Хэммонд Иннес - Calling the Southern Cross!

What happened? All we know at the moment is that the Southern Cross went to the assistance of several of her catchers who were in difficulties and that at 0318 hours on the tenth of February she was firmly beset by the ice and was rending out an SOS. The west ward-driven pack ice closed round her and in a matter of hours she was gone.

So much for the story of the Southern Cross disaster, as the public knew it then. It was a nine days’ wonder, but as the rescue attempts dragged on without success, it faded out. Interest revived momentarily when a United States aircraft carrier arrived on the scene, but bad weather hindered the search.

By the middle of March, winter was setting in, and by the twenty-second all search vessels had turned back. By the fifteenth of April. Jan Eriksen, factory manager of the Nord Hvalstasjon. Grytviken, reported to his company:

ALL SEARCH VESSELS HAVE SOW LEFT. THERE ARE SOW SO VESSELS IS THE AREA OF THE TRAGEDY. WINTER IS CLOSING IS IF AXY SURVIVORS ARK STILL ALIVE. GOD HELP THEM. FOR SO MAS CAS 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.

But the story doesn’t end there, for on the twenty-first of April presses the world over rolled out the name Southern Cross in great, flaring headlines. For, on the twenty-first of April—

But this is Duncan Craig’s story. Let him tell it.

I did not actually join the Southern Cross until the seventeenth of 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.

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 of the first of January I was waiting in the offices of a private charter company at London Airport in the hope of hitching a ride to Cape Town.

The flight was scheduled for 0100 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 four. That was all I knew. Tim Bartlett, the pilot of the aircraft, had tipped me off 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 the spare seat.

Bland arrived at twelve-thirty. “Is the plane ready?” he asked the clerk. His manner was peremptory. There were three other people with him — two men and a girl. 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 fingers rip at the cable envelope. His eyes were hard under the tufty brow’s and his bluish jowls quivered slightly as he read. Then he swung around 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 woolen 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 coloring 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 toward him. His hand shook as he signed them.

As though he sensed that I was watching him, he suddenly turned and stared at me. “Are you just waiting for a plane, sir, or do you want to speak to me?” he demanded aggressively.

“I’m waiting for a plane,” I said.

He grunted, but didn’t take his eyes off me.

“Whether I get it depends on you,” I went on. “My name’s Craig — Duncan Craig. The pilot of your plane is a friend of mine. He told me there might be a spare seat, and I’d very much like to come with you to Cape Town.”

“Well, you can’t.”

And suddenly I didn’t care. Perhaps it was his manner — perhaps it was the way he’d spoken to the girl. “There’s no need to be offensive. Colonel Bland!” I said angrily. “All I asked for was a lift!”

“Just a minute,” he said. The violence seemed to have died out of him. “All right, Craig,” he went on. “As it happens, there is a spare seat. If the pilot vouches for you and you’re through the formalities in time, you can have it.”

He seemed to mean it. “Thanks,” I said.

“That seemed to exhaust his interest in me. Tim Bartlett came through with his copilot, a man called Fenton. He glanced at me with a lift to his eyebrows. I nodded and he grinned. He introduced himself and Fenton to Bland and asked the clerk for the passenger details. As he glanced through the papers, he said, “Which is Weiner?” One of the two men standing in the shadows by the door came forward slowly into the light. “I am Weiner,” he said. He had a bald head, thin, emaciated features and a tubercular cough.

“And I am Bonomi — Aldo Bonomi.” It was the fourth member of the party. He stepped out of the shadows into the light with the swagger and bounce of an opera singer. Gold rings flashed as he seized Tim’s hand and pumped it up and down. “I am so pleased to know that we shall be in such good hands. You are an artist. I can see that. I, too, am an artist. But I hope you are a careful driver. Last time I fly, the driver, he make play with the airplane and I am very seek.”

Tim got his hand back from the Italian and said, “It’s all right. You needn’t worry, Mr. Bonomi. It will all lie very dull, I hope.” And he went out into the hangar.

The rest of us followed.

As London stretched away to the darkness of the horizon, clear in my mind, like a montage, was the notice I’d pasted on my office desk: GONE TO SOUTH AFRICA. Was it only yesterday evening I’d put it there? I thought of Mr. Bridewell standing there, staring at it, uneasy, suspecting a leg-pull, completely unable to comprehend why I had left. Even my letter wouldn’t explain that to him.

I undid my safety belt. Behind me. Bland suddenly said, “Judie, change places with Franz Weiner. I want to discuss this electrical killing gear with him.”

I half turned in my seat. Nobody seemed to notice my surprise. The girl said, “Don’t you think you ought to rest?”

“I’m all right,” Bland answered gruffly.

“If you’re not careful you’ll kill yourself.”

“I’ll take a lot of killing.” He stared at her for a second. “Where’s that cable? I gave it to you.”

The girl felt in the pocket of her fur coat and brought out the crumpled cable flimsy. I heard him smoothing it out on his brief case. Then he snorted. “Bernt’s no right to cable me like this.” Anger was catching hold of him again. “He’s not giving the toy a chance.” I heard the cable crushed in the sudden clenching of his fist. Then: “The trouble is that only Erik stands tot ween him and full control of the company when I’m gone.” His voice was a deep, angry rumble.