Sorry if I sound unduly cynical…
I think it was the last day of May when we did get ashore, or at least the landing party did. They had a bit of struggle over the intervening ice but made it onto the White Island. The party consisted of Hanslip, of course, your father’s men, Hardacre and Sykes, our three scientists, Maddox, Cronshaw and Doughty, two seamen and one of the ship’s boys, the deckie, who was to act as servant, gopher and general dog’s body.
There was a rather over-done handover ceremony as Hanslip, at his most pompous, conferred the great honour of command of the ship upon Alan Tomkins’s more-than-broad shoulders. They then all descended onto the ice with a back-up party, organised by Nat and the Bosun, with a mountain of equipment dragged on some extemporised sledges. They looked as if bent upon reaching the pole instead of travelling little more than a mile, if that. Doc Crichton watched them go and from the bridge-wing I heard Alan remark that he was surprised that Crichton was not of the party, to which Crichton replied that ‘it would not be good for the patient to be constantly under supervision’ and that from what he had gleaned thus far, ‘the island was not so large or inaccessible that he could not reach the landing party if sent for.’ It did not seem to occur to Crichton that his help might be required at a moment’s notice, nor that we might well have to beat out to sea if the weather turned against us and, oddly Alan did not emphasise this. Later he told me that he thought Crichton considered himself a bit too old to go gallivanting about on the ice and preferred his pipe, slippers and book in the cosiness of his cabin. Can’t say I blamed him.
After he had got them all ashore and set up – an operation that took I think about five hours and necessitated a good deal of toing-and-froing. I think a bit of a polynya, a lead, opened up and I seem to recall we used the ship’s rather large number of boats. I helped in the latter stages of this, then Nat returned to the ship and we three Mates, our Engineers and Marconi man sat down to a belated meal in a depleted but much relaxed wardroom.
Nat described to Alan what they had accomplished – I had seen most of it at the end of the day – as ‘another British colony,’ because among the tents and scientific instruments Hanslip had set up a flag-pole upon which, day-and-night up there, he could fly the good old Union Flag…
Oh, blast! There go the sirens again; we’re going to have to leave it there for the night. The tale has a good way to go but we’ve only got one more evening and if I don’t finish it by tomorrow night I’ll write the rest and send it to you in the post. I happen to know that will be perfectly possible.
THE FOURTH EVENING - THE SECRET
Where were we last night? I’ve had a busy day… Oh, I remember, we’d just got the landing party ashore and the ship’s crew proper were all back on board and looking forward to a bit of a break, if the weather allowed it. We Mates continued to keep bridge watches with a Quartermaster and a reduced deck-watch on stand-by. All rather cosy really, though our fear of another gale springing up was real enough. In fact the promised stability of high-pressure seemed to have settled in and the eventual disturbance of our brief tranquillity was entirely and horribly human.
The first inkling of trouble was the odd fact that the Union flag seemed to be upside down the following morning. It was difficult to tell, as there was little wind but Nat, ever fastidious about such points of flag etiquette – and remember that a deliberately upside-down ensign is a distress signal - pointed it out to Alan as he came up from his breakfast to relieve him. I was still having breakfast and did not have to hurry since Alan had told me at 04.00 that he would see to the ritual of winding the chronometers since our Henry was ashore. I might have had a long lie-in, but one becomes habituated to waking-up at a certain time and wake-up I had. Anyway, Alan came below for his breakfast and mentioned the oddity of the inverted Union flag.
He had just begun to say, somewhat unenthusiastically, that: ‘A direct channel has opened up almost to the beach, so I suppose we had better send a boat in to see what’s up,’ when Nat ducked down into the ward-room.
‘It’s upside down all right,’ he boomed, ‘a breeze has got up and I’m sure of it. It was correctly hoisted last night so someone’s deliberately changed it…’
‘Oh fuck,’ Alan said, wiping his moth and beginning to rise from the table. He had just started into his grilled bacon and I looked at Nat.
‘Nat can take a boat in and have a look-see. I’ll send it away Alan, you finish your breakfast. Then I’ll take over the bridge.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be up shortly,’ responded the Mate, sitting down again and motioning the ward-room steward to top-up his coffee and hasten the arrival of his toast.
Having supervised the lowering of the gig I went up to the bridge and picked up my binoculars, training them first on the distant ‘flag-pole’ – actually an oar, or boat-spar. There wasn’t much of a breeze, which explained why it had taken some time for Nat to realise the flag had indeed been hoisted upside down. Every now and then, however, it lifted sufficiently for the fact to become clear but those ashore must have realised the probability of our not seeing it for now a cloud of dense smoke rose almost beside it. I learned afterwards that of the two able-seamen landed with Hanslip one had a Second Mate’s ticket but, unable to get an officer’s berth had shipped-out in the Alert as an AB, by no means uncommon in those days of dodgy employment opportunities. He knew that another distress signal was smoke or flames and he was clearly going for it, belt-and-braces. His name was Harris.
I felt my heart begin to race and turned my attention to the gig as it approached the shore, disappearing behind ice-hummocks before it reappeared again. Owing to the heaps of pack I had no direct line-of-sight to the beach itself but it was not long before I saw the gig coming back and it was not Nat at the tiller but, as it turned out, Able Seaman Harris who swung the gig in smartly alongside – he had been trained aboard the Mars I learned later – and shouted up to me to call out the Doctor.
The shouting brought Alan Tomkins on deck and smoked poor old Crichton out of his berth. ‘You’d better go with him Ned,’ the Mate said as Harris further demanded our attention.
‘And tell him to bring a stretcher or something!’
‘Like what?’
‘A fucking straight-jacket!’ Harris bawled back.
‘What’s happened?’ Alan called down to the seaman’s upturned face.
‘The Old Man,’ Harris replied, ‘he’s lost his head…gone stark, staring mad!’
‘Oh shit,’ Alan said with quiet venom as I slid down the bridge ladder, ducked into my cabin and donned warm gear. When I got back Alan restrained me for a moment and said, ‘For Christ’s sake Ned, although Hanslip may be dangerous, don’t forget the greater danger of polar bears.’
‘Polar bears?’ I recall querying rather sceptically.
‘Yes,’ Alan responded vehemently, ‘polar bears. Now take this, just in case.’ He pressed a heavy revolver into my hands. ‘Stow it in your pocket but mind it, it’s loaded, a chamber of six shots.’ I looked at him with what have seemed like a stupid doltishness. ‘And use it if you have to,’ were his last words as he almost pushed me towards the rail and down the boarding ladder into the boat.
A few minutes later Crichton had scrambled down into the boat with his bag and a stretcher and a coil of heaving line had been dropped into the boat by our ever-ready Bosun – I do wish I could recall…but never mind. Harris made to relinquish the tiller to me but I motioned him to stay in charge of the boat. ‘Carry on,’ I said shortly, turning to the Doctor.
‘Any sign of this coming on?’ I asked.
Crichton shrugged. I sensed the vague shadow of the Hippocratic Oath passing over his features but Harris’s announcement would be all over the ship by now. ‘Not really but a relapse is possible at any time…’ he said eventually.
There was no more to be said until we reached the shore and we sat wrapped in our own thoughts as much as our duffels and woollens as the seamen strained at their oars, the swea
t of effort streaming down their faces despite the cold.
‘When we reach the beach get them to rub their faces clear of sweat,’ I remember Crichton telling Harris.
A few moments later we swung round the shoulder of an intervening bergy-bit and the island of Kvitøya came into clear view. Low and dun-coloured, a mixture of rock, talus, broken stones, ice and the curious spectacle of pine tree boles torn out of the Siberian forests and rolled through ice and sea-water as though milled into telegraph poles which, I discovered, were a familiar sight on every open Arctic beach. But it was the sight of the landing party gathered in a little huddle that claimed our attention. Although they stood at the water’s edge they seemed more intent on staring inland than watching us coming in to their assistance and it seemed each of the small knot of men held something by way of a weapon, though not one was a Lee Enfield.
It was Nat who grabbed the gig’s stem-head and eased her impetus as her velocity drove her against the shingle. I was out of her and alongside him in a second as the crew helped the less agile Crichton ashore.
‘Well?’ I asked curtly.
Nat’s face was pale and drawn. ‘Hanslip’s lost his bloody marbles and has run amok. He’s running around with a boat-axe. He’s already…’ Nat made a gesture, directing my gaze to the ground.
‘Christ!’ I said looking down to where the deck-boy lay almost among the very feet on the entire landing party. The lad was covered in blood and, from a quick glance it seemed as if his right arm was almost severed at the shoulder.
‘Hanslip?’
‘Well, it wasn’t a fucking polar bear.’
It was clear now why the men had gathered in a group, partly to protect themselves and each other, but also to protect the deck-boy. ‘The bastard cut him down for no apparent reason. They’ve staunched the worst of the bleeding…’
By now Crichton was out of the boat and aware of the situation; the men made way for him. He knelt beside the boy, opened his bag and began work.
‘Where are the guns?’ I asked, referring to the Lee Enfields landed to protect the landing party from polar bears.
‘I dunno,’ Nat responded. ‘haven’t had time to…’
‘They were in one of the tents, sir,’ offered Harris, who was now ashore alongside us. ‘We tried getting to them but Commander Hanslip was too clever for us…’
I was thinking fast. There was no actual sign of Hanslip, but I could hear a strange sound, a sort of anguished roaring which every now and again rose to a scream before subsiding for a while.
‘Where is he?’
Nat shrugged but Maddox the meteorologist drew me to one side, out of the hearing of the men, most of whom were fixated on Crichton’s efforts to keep the little deck-boy alive. The poor little chap’s face was deathly pale.
Once we were clear of the group gathered round Crichton and his patient, Maddox confided a breathless torrent of information: ‘The witch Blavatskoya is right! The Swedes are here alright and it’s not a pretty sight. We stumbled on them this morning whilst going out to take some observations, then let the Commander know. We didn’t disturb them or anything, thinking that he ought to be told first. He came hurrying up, waved us aside telling us to get on with our work and went into their tent…’
‘It’s still intact?’
‘Well, not really, but they’re under what’s left of it…’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t know, we sort of hung back, out of curiosity, I suppose, and a good deal of apprehension, then Hanslip emerged white as a sheet. Geoffrey here, and John…’ Maddox indicated Hardacre and Sykes, the Courier’s team, ‘had come up and…’
‘We went up to Hanslip who flew at us. He had a rifle in his hand and fired it at me, telling me keep away and fuck off. I backed-off quickly, as did the others…’
‘Shaken by this we turned back to our camp on the beach…’ Maddox hesitated, then went on, ‘we had forgotten we had taken the deck-boy with us…he’s a bright lad and…’ Maddox paused again mastering powerful emotion. ‘It all happened so fast, Adams, you have to understand,’ he said insistently.
‘Tell me what happened so fast,’ I pressed him, by heart thudding in my chest.
Maddox gulped then went on: ‘Derek Cronshaw suddenly asked “where’s the deckie?” and…’ the poor man was choking on his words, ‘there was a shout and then a scream. Hardacre turned back and then we saw the lad stumbling after us, covered in blood… He was just able to say “The Captain, the Captain…” before he collapsed at our feet as a shot whistled over our heads. We got him down here on the beach, hoisted the ensign upside down and then Harris here said we should get some oil alight…’
I was thinking fast and I asked Maddox, ‘so only you three Boffins, the two Courier boys and the deckie saw the Swedes?’
‘Eh?’
‘You heard me Maddox…’
‘Er,’ Maddox frowned. He was in deep shock. ‘Yes, yes, that’s right…’ he said after pulling himself together.
‘Now where is the place where you found the Swedes?’ I recall asking and Maddox pointed. ‘Right,’ I said, ‘now you go and get your two colleagues and tell them from me if they mention one word of what they saw to another member of the crew I’ll have their guts for garters – and I mean that.’ Maddox nodded, a man almost palpably relieved – at least partially - of a burden.
We walked rapidly back to rest of them. I exchanged glances with Nat Gardner and then turned to Crichton.
‘Can you save the boy?’ I asked.
Crichton looked up, ‘I don’t know. He’s already lost a lot of blood…’
‘Let’s get you and the boy back to the ship,’ I said turning to the men round us. ‘Get him on the stretcher and into the gig as quickly as possible. We’ll try and contain Hanslip…’
Crichton rose to his feet grabbed my elbow and tugged me out of the group. ‘You don’t understand Adams,’ he said with an air of ferocity. ‘It’s Hanslip we have to worry about. His actions could be highly unpredictable. One possibly mortally wounded boy is nothing to what havoc he might wreak if we leave him to his own devices with a gun…’
They were lifting the deck-boy into the boat.
‘You’re going to have to leave Hanslip to me, Doc,’ I said with what patience I could muster. I turned to Able Seaman Harris.
‘But,’ he protested, only to be cut short by Nat.
‘If Hanslip shot that boy, Doc, you’d be helping the Old Man by saving the lad.’ The implication of murder hung heavily in the charged air.
Crichton grunted and turned back to the boat, muttering something about leaving matters in the wrong hands.
‘Harris,’ I said firmly, thankful for Nat’s intelligent intervention, ‘get the doctor and his patient back to the ship. The rest of you follow. When we get back with the Old Man we’ll decide what’s to be done next. Now, Nat, Hardacre and Sykes come with me.’
Derek Cronshaw raised an objection but I looked meaningfully at Maddox, saying, ‘just do what I fucking say!’ and, as Maddox motioned to Cronshaw and Jim Doughty aside, I drew off Nat and the two men from The Courier.
‘Now listen, you two,’ I said addressing Hardacre and Sykes, ‘I know you are news-paper men but just for once forget it. Under the Merchant Shipping Act you are under my orders as super-numeraries and you will not take any action with regard to what you may be about to see until the matter has been resolved aboard the Alert. D’you understand? And, for what it is worth, I want your word on it…’
‘But Adams it’s our job…’ Sykes was waving his camera.
‘Fuck your job and fuck your camera. There could be serious repercussions about all this…’ I looked at the two of them. Unsurprisingly resentment burned in their eyes, they were on the edge of the scoop of a lifetime – with no responsibility as to the outcome. I looked at Nat. ‘This goes for you too, Mr Gardner,’ I said formally.
Nat grasped the significance of my meaning sufficiently to respond with a crisp, ‘Abs
olutely, sir.’
I turned back to the other two. ‘Your word…’
‘Until we get back to the ship, but no longer,’ said Hardacre, and Sykes grunted agreement.
‘Right, that’s settled then. Now, show me where the Swedes are.’
Neither of the newspapermen moved. ‘Look Adams, the skipper’s out there off his trolley with at least four loaded Lee Enfields. If I can’t do my job, I’m certainly not going to do yours for you.’
For a moment I was nonplussed. I can’t think why, Hardacre’s argument was entirely plausible, but I was growing angry and losing the capacity to reason clearly. Thank God Nat again stepped into the breach.
‘Well, you two had better get back to the ship then. Go on; just point us in the right direction.’
Hardacre indicated the place. We all turned; there was no sign of anything except the low rise of the land but then I thought I detected a movement on the skyline.
‘There he is!’ Sykes exclaimed.
‘Good,’ said Nat, ‘and I’ll take that camera!’
Before Sykes could even react Nat Gardner had wrenched the big Hasselblad off Sykes and was off over the broken ground.
‘Hey! You bastard!’ I put up a hand to stop Sykes running after Nat.
‘You’re going back to the ship,’ I snapped, ‘now!’
‘If he damages that camera…’
I left the two of them fuming and made after Nat. He was unarmed and vulnerable. I caught up with him and said ‘thanks.’
‘Pair of idiots,’ Nat said shortly, looking back. The two newspapermen were walking back to the beach, though Sykes looked over his shoulder at us. ‘What are we going to do about..?’
And at that point there was a gun-shot, then another. I don’t know where the bloody shots went but I do know that within a few moments every man-jack on that stony beach was either in a boat or pushing and shoving to get them afloat.
Nat turned to me and said, ‘as I was saying…’
Cold Truth Page 9