HMS Plenipotent Anders Ross

HMS PlenipotentAnders Ross

We have decided to take a day of rest, and on the contrary, it has not been. Seventy-eight days sailing, a preponderance of which have been through the dullness of calm, open sea, out where even the birds, having lost interest, deserted our gunwales long ago, has meant any vision of dry land—or hope therein—comes as welcome respite.

It was Sagan who first sighted the breakers crashing against an invisible coastline several miles ahead. His being the very eyes, however bleary and sunburnt, that gave our ship—HMS Plenipotent—its nautical aegis.

A local boy raised in the drydocks of Plymouth, his chapped lips split into a joyful smile as he cried from the bow, ‘Land! Land ahead!’

I had been sat at the time, despondent more than one would have liked, in my quarters below deck. A game of backgammon tormented me in its half-finished state, as Jenkins busied himself in the furrows of the last dry map laid upon our communal writing desk. We scarcely glanced up as Sagan stood in the threshold of the room.

‘Sir, I come bearing news. There is land, for which I am sure, is a safe harbour for us to enter.’ He spoke with the urgency of a schoolboy running a fool’s errand, lookout’s cap in hand to reveal a rain-drenched forehead. He puffed twice before continuing, ‘I believe this to be the start of the ninety-mile beach we were told existed.’ He unfurls a scrap of parchment for both Jenkins and I to see. Jenkins takes the map and studies it for a moment without speaking, before nodding his head and congratulating the young charge. He looks to me. ‘Sir, we will make the necessary arrangements for an expeditionary party. We leave at dawn.’ A vivid diarist is Jenkins, the use of the spoken word by him is economical at best.

That night it seemed as if all the stars were watching over us, peeking out from their blue velvet blanket before the southern sky. We had been encouraged by the successful dropping of anchor and, hitting the seafloor, celebrated above deck as the light was good, the wind down enough to light candles as we dined.

I took this bonny opportunity to recount the past three months to the dozen men of the crew. This time bid fair the great achievement we had made in spite of rampant grief in the first weeks. There were torn sails from overzealous rigging and men overboard, to seeking repair in the commercial port of Marseilles and later, becoming stricken along the coral reefs off Western Australia. Betwixt the ham hock soup and poached pheasant, the men shared their respective fatigue and dreams of dry land.

‘Mercifully ‘tis fresh this time,’ Gurney said, saluting the shimmering centrepiece upon the makeshift table we had fashioned out of camp beds and spare capstans. ‘It could well be our last square meal for some time,’ he spoke with an elegiac look crossing his crag-like face.

The Plenipotent begins to list in the gentleness of the early hours; there is no sound from the wind. Jenkins and the senior charges, I can see through the mullioned window of my quarters, are preparing the rowboats for the dawn mission.

The Plenipotent begins to list in the gentleness of the early hours; there is no sound from the wind. Jenkins and the senior charges, I can see through the mullioned window of my quarters, are preparing the rowboats for the dawn mission.

We shall take eight men in the two boats, rowing two abreast, stroke to bow, leaving space enough for whatever materials we might find. This, it is hoped, will accord us the lightest craft should the weather cruel, and swift evading action be needed.

Later, my anxiety for the boats was unfounded. Neither vessel nor crew came to grief during the arduous crossing—a towering swell sought to repel us from this desert island. Yet in the sheer white of the dawn, upon the snow blessed shore, a curious sight greeted us. Seals. Hundreds of them. With a rookery of royal penguins making observations from a passing floe.

Sagan and Merri, the boatswain, already having replaced the canvas of either rowboat, bulwarking them from the elements, approached the inquisitive creatures, now lining the crest above us like grey slugs upon a windowsill. I warned the men against such haste, but my voice was lost to the driving wind.

The great beasts lowered their heads and snorted at the new bipedal visitors. ‘Sir, should I climb to higher ground?’ Sagan shouted, his voice fluent and clear from his leeside shelter. ‘I can signal to the ship from a few yards farther along.’

I drew my handkerchief—a rich red herringbone pattern—and waved it in approval as I knew any vocal sound fell deaf in the tormenting wind. I turned to Jenkins, who was by now sketching some of the lichen before him. ‘Do you believe the species to be hostile?’

‘No, sir,’ he replied, pencil box laid out upon the mossy ground. ‘Gentle, in fact. So long as no man stands between a mother and its calf.’

‘And what of these grasses?’ I said regarding the sodden grey example, several yards away, bending in the wind. ‘Are they injurious to life, or will they help sustain it?’

Jenkins dismissed the fear. ‘I expect it to be pure, given the lack of pollution, collect as much as possible.’ He looked away from his drawing. ‘If it comes to Gehenna, we can draw clean water from it.’

We made camp upon the bluff, about four miles inland. We had expected twelve miles, but the decision of nightmarching became churlish as we had no stout shoes with spike enough to sound for crevasses beneath the moraine. A good deal of light snow fell during the night, leaving a beautiful serene picture as the sun rises—jubilant orange before white. It makes for unpleasant trekking as it begins to melt, however, causing our expedition through the moraine to become waylaid by minor accident. The men grow tired by their increased scientific burden, but their features do not betray them; spirits are high as the temperature falls below -7°. The prospect of becoming the first human beings to have traversed this subantarctic island steels them more than a fresh tin of marmalade (we have none).

As the lonely island becomes no longer visible upon the horizon, and the creaking cries of the royal penguins are replaced by the crepitations of our aching ship, exultation sweeps over the crew. We have below us, in the hull, a collection of wonders taken from the alien land, that perhaps only eight men have seen.

To my joy, I have had no reason to use the letters of sympathy I and Jenkins had prepared for any lost party, including either man’s ‘Farewell’. But now, one notion strikes me as I write this from the midnight-still Hobart harbour. We have triumphed.