I pointed out that the crew hadn’t particularly liked Jimmy and George shook his head.
‘That doesn’t matter. The way Edward’s dealt with the whole affair – not letting anyone attend the service, for example – makes them feel that they don’t matter to him. That they’re expendable. And it worries me that Edward doesn’t seem to understand this. I always thought he had more substance to him than that.’
For some time we fell into an uneasy silence, while I considered the Captain’s suggestion. True, there have been occasions during the last couple of months when I’ve had cause to question Mr Rourke’s approach to matters, but he has also managed to overcome every obstacle which has been placed in our path and this has been no mean achievement. After some thought, I ventured the suggestion that both George and I, and no doubt the rest of the expedition including Mr Rourke, are simply exhausted from these last few weeks and more than a little apprehensive about the tasks to come and that this is colouring our perception of events. At this, George nodded.
‘Perhaps you’re right, Will. Let’s hope so. It’ll certainly be good to put to sea tomorrow.’
He was right about that, at least. As I write this, I am sitting at the table in the wardroom and the ship, which is listing just slightly to port from the pressure of the wind against the sails, is rolling gently with the following swell. The thump of the engine below is like a reassuring heartbeat and, through the skylight, the creak of the rigging has fallen into a regular rhythm.
Most of the men have turned in early, in anticipation of the hard work that awaits us once we get to the ice, and I am certain that as the days pass everyone aboard will fall into a more relaxed routine and the tensions which have dogged these last couple of weeks will fade. Once the real business of mapping the eastern coastline is underway the crew will be busy manoeuvring the ship in the ice and the rest of us will have our hands full managing the various science programs that Mr Rourke intends to undertake. I have agreed to learn the procedures for reading the atmospheric and weather equipment, in case Alex should become incapacitated, as well as learning the skills to handle the ship when my duties call for it.
On that subject, I should finish this entry and take to my bunk, as my duties at sea include the middle watch, between midnight and 0400, which starts just a few short hours from now.
* * *
SEVEN
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF LIEUTENANT WILLIAM DOWNES (PART ONE). A VISIT TO WEATHERLY. CHRISTMAS ABOARD THE RAVEN.
‘We slunk down the river before first light …’ Downes probably never realised as he penned them how prophetic – and how utterly portentous – those words would be. When the Raven pulled up anchor on Christmas Eve, 1921 and turned her black bow south towards the waiting ice, she was quite literally creeping into the abyss of forgotten history.
Had someone – an illicit lover creeping home in the small hours, for example – chanced to glance out across the Derwent, early on that chill December morning, they might well have noted the spectral shape of a heavily laden ship, easing silently away from her mooring and out into the deeper channel up the middle of the river. Perhaps an insomniac dog-walker heard the faint thump and hiss of a steam engine murmuring across the water. Certainly the night watch at the Quarantine Station, no doubt roused from their beds by an impatient Edward Rourke, would have taken a moment to glance out at the black ship, silhouetted against the silver-cast water in the waning moonlight.
Anyone who caught a glimpse of the Raven’s stern-light as she slipped over the horizon and into the murk of a Southern Ocean dawn would have been among the last people ever to lay eyes upon the ship, or the men aboard her.
The Harbourmaster’s log for Hobart on 24th December 1921 makes no mention of the departure of the Raven, or of any other ship, for that matter. The leases on the Elizabeth Street suites and on the expedition warehouse were both discharged in full on the afternoon of the 23rd, and without any forwarding address being registered.
In short, Edward Rourke managed to orchestrate, on that dark December morning, one of the greatest disappearing acts in the last hundred years.
Strangely, events were to conspire such that the disappearance of the Raven and its crew, once enacted, would not be easily revealed, even years later. The families of those men who’d sailed – the loved ones left behind – had all been quite deliberately misdirected. So much so that, when their sons and brothers failed to return from their strange undertaking, anyone attempting to track their movements would find themselves faced with a maze of contradictory information, false names and dead ends put into place by Rourke, often without the knowledge even of the men involved.
The fate of Downes is, perhaps, a perfect case in point.
In early January, 1921, a week and a half after the Raven had set sail, two plain, cream-coloured envelopes were delivered to the post office in the Victorian town of Ballarat. Both were addressed in copperplate handwriting which would be instantly familiar to those whose names were inscribed there. One was to go to Mr and Mrs Stephen Downes, of Weatherly Station, a couple well known in the district as landholders and also as the parents of a decorated war hero. The other was to be delivered to a Miss Elsie Stapledon, the daughter of a local dressmaker and William Downes’ patient sweetheart.
By the end of 1924, Stephen and Mary Downes, having had no word from, or news of, their son since December 1921, had all but given up hope of ever laying eyes on him again. His father, understandably angry, booked himself a passage to Hobart to attempt to track down anything which might lead him to his son.
His first port of call was the boarding house run by Mrs Dora Pilkington, who remembered his son fondly as ‘a neat and quiet young bloke, who always paid his rent on time, and never really spoke about himself …’ When asked about the last time she’d seen him, she recalled that, ‘He told me that the business upon which he’d come to Hobart was now all concluded, and then paid out the balance of the month on his room. I asked after his plans, so that I could forward any mail which might arrive, and he told me I should send it to Weatherly Station care of the Ballarat GPO …’
In Elizabeth Street, Stephen Downes was shown the empty rooms at number two, where Rourke and Smythe-Davis had stored much of their equipment, and the suite upstairs in number seven, which was now being leased to a young fisherman and his family. Neither place yielded any indication as to the current whereabouts of its former occupants.
Naturally, he assumed his son had travelled to the south. A letter to his wife back in Weatherly indicates as much:
There seems no other possible explanation, nor reason for Will to have spent so long here, and no other place that he could have vanished so completely, but I’ll be damned if I can find anything which gives me a clue, Mary. I spoke today to the harbourmaster’s office, and they have promised to check their logs and so forth, but were not particularly forthcoming, nor hopeful of finding anything. Likewise, the local constabulary have been less than enthusiastic to assist, suggesting that, with no evidence to the contrary, Will might have met a new sweetheart and taken off to the mainland with her. Tomorrow I will visit the offices of the local newspaper, the Mercury, and will spend the day reading their back-collection, searching for any reference to Will, or this Rourke character …
Sadly, this search too would have proved almost certainly fruitless, unless he happened to notice either a small comment in the shipping news section on 29th December:
The curious black vessel which has been moored in Sandy Bay for some months now would appear to have set sail over the Christmas holiday, for parts unknown …
Or the following funeral notice, posted by an anonymous source a week earlier:
James J, tragically and fatally injured in a cargo handling accident. Service at St Jerome’s chapel tomorrow, 0900, and burial at city cemetery thereafter. RIP.
Even had one of these tiny snippets aroused his attention, it’s unlikely that Downes’ father would have been able to make the appropriate connecti
ons.
After he returned to Weatherly, he and his wife gradually settled into a long period of grieving for their lost son. Into an album, Mary collected and preserved what she could of William – a lock of hair from his first haircut as a baby, an achievement ribbon from primary school, photographs of him in his army uniform, looking handsome and ready to take on the world and, of course, the letters she received from him during his times away from home. For the most part these document his experiences in Europe, however the final four were posted from Hobart between October and December 1921, and list Mrs Pilkington’s as the return address.
The four letters are remarkable in their circumspection; even the most discerning reader would be unable to decipher much about William Downes’ activities from them. The opening paragraphs of the first letter make this abundantly clear.
Dear Father and Mother,
You will be pleased to know that I am safely in Hobart, and am finding the town a very pleasant place. I have met with Mr Rourke and, while I cannot reveal the nature or specifics of the undertaking for which he seeks my services, I can tell you that it is a very exciting notion that he has in mind for us. Both he and Captain Smythe-Davis have asked me to use the most careful discretion in discussing the project, to minimise the opportunity for somebody else to snatch our prize from us. Captain Smythe-Davis is looking very well, and it is certainly a pleasure to be reacquainted with him …
More telling though, is the final letter, dated 23rd December 1921, the last words that Stephen and Mary Downes would receive from their child.
Dear Father and Mother,
I hope this finds you both well and that the weather at home is not shaping up too hot for the summer. I miss you both, and Archie, Violet and Elsie, of course, and already am looking forward to returning to you all.
This will not be for some time, however, as tomorrow morning we look set to finally depart Hobart and get started on what we all hope will be a successful and important venture. Mr Rourke’s desire for confidentiality, far from decreasing, has grown ever more strident as we approach the moment of our leave-taking, and so I shall continue to honour his wishes in this regard. I am keeping a detailed journal of this adventure, however, and I look forward to being able to share that with you on my return.
While our plans and destination must thus remain shrouded in secrecy, I can tell you that after Mr Rourke and Captain Smythe-Davis, I shall be third in charge of our expedition and that this will involve significant efforts on my part, but nothing I feel unable to handle. At its end, we will have achieved considerable regard for Australia and also, of course, for the King and the Commonwealth. More importantly, we hope to make considerable contributions to advancing knowledge in the scientific and geological fields.
It will be quite some time before I am able to write to you again, as our travels will be taking us well out of the path of most civilisation, and for at least eighteen months – possibly more. Please do not worry during that time, as I will be quite safe. Captain Smythe-Davis and myself have spent these last months, among other things, planning for every possible contingency and danger that might overtake us and our men, and we are both confident that we can face whatever might be thrown our way. The Captain often jokes that after Bullecourt, nothing could ever make him fear for his life again.
I shall think of you both daily and, when this is done, will doubtless find it in me to settle at Weatherly, marry Elsie, and begin a life as we had always imagined it.
I shall write to Elsie under separate enclosure, but would ask that you keep an eye out for her, and should she decide that the wait for my return is too much, then let her know that I will understand.
Give my love to Archie and Vi, and give Bessie a carrot and a pat from me.
With love, your son,
Will
The album, containing this and Downes’ other letters, was donated along with the Lieutenant’s war medals to the town museum in Ballarat after the death of Mary Downes in 1948. It is displayed beside a clipping from the local newspaper, the Courier, dated 1919.
LOCAL LADS HOME FROM THE FRONT
Six young men from Ballarat and the surrounding districts this week arrived home from the fighting in Europe, having returned to Melbourne by way of Fremantle last week. Lawrence Darby, William Downes, Jack Morris, Ernest Norrison and Frank Harcourt all served in France with the Australian 4th Brigade, and return home having received honourable discharges, following the cessation of hostilities.
While all have served their country with distinction, special mention must be made of William Downes, son of local pastoralist Stephen and his wife Mary, who distinguished himself by firstly occupying and holding German positions, and then saving the life of his Captain while under heavy fire. For his actions, the Lieutenant received the distinguished service medallion, first class.
After his unsuccessful visit to Hobart, Stephen Downes returned to his farm and together he and his younger son, Archie, struggled to keep things afloat during the depression of the late ’20s and early ’30s. From time to time, he would attempt to raise some interest in the mystery of William’s disappearance – writing regularly to newspapers and to his local member of parliament – but aside from polite responses, he received little assistance. As the world jolted through the tumult of the ’30s and then launched itself into the Second World War, Stephen Downes, now a broken man, became a shadow of his former self. In May of 1940 he contracted a form of cancer and passed away at Weatherly just a month and a half later.
Weatherly continued in the care of Mary Downes and her son Archie who, in October 1925, four years after the disappearance of his older brother, had married Elsie Stapledon in a small private ceremony held in the lady chapel of the Ballarat Catholic Cathedral. According to parish records, both the bride and groom were twenty-six years old at the time of their wedding.
Every year I talk about my books and writing at various schools, conferences and literary festivals. Sometimes this kind of work is rewarding, sometimes less so. Almost invariably it’s exhausting. Since my return from Antarctica, when the journal of William Downes entered my life and my dreams, I’ve actually come to anticipate and look forward to this exhaustion, the utter sense of emptiness that fills you at the end of a day of public speaking, because at least during those times I sleep properly.
Until last year when, in Melbourne during the third week of a month-long series of appearances, I woke screaming one night at 3.00 am, torn from my slumber by yet another nightmare. My arms and legs and face were slick, my hair plastered to my forehead, and in my haste to drive away the darkness I knocked the table lamp from the small chest of drawers beside my bed. When I finally retrieved it, groping on the floor in the dark then switching it on, I knew I’d not be getting back to sleep that night.
As usual, of the specific details of my nightmare I could recall nothing, other than bone-numbing cold.
In my suitcase, the journal, which travelled with me everywhere, was packed neatly beneath my clothes. After making myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves, I retrieved it and settled myself in a lounge chair by the window of my rented apartment.
Outside, Melbourne shuddered through a winter storm; the wind – penetratingly icy as only Melbourne wind can be – howled in from Port Phillip Bay, and somewhere in the distance a police siren wailed into the night.
By this point, I’d read Downes’ journal countless times – I knew the words by heart – but as I combed through it in the small hours of that Melbourne morning it struck me that nobody, no matter how thoroughly they try, can ever vanish completely. There will always be, there must always be, shadows left behind.
And for William Downes, those shadows were in Ballarat.
At 7.45, as the weak sun clawed its way into the sky behind a layer of grey Melbourne overcast, I phoned my booking agent Lauris and lied to her, saying I felt a touch of laryngitis coming on and needed a day to recuperate, and that I was cancelling my appearances for that day. While this didn�
�t make her especially happy, she said she understood, and would deal with the schools in question.
Then I got into my car and headed over the West Gate Bridge, sat in traffic on the Ring Road for twenty-five minutes, and finally turned onto the Western Freeway and left the city behind me as I cruised towards Ballarat.
On the outskirts of town I stopped at a petrol station, bought a map of the area and a coffee, and then drove around aimlessly until 10.00, when the town museum opened. There, among the mining paraphernalia and relics of the Eureka stockade, I found a display on the two world wars and in that, sitting on a black-covered table and gently lit by low voltage lamps, was the album Mary Downes had put together to commemorate her vanished son.
Under the pretence that I was doing research for a book about returned soldiers, I asked if it would be possible to examine the album. After some discussion, the curator, a lovely woman, agreed on the proviso that she supervise my handling of the object.
‘It’s rather special, this one,’ she told me. ‘There’s something of a mystery surrounding Lieutenant Downes.’
Acutely aware that the journal in which the fate of Lieutenant Downes had lain buried for almost ninety years was at that very moment resting in my bag on the floor beside me, I had to fake ignorance.
‘What sort of mystery?’ I asked, feeling completely transparent.
‘Quite a good one, actually.’ She turned the pages of the album to show me the final four letters and suggested, jokingly, ‘Perhaps you should write a book about it!’
The handwriting on that creamy paper was instantly familiar to me and I almost spilled the beans then and there, but managed to contain myself.
Into White Silence Page 10