Into White Silence

by Anthony Eaton

  The din aboard the ship is remarkable. Without the noise of the sea about us, we are left with only the constant howl of the wind and the moaning of the sea ice surrounding us. Occasionally an enormous cracking echoes through the hull, which I suspect is the sound of the ice outside splitting and driving upon itself. When it happens, the noise resonates though the timbers of the ship and sends a shiver of fear through the pit of my stomach. The first time, most of us were convinced that the pressure had caused us to spring a timber and that it was the beginning of the end. Mr Rourke’s edict about staying out of the lower hull was quickly forgotten in the rush to check the ship for leaks. It was to everybody’s great relief and amazement that none were found and the hull declared sound soon after.

  On the more positive side, if this blizzard holds out for several days, there is a good chance it will relieve some of the pressure on the pack and perhaps even open it up enough for us to make good our escape, so we are all keeping our hopes up.

  4th February, 1922

  Just came up from the brig where, an hour or so ago, Lawson discovered Piotre lying in a pool of his own blood. With the blizzard still raging unabated and the boy’s spirits seemingly on the improve these last couple of days, we had inadvertently left him alone for a short time while Mr Rourke held his daily briefing for all expeditioners in the wardroom. When Lawson returned below, the lad had dashed his head against the flat end of a coach bolt protruding from one of the bulkheads, several times by the looks of things. He’d knocked himself out and in the process given himself a number of nasty gashes on his forehead and temples.

  Lawson immediately called the Doctor, Mr Rourke and myself, and while the Doctor attended the boy’s injuries, Piotre came around somewhat and began to mumble incoherently. Nothing he said made any sense, even to Lawson, though he thought the boy might have been talking to his father.

  Once his injuries were dealt with, Mr Rourke finally consented to allowing him brought back up to the ’tween deck to recuperate, though he is to be kept under guard at all times.

  At the moment he is restrained in his hammock and dozing fitfully.

  7th February, 1922

  The storm finally blew itself out last night during the middle watch and the sun emerged from the murk soon after. By 0430 those of us awake were sitting on the deck basking in bright sunlight for the first time in a week.

  It is still cold, though, probably fifteen below, with a stiff breeze continuing to blow from the south, but at least it has none of the ferocity of the gales we’ve experienced in this last week.

  At 0600, the wind dropped enough for one of the men to risk climbing the mast, and he had barely reached the forecourse before he began shouting excitedly and pointing at an opening lead of water about thirty or forty yards directly ahead of us. Almost in the same moment, the ice gave an almighty crack and another lead opened up the same distance to port.

  This latest development drew an enthusiastic cheer from those men who’d witnessed it, for it suggests that the blizzard has indeed done its work, and that the ice is considerably less packed now than it was a few days ago.

  Immediately we roused Mr Rourke and Captain McLaren and the decision was quickly made to attempt to blast our way forward into the open water. Cook knocked up breakfast and all hands were shaken from their bunks and brought on deck.

  Mr Ryan took one of the leading seamen, Thomas Walsh, and climbed down, probing ahead of the ship for weaknesses and trying to determine the thickness of the ice through which we’d have to blast. After about an hour, they were some way from the ship and close to the open water when a patch of sea ice gave way beneath Mr Ryan and he plunged in up to his thighs before losing his footing and becoming completely soaked. We could hear his cursing clearly from the deck of the ship. He was soon back aboard and warming up and, while nobody had the nerve to laugh about it in his presence, a number of quiet chuckles could be heard by anyone listening for them.

  By 0900 we were ready to begin blasting and the first sticks of dynamite were placed in holes which we’d drilled into the ice ten and fifteen yards ahead of the ship. Captain McLaren had ordered the ship’s boat put over the side with a couple of men attending it so that, if the ice should split quickly, or in an unexpected manner, those men working on it would have a chance of quick rescue.

  I was not certain what to expect when the blasting began. My experience with explosives to date has been to avoid them at all costs, rather than to deliberately trigger them. During the war, the bombs thrown in my direction were considerably more powerful than the low-powered dynamite we carry aboard the Raven. I think most of us were anticipating a grand scene; the thunder of the explosion followed quickly by the sundering of the ice, enormous fissures snaking away from the ship and so on.

  Thus it was something of an anticlimax when the first two explosions occurred with a sound like a child’s cap-gun. Two dull ‘pops’ and a couple of puffs of snow thrown up into the air and nothing else. Not even so much as a creak from the ice.

  More charges were laid with similar results and then men with pry-bars attempted to lever the ice open, hoping that the explosions had weakened the floe adequately.

  All to no avail, and by early afternoon it was becoming apparent that no amount of human effort or ingenuity was going to shift the Raven from her icy berth today, and so efforts were abandoned soon after. The boat was swung back aboard and the men who’d laboured on the ice were given the afternoon off, while the rest of the company exercised the dogs.

  This activity is still a ponderously slow one, with the animals so excited that they are next to impossible to control. Putting any more than two of them together on the same lead is a recipe for an immediate tussle and on several occasions quite vicious fights have broken out when the wrong animals got into each other’s proximity. One particular beast is a main offender, a large male we have named Devil for obvious reasons. The moment he gets within biting distance of any of the others he is upon them and fur starts flying. Nobody has been able to persuade him out of this unfortunate habit, with either rewards or punishment and, if he is not able to demonstrate an ability to work with the other dogs soon, then I imagine we’ll have to put him down.

  Without any guidance, though, we are simply muddling through as best we can. Once we reach land and Piotre is able to recover his wits somewhat, I am hopeful that this situation will improve somewhat.

  12th February, 1922

  Went out hunting with Greg Shannon-Stacey this afternoon, and managed to bag ourselves several Adelie penguins, which are comparatively easy to catch, owing to their inherent curiosity. They literally walk up to you, if you are lucky enough to stumble across a group of them, and then it is simply a matter of knocking them on the head. They are relatively easy to butcher, too, but yield only a small amount of meat, which tastes quite revolting. We have, nevertheless, begun to stockpile it in a small cave dug into the sea ice beside the ship.

  The kill of the day was a large seal which we found basking at the edge of an ice floe about five or six hundred yards astern of the ship. Greg killed it with one shot and we were then faced with the daunting task of getting the meat and blubber back before the carcass froze. It is impossible to be certain, but we estimate it to weigh something in the vicinity of two or three hundred pounds, and so it should provide us with a good amount of meat.

  I returned to the Raven and fetched out a small crew, all of whom were keen to help, as much for the purposes of diversion as anything. We hooked up one of the sledges with man-harnesses, dragging it across to the carcass. Several large, predatory seabirds had already discovered the dead seal and were attacking it with quite extraordinary vigour. Dick Ryan soon cleared these off with a blast from his shotgun, and we set about the business of butchering the seal and loading the sledge. It took us several runs before we’d picked the seal clean, and dinner tonight consisted, not surprisingly, of seal steaks for all.

  The meat is quite unlike anything I have eaten before – some
thing like venison soaked in fish oil – but it was certainly a pleasant change to eat fresh meat in any quantity and, if the worst came to the worst, I am certain I could become used to it.

  15th February, 1922

  Blizzed in again. The weather down here is remarkable. It is quite possible to wake up to clear blue skies, as we did this morning, and find yourself not two hours later in the middle of a howling storm, with visibility reduced to less than the length of your arm. At the moment it is 1330 in the afternoon, but it might as well be midnight for all that you can see. The power of the wind is such that it is even forcing snow in through the sealed deck hatches, and so the men quartered in the ’tween deck are constantly contending with a fine rain of snow, which is making for fairly miserable conditions.

  Piotre is a little better now and has even begun attempting to speak in English to the men guarding him. His accent is thick and his grasp of the language tenuous at best, so he spends much of the time casting around for the right word to say. Doctor Dalby and I have high hopes, though, that this shift in his spirits means he is on the up and up and perhaps will be able to resume something like his normal role on the ship in the near future.

  After lunch, with nothing else to do, I had a game of chess with Alex, and for the most part we chatted about inconsequentialities. He is a clever player and in our first game had me checkmated in fewer than twenty moves. This made me more wary, and I put up a much better showing in the second, though he still had me trapped within a very short space of time. After he knocked my king down for the second time, I asked him if he wanted another match and he didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he picked up a pawn and turned it thoughtfully in his hand, staring at it for several seconds, before answering me with an odd question,

  ‘Which one are you, Will, do you think?’

  I replied that I wasn’t certain what he was asking, and in response he waved the pawn at me.

  ‘Which piece are you? I’m a pawn, obviously. Only moving in one direction, powerless except as a diversion or a sacrifice and, in the overall flow of the game, the chances of me being around at the end are, let’s be honest, insignificant. The question is, who are you?’

  Puzzled by the suddenly melancholic tone of the conversation, I told Alex that it wasn’t a matter to which I’d given any thought. He didn’t reply immediately, but started to reset the board, laying out the black pieces on his side and starting with the pawns.

  ‘You should, I think,’ he said, after a moment. ‘It’s the perfect game, chess. Life and war, strategy and fate all on the one board. Knowing which piece you are at any given time is vital.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked.

  ‘Because each piece has its own strengths and weaknesses. That’s the secret of the game. A good player knows how to use every piece, when to play them, when to give them up, when to leave them alone. He can spot when they’re threatened, and decide if that threat is a danger to just that piece, or to the game as a whole. It’s like anything. It’s like life. If you know which piece you are, then in any given situation you can spot the others and see how they fit into the bigger battle.’

  It was one of the strangest notions I’d ever heard come from Alex’s mouth. I didn’t reply immediately, but instead launched my opening gambit, moving my knight to cover the centre of the board.

  ‘Unorthodox,’ Alex commented, ‘… and interesting.’

  The game progressed in silence then and sure enough, within thirty or forty moves, Alex had me pinned with only my king, two pawns and a rook remaining to oppose his queen, both bishops, one rook and two pawns.

  ‘Do you want to concede?’ he asked me, and I shook my head.

  ‘Let’s play this one to the finish,’ I replied.

  Without another word he shifted one of his pawns one square forward, and the trap sprang shut.

  ‘Checkmate.’

  Staring at the board, I realised he was right.

  ‘By God, that’s impressive!’ I exclaimed. ‘I knew you had me, of course, but thought I’d have at least another three or four moves.’

  ‘Never take your eyes off the pawns.’ He began to pack up the board.

  ‘Who do you think I am?’ I asked him, and at that he stopped, in the middle of putting away the black queen.

  ‘I’m not sure. Not a pawn, you’re too powerful for that. But not a king or queen, either.’

  I asked him why not.

  ‘Kings are too limited. They’re hindered by their own position. Captain McLaren, he’s a king. Constantly under threat, despite his importance to the game. Reliant upon the goodwill of those beneath him to keep him safe. Queens are the opposite – unpredictable. Dangerous. Capable of moving anywhere at any time.’

  ‘You’re talking about Mr Rourke,’ I said, and to my surprise Alex shook his head emphatically and even offered a wry smile. ‘Rourke? Not at all. He’s a king, too, for all the same reasons as Captain McLaren. Perhaps even more so, though I’d describe Rourke as the white king to the Captain’s black.’

  ‘So who’s the queen in this analogy of yours?’

  Alex didn’t answer, but cast a pointed glance at the other end of the table, where Randolph Lawson was pulling apart one of his cameras, and raised his eyebrows slightly. To my surprise, Lawson looked up, caught the gesture and grinned.

  ‘Not sure that I appreciate that, old boy,’ he said, and I realised he’d been listening to every word of our conversation. ‘I think I’d much rather be a knight, you know, bouncing all over the place without rhyme or reason.’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ Alex replied.

  ‘So what am I, then?’ I pressed and, to my irritation, another knowing glance passed between Alex and Lawson.

  ‘Why don’t you work it out and tell me?’ Alex finally answered and then, having completed packing up the set, rose from the wardroom table and disappeared into the chartroom without another word. After he’d gone, Lawson raised his eyebrows in my direction.

  ‘Checkmate,’ he said, with a smirk. Irritating git.

  18th February, 1922

  Clear skies again this morning and more open leads around us, but none near enough to get to. A bit of excitement mid morning, when the floe cracked apart only twenty yards or so from the starboard rail and all hands came scurrying back aboard the ship in case things broke up, but after half an hour or so it was obvious that was all the action we were going to see. Ryan and his men tried blasting the new lead into something navigable this afternoon, but only succeeded in blowing off Tom Walsh’s right index finger and providing Doctor Dalby with another busy afternoon.

  Away from the ship, the ice is becoming quite rotten and loose and so we have not yet completely given up hope that we might still be able to extricate ourselves, though it is looking less and less likely as the end of summer approaches.

  Last night we had real darkness for a few hours, for the first time since we arrived down here in mid December. We were blessed with a clear and calm evening, and the sun slunk below the horizon at around 2200. The sunset was remarkable, the sky lit with every hue of pink and red and the ice and bergs around us looked for some time as though they’d been painted in various bright shades of orange. By about 0130 full darkness had settled over us and the stars were as clear and bright as I’ve ever seen. The Southern Cross appeared briefly on the northern horizon and looked so close that it might be possible to reach out and touch it. Sunrise began again at around 0245 and provided us with a light show equally as spectacular as the sunset, beginning with just a red smear in the sky off to the east, but quickly growing and brightening until the sun itself burst above the horizon at about 0315, and the icepack quickly assumed its usual shimmering brightness just in time for me to go off watch at 0400.

  It is a stunning place, this frozen world, and despite our ongoing predicament, at times like last night I cannot imagine that I might have lived my life without ever having experienced it.

  24th February, 1922

  Three months today since
we set sail from Hobart, and it seems years. I find it difficult to recall at this point the familiar sights and smells of home – the colour of a tree or bush, or the smell of anything other than ice and smoke and men. When I close my eyes and concentrate, I can just remember poor Elsie; the sound of her laughter and the slight flush in her cheeks when she is embarrassed, but increasingly it becomes more and more difficult to recall the finer details. I know, for example, that her eyes are green, but cannot for the life of me picture them, no matter how hard I try.

  I am certain that I am not the only one experiencing this odd sense of displacement. The passing of this third month has served as a stark reminder to most of us aboard the Raven just how dire our situation is becoming and tempers are frayed. A fight broke out this morning between two of the crew, and Captain McLaren and Mr Rourke had to threaten them both with confinement before they’d admit to the cause – a disagreement over the words of It’s a Long Way to Tipperary, would you believe?

  Compounding matters is the fact that the clear cold weather has brought with it the northern winds again, and thus the pack is closing around us once more. At night, the sound of the open leads grinding shut is the lullaby to which we fall asleep. This afternoon the promising lead which opened up to starboard six days ago vanished in less than five minutes, leaving a slight hummock as the only visible sign that it ever existed.

  Temperatures are dropping fast, too. At nights, it is now impossible to venture onto the deck without wearing our full winter clothing, layers of underclothes below woollen pants and tops, fur parkas, overpants, reindeer-fur boots, lambskin helmets and face masks. To venture out without first rugging up is folly, as Lawrence Moreton discovered to his detriment last night, when he came up on deck bareheaded for a smoke. Within three or four minutes, the tips of both his ears were so badly frost-bitten that the doctor holds no hope for their recovery. He was lucky not to lose his nose as well.