Into White Silence

by Anthony Eaton

  At the moment, the ship is quiet. Most of the men are exhausted from the efforts of the last few days and we are all beginning to experience some of the physical strain of this white world. The fierce light has given most of us significant sunburn around our eyes and everyone has the outline of their sun-goggles permanently etched upon their faces. When not on watch, almost all hands collapse into their bunks or hammocks and sleep like the dead.

  Things are quiet in the brig, too. After almost fifteen hours of constant wailing, Piotre finally fell into an exhausted sleep soon after we left the pack and has remained silent since. Doctor Dalby and I take it in turns to check on him every couple of hours, taking down food and water and ensuring that he has enough warm blankets and clothing to keep him relatively comfortable. The doctor suggested sedating him again, but Mr Rourke refused him permission.

  ‘Like it or not, we’re going to need that boy’s expertise eventually,’ he said, ‘and he’s not going to straighten himself out if we keep him doped up to the eyeballs.’

  19th January, 1922

  Polar Exploration Vessel Raven

  Approx. 64°54’S, 133°20’E

  Still sailing west along the ice edge, no decent leads in sight. Made fifty-eight miles in the last day, and Mr Rourke has men at the crosstrees at all hours, day and night, scanning the pack ahead.

  Things are not well in the brig, where Piotre has continued to remain sunk in sullen silence. Doctor Dalby is increasingly concerned for the boy’s sanity. This morning he received permission to bring the lad up on deck for a spell but, when we opened the darkroom, Piotre refused to come with us, instead muttering in his language what I took to be curses. After more than an hour of attempting to coax the boy out, we finally gave up in frustration and locked him back in.

  It pains me in the extreme, each time we have to do this. Given his unstable temperament, we are not even able to leave a lamp in the room with him for fear that he will use it to try and set the ship on fire. Mr Ryan has rigged a wire outside the door, from which we can hang a storm lantern, and the little illumination that this throws under the darkroom door is the only light that the poor lad has by which to see. It is a wholly untenable situation …

  20th January, 1922

  Polar Exploration Vessel Raven

  Approx. 65°7’S, 130°42’E

  An unexpected turn of events this afternoon. I have just returned from the most extraordinary conversation with Randolph Lawson, and have decided to set my record down here while it is still clear in my memory.

  Soon after the forenoon watch ended, I decided that, in the absence of anything better to do, I’d go below and check on Piotre and see if, perhaps, I could persuade the lad to come outside and spend some time in the fresh air on deck. His small cell has become noticeably putrid and his health must be suffering as a result. While he has a waste bucket which is emptied regularly, the air in the darkroom is stale with his sweat and foul from the smell of the bucket. The lingering odour of Lawson’s photographic chemicals also contributes to the revolting atmosphere.

  I didn’t bother taking the lantern below, as the lamp burning constantly outside the door of the brig generally casts an adequate amount of light by which to find your way. As I worked my way forward from the companionway ladder, squeezing between the piles of cargo, I was surprised to hear voices coming from the direction of the Russian’s cell.

  Initially, I thought that the Doctor must have come down ahead of me and finally managed to persuade the lad into conversation. After only a couple of moments, though, I realised that what I was hearing made no sense whatsoever – the words sounded nonsensical and, while one of the speakers was definitely Piotre, the other was most certainly not Doctor Dalby.

  Stopping in the same spot where I’d overheard Alex and Lawson in their clandestine conversation, I took a few moments to listen, and realised, to my very great surprise, that both speakers were talking in Russian!

  To the best of my knowledge nobody else aboard, apart from Piotre, speaks that language. Certainly nobody in the wardroom has mentioned this ability and so you can imagine it came as something of a shock to all concerned when I strode out from my hiding place, into the light, there to discover Randolph Lawson in deep conversation with Piotre, speaking the boy’s language as fluently as you like. The door to the cell was open and the two men were sitting, Piotre on the floor of the brig and Lawson outside with his back against the hull.

  The moment they saw me, both leapt to their feet and Lawson immediately stepped forward, fists clenched. I initially thought that he might try to strike me, but then he visibly got himself under control and his usual silly grin spread across his face once more before he addressed me.

  ‘Well, well! Eavesdropping would seem to be a bad habit of yours, Downes,’ he said.

  I replied that I was simply coming down to check on Piotre’s wellbeing, to which Lawson responded with a derisive snort, and said, ‘Check on his wellbeing? How well do you think he can possibly be, locked in this hole?’

  During this exchange, Piotre had retreated into the darkest corner of his cell, and to my dismay, was cowering away from me in fear.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked, and Lawson gave me a pitying look.

  ‘What do you think? He’s frightened out of his mind, poor devil.’

  ‘He’s got no cause to be scared of me,’ I replied.

  ‘Of course he does. You’re one of those who locked him down here. Christ, man! You’re Rourke’s number one lackey.’

  I was about to protest, but in the face of his derision it would have been a waste of time.

  ‘Why haven’t you informed us that you can speak Russian?’ I demanded, to which Lawson simply shrugged.

  ‘Nobody asked.’

  I began to take him to task on this issue – surely he could see that having somebody who could translate for us would have made a world of difference in our dealings with Piotre, and that he’d done both the boy and himself a grave disservice by allowing things to progress as they had, but before I’d gotten more than a couple of sentences out, Lawson interrupted me.

  ‘Don’t accuse me of doing the wrong thing, Downes. Do you have any idea what trauma Rourke has put the lad through?’

  ‘Only because it’s proven impossible to communicate with him.’ I replied. ‘If you’d informed us that –’

  He interrupted me again. ‘What do you know about Piotre? What have you bothered to find out?’ he asked, and I will admit that I stared at him in confusion until he prompted me further, ‘Tell me everything you can about this lad here.’

  Thrown, somewhat, by the sudden shift in the conversation, I responded awkwardly that I knew he was Russian, and a dog handler, and missing his friend, Ivan.

  ‘And that’s it?’ Lawson leaned forward, staring hard into my eyes. ‘That’s the sum total of your knowledge about Piotre Dimitri?’

  ‘Given that, unlike certain other people, I don’t speak his language –’ I began, but Lawson waved me into silence, then turned and leaned into the cell, speaking quietly in Russian again. I have no idea what he told the boy, but his words had some effect, because a moment or two later, the boy rose and stepped out into the dull pool of light thrown by the hurricane lamp. Even though I have been checking regularly on him, I was shocked at his wan, almost skeletal appearance. His eyes were swollen and red from tears and his clothing limp and stained.

  ‘Let me tell you about Piotre Dimitri,’ Lawson said. ‘He, like his father and grandfather before him, comes from a long, proud line of men renowned for their expertise with dogs. Not just driving them, but breeding, training, and using them. It’s not as simple as just harnessing them together, you know? Put the wrong dog in the lead, and your team will be unmanageable. Feed them the wrong thing, and you might as well shoot them all. Tether them incorrectly and they’ll get into fights and choke to death on their leads. Load the sledge the wrong way, and you’ll tip every bit of equipment you’re carrying into the first crevas
se you come across. It’s an art form, Downes. A skill going back generations, passed from father to son and connecting entire families across the years. As soon as a boy is old enough, his father starts to teach him, so that one day, he might in turn teach his own son.’

  There was something odd in the way Lawson was speaking. His eyes had narrowed and his usual foppish intonations and expressions vanished completely. He looked at me with an intensity I found gravely uncomfortable as he continued.

  ‘Now, look at the boy, Downes. Look hard at him and tell me if he reminds you of anybody.’

  I peered again at Piotre and admitted that he didn’t remind me of anyone.

  ‘He should,’ Lawson replied. ‘He’s only fifteen, but already the spitting image of his father.’

  For a moment I didn’t comprehend what Lawson was getting at, but then the sickening realisation dawned upon me. I’d taken Piotre’s similarity with Ivan to be simply a result of their shared cultural background, in the same way that all the Egyptians we met during our training there appeared much the same. As to his age – like everyone aboard, I’d realised the lad was young, but assumed him to be perhaps nineteen or twenty years old. Lawson laughed at my shocked expression.

  ‘Throws things into a different light, doesn’t it, old boy? How do you think you’d respond to seeing your old man flung overboard in a storm, and no effort made to save him?’

  I must admit that I found myself shocked into speechlessness and it was some moments until I found my tongue again. I tried to imagine the anguish that poor Piotre must have been suffering at the loss of his father, but it was impossible to do so. While I stood there, attempting to come to terms with this discovery, Lawson turned back to Piotre and the two of them conversed again in Russian for some minutes, before he addressed me again, asking what I intended to do next. I told him that Mr Rourke should be informed immediately and Lawson laughed again, in that same derisive manner.

  ‘Here’s the rum part, old chap. Rourke already knows. He’s known all along.’

  I replied that I didn’t believe such callousness possible, even from somebody as singularly minded as Mr Rourke, to which Lawson simply raised an eyebrow and challenged me to go and find out for myself.

  Thus I find myself in something of a conundrum – I cannot believe nor abide the possibility that Mr Rourke knew all along of Piotre’s relationship to Ivan, and chose not to inform anybody. If Lawson’s allegation is indeed correct, then Mr Rourke’s treatment of Piotre has been nothing short of unconscionable and is a matter that needs to be rectified immediately, for all our sakes. If it is false, however, then I know Mr Rourke well enough by this time to understand that he will not respond at all well to being confronted with such accusations – to do so will almost certainly create further tension on an already unhappy ship.

  Lawson has also demonstrated himself, on several occasions now, to be an exceptionally devious individual – his hiding of his language skills and his conspiring with Alex are ample proof. Despite this, I cannot for the life of me think of any motive for him to invent such a story, other than perhaps to throw this expedition into further disarray.

  Either way, it leaves me with a most unpleasant decision to make.

  * * *

  SIXTEEN

  GAPS AND SILENCES. A BLIZZARD. BACK INTO THE ICE. ROURKE CHANGES HIS MIND.

  And here is yet another mystery: As much as I would love to be able to continue on at this point, and take you through the seemingly inevitable meltdown that must have followed these revelations, I am not going to do so.

  Why not?

  Because I can’t.

  After the end of the previous entry, six pages are missing from the journal. They have been carefully removed – sliced out along the margins with a razor blade or something similar, leaving just several narrow columns of paper in the centre of the book – done in such a way so as not to destroy the bindings in the spine.

  A mystery, to be sure. And while it might be possible to speculate as to who might have removed them, for what reasons, and to the events which may or may not have taken place aboard the Raven during the days immediately following on from Downes’ discovery, my feeling is that to do so would be to take this story just a little too far into the world of fiction. Clearly, whoever removed those pages did so for a good reason, and some things, let’s face it, are not meant to be known. Instead, I shall simply fill in what gaps I can and leave you to your own conclusions.

  The journal resumes three days after the previous entry, on the afternoon of 23rd January 1922. In the intervening days it would appear that the Raven continued steadily westwards along the edge of the icepack, making between fifty and seventy nautical miles per twenty-four hours, all of it under sail. By my calculations, this placed them on the 23rd roughly five-hundred kilometres to the north of Porpoise Bay, on the eastern edge of Wilkes Land, right in the middle of the segment of the continent that is today claimed as Australian Antarctic Territory. It also places them a significant distance west of Commonwealth Bay, where Rourke had hoped to begin surveying the coast – something in the order of seven-hundred kilometres.

  It is probably safe to assume, then, that regardless of the situation with Downes, Piotre and Lawson, Edward Rourke’s mood must have become increasingly thunderous with each passing mile.

  It is also clear that, in the course of the missing pages, several watershed events have occurred aboard. When the journal resumes, Piotre Dimitri is still locked in the brig, Randolph Lawson has been confined to his cabin – for what offence we can only imagine – and, perhaps most significantly, it seems that Downes himself is no longer in favour with the expedition leadership.

  And somewhere in the midst of all this, the wind changed …

  * * *

  From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downes

  23rd January, 1922

  Polar Exploration Vessel Raven

  Approx. 66°20’S, 129°13’E

  The gale was still in full voice when I woke this morning to take my watch, the wind gusting between fifty and eighty knots. The howling in the rigging has been our constant companion and the deck watch is kept constantly busy using ice axes and spades to remove the build up of snow and ice from the decks and superstructure, lest the ship become even more weighed down and flounder. The rigging is festooned with icicles, and the decks so slick that footing is treacherous.

  Despite the winds, the seas have remained relatively calm as the pack ice, which is just a mile and a half off to port, stifles much of the wave action. The temperature is numbingly cold; even through our layers of furs and wool, the wind sucks any residual heat from your body with frightening efficiency. Any man who stops working while on deck, even for just a couple of moments, finds himself shivering within seconds and any exposed flesh is frostbitten in an instant. Doctor Dalby has been as busy during these last couple of days as he has all trip.

  Below decks the situation remains unchanged. Lawson is still confined to his cabin, and refusing to speak a word to anybody. This morning, while the gale was still raging, I visited Piotre in the brig, taking him hot food and water. While the lad has relaxed slightly in my presence, he still holds himself distant and, without Lawson to translate, conversation is impossible. He is eating again, though, and has some colour back in his face, which is a good sign.

  Mr Rourke continues to maintain a cool manner towards me, and even George has become somewhat distant since the other night. The Leader speaks to me only when absolutely necessary, and otherwise avoids meeting my eye. When I came down off the deck to warm up a little earlier today, I interrupted a conversation between him and George. The moment I entered the wardroom, a frosty silence descended for several seconds, before Mr Rourke stood abruptly and marched into his cabin without another word. All things considered, it is not making for a pleasant time. I am heartily looking forward to the day, in the not-too-distant future I hope, when we are ashore and can focus our attention on the matters of the expedition …

>   24th January, 1922

  Polar Exploration Vessel Raven

  Approx. 66°45’S, 129°27’E

  Today has seen us making good headway south, back into the icepack. When we rose this morning, the gale was still blowing, though it seemed to have slightly fewer teeth than the previous couple of days. Alex reported the barometer starting to climb by mid-morning, and by lunchtime the wind had abated almost completely, though the skies remained grey and heavy. The speed with which the weather can change down here is quite astonishing. In the space of just a few minutes it is possible to go from a clear fine day to a howling blizzard, and then back again just as fast.

  As soon as it was safe to do so, Mr Rourke sent men aloft and almost right away they spotted a large lead just a mile and a half to the west. It would appear that the strong southerly blizzard has pushed the pack significantly outwards, driving the floes apart and giving us our best shot yet at making a push for the continent.

  When the lead was spotted, Lawson was summoned from his cabin and told to bring his equipment so that he could document our entry back into the pack. These instructions he complied with in sullen silence. At the same time, Mr Weymouth was dispatched to get the boiler stoked up again and as soon as he had done so we made good our next foray into the ice.

  Unlike our last effort, this time the going is comparatively smooth, owing to the much looser formation of the pack. The larger floes are easy to avoid, and where we do need to push our way through, the pack is generally free enough for our ship to nudge the ice aside with minimum effort. There is still a good deal of grinding between the ice and the hull, but it lacks much of the violence that accompanied the ship’s motion last time. Captain McLaren estimates that, in the first few hours alone, we managed to make good about fifteen miles south, which is a distinct improvement upon our previous efforts. If we are able to continue at this rate, we expect to sight the continent within the next two days.