‘Don’t you all have duties to attend to?’ I snapped and in moments they dispersed, most disappearing up the forward companionway and into the mess above.
Once the last was out of earshot, I turned back to Doctor Dalby.
‘Is there nothing we can do to settle the lad?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. This is the problem with morphine. When it wears off, you start to remember.’
He was right, of course. Something else I’d seen on more than the odd occasion.
In his hammock, Piotre suddenly uncurled and began throwing himself around, twisting his torso violently back and forth and lashing out with both legs. From where I stood, it appeared as though the young man was fighting a battle between his body and his mind.
‘How long will he be like this?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘Could be hours, could be a couple of days. Chances are it won’t be too long.’
‘Why did you call me down?’
‘To move the men along. The next few hours are going to be hard enough on this poor devil without having to wake up to an audience.’
For some time we stood there, watching the Russian. There seemed nothing more to say. When his spasms became too violent, the Doctor would occasionally reach out and steady the hammock, or press one hand against his patient’s chest, preventing him from hurling himself onto the deck.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Piotre’s eyes snapped open and fixed immediately upon my own. Then he asked a question, his tone urgent and his words incomprehensible. All I could do was shrug and gesture him to stay calm, but his hand shot out and he grabbed my forearm; his palm was hot and slick and the strength of his grip startling. He asked his question again, the beginnings of panic flashing behind his eyes.
‘Just try and sooth him,’ Dalby advised, which I did, keeping my voice as calm as humanly possible as I gently prised his fingers from my flesh. My efforts were to no avail, however, because in that instant the man’s memories must have returned in a rush – the vision of poor Ivan vanishing over the rail – and he started to thrash around again, this time with conscious intent and all the while screaming, one word only, again and again; ‘Nyet! Nyet!’
Both Doctor Dalby and I had our hands full – it took all our combined efforts just to hold the man firmly down and prevent him from doing himself, or us, a damage.
‘This will pass,’ the doctor informed me, pressing his whole weight down on Piotre’s shoulders. ‘Just give him a few moments.’
Surely enough, within a minute or so, the Russian’s strength went out of him again and, almost as quickly as the frenzy had overtaken him, it faded away and he rolled immediately onto his side and fell into deep sobbing. With the patient thus settled, I caught the doctor’s eye, hoping for some indication of what to do about the situation, but in response to my questioning glance, the doctor simply shrugged his shoulders.
‘All we can do now is wait.’
‘To what end?’ I asked.
‘He’ll most likely pull himself together in the next day or so, I imagine.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
Doctor Dalby returned my gaze levelly.
‘In that event, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he joins Ivan at the first available opportunity.’
* * *
ELEVEN
THE STORM BREAKS. TAKING WATER. WEIGHT LOSS. AFTERMATH. A MEETING. A SERVICE. A WELCOME SIGHT.
See? A brewing storm, a mad Russian, an infuriatingly smug photographer. Even at my best, I doubt I could invent this stuff. So, as I said earlier – how could I resist?
* * *
From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downes
1st January, 1922
Polar Exploration Vessel Raven
Latitude and Longitude unknown
Not likely to see tomorrow. Hellish conditions up top. Taking water through sprung deck timbers and main hatch coaming torn away perhaps 10 mins ago. Ship listing horribly to starbd. One man gone over the side already, more to follow no doubt. Capt. McLaren grim and all hands to pumps, but so much water coming in, gods! I’ve never been so fightened! [sic]. R. only one seems calm. Madman! Such company in which to die!
Writing this quickly, just in case the worst happens – will try and seal it in oilskin, but chances slim. Off chance though.
Love to family and E. Am sorry.
* * *
Of course, they survive. You know that and I know that. But still, it sends your pulse racing, doesn’t it? Less than a hundred words, that entry, but to read them is to know something of desperation, I think. Even now I can’t look at them without my skin prickling at the thought of thousands upon thousands of tons of icy Southern Ocean, pouring out of the darkness, battering and flattening that pitiful little vessel and the thirty-odd souls aboard.
For some years I worked as a volunteer aboard a square-rigged sail training ship, the Leeuwin out of Fremantle. From her deck and rigging I saw my fair share of storms and wild seas; I could describe for you in detail the numbing sensation of clinging to a mast, twenty metres above the deck at three in the morning, battling to haul in canvas while a fifty-five knot wind does its level best to tear you off the yardarm and the ship kicks and heaves in the darkness below you.
I could tell you about having to use my safety harness to strap myself into my bunk, so that I wouldn’t be hurled bodily across my cabin in the middle of the night.
I could try and capture the voyage when we lost three headsails in forty-five minutes; how they exploded under the sheer pressure of air in them, the sound gunshot-loud and the shards of canvas whipped away across the water looking strangely animate, and how the ship shuddered along the entire length of her keel each time it happened.
All true stories, but nothing I could write here, no words I can imagine could ever capture the fear – the raw, pure emotion – that William Downes manages in that last entry.
And those final two words … ‘Am sorry’. Not much in the way of an epitaph, but clearly Downes thought it would be his.
It wasn’t, of course, but it might as well have been.
* * *
From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downes
5th January, 1922
Polar Exploration Vessel Raven
Approx. 59°4’S, 144°4’E
If, by some miracle, I manage to survive this voyage and return unscathed to Weatherly, I solemnly vow that I shall never again set foot upon the deck of a ship. Even the privations of the long push to the pole, should we make it that far, cannot be much worse than the last few days aboard the Raven have proved themselves. It is two weeks tomorrow since we put to sea from Hobart, but my God! it feels like forever. Already I can barely recall what it feels like to be dry and warm.
We have managed to weather the storm, more, I suspect, by luck and good fortune than by good management, but the toll has been severe; two of the crew have been lost to the sea, one of them, a stout bloke by the name of Jack McDonald, was taken over the side from the rigging, as he was attempting to get aloft and secure a sail which had torn free of its gaskets and was in danger of loosing itself altogether from the mast and likely to take much of the rigging with it. Jack was a third of the way up the ratlines when an enormous wave turned us side-on to the seas and we broached almost right away. The ship went over just about completely onto her side, and not one man aboard thought that she’d recover but, by some miracle, she did. When we were back upright though, there was no sign of Jack anywhere, either in the rigging or on deck.
The other crewman drowned was my old watch mate Isaac, who was part of the bucket gang trying to empty the lower hold during the worst of the tempest. The main cargo hatch cover was swept away early in the morning of the 1st, and immediately the poor Raven began shipping water at an alarming rate which no pump in the world looked likely to get ahead of. Mr Ryan had every hand, crew and staff alike, in bucket gangs. Each man took a ten minute shift at the bottom of the line – the icy water in
the lower hold was chest deep by this time and of course it was pitch black down there.
The flooding also extinguished the fire in the boiler and we quickly lost headway and were reliant upon what little canvas we could carry to hold us steady in the face of the enormous seas. On a normal sailing vessel this might not have been such a problem, however with the Raven’s steel cladding, the engines have proven essential to maintaining any degree of handling, especially in heavy weather. While Isaac was taking his shift, at the bottom of the bucket gang, the ship was hurled off the top of a monster wave, jolting us all terribly and he lost his footing, slipping under and instantly swept away into the seething darkness of the hold by the surging water. This morning, as we slowly got ahead of the flooding, we found his body pinned beneath a pile of shifted crates. This afternoon we will hold a service on the poop and commend our shipmate’s body to the deep.
Aside from the two men, one of the dogs suffered a broken leg from being hurled against the roof of its kennel and needed to be shot this morning. The awful task fell to Mr Ryan, as Piotre is still in no fit state to assist in any task, and his behaviour is far too unstable for us even to consider trusting him with a loaded firearm. The question of what is to be done about him will need to be addressed before very much longer, but at the moment we are faced with more pressing concerns.
Bad news also for Per Petersen, whose arm was torn almost completely from his body during the middle part of the second night of the gale. Yet again our storm jib was blown out by the power of the wind and Per happened to be nearby, standing at the top of the bucket line. When the jib-sheet broke, the sail, freed of any restraint, commenced whipping back and forth with immense power, a heavy wooden deadeye flogging around at the end of the sheet-line beneath it. It was this which wrapped around Per’s arm as he attempted to rein it in and then ripped away again, wrenching the poor man’s arm almost free of his shoulder in the process. Doctor Dalby has stabilised the injury as best he can, but is not hopeful that the arm will survive, and we may yet have to amputate.
The storm also demanded from us a heavy price in terms of our equipment. By the morning of 2nd January, when the storm showed no signs of abating and it was clear that we were still taking on water faster than we could get rid of it, Captain McLaren ordered two of the ship’s three boats and also the heaviest timbers, intended for use in the construction of the hut and for any spare spars that we might need, be unlashed from their cradles and thrown overboard to lighten the ship. Mr Rourke initially attempted to overrule this decision and there was an enormous blow-up between the two men, but the Captain eventually prevailed and the heavy cargo was dispatched to the deep, though the operation was a perilous one for all concerned.
Whether or not the loss of our precious boats and timbers made a difference is difficult to judge, but it certainly seemed to me that afterwards the Raven began riding the seas just a little more comfortably, though this might be wishful thinking on my part. Certainly it is a blow to have lost materials so important to the success of the second half of our expedition.
Finally, though, in the middle of the afternoon yesterday, the storm began to lose strength and by evening we were limping south once more under sail, through a blanket of thick fog. Despite our exhaustion, the bucket gang was maintained throughout the night until just an hour or so ago, when the water level in the lower hold finally dropped to within the manageable range of the pumps. As I write this, Mr Weymouth is attempting to get the boilers re-lit and the engine going, so that we might engage the steam-powered pumps as soon as possible. Luckily the coal bunker does not appear to have taken in too much water, so we should still have enough dry fuel to get her going again.
For now, it is my intention to crawl into my wet bunk and try to catch a few hours of rest, before Isaac’s service this afternoon.
Addendum:
It is now 1730, on the afternoon of the 5th and, following on from my earlier entry, I feel I should make here a record of the events of this afternoon. My rest was sadly brief, owing to a summons to a meeting with Mr Rourke, Captain Smythe-Davis and Captain McLaren. The four of us crowded into the Leader’s cabin – a very cosy fit – and considered our next steps, in the light of the losses and damage we have taken.
Captain McLaren is concerned that the Raven is now dangerously undermanned. Having, for the sake of secrecy, embarked with only a minimal crew in the first place, the loss of two more, in addition to that of Jimmy James back in Hobart, is a significant problem.
Additionally, given the damage that the ship has taken in these last few days – the storm jib which blew out the other night was our last and among the timber we threw overboard when jettisoning weight was all the spare wood for broken masts and spars – the Captain would like to abandon this attempt and turn east for Macquarie Island, to attempt to resupply ourselves somewhat.
Mr Rourke, however, immediately vetoed this plan of action on the grounds that Macquarie is regularly visited by sealers and whalers, as well as other Antarctic expeditions, and thus the secrecy of our intentions could well be compromised should we reveal ourselves there.
Captain McLaren then suggested that we return instead to Hobart, which notion Mr Rourke also dismissed with minimal consideration.
Instead, he informed us, it was his intention to push ahead to the Antarctic coast, and there to set the Moreton brothers to the task of salvaging some timber from the ship to replace those support members for our hut that we were forced to abandon.
Despite all three of us, the two captains and myself, voicing our opinions that this might well leave us in too precarious a situation when we attempt to return to Australia at the end of next summer, Mr Rourke would not be swayed.
‘The conquerors of Antarctica,’ he told us, ‘were not men of weak spirit, or men who ran for cover at the first sign of difficulty. Men like Shackleton and Amundsen achieved their goals through resourcefulness and cunning and by refusing to submit to the worst conditions that circumstance threw at them. If we intend, gentlemen, to write our names into the history books alongside theirs, then we too must have the fortitude to set our course forward, ever forward, without looking back.’
It was a pretty speech, but not, I must say, one that inspired in me great confidence.
After the meeting all hands mustered on the poop, the Captain read the service for the dead, and we commended Isaac to the sea. Mr Ryan had organised for the body to be stitched up into an old sail and weighted with a few ballast bricks; we slid our shipmate over the starboard rail, where he disappeared into the oily swells with barely a splash.
We all observed a minute’s silence for Isaac and also Jack and Ivan and then, the service concluded, the ship’s company was just beginning to disperse when a shout came down from the lookout on the forepeak.
‘ICE! Ice ahead.’
There followed a general rush to the port rail and, sure enough, looming over the distant southern horizon, the first iceberg of our voyage glowed pink in the late afternoon light.
* * *
TWELVE
THE INDIFFERENCE OF ICEBERGS. SOME SHIPBOARD DEBATE. A SUNNY AFTERNOON. THE EDGE OF THE PACK.
The sighting of the first iceberg is a momentous occasion on any voyage south, as it marks the moment when, for most people, they suddenly come to understand exactly where they are, where they are bound, and how insignificant they really are.
There’s something unearthly about icebergs. They loom out of the distance, sculpted by wind and water, majestic, silent, impervious. In their curved and carved faces is written the geological story of the ages – the story of aeons spent in slow, compressed procession, grinding in rivers and sheets down from the heights of the Antarctic continent, pressed towards the coast by forces so immense, so immeasurable, as to be beyond human comprehension.
Then, finally, in one paradoxically brief instant – a comparative blink in time – accompanied perhaps by the sharp crack of a glacial fracture, or the distant thunderous rumble of an ice-clif
f collapsing, those thousands of years of slow pilgrimage come to an abrupt end as a chunk of the icecap, perhaps just a couple of tonnes, perhaps an island tens of kilometres in length, breaks away, cuts itself loose from its terrestrial anchor and sets off north, into the open sea.
Thus, an iceberg is born.
And for years, perhaps, it will migrate – an inanimate wanderer among the skuas and petrels and seals and orcas – slowly being eaten away by the grinding of the pack ice, the scouring of the winds and the never-ending scrubbing of the waves. And as new bergs break themselves away from the coast and set off on their own journeys, the old ones find themselves pushed north in turn. Ever north.
North, into the warmer waters of the fifties where, more often than not, their ten-thousand-year journey ends, not with a bang or a sudden explosion, but with a gentle decay to nothingness, bathed in sunlight many tens of degrees warmer than anything the berg has been subject to before.
It boggles the mind.
My first iceberg loomed out of the fogs of the polar convergence at about midnight, a week out of Hobart. All aboard the Aurora gathered on the foredeck in the waning summer night, rugged up against the minus ten degree windchill, and watched, awestruck, as a sheer wall of white emerged from the deepening night ahead of us. The tabular berg, its square, flat top rising perhaps fifteen or twenty metres higher than the deck of our ship, regarded our presence with utter indifference. As we steamed slowly by, passing into its shadow fifty or sixty metres away, our wake drove hard up against the icy cliff-sides and was there dashed pitilessly into surf. The powerful spotlights on the bridge deck played across its faceted surfaces, but were only able to reveal the tiniest aspects – not even close to the whole thing.
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