the once-glamorous couple was old news, and it sold poorly. To support herself, Fox went back to work as a medium. In 1893, not quite 60, she died broke.

For a while, Kane fared better. Other explorers followed his route; he was given that lunar honor; and he and his voyage were still talked about—Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner cited him in their novel The Gilded Age (1873) as epitomizing a type of famous man: the leader of “some daring expedition.” But as one expedition after another achieved a new Farthest North, Kane’s pioneering was taken for granted, then all but forgotten. It didn’t help that Kane had been wrong about what he’d accomplished: He thought he’d found the fabled Open Polar Sea, an ice-free route straight to the Pole. But later explorers discovered there’s no such thing (or, rather, was no such thing—as global warming continues to scramble the atmosphere, Kane may turn out to have been simply ahead of his time).

Early in the 20th century, the race to the Pole gave rise to banner headlines: Which American was the first man to have stood on the numinous spot, everyone wanted to know, Frederick Cook or Robert Peary? With each scoffing at the other’s claim, someone had to be lying. Congress and the National Geographic Society weighed in, and the public couldn’t get enough of the controversy, which lingers to this day (Cook’s stock is currently up, while Peary’s is down). The bright light of polar sensationalism all but blinded the world to Kane’s contributions.

Fergus Fleming, in his Ninety Degrees North: The Quest for the North Pole (2001), dismisses Kane as “not a great explorer.” Perhaps, but he was a great figure, a self-made hero with the echt American ability to whip up a popular frenzy and shape his own public image. He was also a fine writer, whose big book is an overlooked national treasure. Subsequent Penn grads have won renown, and others will do so in the future. But with major geographical features named after him on two different worlds, Elisha Kent Kane set a mark that may be impossible to beat.

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Dennis Drabelle G’66 L’69 is a contributing editor of The Washington Post Book World.