"Innes, Hammond - The White South" - читать интересную книгу автора (Innes Hammond)

'Operations from the 23rd January to 5th February produced 167 whale. On the 6th and 7th there was a bad storm and on the night of the 7th one of the catchers, which had run into the ice for shelter, damaged its rudder on a floe. When the wind had died down a catcher and a corvette were sent to its assistance. But in the early hours of the 8th these two vessels were in collision in the ice, one of them being sunk and the other set on fire. The mishap occurred about 120 miles south-east of the Southern Cross and within sight of the catcher they had come to rescue. Both crews were reported safe on the ice with the loss of two men.

'Another corvette was sent to the assistance of the three vessels. Meanwhile, the Southern Cross, which had already refuelled from the tanker, completed the transfer of whale oil to this ship. On the night of the 8th the corvette reported that heavy pack ice was preventing her from approaching nearer than 20 miles to the damaged catchers. No further news had been received from these vessels.

'The wind had risen again to gale force. But despite this the Southern Cross herself went to the assistance of the catchers. At 6.30 p.m. on the 9th she sighted the corvette, which had run into loose pack in order to shelter from the heavy seas. The whole fleet was then together with the exception of the three missing catchers, for owing to the bad conditions no catchers had been sent out after whale. A conference was held on the Southern Cross and it was decided to steam into the pack ice, following leads which ran east and west in the direction of the damaged vessels.

'It is not difficult to picture the scene. The Southern Cross, big and squat like an enormous tanker with her fat funnels aft, steaming into the ice, the sea slopping about in the stern hole through which the whales are drawn up on to the after-plan. There is a gale blowing and the Southern Cross is steaming into it, steaming against the whole weight of the pack ice thrust westwards by the howling fury of the wind. All round her is loose pack - a flat, broken plain of white, glimmering in that peculiar twilight that is night in a region where the sun never sets. The loose pack draws closer together until it is solid pack ice. There are icebergs now and they are smashing into the pack. And the great ship steams steadily on along a lead of black water that winds deeper and deeper into the ice, past the icebergs, right into the heart of the danger area.

'Was it madness to go on, risking all for a handful of lives? That factory ship represented nearly Ј3,000,000 of money and on board were over 400 lives. What drove Colonel Bland on? What made him take the risk? What about his officers - didn't they warn him? A ship like that, of 22,000 tons, with specially strengthened bows, can smash through ice 12 feet thick. But if those jagged edges once grip her thin steel plates, they can smash her in no time. Didn't he realize the danger? Or was the lead so narrow that once they were in it they couldn't turn back, but had to go on?

'The truth of the matter we may never know. All we know at the moment is that at 03.18 hours on 10th February the Southern Cross was firmly beset by the ice and she was sending out an S O S. Sometime during the night that lead must have come to an end. The westward-driven pack ice closed round her and in a matter of hours she was gone.

'That a ship of 22,000 tons should be crushed so easily may seem strange to those who remember that Filchner and Shackleton, beset in much smaller vessels in this same Weddell Sea, existed for months in the ice and saved themselves in the end. But these men were explorers. Their ships were specially built for the ice. The sheer sides of the Southern Cross were never designed to withstand the huge lateral thrust of ice piled up into pressure ridges by the battering force of giant icebergs.

'For the full story of what happened we must await the reports of survivors. In the meantime, it is to be hoped that the Government and other whaling companies will do all in their power to speed the rescue of these men. They probably have good stores of whalemeat and blubber on the ice with them. But their equipment is unlikely to be very good and they clearly cannot survive a winter in the Antarctic."

So much for the story of the Southern Cross disaster, as the public knew it then. It was a nine days' wonder that ousted everything else from the headlines of the world's newspapers. Then, as the rescue attempts dragged on without success, it quietly faded out. Interest revived momentarily when the United States aircraft carrier, Ohio, arrived on the scene and flew its first sorties. But bad weather hindered the search. And since the failure of protracted rescue attempts is not news and public interest wanes rapidly in the face of negative results, the fact that well over 400 men were marooned somewhere in Weddell Sea was forgotten.

By the middle of March winter was setting in. Conditions became very cold with new ice beginning to form. By the 22nd all search vessels had turned back. They refuelled at Grytviken in South Georgia and proceeded to their bases. By 15th April Jan Eriksen, factory manager of the Nord Hvalstasjon, Grytviken, reported to his company: All search vessels have now left Grytviken. Haakon and rest of Del Norske Hvalselskab fleet passed within 100 miles South Georgia yesterday on their way back to Capetown. There are now no vessels in the area of the tragedy. Winter is closing in. If any survivors are still alive, God help them for no man can until summer. I am preparing to close down the station. That report wrote finis to all attempts to rescue any possible survivors of the Southern Cross. It was dispatched to the offices of the Nord Syd Georgia Hvalselskab in Oslo and Eriksen began the work of closing the whaling station at Grytviken as the Antarctic winter closed in on the ice-capped island of South Georgia.

But the story doesn't end there, for on 21st April, two days before he sailed with his men for Capetown, Eriksen radioed a message that set linotypes and presses the world over rolling out the name Southern Cross in great, flaring headlines. For, on the 21st April-- But this is Duncan Craig's story. Let him tell it.

Duncan Craig's Story of the loss of the "Southern Cross"

the Camp on the Iceberg, and the Trek that followed.

Chapter I



I did not actually join the Southern Cross until 17 January, only three weeks before the disaster occurred. Indeed, a month before that date, I was unaware of the existence of the ship or of the South Antarctic Whaling Company. I am not a whaler, and apart from a season's work in Greenland with a university exploration club, I had never before been in high latitudes. I wish to make this point clear at the outset so that those who have long experience of Antarctic conditions and of whaling in particular will understand that what is familiar to them came to me with the impact of complete novelty. The reason I have been asked to set down a full account of all that occurred is due to the fact that, through circumstances largely outside my control, I was in close association with the personalities concerned in the disaster and know probably more about the real cause of what happened than anyone now living.

My connection with the events that led up to the loss of the Southern Cross began with the New Year. I was emigrating to South Africa and on the night 1st January I was waiting in the offices of a private charter company at London Airport in the hopes of hitching a ride to Capetown. The decision to emigrate had been made on the spur of the moment. And if I'd known then where it was going to lead me, I'd have turned right back, pocketed my pride and resumed the routine of a clerk's life in the offices of Messrs. Bridewell & Faber, tobacco importers of Mark Lane.

The flight was scheduled for 01.00 hours. The plane had been chartered by the South Antarctic Whaling Company for a Colonel Bland. There were five seats available and Bland's party numbered three. That was all I knew. Tim Bartlett, the pilot of the aircraft, had tipped me of at a New Year's Eve party the night before. As far as he was concerned it was okay. He'd take me. But it was up to me to talk my way into one of the two spare seats.

Bland arrived at twelve-thirty. He came into the terminal offices, stamping and blowing through his cheeks. 'Is the plane ready?' he asked the clerk. His manner was peremptory. He had the air of a man always in a hurry. There were three other people with him - two men and a girl. A blast of cold air blew in through the open door and outside I saw a big limousine, its lights glistening on the wet tarmac. A uniformed chauffeur brought in their baggage. 'The pilot's waiting,' the clerk said. 'If you'll just sign these forms, Colonel Bland. And here's a cable - arrived about half an hour ago.'

I watched his thick fingers rip at the envelope. He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up on to his forehead and held the cable closer to the light. His eyes were hard under the tufty brows and his bluish jowls quivered slightly as he read. Then he swung round abruptly. 'Here, read this,' he said to the girl. He held the flimsy cable sheet out and it shook slightly in his thick, hairy hand.

The girl came forward and took it. She was dressed in a pair of old slacks and a green woollen jersey. A lovely mink coat was draped carelessly over her shoulders. She looked tired and her face was pale under its make up. She read it through and then looked at Bland, her lips compressed into a thin line, her eyes blank.

'Well?' Bland's voice was almost violent. She didn't say anything. She just looked at him and I saw she was trembling slightly. 'Well?' he barked again. And then the violence inside him seemed to explode. 'First you and now your father. What have you got against the boy?' His fist suddenly crashed down on the desk top. 'I'll not recall him. Do you hear? Your father had better learn to get along with him. Any more ultimatums like that and I'll accept your father's resignation. He's not the only leader available.'

'He's the only one that can get you the results you've been accustomed to,' she answered defiantly, a flush of anger colouring her cheeks.

Bland was about to reply, but then he saw me and stopped. He turned abruptly and seized the forms that the clerk had thrust towards him. His hand shook as he signed them. And as I watched him Capetown seemed to recede. I'd met his type before. He was the aggressive, self-made business man, even to the black hat and black overcoat with astrakhan collar. He was as hard as a lump of granite. And he looked as though he were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. To ask him for a lift in his plane would be like asking for the loan of a gold brick from the Bank of England. And the hell of it was that I'd burned my boats. I'd given up my rooms, requested my bank to transfer what little money I possessed to Capetown and the letter throwing up my job had been posted that afternoon.

As though he sensed that I was watching him, he suddenly turned and stared at me. His small blue eyes were distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses. 'Are you just waiting for a plane, sir - or do you want to speak to me?' he demanded aggressively.