… Frightfully civilised as only the Poms can be, but the vagaries of the tropical climate make many of the comforts of home into discomforts. Only the British would insist on dressing for dinner when the temperature is close to 100 and the air humid enough to slice. Bombay is an interesting city, and during my time here I have become a social member of the Cricket Club, as much for companionship as for anything else, for I find cricket a dull pastime in any case, let alone when played in this climate …
Strangely, there is no record of Edward Rourke, or any similar name, on the membership rolls of the BCC for that year, nor amongst the membership of any of the other leading expatriate associations prevalent in the colony at that time.
Indeed, Rourke seems to have effectively changed his identity for that period of his life – to what end I have no idea – and thus his arrival in England in 1904 was something of an odd reappearance.
Once he was established in England, the first mention I’ve been able to find of him, apart from his immigration documents, is in a journal entry by Richard Albright, made soon after his grandson’s arrival:
There is much about Edward that reminds me of his father, though he has none of Thomas’ studiousness about him; indeed, Edward carries himself with an impetuousness which I suspect has come from his mother – poor Fanny – rather than from his father’s side of the family …
Taking lodgings in a boarding house near Covent Garden, Edward appears to have spent his time in England planning the next stage of his wanderings. Albright’s journal reports him as a voracious follower of world events, with particular interest in scientific exploration.
No doubt, then, that he read an article which appeared click here of The Times on 12th September 1904, under the headline ‘Return of the Discovery’ and documenting the arrival back at Portsmouth of Captain Robert Falcon Scott’s first expedition to Antarctica: a mammoth, three-year undertaking during which time his ship had spent not one but two winters frozen solidly into position in the Ross Sea.
The Discovery, the principal ship of the National Antarctic Expedition, arrived in Portsmouth on Saturday. Early in the morning, soon after the vessel was signalled from the Nab lightship, Sir Clements Markham, president of the Royal Geographical Society, and a number of dockyard officials, went out in a tug and boarded the vessel at Spithead. A number of friends of the officers, including several ladies, also steamed out to the Discovery, and cordially greeted the explorers, who were in the best of health and spirits. All were deeply bronzed, and were in most cases stouter than when they left England …
The article goes on to outline some of the adventures and hardships endured by Scott and the men under his command, and concludes with the announcement that the King had ordered the striking of a new medal – a polar commendation – of which Scott would be the first recipient.
Perhaps it was this item of news which first planted in Edward Rourke’s imagination the thought of Antarctica. Certainly it is difficult, even now, to read the article and not feel stirred at the remarkable scientific and personal achievements of the men of the 1901–1904 National Antarctic Expedition, several of whom never returned from the South. Certainly, by the end of 1904, Rourke was a regular attendee at lectures given at the Royal Geographical Society, attending functions and listening to addresses, including at least one by Ernest Shackleton, who had accompanied Scott on the 1901 expedition and who, upon his return to England, began almost immediately seeking support to lead an expedition of his own.
It would appear that the notion of voyaging to the mysterious frozen continent lodged itself firmly in Rourke’s ambitions. In 1906 he wrote to George Smythe-Davis:
I find myself increasingly interested in the prospect of visiting the Antarctic continent, and would be pleased to do so in the name of Australia …
and in early 1907:
Shackleton has informed the RGS that he intends spending next year’s winter in Antarctica. I am determined to secure for myself a position among his crew …
Unfortunately for Rourke, Ernest Shackleton, upon announcing his intentions, received four hundred applications for the handful of berths aboard his ship. With no specific scientific training or polar experience, Edward Rourke was not numbered among the successful.
Interestingly though, perhaps the most difficult task Shackleton faced in organising his 1907 Nimrod expedition was that of securing a suitable amount of finance for the undertaking. Indeed, upon his return to England in 1909, and despite a grant of 20 000 pounds from the British Government to help defray the costs of the voyage, Shackleton spent several years after the expedition giving lectures in both Europe and America to help repay his loans. Despite this, and Rourke’s capacity to purchase a position for himself, the great polar explorer still refused Rourke a berth, a fact recorded by Richard Albright:
My grandson is in a fine temper at the moment, having been informed by Mr Shackleton that, while a position in his polar expeditionary party cannot be made available, any donation that Edward might wish to contribute towards the cost of the voyage would be gratefully received …
In 1909, Scott announced that he would be returning to make a bid for the pole, and again, Rourke was among the applicants. This time, however, he found himself competing not against four hundred but well over a thousand hopefuls, including some of the most experienced polar explorers in the world at that time. Again, despite offers of financial support in return for a place on the Terra Nova, Rourke was politely declined.
In late 1910 Rourke approached the RGS himself, proposing to fund an expedition of his own and seeking to do so under the official imprimatur of that organisation. The approval of the Royal Geographic Society would not only have lent Rourke a degree of official credence, but would have generated much publicity, as Society-sponsored expeditions regularly made front-page news throughout the Empire and this greatly facilitated the entire process of recruitment for an expedition.
Given his complete lack of polar experience, however, the Society was reluctant to throw its considerable reputation behind him, especially with expeditions headed up by such experienced luminaries as Scott, Shackleton and the Australian Douglas Mawson, currently in various stages of planning. Major Leonard Darwin, son of the famous naturalist and an officer of the RGS at the time of Rourke’s proposal, is reputed to have commented after meeting the young Australian that he had demonstrated ‘… brash disregard for the realities of polar exploration, and an arrogance of approach which made it extraordinarily difficult to consider his proposal with any degree of seriousness …’
Rebuffed by the RGS, frustrated in his increasing obsession with the South Pole by the seeming impossibility of getting there, and tired of England, Rourke decided in late 1911 to return to Australia via the United States. He wrote to George Smythe-Davis:
I am heartily sick of this country; of the people and the whole bloody place. Scott and his lot are almost certain to take the prize of the pole and I would rather not be here for that occasion. I think, George, that it is time for me to pull up anchor again and depart for more familiar shores where, perhaps, I shall consider the prospect of putting together my own little jaunt to the south, and the RGS can be damned!
The RMS Carpathia, which just a couple of months later would secure its place in the history books by rescuing the survivors of the ill-fated Titanic, left for New York in January carrying among its passengers Edward Rourke who, despite his personal wealth having grown considerably in the intervening ten years, travelled in a second-class cabin.
From New York, he made his way west in gradual stages, travelling seemingly without purpose or destination. His letters to his grandfather and to George Smythe-Davis during this period speak of his increasing disillusionment with the world, the pointlessness of his existence and refer obliquely, on more than one occasion, to thoughts of suicide. He was still in the United States in 1913 when the news of Scott’s death stunned the world, an event from which Rourke perversely seems to have drawn some cheer:
<
br /> Perhaps it was for the greater good that I was unable to secure myself a place among that ill-fated mob, for it certainly seems as though Scott made a complete hash of things …
By late 1913, with Europe on the brink of war and Australia almost certain to become involved, Rourke made the decision to remain in the United States for an extended period. A cynic might consider that this was simply to avoid the pressure of military service, and perhaps there is some truth in this. Certainly, when he learns by mail of his friend’s intention to sign up, Rourke’s reply is emphatic:
Naturally, George, you must do what you must do, and nobody will criticise you for endeavouring to serve your country. For myself, though, I would rather throw my life behind a purpose in which I can see some future, rather than pointless bloodshed. I think I shall remain here in the United States, for a little longer, at least, and perhaps reconsider the possibility of an expedition to the Pole …
In August of that year, Germany declared war on Russia and the world plunged headlong into its first major industrialised conflict. In September, Edward Rourke met a San Francisco woman by the name of Elizabeth McAdams and plunged headlong into his first, and only, major love affair. From the few accounts I’ve been able to locate, the two conflicts were not so dissimilar.
Certainly by the time the war drew to its bloody conclusion in 1918, the affair between Rourke and McAdams had reached a similar détente, with the result that in December of that year Rourke departed the United States, bound for Sydney, with his southern polar ambitions more alive than ever before.
Coincidentally, he arrived back in his home city at almost the same time that the troopship Orontes – the larger sister ship of the Omrah on which Edward Rourke had sailed from Sydney years earlier – arrived from Europe via Melbourne, carrying among its war-weary passengers Rourke’s longtime friend and correspondent George Smythe-Davis, nursing a badly wounded leg.
The two friends, reacquainted after so long, immediately began planning the undertaking that had, for so many years now, been Edward Rourke’s driving ambition. His fortune was not simply intact, but considerably expanded thanks to the sound financial management of the Smythe-Davis family, who had invested significantly in, among other things, steel and iron – those two mainstay industries of modern warfare. With the help and support of his good friend George, and with a seemingly limitless budget, Edward Patrick Rourke began to develop a strategy to write his own name among the great men of polar exploration.
Of course, by this time the notion of conquering the pole itself was old news; Amundsen and Scott had seen to that eight years earlier. Mawson and Shackleton had further captured the public’s imagination with their various tales of survival, and Frank Hurley’s photographs of the latter’s epic trek across the sea ice during the winter of 1914 were still drawing huge crowds wherever they were exhibited. Rourke knew that merely visiting the pole, simply following in other men’s footsteps, would not gain him the respect he craved and so he turned his sights to the east – looking to the bare, empty coastline extending west from Mawson’s base at Commonwealth Bay, the site from which he would launch his own bid to become a part of Antarctic history.
* * *
From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downes
24th December, 1921
Polar Exploration Vessel Raven
Approx. 45°42’S, 147°18’E
Well, finally we are away. After having endured much irritation and been plagued by so many delays, the replacement meteorological equipment arrived aboard the Loongana yesterday evening and Mr Rourke wasted no time having it transferred immediately (and carefully!) out to the Raven, so we might put to sea without wasting any further time.
Alex is delighted with his new toys, like a child at Christmas, appropriately enough. The rest of us are relieved finally to be underway.
After so long sitting at anchor, our farewell was a rather anticlimactic affair. Unlike my previous departure from Australia, this time there was no bunting or crowds of well-wishers to wave us off. Instead, we slunk down the river before first light, stopping only to bring on board the dogs and their handlers at Kingston. By the time the residents of Hobart arose to face the day, we were well clear of the Derwent and sailing due south.
Last night, after receiving word that today would be the day, I wrote to both my parents and to Elsie, bidding them farewell and informing them that they should not expect to hear from me until, at the very earliest, the end of next summer. Mr Rourke has continued to insist that we maintain a high degree of discretion until after our tilt at the pole and so I have not been able to tell them any specifics. He is terrified that somebody will have the same idea and will beat him to the punch, as happened with Scott.
It is a long and no doubt risky venture that we are embarking upon, but worth it, I think, for what we stand to achieve for our country and families. Certainly I am already looking forward to returning home to Weatherly, and wonder if this journey, with all that it will entail, will perhaps cure me forever of my need to wander.
The ship itself is a tight fit with all of us aboard; the scientific and expedition staff are all sharing the wardroom, which is a squeeze. Only Mr Rourke and Captain McLaren have their own cabins, while the rest of us are either sharing two to a room, or are bunked down wherever space can be found. Ivan and Piotre, the dog handlers, Per, our sledging and ski-instructor, and the Moreton brothers have had to make do with hammocks slung in the ’tween deck, and the ship’s crew, which after poor Jimmy’s ‘accident’ now numbers only thirteen, are all housed forward, their hammocks slung in the forecastle. Mr Ryan and Mr O’Hanlon, the steward, share a cabin in the forward deckhouse and Mr Piper, our cook and possibly the most important man aboard, has his own small alcove off the galley, also in the deckhouse.
Up on the main deck, in rows of kennels built along the sides of the funnel house and the deckhouse, our sixty dogs are tucked safely out of the weather. They seem to be an exuberant bunch, but very likeable – anyone who ventures near enough to the kennels generally receives a thorough licking for his efforts, accompanied by much wagging of tails.
So it is really a cosy situation. Every available inch of space aboard is taken up by something; even the ship’s boats, which have been racked upturned atop the deckhouse along with the hut timber, have gear lashed to their sides, including our sledges. The lower deck is barely navigable, filled as it is with food, fuel, water and every other supply from dynamite to ice-picks.
With all this aboard, the Raven is sitting alarmingly low in the water, however there is a gentle north-westerly blowing and the swell is not large so she is not rolling too badly. The Captain has ordered all the square sails set and braced to port and we are making good a speed of around eight knots, which, if we can maintain it, should put us at the ice edge in about nine or ten days.
It is a strange sensation, to set course directly south from Tasmania, a little like sailing off the edge of the world. I can imagine why, on ancient maps and charts, map-makers used to write ‘there be dragons’ to fill these empty wastes. When we left for France we sailed first from Melbourne to Perth and there had a couple of days leave before finally shipping out for Egypt. As we steamed from Fremantle into the Indian Ocean, the lads and I stood at the stern rail and watched the low, scrubby western coast fading into the distance behind us and I distinctly remember Percy turning to the rest of us and saying, ‘Well, boys, from here it’s not much to look at, but let’s all try and get back home after we’ve got the Poms out of their spot of bother, eh?’
At the time, we all laughed and it was a good feeling, exciting to know that we were off with a purpose and that I had around me a group of blokes who’d watch my back, whatever happened.
This morning’s departure, though, felt markedly different. The same apprehension I experienced when leaving for the war was there, but without any of the reassurance. This morning, as the sun was climbing into the eastern sky, I stood on the poop, looking back at Mount Wellington
as it gradually vanished into the morning haze, and was aware only of a disconcerting sense of dread.
This is probably exacerbated somewhat by the atmosphere on board, which is strained, especially among the crew. The whole business with Jimmy has left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth and the ease with which Mr Rourke seemed able to keep the affair quiet has put most of us on edge. Several of the crew won’t venture near the port rail where the incident occurred and this earns them the wrath of Mr Ryan every time they are too slow at getting to a task. I overheard a couple of them two days ago complaining that without a replacement for Jimmy, we’d be sailing with a thirteen-man crew, and that portentous number has never been a welcome one aboard any ship.
I know I’m not the only one concerned about these issues. Last night, over a final dinner ashore together, George Smythe-Davis was clearly preoccupied and when I enquired whether he was all right, he took a long time to respond.
‘You know something, Will?’ he said. ‘I’ve known Edward Rourke for many, many years, and I’ve always thought him rather lost. I’d hoped that having his dream finally within his reach might lend him some perspective and balance, but I’m starting to wonder if I’ve not been very much mistaken.’
I replied that in the short time I’ve known him, Mr Rourke has always struck me as a particularly focused individual and certainly not lacking in direction.
‘That’s not what I’m talking about,’ George answered. ‘William, you and I served our country. We know about duty and what it is to rely utterly on your mates. Edward, for all his talk of greater glory, has never been in that situation. He doesn’t realise how important it is to establish trust from your men, and it’s got me worried. This whole business with Jimmy, for example – the way he’s kept it quiet, getting him buried so quick – the crew aren’t happy and that’s not a good start to any voyage.’
Into White Silence Page 9