‘That’s me.’ I wasn’t certain whether or not to offer my hand in introduction. I started to but then, when I’d half stuck it towards him, came to the horrible realisation that he might be too infirm to take it and so, not wanting to add insult, I scratched my chin in an awkward gesture which I’m certain both of them saw right through. Rose laughed and her husband snorted.
‘How about a cup of that?’ he nodded at the teapot and Rose poured him a cup which, I noted to my chagrin, he accepted with a rock-steady hand and took a long and clearly satisfying sip.
‘My dad used to talk about Downes.’
‘Your dad?’ My surprise must have shown in my expression, because Rose interjected.
‘Sam’s dad fought with William in the First World War.’
‘Always said that he was a heck of a soldier, but a bit too brave for his own good, if you take my meaning.’
I didn’t, and said so.
‘My father always reckoned that war was for the stupid. When I talked about joining up to go fight Hitler’s mob, I remember him telling me that he didn’t give a damn whether I was seventeen or not, he’d still thrash me to within an inch of my life if I went anywhere near the recruiters before my twenty-first birthday. By then, of course, it was just about all over.’
‘He didn’t want you to follow his footsteps?’
‘No bloody way. And he didn’t have too much good to say about Downes, either.’
‘Why not?’
‘Ah …’ The old man looked away, briefly. ‘It’s all water under the bridge, now. No point dragging it all up again.’
‘I’d really be interested to know. It’s for a book I’m working on …’
‘Don’t be such an old grump,’ Rose interrupted, and it was her insult, rather than my entreaty, which convinced the old man.
‘Downes got himself decorated over some bit of derring-do, right? And when they got back, there was a huge amount of fuss. He was the man of the moment and barely a word for the blokes who had to go back out and rescue him and the captain whose orders he’d disobeyed.’
‘Your dad was one of them?’
‘And he was none too pleased about it, either. Two of the six that went out to retrieve Downes and his captain took bullets for their efforts, and my dad always said that if Downes had followed orders instead of trying to be a hero, they’d all have come home intact.’
‘Except Captain Smythe-Davis,’ I said, without stopping to think, and the old man regarded me with sudden curiosity.
‘You have done your homework, haven’t you, son?’
Inwardly, I swore at myself.
‘It’s part of my job, the research,’ I offered, to which Sam Harcourt grunted.
‘In any case,’ he eventually continued, ‘my old man wasn’t at all surprised when Downes vanished. He said it had to happen eventually, one way or another.’
‘What had to happen?’
‘William Downes letting his need to be a hero get him into a sticky situation.’
‘So he blamed William?’
‘’Course.’
‘What about your mother?’ I turned back to Rose. ‘You were beginning to tell me about her earlier.’
The old woman didn’t answer immediately, but she and her husband exchanged a long look.
‘You might as well tell him.’ Sam growled.
‘She blamed him, too?’ I asked.
‘I think so. But I think she also just wanted to let the past stay past.’
‘And yet she married his brother.’
Rose shrugged. ‘Love is a funny thing. It puts people in awful situations, I think. Wait there …’
Rising, she bustled inside, leaving me alone with Sam, who eyed me balefully.
‘How’d you get interested in William Downes, anyway?’ he asked, but I was saved from having to answer by Rose, returning from the house clutching one of those plastic sleeves that clip into lever-arch files.
‘We found this among my mother’s effects after she died. She never told me about it when she was alive and I’ve never shown it to a soul. You’re the first person outside our family to read it.’
Inside the sleeve, an envelope, once the twin of that in Mary Downes’ album but now faded and yellowed with age and inscribed with Elsie Stapledon’s name.
‘May I?’ I asked, and Rose nodded.
I gently removed the envelope from the plastic sleeve and withdrew the single sheet of paper contained within;
23rd December, 1921
Dearest Elsie,
By the time this letter reaches you, I will be some days sailed from Hobart, with no prospect of returning for at least eighteen months, if all goes well, and considerably longer if, God forbid, something goes awry.
I wish, dear, that I were in a position to tell you the more precise detail of where I am going and why I am so intent on our goal, so that you might understand more fully my reasons for taking the difficult decision to leave you for so long. I cannot, however, because the nature of our expedition is such that discretion must remain central to our success.
Elsie darling, I can imagine how hard this must be for you and can only entreat you to believe that it is equally as difficult for me, knowing the plans we have made. When I return, though, we shall be in a position to start a long and prosperous future together.
I should like to tell you that, if the long duration of my absence proves too great for you to endure and you should decide to end our engagement and seek happiness with another man, then I will of course understand.
For now, though, I find myself at something of a loss for what to say. I would have liked to have been able to return to Weatherly to visit you in person at least one last time before my departure but, owing to the time constraints on the expedition, this has not been possible and so this brief letter will have to suffice as my farewell to you.
I write in the journal that you gave me, every day, and when I return, I look forward to you reading in it my account of the adventure ahead. Until then, please know that I will think of you each time I write in it.
I must depart now, to ensure that this letter makes the evening post.
I remain, your fond and loving fiancé,
Will
I read the letter perhaps four times before folding it and returning it to its envelope.
‘What do you think?’ Rose regarded me with a coldly curious expression, something at odds with her otherwise warm effusiveness.
‘It’s certainly circumspect,’ I replied.
‘That’s a polite way of putting it, Mr Eaton. He left my poor Mum without a thing to go on, not so much as a hint. And even though I know she loved my father and they were happy together, I also know that to her dying day my mother wondered about what might have been with William. She never knew why he left them, or if it was something to do with her. She always wondered if there was something she should have done or said to keep him at Weatherly. It’s a terrible legacy to leave to a person you supposedly loved, don’t you agree?’
I had to admit that I did.
* * *
From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downes
29th December, 1921
Polar Exploration Vessel Raven
Approx. 54°36’S, 147°9’E
Things finally settling down again aboard. Much of today was spent below, with all hands either re-stowing and securing cargo or repairing damage done during the storm.
Doctor Dalby has his hands full at the moment, with several of the men having taken quite nasty falls and injuries during the gale. Charles Weymouth, our engineer, fell hard against the boiler door at one point and has severe burns to his left arm and hand, which is hampering his movement considerably. Greg Shannon-Stacey also took a bad fall down the chartroom companionway and is nursing a sprained ankle, and a number of the other men suffered various cuts and bruises in their efforts to help secure the ship.
Overall though, we should count ourselves thankful that the final account isn’t far worse. Most
of the supplies seem to have come through intact and the injuries sustained will all heal relatively quickly.
With the weather now well behind us, we are once again steaming south and making reasonable time. The conditions outside are grey – a high layer of foggy cloud has kept the sun hidden all day, allowing only a diffused and eerie light to penetrate. The seas, while comparatively calm, are similarly grey.
For several hours this afternoon a pair of large albatross, enormous creatures with wingspans that looked to be about five-feet across, trailed along behind us. Their mastery of the air as they wheeled just inches above the waves made the efforts of our ship to batter her way south appear ponderous and futile by comparison. For some time I perched myself on the midships kennels and simply watched them, and must admit that I envied them their freedom.
For the Raven is fast becoming a very small world indeed and not, it pains me to say, a happy one. Piotre remains sunk in a morphine-induced stupor and his presence, strapped into his hammock in the ’tween deck, is a constant reminder to the rest of the company of the terrible events of two days ago. The loss of Ivan also leaves us with a dilemma: given that he was the senior and more experienced of the two dog-men and spoke the most English, we were reliant upon his expertise for both managing the animals and training the rest of us in the nuances of handling a sled-dog team. While Piotre seems to have a decent rapport with the dogs, he is nevertheless young, and his limited language skills mean that learning from him will be something of a challenge for all involved.
Among the crew there is also a degree of ill-feeling, especially towards Mr Rourke, evident in the dark looks thrown his way every time he appears on deck. The ease with which he made the decision to abandon Ivan to his fate goes against all of the basic principles by which men at sea live and has, yet again, planted in their imaginations the notion that their lives mean little to him. Worse, it appears that the men are quite willing to extend Mr Rourke’s culpability to include anyone in a position of responsibility. None of the regular crew will even address him, George or myself at the moment and Mr Ryan, when he does have to interact with any of us, does so with a politeness so excessive it borders on insolence.
This situation has not been at all improved by the speech which Mr Rourke made this afternoon. After the lunchtime meal was complete, he had all hands mustered on deck so that he might address us. Once all were present, ship’s crew and expeditioners alike, he eyed us for several seconds with that dark, penetrating glare of his, before speaking. His words did not exactly inspire confidence.
‘In the last day or so, both Mr Ryan and Mr Downes have suggested to me, on separate occasions, that perhaps the unfortunate incident with Ivan could have been handled differently.’ He paused at this point, and turned the full force of his gaze upon me. The usual flintiness in his eyes was somehow colder than usual. ‘In response, I want to make one thing completely clear: this is my expedition, my ship, and what I bloody say goes. I don’t give a damn what any of you think – you can disagree with me until the bloody cows come home – but the next person to voice their opinions will find themselves clapped in the brig and they’ll stay there until we get home again. Is that understood?’
His question met only silence – stunned disbelief from most of the expeditioners, and sullen resentment from the men. Rourke held his stare upon us though, until finally Mr Ryan spoke.
‘That all you wanted to say, sir?’ To which Rourke nodded, sharply and just the once. Ryan turned his back on the leader then, and growled at the crew, ‘Alright, then. We’re done ’ere an’ we all know where we stand, now. You lot’ve got tasks to do so get back to ’em.’
The crew slouched away to their various duties and, after one last long, baleful glare in my direction, Mr Rourke spun and marched back to the poop, where he immediately engaged Captain McLaren in conversation about other matters.
The rest of us dispersed in twos and threes, returning to whatever tasks we’d been working on before lunch. I wanted to talk to George Smythe-Davis about Mr Rourke’s comments and I found him in the wardroom along with Greg Shannon-Stacey. Greg’s injured ankle and the Captain’s limp make it difficult for either of them to get about easily on the moving ship and so both were seated at the table, working on written projects. Greg was taking notes on the albatross and George continued planning the disbursement of supplies to the various depots we aim to establish along the sledging route to the pole.
Not wanting to voice my concerns about our leader in front of Greg, I judged it best to save my thoughts until I could discuss them with George another time. Instead, I took myself below to the lower deck, intending to check the security of the recently restowed crates of supplies.
The hurricane lamp, kept in the chartroom for the express purpose of providing illumination in the lower hold, was absent from its usual position above the chart rack. Reasoning that someone must already be below, either Mr Weymouth checking on the engine, or perhaps Cook retrieving ingredients for dinner, I climbed cautiously down the companionway.
I was surprised upon reaching the bottom of the ladder to find that the hold was pitch black, not a person or flicker of light to be seen anywhere. For some moments I stood in the sparse rectangle of light which trickled down through the open hatchway above me and peered into the gloom.
It is difficult to imagine that the hold, packed as it now is from the deck to the deckhead, is the same one I visited on my first tour of the Raven. The myriad crates, barrels, and other various equipment which have been strapped to the sides of the hull, the bulwarks, the overhead beams, and even to steel loops driven into the deck timbers have converted that once cavernous space into a dark maze of narrow alleyways, most only just wide enough to squeeze through sideways.
The atmosphere down there was oddly unsettling; the close darkness was filled with the sound of water rushing in the bilges and freshwater tanks and the soft creaking of the ship’s timbers as they flexed ever so slightly against the pressure of the ocean on the other side of the hull. As always, it was icy cold and my breath fogged immediately.
From what I could see, everything stowed there seemed secure again; heavy lashings now in place to ensure that, should we find ourselves facing another gale, at least we shall not have to contend with our supplies attempting to batter their way out of the hold from the inside. I was about to return topside when, from the darkness somewhere up forward, I heard an odd creaking, different from the usual song of the ship, and which I thought might have been some item of unsecured cargo, overlooked during the re-stowing of the hold and now working its way loose again.
Cursing the unknown person who’d removed the hurricane lamp from its rightful spot, I eased into a narrow gap between two piles of crates, feeling my way towards the sound. In only seconds, piles of cargo had blocked the light from the hatchway completely and so I found myself groping forward in utter darkness, cursing silently as I banged my head upon some object slung low from the roof beams.
At the end of this first narrow passageway, I knew, a pile of crates filled with medical supplies blocked the way. Reaching them, I moved left towards the port side of the hold, where another tight corridor led the way forward again.
Having just bashed my toes against one of the wooden ‘ribs’ of the ship, I was about to give up on the whole idea and come back once I’d located the lantern, when another sound reached my ears from the darkness.
Voices, somewhere up ahead of me. A conversation taking place in murmurs so quiet as to be almost silent.
My first instinct was to call out and alert the men to my presence, but something odd in their tone caused me to stop myself and instead, cautiously, I continued my slow progress forward.
Eavesdropping on others is not something I would, as a general rule, either condone or partake in, however I was in that moment very aware of the degree of ill-feeling amongst our ship’s company, and not foolish enough to believe that Mr Rourke’s recent reading of the riot act would have done anything to alle
viate that situation. I expected that I should find a number of men meeting clandestinely to plot against, or at the very least, grumble about, the conditions of leadership of the expedition and, despite my own personal reservations on that very issue, I did agree with Mr Rourke on one thing, that in such a close and dangerous situation as ours, any sort of discontent should be stamped on immediately.
Drawing closer, I realised that the voices – two of them – were coming from the tiny darkroom, tucked amidships up the narrow passageway on the port side. Indeed, one of the voices I could hear, the louder of the two, was very clearly that of Randolph Lawson, and for a moment I believed I had simply stumbled upon him in the process of practising his craft, which would explain the need for darkness.
At the top of the small flight of steps which led down into the portside companionway I stopped again. While Lawson’s voice was now clearly audible, the other man’s remained barely a whisper, unidentifiable.
As I’d expected, the topic of discussion was Mr Rourke and our general prospects for survival, if not success. The man whose voice I’d not yet identified was clearly upset, his tone agitated and forceful, whereas Lawson, while not disagreeing, seemed to be taking a more moderate view of things. His were the first words I heard.
‘We’ll reach the ice in a few days and things will settle down then,’ he told the other man, his tone deliberately languid and reassuring.
‘And if we don’t? If we hit more weather?’
‘We made it through the first lot, we can do it again.’
‘He’s mad, you know.’
‘Rourke?’
‘All three of them. Downes and Smythe-Davis, too. All quite mad.’
‘Perhaps.’ Lawson sounded thoughtful. ‘But perhaps not, too. It’s possible they know what they’re doing, and you certainly can’t fault them for ambition.’
‘Their ambition will be the end of us.’
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