Into White Silence

by Anthony Eaton

  All things considered, the encounter had left me feeling quite unsettled and, despite the comfortable mattress which Mrs Pilkington provided in her guest room, it was some time before I was able to get to sleep.

  This morning dawned bright and cheerful, with no sign of last night’s showers apart from wet cobblestones as I walked down the hill and back towards the waterfront. I had decided that I would present myself at the expedition headquarters at the earliest possible moment and that, in the light of the snippet of conversation I had inadvertently overheard, I would regard Mr Rourke’s offer with circumspection.

  My destination was only a ten-minute walk from my lodgings and a very pleasant stroll at that. For the most part, my route required me to retrace my steps of the night before and I took the opportunity to study the harbour again, looking out for any vessel that could be the one to which the sailors had referred. Nothing presented itself however, and in Elizabeth Street I had to turn my attention to finding the correct address.

  Mr Rourke’s letter directed me to suite seven, on the top floor. To my surprise, there was nothing on the building directory to identify who or what organisation was currently in occupancy there and so I was a little uncertain as I made my way up the creaky wooden stairway and found myself confronted by a plain, unpainted wooden door with the words ‘Suite 7’ inscribed in neat, white-painted lettering. I found all this slightly curious and it took me some moments to nerve myself to knock. When I did so, there immediately came from within a sudden and urgent shuffling, as if the person or persons inside were hurriedly tidying up before answering.

  When the door was finally unlatched it opened just a crack and I was quickly scrutinised through the narrow opening before it was flung open and I was greeted by a voice I knew well.

  ‘William! It’s good to see you, lad!’

  It was good to see that, even though he now walked with the aid of a cane, Captain Smythe-Davis had lost none of his energy or vigour. Indeed, in many ways he seemed younger than when we last saw each other, on the dockside in Melbourne almost four years ago. He immediately grasped my hand warmly and ushered me inside.

  ‘Come in, lad, come inside and warm up. I’m very pleased you decided to make the trip.’

  Thus encouraged, I allowed myself to be drawn across the threshold and into a small entry hall, cluttered with myriad crates and odd equipment. Limping slightly down the hallway ahead of me, the Captain navigated around the various obstacles with surprising ease, as though he’d done it many times before.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about the mess, but we’re doing our best to maintain a high degree of discretion about this expedition, so we’re keeping most of the sensitive material tucked away here, where we can keep an eye on it.’

  The suite from which the Captain was operating seemed to be a largish residential apartment, which had been taken over for whatever purpose they were engaged in. Several rooms opened off either side of the passage, and through one doorway I caught a glimpse into a small kitchen and dining room which, like the passageway, were crammed with various wooden crates and unidentifiable packages. At the end of the passage we turned left into a larger room, most likely a parlour at one time, but now converted into an office; a couple of large writing desks faced one another across a worn carpet, both strewn with papers. In one wall, three large windows offered a glimpse of the harbour and river beyond, while on the opposite wall a number of large marine charts mapped a coastline I didn’t immediately recognise.

  Hastily removing a small pile of books and papers from a wooden chair, the Captain gestured me to sit, while he settled himself behind the nearest of the desks.

  ‘So, Will. You made it down here.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, as much from habit as anything, and the Captain laughed.

  ‘George, lad. Call me George, now. We’re not signed up, so there’s no need to stand on ceremony any more.’

  It was strange seeing the Captain, who’d always been something of a hard task master – never excessively strict, but always a stickler for discipline – behaving in such a casual and informal fashion. Clearly, though, he sensed my discomfort, because he stretched back in his chair and regarded me with an air of satisfaction.

  ‘You know, William, I’m very pleased that you’ve taken up Mr Rourke’s offer to come down. I think you’ll be quite interested in what we’re hoping to achieve, and I really hope you’ll see your way to involving yourself.’

  For a moment or two, I thought that the Captain might have been about to fill in some details regarding this odd expedition, but instead he changed the subject and for a few moments we chatted about old times and the people we’ve kept in touch with from the war. The Captain still gets occasional letters from Percy and a couple of the other lads and most of them have taken land offers and settled down. Percy married soon after getting home, and even has a couple of boys of his own now, which is good news.

  Then the front door opened and slammed and heavy footsteps thumped towards us along the passageway. Hearing them, the Captain grabbed his cane and climbed back to his feet.

  ‘This’ll be Edward. He’s been looking forward to meeting you.’

  I also stood and, as I turned, had my first look at Mr Edward Rourke.

  The man in the doorway was nothing like I’d imagined. Short and stocky and sporting a neatly trimmed beard liberally peppered with flecks of grey, Mr Rourke stopped to remove his overcoat and hat, flung them across the other desk, then turned to regard me. The man’s eyes were a hard, piercing grey and I could feel him assessing me carefully. Something in the way he looked me up and down reminded me of my father assessing livestock at the auctions.

  ‘You’re Downes?’ The voice was deep and he spoke fast, in an abrupt, gruff manner and, though a slight rising inflection marked his opening words to me as a question, it was quite obvious he already knew the answer.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied and he scrutinised me a few seconds longer before nodding his head, just once, and thrusting a stubby hand in my direction.

  ‘Good. Good to have you on board.’

  I took the proffered hand, not completely certain if I was greeting him, or somehow accepting an invitation to join his expedition. I know that my own handshake is firm, and people have often commented upon it. Elsie is always saying I need to be more aware of my own strength, but even I was startled by the force with which Mr Rourke seized my hand and pumped it up and down.

  ‘George here says you’re a good man to have around in a pinch.’

  Again, it was hard to be certain whether or not he was asking a question or simply making a statement. I settled for an embarrassed smile.

  ‘I hope so, sir.’

  Finally, the handshake stopped and Mr Rourke released me, before turning abruptly on his heel and marching over to his desk.

  ‘Know anything about the Antarctic?’

  I confessed that my knowledge was limited to what I’d read in the papers of people like Shackleton and Sir Douglas Mawson, and of course Captain Scott’s ill-fated expedition. When I mentioned Scott’s name, to my surprise Mr Rourke snorted derisively.

  ‘Scott! The man was a fool and an incompetent. Deserved to die.’

  I glanced at Captain Smythe-Davis, a little startled by the volatility of Mr Rourke’s response, but the Captain winked and nodded reassuringly. I didn’t need to reply, in any case, because Mr Rourke was continuing regardless.

  ‘Couldn’t have organised his way out of a hessian sack, that man. Gets on my nerves, the way the papers heap adulation on him. Still doing it, even today. Can’t mention the pole without hearing about bloody Scott and his bloody heroics. Is that it, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘Is that all you know about the Ice?’

  I replied that it wasn’t a subject I’d ever really had much cause to consider, an answer which seemed far more satisfactory to the man.

  ‘Well, we can soon fix that. Come and look at this …’

  He re
trieved a large map from a drawer and spread it across his desk, weighting the corners with several items of desk equipment to prevent it springing back into its tight roll. Never having studied a map of the Antarctic before, I was impressed at the degree of detail: a large amount of coast, particularly those areas around the peninsula which juts north towards the Americas, was spidered with place names denoting bays, mountains, glaciers, ice shelves, islands and such like. The enormous ice-bound Ross Sea, south of New Zealand, was similarly detailed, but then, as the coast stretched west along the vast expanse of the Southern Ocean, passing below Australia and extending towards Africa, the level of detail lessened somewhat – in a couple of places whole sections of the coast seemed bare, empty of features.

  ‘I’ve put this together myself, cobbled from various bits and pieces I’ve been able to get my hands on. Now, pay attention. Here …’ Mr Rourke stabbed a stubby finger at the Ross Sea, ‘is where Scott set up base for his push. Amundsen too. Straight south across the sea ice, then up the Beardmore Glacier onto the plateau, then inland to the pole. Can you tell me why they chose to make their bases of operations here?’

  It was obvious, looking at the map, that the Ross Sea provided the closest ocean access to the pole, and I said so.

  ‘Exactly. Which is also why we’re not interested in it. Now, here …’ he indicated a large bay, further to the west of the Ross Shelf, ‘is Commonwealth Bay. This was Mawson’s stamping ground and by all accounts a fairly miserable place to find yourself stuck for the winter, but Mawson, at least, did a reasonably good job of extending the map for us. Cost him a couple of men, of course, so not a total success, but he filled in the picture a little more and so his expedition wasn’t a complete waste of time. He basically hugged the coast until his men fell into a crevasse, though, and that sort of thing doesn’t particularly interest me either. No, William, the expedition I’m mounting will make the rest of them – Scott, Mawson, even Shackleton – look like a collection of spineless nincompoops.’

  Now, I will admit that, despite the ease with which Mr Rourke seemed able to dismiss the achievements of men who’d explored the unknown at great personal cost, looking at the map, crisscrossed as it was with the tracks of various voyages and expeditions, I was becoming more and more intrigued at the possibility of a trip to the south and also quite curious as to what exactly this strange little man had in mind. When he turned his eyes away from the map and back onto me, I was again struck by the sense of contained energy that he was able to convey with just a look.

  ‘Have I piqued your interest, lad?’

  I felt oddly reluctant to do so, but I admitted that he had.

  ‘Good. Over here.’ Turning abruptly away from the desk, he led me over to the charts pinned to the wall.

  ‘This is what we know of the east coast of the continent, travelling west from Commonwealth Bay. Not a lot. There’s bits and pieces filled in by various expeditions from Wilkes onwards, but for the most part there’s a lot of unmarked, unexplored, and unexploited territory through here. That’s our first goal: to map it all, properly. From Commonwealth Bay, all the way to the Lambert Glacier.’

  He pointed at an enormous bite in the coastline almost due south of Africa, but didn’t stop speaking.

  ‘But that’s just for starters. The scientific bit, if you like. Once we get to Lambert, that’s where the real challenge begins.’

  ‘This would be where you’d come into things, William,’ Captain Smythe-Davis interjected with a smile. Mr Rourke looked irritated at the interruption, but nodded in agreement.

  ‘Exactly. This is where your youth and strength of character will be essential to us achieving our overall goal.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly, sir?’

  Now he turned to regard me once more, with extraordinary seriousness.

  ‘Before I can tell you that, William, I need an undertaking from you. Are you interested in joining my expedition?’

  By this point, and despite the man’s odd demeanor, there was no question in my mind that I was going to throw in my lot with his.

  ‘I am, sir,’ I replied, and Mr Rourke nodded, as though he’d been expecting nothing less.

  ‘Good. Once we reach the Lambert Glacier and find a suitable location to build a hut and lay up the ship for winter, you and I and a small team of men will begin preparations for the following summer, when we shall become the first men to traverse from the eastern coastline of Antarctica, all the way to the pole, and then back again!’

  My initial reaction was to simply stare at the man in disbelief. I glanced quickly back at the chart on the wall, trying to estimate the distance, but unable to do so with any degree of accuracy. What was immediately apparent, though, was the vastness of the undertaking. Compared to the distance between the Lambert Glacier and the pole the route taken inland by Scott and Amundsen – the journey which had cost Scott and his companions their lives – seemed almost insignificant.

  ‘Well, what do you think, Lieutenant? Do you have it in you to take on the greatest overland journey that the world has ever seen?’

  I wasn’t certain what to make of it. Although I’d expected Mr Rourke’s expedition to be of an outlandish and challenging nature, I don’t think I could ever have imagined anybody having the sheer nerve to take on what he was proposing. As I stood there, I could feel his penetrating gaze steadily upon me, as he gauged my reaction.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by the distance, William,’ Captain Smythe-Davis said. ‘It’s a long way, all right, but we’re planning for all contingencies. Nothing is being left to chance, here.’

  ‘And don’t let what happened to Scott and his party worry you, either,’ added Mr Rourke, ‘As I said before, the man was a nincompoop. Amundsen made the hop to the pole look effortless, and we’ll be taking our cues from his approach.’

  Crossing back to Mr Rourke’s desk, I looked again at the unrolled map and ran a finger lightly over the enormous, empty area stretching inland south of the Lambert Glacier, struggling to picture in my imagination the immensity of ice and snow between the coast and the pole and failing miserably to do so. I’d experienced cold in France; during the winter, the mud would freeze, your boots become iceblocks and your fingers unable to even grip your rifle, let alone fire it at the enemy. At the time, I’d hoped never to feel cold again.

  But that map … that emptiness. Even as I hesitated, I could almost hear it calling to me. Such a challenge as this would never come my way again, no matter how far I travelled in this world, and it was this thought more than anything else which finally encouraged me to turn and face Edward Rourke.

  ‘I’d love to accept,’ I told the man.

  * * *

  THREE

  SOME MUSINGS ON THE NATURE OF DISTANCE. FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE. MY OWN ARRIVAL IN ANTARCTICA. THE REAPPEARANCE OF THE LEATHER-FACED MAN. A SHIPBOARD TOUR.

  On the wall of my study, hung so it is clearly visible from my desk, is a modern, large scale map of the Antarctic continent, which I use in documenting the physical geography of this book. Often, when the words are not flowing properly, or when I’ve been rereading that last entry from Downes’ journal, I’ll stand before the map and, just as the Lieutenant had done in Rourke’s office so many years ago, will trace my index finger lightly over the huge expanse of nothingness which extends from the Lambert Glacier to the South Pole.

  It’s a frightening distance, well in excess of 2500 kilometres from the edge of the Amery Ice Shelf to the pole: 2500 kilometres of unforgiving cold. Of snow and ice and crevasses and sastrugi and misery.

  From my reading of the journal, Rourke’s plan was to push the Raven as close to the Amery Ice Shelf as he could, and then to set up winter quarters somewhere along the coast at around 70 degrees south, sending supply parties across the fast sea ice and up the glacier, even through the dangerous winter months, laying in supply depots at regular intervals past the Mawson Escarpment before pulling back again to the coast. During the early part of the following summer,
he would send three more depot-laying parties even further south, past the head of the glacier at around 75 degrees and then inland, ever inland, to 80 and 85 degrees. Each of these parties, assisted by teams of dogs and sledges, would carry enormous caches of food, enough to feed themselves and the parties to follow. His own final push for the bottom of the world would take place just before Christmas while two of the teams were still driving the head of the depot trail as close as possible to the pole, and would involve just three men – himself, Downes and one other – who would travel together with three teams of dogs and three sledges, moving light and fast with only minimal supplies and relying for their survival upon the string of depots laid in since the previous winter.

  Having achieved the pole, probably sometime late in January, the three would then set out almost immediately for the coast again, racing to get there before the onset of winter and the long polar night.

  It’s a plan remarkable for both its audacity and its futility. Looking at my map, running my finger along that invisible, imaginary line where the depots were to be laid, the one thing that is immediately apparent is how little is there. Even today, a century on, the greater part of the Antarctic map is filled with nothing but emptiness. A blank, white, forbidding void.

  But for some, including, I suspect, Lieutenant William Downes, that was exactly the appeal. It was Nietzsche who said, ‘When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.’ Downes had already looked into his own personal abyss in France, amidst the bloody slaughter of war, and so perhaps the thought of all that emptiness didn’t hold quite the same cause for trepidation, or the same terror, for him as for the rest of us.