As a result of this accident, the Doctor kept the whole company assembled this afternoon after muster for another lecture on the dangers we face should we not be able to escape the ice for the winter.
The midday shot today puts us at 66°45’S, and 120°2’E. This means that, in the month since becoming trapped, we have already drifted the best part of two hundred miles further west. It is quite strange to think that the coastline, somewhere over the horizon to the south, must be changing constantly, whereas out here the only indication of our gradual movement is the occasional shift in the ice – a pressure ridge might rise up where before was empty water, or a lead might vanish overnight. But these things are fluid and unpredictable – there is no sense of ongoing movement or direction by which we can gauge our slow progress along the eastern coastline.
To combat somewhat the low spirits of all aboard, today Mr Rourke ordered that we build accommodation for the dogs on the ice beside the ship. This is long overdue, in my opinion, as the poor creatures are quite mad from being penned up on deck for so long while around them is so much open space. It proved to be a long and laborious process, and took almost seven hours to construct new ‘kennels’ from ice and snow. Then the dog lines were fixed along them so that the animals might be tethered safely.
Finally, at around 1700, we began bringing the dogs down and getting them settled in their new homes. Most went delirious with joy at being off the ship, though Devil took the opportunity to relieve himself all over the leg of Doug King, to the amusement of everybody else.
Once the dogs were settled, Mr Rourke allowed Piotre to be brought up from below, still under guard, of course, to inspect our work. This he did, though he is still very reluctant to step from the ship onto the sea ice and he remained quiet and withdrawn throughout the process. He made a couple of suggestions which we immediately put into effect and by dinner all the animals were happily eating seal meat in their new homes, while the rest of us withdrew to the ship.
The decision to remove the dogs, as well as Mr Rourke’s sudden willingness to allow Piotre to become involved once more in the day-to-day running of the expedition, suggests to me that he might now be seriously considering the possibility that the Raven will be our home for the winter.
28th February, 1922
2300 hours. Summer ends in an hour, not that you’d know it from the weather. Outside the night is fine with visibility clear out to the horizon, which we estimate is about ten miles away.
After dinner tonight, Mr Rourke, the two Captains and myself met in his cabin to discuss the improbability of us escaping the ice before the onset of winter, and to plan our next steps. While it is reassuring that the Leader is admitting the unlikelihood of us making landfall this year, his opening words were not entirely reassuring.
‘I would like to make it perfectly clear,’ he told us, ‘right from the outset, that the decision we make this evening does not in any way amount to a concession of defeat for this expedition. Even if we choose to spend this winter in the icepack, I still have hopes that, come the start of next summer, we will be able to relocate to the coast, establish a base of operations in a suitable location and commence planning for a push to the pole the following season.’
At this, the three of us all began speaking at once, voicing our opinion that, should we make it through the winter and find ourselves released from the pack next spring, the best course of action would surely be to sail north for Australia, or even South Africa, should we find ourselves that far west. Mr Rourke, however, would have none of it.
‘Gentlemen, before leaving Hobart, you each gave me your assurance that you were as committed to this expedition as I, and I have taken each of you on your word in that regard, despite occasional evidence to the contrary.’ A long stare in my direction accompanied this last observation. ‘As long as I lead this expedition, it is imperative that I have your complete loyalty. If any of you would like to revoke that loyalty, you may do so now and then get off my ship. Otherwise, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourselves.’
Naturally, there was little we could say in response to such a blatant threat, and so all three of us held our tongues while Mr Rourke quickly turned the meeting to other matters.
We first discussed the possibility of sending a team out, on foot and sledge, across the sea ice towards the mainland, in an attempt to reach the coast and set up winter quarters there. This possibility was quickly dismissed, however, owing to the distance, our inexperience handling the dogs and the fact that, after jettisoning so many of our timbers just to stay afloat during the trip down, we are now reliant upon the ship itself for at least some of the construction of the hut.
Captain McLaren briefly raised the possibility of mounting an escape to the north, by foot and boat across the ice, in the manner of Shackleton’s 1915 expedition, however this was similarly discounted on the basis that we have only one boat remaining, and that Mr Rourke is confident our greatly re-enforced hull should, unlike that of Shackleton’s ship, be able to withstand the pressure of the pack ice and keep us safe through the winter.
Those possibilities thus excluded, we next looked at the steps we would need to put into place in order to convert our ship into a safe and comfortable shelter.
This took some time, but when we were done, all four of us felt that we have a good chance of pulling through this, barring unforeseen circumstances. After the meeting, Mr Rourke called all hands to the wardroom, informed them of our decision, and outlined our tasks for the next few days.
* * *
NINETEEN
ENDURANCE. MARCH. AUTUMN SETS IN. TWO DISAPPEARANCES. TWO VERY DIFFERENT SEARCHES. THE ICE MAN COMETH.
And so begins the long run into winter.
It should have been possible for Downes and his company to make for themselves reasonably comfortable, if not luxurious, quarters aboard the Raven. Certainly men had already spent entire winters trapped aboard their ice-bound vessels in Antarctica’s frozen oceans. In some cases they did so with remarkable ease and almost nonchalance, in others, the ordeal proved less simple, but still survivable.
No doubt, though, the fate of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s 1915 transpolar expedition loomed large in the thoughts and imaginations of every man aboard the Raven, as they entered that cold, dark season and of course, to an extent, the comparisons are irresistible.
For Downes and his company, Shackleton’s incredible survival feat must have been both a source of hope and, at the same time, a terrible reminder of the fragility of their situation. That the men of the Endurance had survived at all was widely regarded as a miracle, largely attributable to the fortitude and character of the man in charge.
Much has been written about Shackleton, the man and the leader. His reputation, which was already impressive before his organisation of the Endurance expedition, became something of legend after his return. He has been held up as the pinnacle of good command, a man who put his men before himself, who adapted to his changing situation quickly, thoughtfully and confidently. A leader capable of shifting his goals as needs required, for the betterment of all under his charge. Films have been made, books have been written and academic studies have been done of his management and planning.
It is hard to imagine that the same will ever be said of Edward Rourke.
In fact, when we look beyond the obvious, there are more dissimilarities between the two expeditions than there are commonalities. Certainly both ships became beset in the ice pack, but the Endurance was by no means the first ship to suffer this fate, and the Raven by no means the last: In February 1838, the French explorer Dumont D’Urville spent a week trapped aboard his ship the Astrolabe, while his men laboured feverishly with pickaxes to free both her and her support vessel, the Zélée, from the encroaching ice.
Between February 1898 and March 1899, the Belgica, under the command of Belgian Captain Adrien de Gerlache, and with a young Norwegian by the name of Roald Amundsen among her crew, drifted almost nine-hundred kilometres along t
he western coast of the Antarctic peninsula, frozen in place through the polar night while her crew fought disease, fear and madness.
On 21st Febuary 1902 the German vessel Gauss, steaming slowly off the coast of the Shackleton Ice Shelf, entered a space of open water between two ice ridges and within hours found herself frozen solidly into place. There she remained for almost an entire year before she was finally freed on 8th February 1903, her crew resorting to an ingenious trail of rubbish and ash laid out over the ice to attract the warmth of the sun and melt it enough to open a channel to clear water.
In each of these cases, and many others, parallels can be drawn with the fate of the Raven but, when considering any icebound ship nowadays, it is to the Endurance that people inevitably turn as a benchmark for comparison. As is natural, I guess. Frank Hurley’s spectacular photographs – his night shot of the Endurance, frozen and spectral in the pack ice, has become one of the enduring images of Antarctic exploration – combined with the story of Shackleton and his men’s epic trek is certainly the stuff of great stories. And for those aboard the Raven the saga of the 1915 transpolar expedition would have been relatively fresh in their memories.
But, unfortunately for them, the differences between the two expeditions could not have been more profound.
Shackleton and his men became trapped in the circular-motion pack ice of the Ross Sea, Rourke in the east–west drift along the eastern coast. Shackleton’s ship was stout, certainly, constructed in Norway of seasoned timber and designed with years of ice-condition experience behind her but she had a flaw – her flat sides made it difficult for her to ride up out of the ice. Rourke had learnt at least this lesson from Shackleton. The Raven, for all her ungainly ugliness, was built with rounded sides, not just to withstand the pressure of the ice, but to use it to her advantage.
Fate, that cruellest of taskmasters, had goaded Shackleton and his men into action – crushing their poor ship, sending her dispassionately into the watery depths and forcing the men who’d lived aboard her to either fight for their lives or die where they stood. Rourke, however, thanks to his engineering acumen in having the Raven armoured, would face no such trial by ice.
Instead, he and his men would meet eternity through attrition.
Most of them, anyway.
* * *
From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downes
4th March, 1922
Polar Exploration Vessel Raven
Position Unknown
Four very busy days, but our little ship is now more or less equipped to face the winter. All the crew have been moved from their mess deck in the forepeak down into the ’tween deck, along with Piotre, Per and the two Moreton Brothers. Also moved into the ’tween deck: Sam Piper, Stan O’Hanlon, and Dick Ryan, all of whom had their quarters in the forward deckhouse, which is less insulated from the cold. To make space for all these new arrivals, the supplies which had until now been stowed in the ’tween deck have been moved to the forepeak and deckhouse.
For warmth, the large stove from the galley has been brought down and installed at the aft end of the ’tween deck, and this will be Sam’s work area from now on. Lawrence Moreton has knocked together a couple of adequate benches for him to work on, and the mess table from the crew’s old quarters has also been installed.
As a result, our upper hold is now festooned with hammocks and with all the men, as well as the Cook’s galley, in there it is quite a cosy little space.
Once these movements were completed, the main deck hatches, both forward and aft, were nailed shut, then sealed with canvas and covered with a thick layer of snow to provide maximum insulation.
Charles Weymouth has also been busy converting the small stove in the wardroom from a coal to a blubber burner. While the stove is as warm as ever, it now gives off pungent black smoke and a rather distinct smell which I am certain will soon permeate the entire ship.
The two wardroom skylights received similar treatment to the cargo hatches and now the only light below decks is that from the hurricane lamps which we have brought up from stores. Our drums of paraffin have been moved to the centre of the ship, and all non-essential cargo is now piled around the sides of the hull, adding another layer of insulation between us and the ice.
The engine fires have been put out and the door to the coal bunker propped open so that, should it freeze into place, we will still have access to the fuel inside.
Hunting parties have been set up for every day that the weather permits, and several men have been detailed to expand our storage cave – which has been christened ‘the larder’ – so that we can continue to lay in supplies for as long as possible.
Already, though, the pickings are becoming slimmer than they were even a week ago. Fewer seals and penguins are around and those that we find are often small or sick. Still, with careful management, there is no reason we should not see the winter through unscathed.
With the interior of the ship set up, the next task was to build props against the hull so that, should the ice squeeze us up and out, the ship does not fall on her side.
Almost everyone aboard has been involved in this task, which proved heavy and laborious. First the remaining timbers, which were to have been used in constructing the hut, had to be swung overboard onto the ice and each manoeuvred to a position around the ship. Then, teams of men dug trenches into the ice at a ninety-degree angle to the hull and down to a depth of five or six feet. Once these were done, the hut beams were lowered into them so that one end of each beam was against the side of the ship, and the other solidly wedged in the bottom of the trench. Then the whole trench was re-filled with ice and packed snow, and soaked with water, hauled by hand from a small lead about three hundred yards away, and poured over the whole trench to ensure that it froze solid. The process took all hands an entire day and a half, but late this afternoon Captain McLaren pronounced the work complete to his satisfaction. Now, should we find ourselves emerging upwards from the ice, we will at least have some support about us which should keep lateral movement to a minimum.
With these preparations complete, all that remains to do now is to continue gathering as much seal and penguin meat as we can, and to settle ourselves in for the coming winter. In celebration of the completion of our winter quarters, Mr Rourke declared a day off tomorrow, and then we shall establish our winter routines. Alex is keen to set up his weather screens on the ice so that he might document the winter in some detail, and I have agreed to assist him with this.
Other men have already begun various projects. Greg Shannon-Stacey managed to shoot down a large seabird yesterday – a skua, he informs us, and one of the last we’ve seen. He intends to stuff it to take back to Australia with us. He also plans to attempt a penguin, if a suitable specimen can be found before winter sets in. Doug King, his duties as cartographer now largely redundant, has proposed to measure the changing thickness and density of the ice throughout the course of the winter. This project will no doubt involve a fair amount of heavy labour, drilling and such like, but he has had no shortage of volunteers. Even Lawson proposes to run photography classes for anyone interested, and this has provoked a great response.
So all in all, though our situation is far from ideal, it looks as though we should be able to weather the winter in relatively good spirits.
6th March, 1922
Only time for a quick entry. Piotre gone, nobody sure when or how. Search parties being organised.
7th March, 1922
Spent fourteen hours straight outside before the weather came down on us. Now back aboard. Numb. Must sleep.
8th March, 1922
Just woke up after sleeping almost twelve hours straight through. Still exhausted, though. All aboard are trying to come to terms with the events of the last three days, and these will take some recounting.
I was woken on the morning of the 6th by Lawson, who roused Alex and me from our bunks at 0630, demanding to know if we’d seen Piotre. Both of us were somewhat disgruntled at being distu
rbed at such an early hour, especially as at dinner the previous evening Mr Rourke had produced from the hold a small cask of brandy, in celebration of the establishment of our winter base, so most of us were feeling somewhat under the weather. In addition, I’d had night watch from 0200 – 0300, and so I replied rather shortly that, as far as I knew, Piotre wasn’t in either of our bunks and Lawson should go and look elsewhere.
Lawson didn’t seem to notice my grumpiness, and indeed, his next words woke both of us completely, all resentment forgotten.
‘He’s gone.’
I sat up in my bunk and asked him what he meant by ‘gone’ and Lawson shrugged.
‘Vanished. I can’t find him anywhere. I came on watch at 0600, went to check on him, and found his hammock empty.’
‘He’s probably out with the dogs,’ I suggested as, during the previous few days, Piotre had at last begun to show some interest in them again.
‘I’ve looked,’ Lawson answered. ‘And in the hold, and through the forepeak. I can’t find him anywhere.’
At that, Alex and I both rose and dressed and it took only a few minutes to confirm what Lawson had told us – the Russian was indeed absent from his hammock, and nowhere else immediately apparent. After re-checking the dog lines, the hold and the forepeak with no success, I sent Alex to wake Mr Rourke and Captain McLaren.
The Leader was initially reluctant to admit that anything was wrong, stating that, ‘The mad bugger’s probably taken himself off for a walk or something’. But when pressed, he agreed that something was probably amiss and so all hands were shaken from their beds and the promised day off began with a no-holds-barred search of the ship and surrounding ice.
Into White Silence Page 24