The White South

by Hammond Innes

  I want to give a clear impression of this ship, because only then is it possible to appreciate the shock of what happened later. She was a floating factory—a belching, stinking, muck-heap of activity two thousand miles from civilisation. Her upper works were black with grease and filth from the cloud of smoke that rolled out of her trying out funnel. And over everything hung the awful smell of whale. It was like a pall. It was the smell of decaying flesh, mingled with oil and fish, and lying on the air, thick and cloying, like an inescapable fog. But though her decks might present the appearance of some gargantuan slaughter-house, below all was neat and ordered as in a factory. There were the long lines of boilers, hissing gently with the steam that was being injected into them and with gutters bubbling with the hot oil. There was the refrigeration plant and machinery for cutting and packing and dehydrating the meat. There were crushing machines for converting the bone to fertiliser. There were laboratories and workshops, sick bays, mess rooms, living quarters, store rooms, electric generating plant—everything. The Southern Cross was a well-stocked, well-populated factory town.

  When we got up on deck again, the five catchers that had been lying idle astern of us had already scattered in search of whale. Four carcases were lying alongside, gashed to prevent decay through the internal heat of the mass of dead flesh, and horribly bloated through being inflated with air to keep them afloat. One of the towing ships was bringing in five more.

  The whole fleet was in action now with whales spouting all round us. It was an incredible sight. Standing there on the deck of the factory ship we could hear the dull double thud of the harpoon guns in action. I saw one catcher quite close. The skytter was running down the catwalk that connected the bridge with the gun platform perched precariously on the high bows. He seized the gun, his legs braced apart, waiting for the moment to strike. Twice the catcher drove the whale under. Then suddenly the spout was right under the catcher’s bow. I saw the sharp-ended point of the harpoon dip as the gun was aimed. Then it flew out—a hundred and fifty pound javelin-like projectile with a light forerunner snaking after it. There was the sharp crack of the gun and then the duller boom of the warhead exploding inside the whale as it sounded. Next moment the line was taut, dragging at the masthead shackles and accumulator springs as the heavy line ran out and the winch brakes screamed. The whole thing took on the proportions of a naval operation.

  But by this time my stomach was in open revolt. I thanked my guide hurriedly and staggered off to my cabin. Maybe if I hadn’t been so tired, my stomach could have stood it. But the gale and sleepless days had weakened my resistance to that insidious, filthy smell. I gave up all I had to the cabin basin and, cold with sweat, fell into an exhausted sleep on my bunk. I didn’t wake up until Kyrre, the second officer, came in. He grinned at me as I opened my eyes. “You are ill, yes?” The corners of his eyes creased in a thousand wrinkles and he roared with laughter. He was a big, blond fellow with a beard and gold fillings to his teeth. “Soon you are better,” he added. “No more whale.”

  “You mean you’ve finished catching for the day?” I struggled up on to my elbow. I felt weak, but my stomach was all right now.

  “Finish for the day. Ja.” His eyes suddenly lost their laughter. “Finish for altogether, I think,” he said. “The whale go south. It is what you say the migration.” He shook his big head. “I do not know,” he muttered. “It is very funny, this season. I have been four times to the Antarctic. But it was never like this before.” He scratched at his beard with a great, dirty paw of a hand. “Maybe we have to go south, too.”

  “That means going through the pack ice, doesn’t it?” I said, putting my feet over the side of the bunk.

  “Ja” he said and his eyes looked troubled. “Ja—through the pack ice. It is bad, this season. The Haakon she is going south already. We go also I think.” Then suddenly he grinned and clapped me on the back. “Come, my friend. We go to have some food, eh? But first, you try some aquavit. That is good for the stomach.” He produced a bottle and glasses. “This is good stuff—real Line aquavit.” He thrust the bottle in front of me so that I could see through the colourless spirit the back of the label on which was printed the name of the ship in which the liquor had crossed the Line.

  “Skaal!” he said when he’d filled the glasses. He knocked it straight back. I did the same. It was like fire in my throat. “God!” I said. “Real firewater.”

  “Firewater!” He roared with laughter. “Ja. That is good. Firewater! Now we eat, eh?”

  The officers’ mess was plain and well scrubbed, the predominating note bleak cleanliness. Most of the men wore beards. They didn’t talk. I don’t imagine they ever talked much once the food was served. But a sense of tension brooded over the table. Covert glances were cast at Bland where he sat with Judie on one side of him and Eide on the other. Judie was toying with her soup. Her eyes were blank. She might have been alone. The man next to her made some remark. She ignored it.

  “Which is Erik Bland?” I asked my companion.

  It was as I had guessed. The man sitting next to Judie was her husband. He was taller and much slimmer than his father but he had the same round head and short, thick neck. Stripped of his beard, the features might have been those of Bland thirty or forty years ago. But there wasn’t the same strength. There was no violent set of the jaw, no dragging down of the brows from a wide forehead. Instead there was a sort of arrogance.

  I drank my soup and watched him as he talked to the secretary who was sitting on the other side of him. His manner suggested there was more of his mother than his father in his make-up. Nevertheless, with his fair hair and blue eyes, he looked a fair example of clean-limbed Norwegian youth.

  The soup was followed by plates piled high with slabs of meat covered in a thick gravy. I was hungry and though it was a little too highly spiced, I was enjoying it until somebody said, “Now you are eating whalemeat. It is good, eh?” My mind conjured up an immediate picture of the charnel house of the flensing decks and I pushed the plate away from me. This brought a roar of laughter. “If you do not eat whalemeat,” Captain Eide said, “I think you will starve on the Southern Cross.” Another gust of laughter shook the room and I realised that they were all glad of something to laugh at.

  “Well, I’ll stick to bread and cheese this evening,” I said. It was good rye bread, freshly baked.

  The laughter evaporated. A gloomy silence invaded the room again. When the meal was over Eide asked me to have a drink with him. He took me to his cabin and we talked about the war. He had commanded a Norwegian destroyer and I found he’d been with several convoys that I had been attached to. At length I brought the conversation round to Nordahl’s disappearance. But all he’d say was: “It’s a complete mystery. I don’t understand it at all.”

  “What’s your opinion of Erik Bland?” I asked, purposely putting the question so bluntly that he couldn’t evade answering it without appearing rude.

  “How do you mean?” he asked guardedly.

  “I gathered he’d been causing trouble with the Tönsberg men.”

  Eide’s brows lifted. “On the contrary. He’s done everything to smooth things over. He’s young, of course, and inexperienced. But that’s not his fault. He’ll learn. And a lot of the men like him.”

  “But he didn’t get on with Nordahl, did he?”

  Eide hesitated. “You’ve seen the messages to Colonel Bland, eh?” I nodded. “Well,” he said, “Nordahl wasn’t an easy man to get on with. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good leader. He was. But he expected people to accept his views without question. He was impatient of opposition and wasn’t open to suggestion. That suits the mentality of the skytters whose job it is to act and not to think. But it made the day-to-day management of the factory ship difficult.”

  “There must have been more to it than that for Nordahl to send that ultimatum to Colonel Bland,” I suggested.

  There was a short, embarrassed silence and then Eide said, “If you do not mind, I would p
refer not to discuss this matter with you. You understand—there are politics in every company and it is better not to talk about them.”

  “Of course,” I said, “I understand. You’re not by any chance from Sandefjord, are you?”

  He looked at me and his lips spread into a brief smile. “My home is in Kristiansand,” he said. “I am master of the Southern Cross this trip because Andersen, who was a Tönsberg man, has retired.”

  After that I switched the conversation back to the war. About half an hour later I excused myself and went down to my cabin. I was still very tired and I slept as though I’d been drugged.

  At breakfast the next morning there was soup and more whale-meat and a koldtbord of pressed whale beef, tinned fish and brown Norwegian goats’ cheese. The pressed whale beef was good. Shortly after breakfast I was told that Bland wanted to see me in his cabin. I didn’t know it then, but this was the morning of the fatal decision. I’d already been up on deck. The wind had sprung up again, a roaring blast of bitterly cold air out of the sou’west. The clouds were low and threatening. To the south the prevailing grey was turned to brilliant white by the ice blink. It was as though the moon were about to rise. The catchers were scattered, searching for whale. Thick smoke continued to belch from the trying-out stack, but the clatter of winches had ceased and the smell of whale was less noticeable.

  Eide and Erik Bland were in the cabin when I entered. Bland himself was seated in a swivel chair, his elbow resting on the desk. The man’s face was pallid. He was wiping his glasses and I noticed that there were thick pouches under his eyes. “Craig—I want you to meet my son,” he said. “Erik. This is Commander Craig.”

  Erik Bland came over and shook my hand. “Glad to have you with us,” he said. His manner was friendly. “My father thinks you’re a fine sailor.”

  “If I am,” I said, “the credit’s due to the British Navy.” My antagonism was already melting. His manner was easy and natural. He might not have the drive and pugnacity of his father, but his manners were better and he had confidence in himself. I suddenly began to wonder how much of Judie’s reactions were due to a father complex.

  Bland swung round in his chair so that he faced me. “Sit down, Craig,” he said. “I’ve got a job for you.” He put his glasses on and began fingering the lobe of his ear. “For some reason that I don’t understand the Tönsberg men have got the idea tht Nordahl’s death wasn’t accidental. The man behind the whole thing is Larvik. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not interested in the logic of their suspicions. I’m interested only in the fact that they are suspicious and that until their suspicions are settled one way or the other it interferes with the working of the ship and the catchers. I’ve told them that an enquiry will be held. And since they seem to have an idea that in some way I or my son are involved, neither of us will be on the committee of enquiry. The committee will consist of three people. The two members will be Captain Eide here and my daughter-in-law.”

  “Good God!” I said. “You’re not going to make her go through the agony of examining all the men who had conversation with Nordahl just before he vanished? Surely you must understand her feelings in the—”

  “I’m not interested in her feelings,” he growled at me. “My problem is that a lot of damned suspicious nonsense has got into the heads of some of the men. With Judie on the committee they’ll accept the findings, whatever they are. In fact, Larvik has already agreed.”

  “Have you spoken to her about it?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “But surely she has some—”

  “I’m not prepared to argue.” His little eyes glared at me. “Her husband agrees.”

  “That’s no answer,” I replied hotly.

  “Do you think you have a better right to speak for her than her husband?” he asked. His voice was suddenly violent.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Very well,” he said, relaxing. “Now then—the reason I’ve asked you up here is this. I want you to act as chairman of this committee. You’re entirely outside any company politics. With you, Eide and Judie on the committee, the men will be satisfied. Well?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to be drawn into it.

  “I said I’d find you an interesting job,” he added. “And this is it.”

  The point he was making was obvious. I was being paid by the company and if I didn’t know enough to operate one of the whaling ships, it was up to me to take on anything I was given. Whether it was this that decided me or the fact that Judie was on the committee and I wanted to lessen the pain of it for her, I don’t know. But I heard myself say, “All right. I’ll act as chairman.”

  “Good!” He shifted more easily in his chair. “Get down to it right away. The sooner the job’s completed the better.” There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called.

  It was Howe. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand. His face was slightly flushed and there was a queer excitement in his eyes. “Ah, come in, Howe,” Bland said. “Have you got that report for me?”

  Howe nodded. He didn’t seem able to trust himself to speak. He came across the cabin with that awkward, crab-like walk and handed Bland the papers. Bland didn’t look at them. He looked at Howe instead. “Well?” he said. “What are your conclusions? Where’s the best place to hunt for whale in a season like this?” Howe swallowed nervously. “Come on, man. You know very well not a catcher has reported whale all morning though conditions have been ideal. The skytters all say we just caught the tail end of a migratory movement. Where do you think we’ll find whale? Do we go east or west? Back towards South Georgia or down into the Weddell Sea? Well?”

  Howe’s Adam’s apple gave one final jerk. “Through the pack,” he said. “Through the pack into the Weddell Sea.” His mouth had a sly twist to it and his watery eyes gleamed. I suddenly had the feeling that the man’s report was based on nothing more substantial than the fact that he wanted Bland to go south.

  And the strange thing was that Bland himself seemed to want to go south, too. “Good, good,” he said. “Did you know Hanssen was taking the Haakon into the pack?”

  “No.” The Adam’s apple jerked again.

  “Apparently he thinks the same. So do Petersen and Larvik—and after Nordahl they’re the most experienced men we have.” I glanced quickly at Erik Bland as his father mentioned the name Nordahl, but it produced no reaction.

  Bland had got up and was staring out of the porthole. Suddenly he swung round. “Very well, Captain Eide,” he said. His tone was abrupt, decisive. “Recall the catchers. As soon as they have all come in, get the gunners aboard for a conference. My view is that we should go south right away. We’ve only just over two months left and to make up for lost time we need plenty of whale. Have we enough meat to give the refrigerator ship a full cargo?”

  “No,” Eide replied and looked across at Erik Bland, who added, “The South is only one-third full.”

  “She must come with us then. Now go and recall the catchers.” He dismissed his son with a nod and turned to me. “I want the findings of that enquiry completed whilst the catchers are assembling—before we start south. Captain Eide has agreed to release the second officer from all duties to assist you in deciding who you wish to come before you to give evidence. He’s a Tönsberg man, he speaks English and he was on watch the night Nordahl vanished.” He nodded to us. “That’s all then, gentlemen. To-morrow we will enter the pack ice.”

  The imminence of our entry into the pack ice gave me little enough time to hold the enquiry. Immediately after the conference in Bland’s cabin the ship turned its bow towards the ice blink. She was travelling at half speed. As soon as all the catchers were assembled, and they couldn’t be more than a few hours’ steaming away, all speed would be made to the south. Once in the pack I realised that it would be difficult to continue the enquiry. Captain Eide, for one, would not be available, nor would Kyrre. I was glad I’d had some experience of enquiries whilst in the Navy.

 
Kyrre had already received instructions and was waiting for me in our cabin. I got from him a brief account of Nordahl’s movements on the night he’d disappeared and drew up a list of men to be interviewed. Bland sent down copies of a typewritten notice announcing the enquiry. The officers’ smokeroom had been set aside for it and there was a blank against the time for me to fill in. It asked any man who thought he might have information relevant to the factory manager’s disappearance to come before the committee. I found Eide on the bridge and fixed for the enquiry to begin at eleven. Then I went down to Judie’s cabin. She was sitting on her bunk, very still, very scared looking.

  “You’ve been told about this enquiry?” I asked. I made my voice sound as matter-of-fact as possible.

  She nodded.

  “I’ve fixed it for eleven,” I said. “That’s in just over half an hour. That all right for you?”

  “Yes.” Her tone was almost harsh as though she were bracing herself for the ordeal.

  I turned to go. Then I stopped. “It’s a rotten job for you,” I said.

  “I’ll be all right.” She gave me a wan smile.

  At eleven o’clock there were five men, besides the ones we’d called, scuffling their feet outside the door of the smokeroom. As I passed through them with Judie there was a muttered “God dag.” One man said, “God dag, frϕken Nordahl.” Not fru Bland, but frϕken Nordahl. Kyrre was already there. Eide came in as we were seating ourselves.

  “Right,” I said. “Let’s have the men we’ve called first—in the order we agreed, Kyrre.”

  It took us two hours to get the story of that night out of them. But it was quite straightforward. There was nothing in any of the evidence to prepare us for the labyrinth of ill feeling and suspicion we were to plough our way through later. On the evening of the 2nd January Nordahl had joined the other officers for the evening meal as usual. He hadn’t talked much. But he wasn’t any more silent that night than he had been since the ship left Capetown. He seemed to have had a premonition that the season was going to be a bad one. The secretary, who saw a lot of him, said that he was increasingly concerned about the absence of whale. Nordahl had a very considerable financial interest in the company. Judie couldn’t say exactly what the figure was, but thought it might be as high as thirty or thirty-five per cent.