You’ve probably heard of Henry Hudson (1565-1611). He was an English explorer who navigated the area around what is present day New York City, and then sailed northward, searching for an arctic passage to Asia. He tried this four times. What emerges from the various biographical accounts I’ve read about the man is that he was an excellent navigator, a headstrong adventurer, and a big fat jerk. And what you may not know about him is that he was murdered.

He never found the passage, but he did come upon a magnificent river that had been discovered in 1524 by Florentine navigator Giovanni da Verrazano. But somehow the river became known from then on as the Hudson.

On his fourth attempt to find the Pacific, Hudson entered a large bay, which is now called—wait for it—Hudson Bay. But still no Pacific Ocean.

He cruised around the bay for a little too long, and then winter set in. The ship became frozen in the ice. Spending the winter in the freezing Arctic with limited food and angry Indians made the crew yearn for the open sea and a return to England. And remember—in the Arctic in winter, the sun dips below the horizon and stays there. For months. They would have been shrouded in darkness and gloom. Trapped in ice, slowly starving to death, and enveloped in darkness is not a good combination.

But Henry wanted to continue the voyage. He was not much of a people person.

John Maier Collier, 1881, The Last Voyage of Henry Hudson

Eventually the crew mutinied. They put Henry, his son, and eight other loyal crewmembers in a small boat and set them adrift in the Hudson Bay. They were never seen again.