“You said yourself they’d never risk the factory ship,” I reminded her. I wanted no false optimism.
She nodded. “Ja. I think perhaps they do not come, except to look.” She stood there fiddling with her ski-sticks, staring out across the ice.
I knew she had something on her mind, so I got the party moving again and slid alongside her on my ski. “Well,” I said. “What else did Colonel Bland say?”
She looked up at me quickly. “It was not Bland. It was Larsen. He say there is a whole line of icebergs—five or six; some of them big ones—and they are drifting into the pack. He say already the ice is being built up into pressure ridges along a wide front. It is packing the ice in tight and he think it will get worse.”
“Are these the bergs we thought we saw this morning?” I asked her.
She nodded. “Wait till you are at the camp and can stand on the boxes. You can see them quite distinctly now. You can also hear the ice. They are much nearer, I think.”
I didn’t say anything, but pressed on into the camp. Gerda was quite right. The bergs were nearer. Standing on the packing cases I got a clear view to the west. I counted seven of them in a long line—and I was no longer looking at their reflections in the atmosphere, but at the bergs themselves. Probably they had calved from the barrier ice somewhere along the Caird Coast or Luitpold Land at roughly the same time and had been kept together by the current that had swept them down into our latitudes. They looked like a fleet of sailing ships in line ahead. “I think there is a very big storm somewhere,” Gerda said. “The pressure on the ice is increasing. The floes are being packed closer together all the time.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it,” I answered sharply, and sent her off with the second load of stores.
There was nothing to do but lie in our tents and smoke and listen to the radio. The men were excited, full of optimism. They talked and laughed. And when the Southern Cross ordered Tauer I to stand by and herself turned into the ice, I think they felt they were as good as rescued. One man produced a bottle of whisky, a smuggled piece of personal property, and offered drinks all round. Another produced a pack of cards and four of them settled down to a game of bridge as unconcernedly as though they were waiting for a train. I sat sucking an empty pipe and wondering what had made Colonel Bland decide to risk the Southern Cross in the ice.
The factory ship was quite capable of crashing through the sort of ice we had come into the previous day. Her 22,000 tons and reinforced bows could smash a way through ice 12 feet thick. If conditions had been the same as yesterday she’d have had no difficulty in reaching us. But from where I sat at the entrance of the tent I could see across the smouldering hull of Tauer III to the icebergs on the horizon. I could feel the trembling of the ice under me. It ran like a quiver up my spine. And I could hear the distant growl of the floes piling up under the eastward thrust of the distant storm. Bland knew nothing of this. I wished we were in radio contact so that we could warn him. But at least he could see the icebergs. He’d pass quite close to them, maybe through them. He was in a better position than we were to estimate the danger. And I began wondering again what it was that had decided him to risk the lives of over 400 men, quite apart from the ship, in an attempt to get through to us. Was it because of his son? Or was it because of Bernt Nordahl and what had happened? Or was it because he knew he was dying and didn’t care anyway?
I tried to picture him, sitting there in his big cabin, making the decision. The man was quite ruthless. The lives of others wouldn’t enter into his reckonings. Money, yes—but money was no longer important to him. Money couldn’t buy him an extra minute of life now. He could afford to throw it away in some magnificent gesture. He’d always had to fight and now he was face to face with the elements. He’d risk the ship and every man in it if he decided to fight the ice. His decision might well be a queer mixture of quixotish bravado and a desire to purchase from his conscience an easy passage through the eye of a needle. It was tough on the men of the Southern Cross, that was all.
Shortly after eight the operator on the Southern Cross began calling us, first in Norwegian, then in English. He went on calling for half an hour. Then there was a pause. When he came on again it was with a message. “At 21.00 hours we are going to make smoke. I repeat, at 21.00 hours we are going to make smoke. As soon as you sight our smoke make signals by whatever means possible. Southern Cross to catchers, Hval—” And he went on repeating it. I had one of our barrels of oil tapped and arranged a drip on to a bundle of clothes. We piled packing cases on top of each other until we had a lookout post fully ten feet high. And just before nine I sent one of the younger hands up aloft as lookout. We were all pretty excited. None of us felt like staying in the tents and I had the radio brought out on to the ice.
At nine o’clock the Southern Cross operator came through with another message: “We are now making smoke. We are three miles east of a line of icebergs, having passed between the second and third berg counting from the north. Signal to us if you can.”
We were all watching the lookout now. His eyes were screwed up against the glare of the sun which was slanting down to the west and south. The man blinked and several times rubbed his hand across his eyes. I wished we had got sun goggles. Then suddenly he stiffened and pointed. “Der er’n.” The men cheered. Two of them began to dance, jigging from foot to foot. The ice trembled under us as a floe cracked under pressure with a noise like a thunderclap. If only Tauer III were still burning!
I gave the order to light the oil-soaked clothes and then stopped the man just as he was about to strike the match. The lookout was rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. The two men stopped dancing. We all looked at him as he peered into the sun. Then he was pointing again. But the direction of his hand seemed farther to the south. I climbed up beside him, the packing cases wobbling under our combined weight. There was smoke there all right. But it was too near and in the wrong place. Even as I watched it broadened out into a great black streak. I couldn’t see the icebergs now because of the glare. But I knew it was to the south of them. “I think it’s frost-smoke,” I said and the men were silent, staring westward. It was as though the cold hand of death had touched their spirits. I screwed up my eyes and tried to pierce the glare in the direction the Southern Cross must lie. But it was impossible to make anything out clearly. The whole atmosphere seemed constantly shifting. It was as though I were seeing everything through a film of water. A delicate, iridescent colour tinged the ice—prismatic and ephemeral. It was like a canvas full of beautiful pastel shades done by an impressionist portraying the coldness of beauty without the detail. Nothing had substance. As well try to see an object in a kaleidoscope as look for the smoke of the Southern Cross in that shot-silk curtain of blinding light.
The growl of the ice moved nearer, thundering at the floes and shaking our perch so violently that I jumped down on to the ice again. Somebody shouted and there, not a mile away, just beyond Tauer III, a floe turned on end, stood there for a moment and then slid back into the sea. A gap was opening out. We could see a stretch of water. It showed as a dark gash against the white of the surrounding ice. The air seemed to thicken and congeal like a gauze curtain. The gap widened. The air became solid and black. The frost-smoke rose like a fog, darkening everything, screening the sun. It wiped out the glare and drained the colour out of the ice. The world was suddenly white and cold. I felt a chill creep through me. I tried to buck the men up by telling them that the frost-smoke was a better marker than any smoke we could make. But it didn’t comfort them. That cold, black curtain stood between them and sight of rescue. I ordered the steward to brew some coffee. The four who had been playing bridge returned to their game. I posted two lookouts and took the radio back to my tent. The ice shook under us. I began to wonder how long the thin layer on which we were camping would stand this battering from the east. I felt shut in and depressed. The growing pressure of the ice and that black curtain of frost-smoke were overwhelming remind
ers of the forces we were up against. The chill of fear was in my stomach and not even the hot coffee warmed me.
“We can see patches of frost-smoke, but no signals. You must try and signal to us. The ice is getting very thick. We do not know how long we can go on.” For half an hour the Southern Cross went on imploring us to signal our position. Once Olaf Petersen came on, speaking direct to Gerda, trying to encourage her and us. Colonel Bland, however, made no attempt to contact his son. The messages became more urgent. Finally the Southern Cross operator radioed: “We are now making very slow progress. The icebergs are ploughing into the ice behind us. Unless we can pick up your signals soon we may have to abandon the attempt to reach you.” Previous messages had been in both English and Norwegian. But this was broadcast only in English, probably with the idea of not disheartening the crews. But even those that didn’t understand English read the sense of the message in the faces of those that could. One of the men began cursing in Norwegian.
If only that frost-smoke hadn’t appeared! If only we could see! At least we should then have been able to occupy ourselves with searching the glare for the factory ship’s smoke.
There was a sudden shout from one of the lookouts and I dived out of the tent. “Somebody is coming on skis,” he said.
“Frϕken Petersen?” I asked.
“Nei, nei. Fra Tauer III.” And he pointed toward the black curtain of frost-smoke.
I followed the direction of his arm. But I could see nothing except the cold, white shape of the ice. “Der er’n. Der er’n.” I caught a glimpse of something black moving on a ridge of ice and then it was hidden again. A moment later it reappeared not a hundred yards away. It was the figure of a man all right. He was covered in snow and ice. He waved a ski stick and called to us, then staggered and came on, thrusting himself forward with his sticks.
I don’t know whom I expected—either Bland or Vaksdal, I think. I know I debated whether to go back to my tent for a rifle. I felt naked and helpless out there on the snow. And yet I didn’t want to admit I was afraid by going back for my gun. So I stood my ground and waited, wondering whether I had to deal with a maniac or only a man with a violent temper. As the man approached I saw he was too short for Vaksdal. He suddenly got on to some hard ice and with a flip of his sticks he came towards me in a rush. He brought up with a quick Christi and a “Salute, Capitano!” And I found myself shaking Bonomi by the hand. “Oh, it is so good to see you, Craig. You have no idea.”
“Why? What’s the trouble?”
“Trouble? What is the trouble? My God!” His arms were waving so excitedly I was in danger of being hit by his ski sticks. “You ask what is the trouble. It is that there is no order there. The men, they will do nothing for Bland, or the mates Vaksdal and Keller. They do not trust their officers and they are very bitter. At first Bland is very angry. He strike one of them. After that the men camp on their own. They are sullen and they go their own way. I tell you, Mistair Craig, they cannot exist in this cold that way. There is no order, no direction. I think there is danger, so I take the skis and come ’ere.”
“Have they got stores?”
“Si, si. When we abandon ship everything go fine. The trouble, she do not begin till later. Oh, but that journey across the ice. It is not more than per’aps a kilometre, but never have I made such a journey. And I am a vair good ski-er. Look, I show you. Come on to these cases. I will show you how I come.”
“There is no time—”
But he cut me short and dragged me up to our lookout post. “There. You can see the camp. First everything is fine. Then suddenly the ice is not there and I am to the waist in water. Look. I am very wet, am I not? Then there is much bad ice with many honeycombs. Also there is a gap filled with—how do you say—loose pieces of ice?”
“Brash?”
“Si, si. Brash. That is it. I ski across that.” His little chest was puffed out and his eyes glowed. “You do not believe me, eh? But I am here—that is the proof, yes? Never am I so afeared. But I do it. I go very fast and I ski straight over this brush. Then—” He spread his hands and laughed. “But there are so many bad places, I do not remember them all. Many times I think I give up and return. But then I remember that brush and I cannot face it and I go on. And so, here I am.”
“You shouldn’t have done it on your own,” I said. “Crossing brash is all very well, but you should have a companion, just in case.”
He was staring at me open-mouthed. “Has—has anyone crossed this brash before. I thought that I would be the first to have dared this thing?”
I almost laughed. But instead I patted his arm. “It has been done before, but not often. Only by experienced polar explorers who were desperate.”
“Ah, si, si. Of course, the polar explorers. That is different.” His teeth showed white against the black stubble. “Now tell me—what is the news? Have you a radio? Over there”—he nodded to the Tauer III—“they have no radio.”
“We’ve a portable,” I said. “We can receive, but we can’t send.”
“Then you will know what is happening, yes?”
“The Southern Cross herself has entered the ice and is asking us to signal to her.”
“Ah. That is wonderful.” He beamed. “Then I can have a bath. I am so dirty I think I must smell like a whale. I shall lie and wallow for an hour. Now I will rest a little.”
He was apparently not in the least interested in how we were going to signal to the Southern Cross through that black fog of frost-smoke. In fact, I doubt whether he even realised it presented any difficulty. The Southern Cross was coming into the ice to rescue us. He would get his bath. It was as easy as that. I almost envied him his sublime acceptance of the certainty of rescue.
I was beginning to be worried now about Gerda and her party. They had been away five hours. I waited half an hour and then got my skis out. But I’d hardly gone a hundred yards along the sledge trail when the lookout called to me that they were coming. I climbed an ice hillock and watched them winding like a black snake through the sunless white of our frozen world. Gerda saw me and waved and came on ahead on her skis. I told her the news. “Then they must be quick,” was her comment. “The ice is getting very bad. Over to Hval 5 it is terrible. That table-top iceberg of theirs is nearer, you know. Whole floes are being tossed about under the pressure. The journey back was bad, too. The ice round us is beginning to move.”
I nodded and told her how the gap from which the frost smoke was rising had suddenly opened out.
“Ja. Soon we have trouble, I think. But it is colder now. Perhaps the sea freeze in the gap. Then maybe we see the Southern Cross and can make a signal.”
When we got into the camp I stopped for a minute to look at the stores. A whole day’s work and the pile still looked just as big. We’d shifted barely a quarter of it. Bonomi seized on Gerda as a fresh audience and throughout the evening meal, which the steward served as soon as the whole party were in, we had Bonomi’s great trek across the ice. I’d barely finished the last mouthful and was just lighting my pipe when there was a shout from the lookout. The frost-smoke was going. By the time we’d tumbled out it was no more than a faint grey curtain. It was gone almost immediately. Colour came back to relieve the deadness of the eternal white. The sun was low to the south, slanting rays right across the sky and making the ice gleam with soft colour like the inside of an oyster shell. The scene was so soft and satiny that it was difficult not to believe that you could stretch out your hand and stroke it. But our eyes were on the lookout, standing on the packing cases and gazing westward. At length he shook his head. “No Southern Cross,” he said to me. “But the icebergs, they are nearer, I think.”
I climbed up beside him and the pair of us stared westward through screwed-up eyes. But there was nothing—not even a column of frost-smoke to mistake for the factory ship. The steward called me to the tend. His face was serious. “It is the radio, Kaptein Craig. Listen! There is a message.” His voice was trembling slightly.
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p; “… repeat that in English. We have now ceased making smoke. If you are trying to signal us, do not continue. Do not waste your materials. We are temporarily held up by the ice which is much thicker here. I shall radio again at 22.30 hours.”
There was a stunned silence when I broke the news to the men. “It must be bad to hold the Southern Cross up,” one man said, and he cocked his ear, listening to the thunder of the pressure ridges. The others, too, were listening. It was as though they were suddenly awake to the fact that the sound might well be the forerunner of death for all of us.
“I do not understand,” Bonomi said suddenly. “How can the Southern Cross be held up? She is a big ship and the ice is quite thin. We came through it yesterday. It is only of a thickness when it is an iceberg. But they do not have to go through the icebergs. They can go round them. Craig. What do you say? What is the trouble?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “How the hell should I know?” I answered a little abruptly.
At ten-thirty the Southern Cross operator announced that they were still held up and that he would broadcast at half-hourly intervals. I set the watches and ordered the men to turn in. But I don’t think anyone slept. At broadcasting times I turned the radio up so that they could hear it in the other tent even above the noise of the ice. The message was always the same—nothing further to report. I could feel despondency growing in our little camp. It wasn’t only the broadcasts. The thunder of the ice movement to the east seemed to grow and grow. The floe trembled under us, sometimes so violently that it seemed as though we were being actually shaken. It was like trying to rest on top of an earthquake. But I was very tired and drowsed occasionally. I’d drowse a bit and then jerk awake, numb with cold, and look at my watch. At the hour and the half-hour I’d switch on the radio. It was comforting just to hear the voice of the operator. It gave us a false sense of security to be in touch with the outside world. The man’s voice was so quiet and natural. I felt as though I had only to wait a little and he’d walk into the tent to tell us the Southern Cross had arrived to pick us up. I thought of the warmth of the cabin I’d shared and the good food and the sense of mastery over the elements that the huge ship had given.
The White South Page 19
