Moreton, for his part, didn’t raise a word in his own defence, but rather stood mute, enduring the tirade until I felt compelled to intervene on his behalf.
‘The fault looks to me to be in the timber, not with Moreton or his brother,’ I ventured, as soon as I could get a word in. Amazingly, Rourke then turned on me.
‘Did I ask your opinion, Downes?’ he demanded. ‘Since when are you a bloody carpenter? When I want your thoughts, son, I’ll bloody well ask for them and in the meantime you can mind your own bloody p’s and q’s!’
‘Edward …’ Captain Smythe-Davis tried to interject, but Mr Rourke would have none of it.
‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let this expedition be ruined by a couple of dead-brained idiots!’ he screamed at Moreton, before seizing his coat and hat from beside his desk and marching to the door, where he stopped and glared at the three of us.
‘I’ll go and look at this piece of bloody wood and God help you, Moreton, if I find it’s faulty because of something you or your nincompoop brother have done. In the meantime, you can clean that mess off my desk, as it’s about all you’re bloody good for!’
He slammed the door behind him hard enough to shake the glass in the window panes.
After he’d gone, George and I looked at each other in shocked disbelief. I don’t know if this was a side of Mr Rourke that George had ever witnessed, but from my own point of view, it was certainly unexpected. Not wanting to discuss the leader in front of one of the men, I dispatched Moreton back to the warehouse, hopefully to shield his brother from the worst of Mr Rourke’s wrath, and instructed him to wait on the leader’s orders regarding getting a replacement joist organised. He departed with a look of relief on his face.
For a few minutes, I cleaned up the spilled mess of ink on Mr Rourke’s desk, joking feebly with George that my duties for this expedition grew more diverse by the day, to which he replied that I would make a fine char-woman should I resign my post, and then, both of us still rather shaken by Mr Rourke’s display, we put the kettle on and brewed a cup of tea to settle our nerves.
‘I must say, George,’ I commented when we were both comfortably sipping our brews, ‘I’m surprised at Mr Rourke’s temper. I never would have believed him capable of that kind of outburst.’
‘He’s concerned about the delays is all,’ George replied. ‘Every day we have to put off our departure takes us closer to winter and makes our chances of thoroughly documenting the east coast less and less likely.’
‘But to rail at young Lawrence like that …’ While I have no great empathy towards Moreton, it was clear to both of us that he didn’t deserve the poor treatment he had received, and George nodded in agreement.
‘True. But in the years we’ve worked together, that’s the first time I’ve ever known Edward to shoot the messenger.’
Not being one given to idle gossip, and secure at least in the knowledge that both of us thought Mr Rourke’s behaviour to be an uncharacteristic rather than a normal response, we changed the subject and spoke of other matters regarding the expedition until Mr Rourke finally returned, somewhat calmer than when he had departed, and apologised to us both for his earlier outburst.
1st December, 1921
Today was to be the day we were originally to set sail but, forced as we are to wait for a new roof joist to be milled and for the replacement meteorological equipment to arrive from the mainland, it is clear that the Raven will not be putting to sea for at least another couple of weeks.
This is all to the bad, of course, because by this point, with most of the cargo loaded and the warehouse all but empty, there is little for the men to do but sit around trying to find ways of filling idle hours and this has led to some tension.
One of the sailors, a new lad by the name of Jimmy James, had to be removed from the ship last night, after getting drunk and attempting to lay out Dick Ryan over an imagined slight. (Though to be fair, having seen our bosun’s approach to the men, especially the more junior members of the crew, it is quite possible the insult might not have been as imaginary as Ryan would have us believe.)
Either way, something provoked the hot-headed young Jimmy to throw a punch at Mr Ryan, to which the bosun responded by delivering to the lad a solid thrashing, by all accounts landing several heavy blows before seizing the boy bodily and throwing him over the side of the ship and into the river.
His crewmates retrieved him from the water, bloodied and wet and, on Captain McLaren’s instructions, brought him ashore and delivered him under escort to the Elizabeth Street office to await Mr Rourke’s pleasure (or displeasure, as the case turned out).
Naturally, this poses an enormous problem for us – to take the lad back on board is to invite more problems and further bad blood between him and Ryan who, despite his many faults, is as capable a sailor and bosun as I’ve seen. On the other hand, having been privy to the loading of supplies and much of the expedition planning, Jimmy James cannot easily be dismissed from service – not if we wish to maintain the degree of secrecy that we have worked so hard to achieve. Sailors are notorious gossips, and to date we have relied heavily upon Dick Ryan’s hand to keep the crew from spreading word of our endeavour all along the waterfront. Now, though, young Jimmy is disinclined to follow any instructions from the bosun, or anyone else, for that matter …
10th December, 1921
A terrible day, today, and one which may yet see our expedition over before we even pull up anchor.
The replacement joist for the hut finally arrived from the sawmill yesterday evening, and Mr Rourke decided that it should be transferred without delay to the Raven. This led to a certain amount of grumbling from the crew, who considered themselves finished for the day, but as ever, the persuasive skills of Mr Ryan soon pulled them into line.
Given its size, and the fact that it has been fashioned from solid hardwood, this was always going to be one of the most difficult items of cargo to load aboard, and attempting to do so in fading light with a surly crew made the task that much more difficult.
Mr Rourke has grown increasingly impatient with the ongoing delays, and would not be swayed in his directive that the beam be swung aboard immediately, so we might make ready for sea at a moment’s notice, just as soon as the new weather equipment arrives. Despite our misgivings, George Smythe-Davis and myself mustered all available hands for the task.
This included Jimmy James, whose presence has continued to prove problematic for Mr Rourke. Dick Ryan remained insistent that he wouldn’t abide Jimmy’s presence back on board, but dismissing him from service at this late stage was no more an option now than when we first removed him from the ship. Instead, we have been keeping him busy ferrying people and supplies forward and backward from the ship, and installed him in temporary digs in the warehouse, under the watchful eyes of Alex Holdsworthy and Doug King, who generously relocated themselves, ostensibly for the purpose of planning the exploration part of the voyage together without interruption, but in reality to keep a close eye on Jimmy.
Once all was ready, the process of loading the joist began. We had organised the loan of a small barge from one of the local fishing companies and, after much heaving and more than a little French from certain crew members, the new joist was manoeuvred along the wharf and lowered into position on the barge. All hands then decamped to the dinghies and the barge, under the direction of Mr Ryan, was taken under tow.
The trip out and around the point to where the Raven lay at anchor was a slow one, owing to a strongly rising tide and a stiff southerly breeze but, after almost fifty minutes, we finally drew up under the steam gantry on the port side of the ship.
By this point the light was almost completely gone from the sky and, with the mountains throwing the harbour into shadow, conditions for loading the beam aboard were far from ideal. Further complicating the situation was the fact that several of the crewmen, having taken offence at Jimmy’s continued presence in the expedition party, were deliberately doing as little as possible t
o speed the process along.
With care and patience, however, we were eventually able to get the barge secured to the side of the Raven and begin the process of lowering the steam derrick to take the load on board. At this point, I ascended to the deck where I would direct proceedings, along with most of the other expeditioners including Alex and Doug.
Mr Ryan stayed aboard the barge to manage the slinging of the beam to the derrick’s halyard, insisting that Jimmy James remain there to assist him because, in his words, ‘You’ll not set foot on the deck of my ship again so long as I have anything to do with it.’
The ship’s engineer, Mr Weymouth, had built up a good head of steam to power the derrick, and once Ryan was happy that the load was suitably secured, he gave the signal and I ordered the crewman operating the crane to begin lifting.
Perhaps it was because we were all so intent on our various tasks, perhaps it was the fading light, perhaps just a combination of bad luck and poor timing. What happened next will remain with me until my dying day.
As the heavy timber lifted slowly from its cradle the bosun stood outboard of it, on the port beam of the barge, to steady its ascent. Curtly, he ordered Jimmy to position himself opposite to do the same – standing inboard between the beam and the hull and using his weight to stop the beam, which had begun to swing gently as it eased into the air, from striking the steel-clad hull of the Raven, or twisting and becoming impossible to manoeuvre aboard.
The sun was now well and truly down and the two men were sunk in shadow as they worked. The cables holding the boom of the derrick in place groaned a slight protest as the full weight came onto the lifting halyard but, when I turned to check them, they seemed sound and the cable was spooling onto the winch smoothly and easily. As the beam approached the halfway point in its ascent, I turned to direct the crewmen waiting to receive it on deck, who would move it into its position atop the boat racks over the forward deckhouse.
That was when it happened.
My memory of that next awful moment is not clear; it happened with such speed and such terrible, unexpected violence, that I struggle to recall it with clarity. All I know is that the evening was shattered by a scream, which was cut horribly short by the terrible, grinding sound of flesh and bone being crushed and shattered. There followed a loud curse and a splash and I spun and peered back over the rail where the timber beam was swinging violently, crashing first against the side of the Raven and then wildly back out over the water. Dick Ryan had fallen backwards into the river and now clung to the side of the barge, swearing fit to wake the dead.
Around me, I was vaguely aware of the other sailors crowding to the rail and shouting out to Ryan. The winch operator stopped the crane and a few men scrambled quickly down onto the deck of the barge, retrieving the bosun from the dark, cold water and carefully getting the beam back under control. At their feet lay the body of Jimmy James, his head a shattered pulp where the joist had crushed him against the cold armour-plate of the Raven.
In France, I saw plenty of death. I saw men gutted by shrapnel, bloated and purple from gas. Men with their limbs blasted clear away from their bodies, with their heads blown open by enemy snipers, with gangrene and foot-rot so bad that amputation was regarded as a mercy. Rarely, though, have I felt as sick to my stomach as when I looked at the body of that poor lad, laid out on the deck of the barge like a side of beef.
In the moment, of course, there was little I could do, other than take charge. As the ranking officer on the ship at the time, I could not afford to stand there gawping. The timber was still precariously unbalanced and most of the men in various states of shock.
The only one who wasn’t, it seemed, was Dick Ryan. Once back aboard the barge, he simply resumed his place on the portside rail, ordered one of the others to take Jimmy’s position, and cursed the winch driver for not getting the lift underway again quickly enough. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such cold disregard in the face of such tragedy.
Then, when the timber was finally stowed, he came over to where Alex, Doug and I were quietly discussing what action to take next. For a moment he said nothing, but fished inside his coat, pulled out his pipe, filled and lit it.
‘I’ll leave it to you to get him ashore and notify them as needs telling.’
The coldness in his eyes sent a shiver through me.
‘What happened?’ I asked, ignoring for the moment the fact that Ryan had no authority to command me at all. In reply the man shrugged.
‘Fool of a boy couldn’t hold the timber steady. Set of swells came through and set it swinging.’
‘I didn’t feel any swells,’ commented Doug, at which the bosun’s eyes narrowed.
‘Are yer calling me a liar?’ His voice was, I noticed, dangerously low. ‘This ship’s so heavy it’d take a typhoon to move it anything other than a couple of inches.’
There was, I decided, no point in antagonising the man now. In all honesty, all I wanted at that moment was to get as far from him as possible.
‘We’ll take the body ashore,’ I told him, ‘and inform Mr Rourke and the police. Nobody else is to leave the ship until you get orders from me to the contrary. Is that clear?’
‘Our arrangement with Mr Rourke is that only those on watch need remain aboard of an evening.’ Ryan stepped closer and allowed a cloud of pipe smoke to envelop my face, but I refused to back down.
‘My arrangement with Mr Rourke is that after him, Captain Smythe-Davis, and Captain McLaren, I’m in charge. And as none of those three gentlemen are presently on board to countermand my instructions, Mr Ryan, you’ll do as I say, or answer to Mr Rourke.’
For a moment I thought the man was about to strike me; his eyes narrowed and his tongue darted out, quickly moistening his lips, but then he shrugged again.
‘Suit yourself. I’ll deal with Rourke in the mornin’.’
With matters thus resolved, however unsatisfactorily, he slouched back up the deck towards the crew quarters in the forecastle, leaving Alex, Doug and me to the unsavoury task of loading poor Jimmy’s body into the dinghy for the long row back to the wharfs.
* * *
SIX
THE BLEAK HISTORY OF EDWARD PATRICK ROURKE (PART TWO). THE RAVEN DEPARTS FOR THE SOUTH.
Thus, in 1901 we have Edward Patrick Rourke, twenty-three years of age, independently wealthy, and suddenly unencumbered by ties of family, employment, or romance. For many a young man this would have been a recipe for disaster, however even at that age Edward Rourke was, if nothing else, an extraordinary individual.
By September of that year, with the estate of his father finally settled, Rourke decided to utilise a portion of his newly acquired wealth to see the world. The Paddington house, scene of his grandfather’s death and Edward’s family home, was put up for sale in early October and sold quickly for a considerable sum. Shortly after, Edward Rourke wrote to a school friend, one George Smythe-Davis, the middle son of one of Sydney’s more respected merchant bankers, informing him of his decision to depart Australia:
… it seems clear to me that, despite the losses which in recent months have beset me, there is also something of an opportunity in these circumstances, and I am determined to make the best of it. I recently visited my mother’s grave and the site of my father’s accident, at the Heads. Standing there, George, I looked out across the Pacific Ocean and found myself filled with a powerful urge to explore beyond the boundaries that you and I have known all our lives. It is to this end that I have decided to depart for England, and then on to parts unknown.
As to the matter of finance, I would ask of you and your family a favour. Having invested, on the advice of your father, a goodly proportion of my inheritance in various schemes and companies, I would be pleased if you would approach your father on my behalf and ask him to manage, in my absence, these investments. Naturally I would expect him to deduct whatever commission he feels appropriate as recompense for this service. Do not think me presumptuous, but in the expectation that he will agr
ee to this arrangement, I have included the necessary paperwork with this letter.
I doubt that I shall return to Sydney in the near future, but I should like to keep you informed of my progress, and hope that our paths will cross again.
You have been a true friend, George, where many others have fallen by the wayside. I will continue to think of you fondly.
Regards,
E.R.
On 15th October 1901, at 1630 hours, the Orient Line steamer Omrah cast off from Circular Quay and made her way slowly out past Fort Denison, down the harbour and through The Heads before turning north. I imagine that Edward Rourke would have stood at the portside rail, watching the hunching shape of North Head fade into the distance and the setting sun. Who knows what his thoughts might have been in that moment?
The Omrah arrived in England a little over a month later, having travelled via Singapore, Colombo, India, the Suez Canal, Egypt and Gibraltar. Surprisingly, although no record can be found of Edward Rourke having left the vessel at any of these ports, there is also no record of him actually arriving in England until almost three years later, in August 1904, when he disembarked at Southampton from aboard the P&O steamer Moldavia. He then travelled to London where he made contact with his grandfather on his mother’s side, the lawyer Richard Albright, now retired from his practice.
Details of where he spent the three years between his departure from Australia and his arrival in England are sketchy and somewhat contradictory. In one letter to George Smythe-Davis, dated March, 1902, he describes the British Indian Colonies.
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