Into White Silence

by Anthony Eaton

  It was a subdued company who rendezvoused back at the Raven, none of the other groups having had any more success than our own. After standing down the company, Mr Rourke again summoned myself, Mr Ryan and George Smythe-Davis to his cabin and there recovered from us our side-arms, locking them back in their drawer, before speaking, sharply.

  ‘So, who is it, then?’ he asked.

  None of us spoke, not wanting to be the first to give apparent credibility to such an awful notion. I think that we were all leg weary and well beyond any sort of coherent discussion, and all realised that Rourke had no interest in anything other than his own opinion, in any case.

  The Leader was in no mood to allow us off the hook so easily, though, and after several seconds, he snapped at me: ‘Downes. Who should we be watching?’

  I replied that I had no idea and tried to suggest gently that the pickets might well have worked loose over the last several days or weeks.

  ‘Poppycock!’ Rourke shook his head vehemently, then sat heavily on his rumpled bunk. ‘This was the work of person or persons unknown and I will not entertain for a moment any suggestion to the contrary. Whoever did this wanted to make our failure certain and for that, damn them to hell, I promise that I’ll see them dealt with accordingly. Now I want a full report from each of you, everything that happened or was said during your searches, with nothing left out. Ryan, you can go first. Downes and George, wait outside and I’ll call you when I’m ready.’

  I followed Captain Smythe-Davis out into the wardroom, where we drew curious glances from the others, but nobody had the nerve to approach us. It seemed our quiet conferences with the Leader, combined with the lack of any official gathering, were sufficient to cast a shadow of suspicion over us. George and I found ourselves a corner of the table and there sat, too exhausted to do anything other than think.

  Around us, the rest of the expeditioners were at least making an effort towards normal behaviour. Alex and Lawson were playing chess, Doctor Dalby, Greg Shannon-Stacey, Michael Burke and Charles Weymouth were involved in a card game of some description, bridge, I think. All looked utterly weary and completely incapable of the type of sabotage that Mr Rourke was suggesting.

  Eventually, the Leader’s cabin door opened and Ryan slouched out, nodding sharply at me, just once, on his way past.

  ‘Downes. Sit.’ Rourke commanded as soon as the door was shut behind me, and I took the single wooden chair that usually sat behind the Leader’s tiny desk. Mr Rourke then asked me for my account of the search and I did so, attempting to give as full and accurate a telling as possible. At the end, Rourke nodded thoughtfully and ran his fingers through his beard again and asked, ‘This “ice man” that Walsh believes is running around. What are your thoughts on that?’

  I replied that I thought it nonsense and Mr Rourke nodded, approvingly.

  ‘Quite so …’ he said. ‘Quite so. But I’m going to ask you to keep that notion to yourself for the next little while.’

  Not certain quite what to make of this odd request I said nothing and a moment later, without further discussion, I was dismissed.

  Captain Smythe-Davis remained in with the Leader for a considerably longer time than I had and when they’d finished, all hands were summoned to the wardroom where Mr Rourke commenced his address with his customary directness.

  ‘Gentlemen, clearly the loss of the dogs is bad news indeed for us and I thank you all for your efforts today, unsuccessful though we were. It is vital that we do not allow this disaster to distract us from the important business of survival, however, so I am putting into place several new rules, which I expect to be followed to the letter.

  ‘Firstly, nobody is to leave the ship on their own, for any reason whatsoever. If you have business on the ice, you must take another man with you and inform either Captain Smythe-Davis or Mr Downes of your movements and intentions. Secondly, night watchmen are, from tonight on, to remain on deck with a lit lantern and are to be constantly vigilant for any movement on the ice or near the ship. Finally, I am to be personally and immediately informed of any sightings of anything even remotely odd or suspicious, no matter what time it is, day or night. Is that clear?’

  Everyone muttered a response and Randolph Lawson immediately stood to speak, his affected manner giving lie to the sharpness of his words.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, old chap, what on earth is the purpose of all this? Seems rather draconian, don’t you think?’

  Rourke paused for a moment, apparently giving the matter some thought before responding.

  ‘Mr Lawson, I find it difficult to believe the dogs could possibly have pulled their lines out without human assistance. I also cannot fathom the possibility that somebody here present among us would commit such a heinous act, and therefore that leaves only one probable answer – the culprit is not in this room at the moment.’

  This statement brought about an immediate craning of heads as everybody hurriedly glanced about, trying to ascertain which members of the company were missing. There was some muted whispering as the men realised that all were present and accounted for and then Mr Rourke delivered his coup de grace.

  ‘Gentlemen, it is my belief that somehow, against all odds, Piotre Dimitri Petrokoff has managed to survive out there, and is responsible for this offence against us all.’

  His words caused an explosion of startled conversation and several men rose to speak at once. I threw a worried glance at George Smythe-Davis, but found him studying the deck most intently. Almost everybody else, it seemed, was heatedly debating the possibility of Mr Rourke’s outlandish accusation being true. Everyone except for three men: Rourke himself, who was watching the resulting babble intently and with a self-satisfied smile, Dick Ryan, who slouched in a corner, quietly observing the room through expressionless eyes, and one other, who had simply fallen back into his chair, pale and stunned.

  Randolph Lawson.

  * * *

  TWENTY

  THE BLACK SHIP. THE LAW ICE DOME. FEAR. MORE DISAPPEARANCES. ICE AND DARKNESS. A FUEL CRISIS. A HUNTING PARTY. PUNISHMENT.

  It is hard to fathom the impact that the loss of their dogs would have had on the men trapped aboard the Raven; certainly from this point onwards the journal becomes increasingly despondent in tone, though given the events occurring during this period, this is not particularly surprising. For Rourke, the disappearance of the animals would have meant the ultimate thwarting of his polar ambitions; even if they could manage to establish their summer base on the coast, with no means of fast transportation across the icy wastes it was now impossible for them to lay down supply dumps, or even conceive of making that vast trek to the South Pole.

  For Downes and the others, the impact of the loss was perhaps more of a mixed blessing. Certainly the removal of this vital resource should have spared them all another long winter in the ice and meant that, if they were able to free themselves, they might even have managed to spend some of the following summer back in Australia with their loved ones.

  But, of course, the moment Edward Rourke spoke those fateful words – ‘It is my belief that somehow, against all odds, Piotre Dimitri Petrokoff has managed to survive out there’ – he fundamentally changed every dynamic aboard his ship. From that moment on, his crew found themselves dealing with another foe: a silent, unseen, and altogether more deadly enemy than the ice and the cold and the darkness.

  Fear.

  Whether he intended to or not, Rourke, by giving official voice to the possibility that Piotre Dimitri might just be out there somewhere, unleashed a frightening possibility in the imaginations of every man aboard that ship.

  Imagine …

  In all my digging, I have been able to locate only one photograph of the PEV Raven. While trawling through the myriad archives of the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, searching for information on Rourke and his expedition, I came across the following reference;

  Lawson, R (?) B/W Photograph of Ship, c. 1921, Taken in or around vicinity of Hobart. (
Poss. Port Art. / Kingston?) Inscription on back ‘The Black Ship – God help us all!’ Cond. poor. [Cat. Ref. 1002.213 LAW]

  The name caught my attention and, after more than an hour of digging, and assisted along the way by no fewer than three separate curators, from a dusty folder in a basement filing cabinet I finally unearthed a small print, badly degraded and spotted. The sharpness of the image has been faded by the years into browned sepia tones, but the overall picture is nevertheless clear. It shows a small ship crouched low in the dark waters of the Derwent River. On her foremast she carries three yardarms, the square sails clearly rigged but not set and, on her aft, a gaff-rigged spanker holds her head into the breeze. Midships, a squat funnel, out of proportion to the size of the hull, pokes up to the same height as the crosstrees. She has a graceful cutter bow, a rounded stern, and the interplay of shadows along her flanks are suggestive of gentle, curved sides. Despite all of Lieutenant Downes’ protests to the contrary, to me she appears strangely elegant – if a little ungainly.

  The roof of her deckhouse is loaded to capacity – the dark profile of at least one longboat clearly visible, and a clutter of miscellaneous equipment surrounding that. The little of her decks that can be distinguished from the faded image are similarly cluttered with the dark shadows of various items of equipment.

  Looking at the picture, I often try to imagine that tiny ship – so much smaller than Shackleton’s Endurance or Mawson’s Aurora – trapped in the vice-like pincers of the pack ice. I imagine the extraordinary pressures that must have been brought to bear upon that slender hull, the seemingly unstoppable winds which would have torn asunder her masts and rigging, and the blackness of blizzard nights into which her steel-clad hull would have vanished absolutely.

  And, of course, I imagine what it must have been to live aboard her during those few long months – dwelling in the claustrophobic darkness of her ’tween deck and wardroom, with her hatches battened and buried, her living areas pungent with the stink of blubber and men, of smoke and unwashed bodies and rotting damp fur clothing. I imagine her engines cold and her tanks frozen, and how she must have appeared to Downes and his companions as they trekked miserably back towards her at the end of their long search for the missing dogs – her black form at once homestead and prison.

  And on the back of the photograph, seven words scrawled in Lawson’s inelegant handwriting – the only example of his writing that I’ve been able to discover – ‘The Black Ship. God help us all!’

  I have no idea when he captured this particular image, trapping it for all posterity on old film, or how it managed to remain behind and work its way into the basement of the Museum in Hobart. The Gallery itself had no records and I cannot imagine Edward Rourke, as secretive as he was, being overly pleased to discover that Lawson had left behind him such a crucial ‘footprint’. I can only assume, therefore, that it was a deliberate and hidden act on the part of the photographer, a small, minor rebellion before having to submit himself to the black womb of the Raven. Certainly his inscription, words no doubt intended to be read sarcastically but, as events unfolded, ironically prophetic, suggest that from the outset he harboured major reservations about both Edward Rourke and the feasibility of his intended expedition.

  Still, there is no escaping the fact that, like Downes and all the others, when the moment came, Lawson did step aboard that black ship, accepting his place and throwing in his lot with Rourke, no matter how distasteful he found the prospect.

  But as April yawned ahead of them and their days grew shorter, life aboard the black ship had changed fundamentally. Now, the men of the Raven spent their nights huddled on watch, staring out into the ice, searching the unrelenting white for the spectre of a dead Russian boy, under the shimmering, ethereal curtain of the southern lights. Who’s to know what whispered conversations took place during those hours? What doubts were expressed? What innermost secrets shared in the eerie half-light with a willing ear?

  Certainly, to borrow from Alex Holdsworthy’s analogy, Rourke’s decision to nurture and foster the idea of the Ice Man, and his bold move in giving it a name – Piotre Dimitri – was a move more in keeping with a queen than a king; unexpected, unpredictable, and seemingly at angles to the main objective of the game.

  Behind Casey, the Law Ice Dome stretches upwards into the emptiness of Wilkes Land, rising to 1395 metres above sea level. If you exit the Red Shed then turn right and follow the main ‘street’ out past the firehouse, Green Store, and mechanics’ workshop to the station limits, you will find yourself standing at the base of this vast, empty slope of ice.

  During the summer, it is even possible, with some effort, to locate the place where the rock – the bedrock of the entire continent – vanishes beneath the edge of the dome. From that point, looking south, the view is a vast expanse of white nothingness, stretching upwards as far as you can see; not a single feature, not a hill nor rock nor cliff to break the monotony. If you were to start walking, climbing slowly up that constant slope, you’d eventually find yourself in the centre of a white horizon, in the middle of an unblemished, unbroken disc of nothingness.

  One night during my stay, unable to sleep, I walked up to Penguin Pass and did just that – stared up the slope of the Law Dome and into the void. It was an uncomfortable experience, humbling and terrifying, and I soon abandoned it for the comforts of my donga. When I think about what Rourke did to his men that evening – gave flesh to the ghosts that dwell in the emptiness – I think about that vast white slope and my skin prickles with clammy dread.

  Because one thing becomes immediately apparent: once Rourke gave the Ice Man a name, once he made it real, he left every man on board the Black Ship, including himself, with only two choices – conquer that fear, or have it conquer them.

  * * *

  From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downes

  2nd April, 1922

  Polar Exploration Vessel Raven

  Approx. 67°30’S, 110°10’E

  Stood on deck last night for the hour of my watch, feeling like a fool as I clutched the storm lantern. At one point the breeze carried with it the sound of the dogs howling, somewhere to the south, but today’s search, just like yesterday’s, will no doubt prove fruitless.

  Coal supplies are almost exhausted, despite our best efforts, and Mr Weymouth is making plans to convert the large stove to a blubber burner, which should be manageable, but will also exhaust our already decreasing supplies of that fuel. We haven’t seen a seal in well over a month now, and Greg says we’re not likely to before next summer.

  Mr Rourke’s claim that Piotre is somewhere out in the ice has put the whole ship on edge; even those men who initially dismissed the suggestion as outlandish are now jumpy and tense, leaping at shadows and quick to explode into violent action at the slightest provocation. Last night Joseph Smith foolishly went onto the ice in the middle of the night to relieve himself and upon his return to the ship, as he stepped aboard from the gangplank, he was almost brained with a belaying pin by Tom Walsh, who was on watch at the time.

  The situation is being further compounded by our lack of sleep; in addition to the general feeling of unease, we have rationed ourselves to only three hours per night with the stoves lit. By midnight it is frightfully cold below decks, and even our reindeer-hide sleeping bags are proving insufficient to the task of keeping us warm. Most of us have been managing at best a couple of fitful hours sleep. The rest of the time we huddle, awake and shivering, until it is our turn for watch.

  4th April, 1922

  Lawson approached me this afternoon and asked if I might join him for a stroll. Something about his manner was oddly affected, even for Lawson, and so, curious, I agreed. We wandered out a little distance from the ship to a point where we could not be accidentally overheard and there stood in awkward silence for some minutes, until the mood was broken by the distant sound of dogs baying. As the mournful chorus echoed across the desolate ocean Lawson asked me if I was ‘… actually buying in to Rourk
e’s little charade about Piotre’.

  I told him I thought such a possibility unlikely in the extreme and, to my surprise, he looked slightly disappointed.

  ‘Pity. It’d make everything so much easier, wouldn’t it?’

  Uncertain what he was getting at, I asked him to elaborate and he gave a quick shrug.

  ‘Because if it were true, even possible, then it wouldn’t be one of us.’

  ‘Do you believe it?’ I enquired in return and Lawson promptly turned his head slightly away, even though his face, which remained hidden behind his dark snow-glasses and inside the fur lining of his hood, was virtually unreadable anyway.

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I don’t. As much as I’d like to.’

  Then, startlingly, he seemed to slough off his odd despondency and, in his normal supercilious fashion, enquired, as though he was simply asking for the time of day, ‘Would you be prepared to assume command of this little jaunt, if the opportunity presented itself?’

  The question, so unexpected and boldly presented, threw me completely, and stopped me in my tracks. Taking my stunned silence as an invitation to elaborate, Lawson carried on.

  ‘Because it seems to me that our esteemed leader is halfway around the bend and – let’s face facts, old chap – the only person here even remotely qualified to step into those particular shoes is your good self.’

  By this point I’d found my tongue again and, as strongly as I could, suggested that Lawson drop this subject of discussion and never raise it again. As much as I might question Mr Rourke’s decisions from time to time, to this point he has not done anything to make me doubt the veracity of his intentions, nor that he intends to get us all home safely, if that is at all possible. All this I told Lawson in no uncertain terms.