1912 (34 page)

D'Urville wrote of their meeting in the south, ‘I would have been glad to give our co-explorers the results of our researches…it seems the Americans were far from sharing these feelings.' Wilkes in turn accused the French of fleeing. Tragically, D'Urville and his wife died in a train accident shortly after the Frenchman's triumphant homecoming, abruptly ending the argument. But, finding the French asserting they had landed on what was now thought to be a continent on 19 January 1840, Wilkes contended he had done so a few days before.

Complaints came thick and fast, and not merely from the French. Wilkes's claims of other land sightings were dogged by seemingly contradictory reports from those on the expedition, and the men had not appreciated his old-fashioned, tough leadership—119 of the 342 dying, deserting or discharged during the voyage. Wilkes found himself court martialled, charged with unbecoming behaviour, including handing out illegal
punishment, and accused of ‘deliberate and wilful falsehood'. He escaped with a reprimand but continued to flirt with disaster, notoriously nearly dragging Britain into the American Civil War when he hauled Confederate officers off a British vessel.

For want of an alternative guide, Wilkes's alleged observations formed a cornerstone of the Australasian plan—even though Ross was known to have sailed over land that Wilkes had mapped and Scott's
Discovery
had shown many of the so-called landfalls were false. As the
Aurora
approached the frozen coastline, Mawson was all too aware he was relying on observations similar to those Ross and Scott had disproved.

Sighting the first bergs on 29 December 1911 the crew was told to be vigilant, watching for icy hazards while scanning the horizon for land. It was a frustrating time: for Davis, the ship was continually threatened; for Mawson, the supposed land remained obstinately hidden. Since D'Urville had landed on Adelie Land no one else had been back, while Wilkes's finds seemed non-existent.

Before departing Australia, Mawson had become engaged to Paquita Delprat, the daughter of a mining engineer in Broken Hill, and among his numerous letters of affection he wrote to her of his frustration with Wilkes's claims of finding an Antarctic coastline: ‘We met heavy impenetrable pack in several directions and failed to break through to the land. Much of this disappointment and trouble I find today are due to an undue reliance I had placed in the accounts of Commander Wilkes who made explorations here in 1840. His accounts are largely erroneous and misleading.'

Mawson had expected to find land by the beginning of January. The plan had been to establish the main base of
operations as close as possible to the South Magnetic Pole, allowing the scientists to complement the measurements Mawson had made in 1909. With no land in sight the
Aurora
was forced west, away from the magnetic meridian. And the further west the vessel went, the less the chance of raising Macquarie Island on the wireless system. They had to make landfall, and soon.

‘During the afternoon of January 6,' Mawson recorded, ‘an ice cliff loomed up ahead, extending to the horizon in both directions. This proved to be an immense barrier tongue—afterwards named the Mertz glacier—pushing 60 miles out to sea from a great ice-capped land. This land, along which we steamed during the next two days, had never before been seen. Its continuity with Adelie Land was subsequently proved.' After cautiously working their way around the glacier over the next two days, the men of the
Aurora
discovered a small rocky outcrop and bay alive with penguins and seals. They had found a site for their first base.

‘As a station for scientific investigations,' Mawson wrote, ‘it offered a wider field than the casual observer would have imagined.' But the timetable was slipping and the scientific program had to be rationalised. With a shortage of coastline suitable for landing, and having been forced so far west, Mawson decided to combine two of the bases into one, making this his Winter Quarters. Uninspired by D'Urville's romantic streak or his own recent engagement, he named the new promontory Cape Denison after one of the expedition backers, Sir Hugh Denison, and their anchorage Commonwealth Bay in tribute to the recently federated Australia.

Almost as soon as they decided to establish the base a storm blew up, sweeping the rocky outcrops free of snow and sending newly formed pack ice far out to sea. The storm blasted the men on shore for two days as they huddled together in tents, while
Davis fought desperately to keep the
Aurora
off the rocks. With the winds finally subsiding, the men worked at a frenzied pace, taking ashore all the building material they needed for two huts, along with scientific equipment and stores for eighteen men, the former aircraft, one wireless mast, twenty-nine dogs and twenty-three tonnes of coal for fuel.

They had to erect the huts quickly: the place seemed to be a magnet for storms. The wind would pick up suddenly, often with no warning at all, threatening the expedition. The churning sea surface tested Davis's captaincy skills to the limit as he was frequently called upon to save the
Aurora
from being dashed against nearby reefs. For the men on shore conditions were equally wretched. The high winds, dangerous for those walking outside, seemed to drive the temperature lower. Although the concept of wind chill was yet to be developed, the men were all too aware of its effects. The expedition biologist, Charles Laseron, later remarked, ‘the landing of the stores seemed interminable, as all of us were bitterly cold and miserable.'

The supplies were unloaded in eleven days and, after a further eleven, the wooden huts were habitable. The Winter Quarters were complete, to everyone's great relief. After brief handshakes and cries of farewell, the
Aurora
headed west. Time was perilously short: Davis had to get Frank Wild's Western Party established before the onset of winter.

Mawson had asked that Wild be set down ‘not nearer than a couple of hundred miles, and preferably about 500 miles distant'. Obstacle after obstacle frustrated efforts to land the men, though, and Davis was exhausted. Through the fog and mist, the coastline appeared to be made of steep ice cliffs and shelves.

Heading further west, ‘new land was sighted—icy slopes rising from the sea, similar to those of Adelie Land, but of greater elevation.' Soundings of the sea depth showed they were in shallow water and must be close to land. Now more sympathetic to their American predecessor, the men called this discovery Wilkes Land, to ‘commemorate the name of a navigator whose daring was never in question, though his judgment as to the actuality of
terra firma
was unreliable'. But they could not get close enough to land. The
Aurora
pushed on, more in hope than promise.

Three weeks after leaving Mawson, the
Aurora
was 2400 kilometres west of Cape Denison when the ship suddenly came across a vast glacier tongue. Twenty-five metres high, this river of ice seemed to tower over the vessel and disappear far out to sea. It took two days to circumnavigate.

The glacier was not land—but things were desperate, and at any moment the
Aurora
might become trapped by sea ice. Wild had to be dropped off as soon as possible if his men were to remain in Antarctica and do the work intended. And here they were in a relatively sheltered spot.

Davis talked to Wild about whether the glacier might suffice, ‘which seems to me the only alternative just at present, I think it would be a risky business but would prefer it to going back. I feel pretty sure that if we do find land here it will be inaccessible.' The spot did not enthuse Davis: ‘It is certainly a cheerless place, no sun all day, nothing but snow and gloom.' In the end Wild decided there was no choice. The base commander wrote a letter confirming it was his decision alone—and, worryingly, stated that he felt as safe as Amundsen did on the Great Ice Barrier.

With the decision made, the ship's company swung into action. Supplies and equipment were quickly unloaded and moved to the top of the ice cliff using a flying fox, before being
dragged by sledge to the site of their wooden hut, some six hundred metres from the edge. It was far from ideal. The base was set on what we now know to be floating ice, three times the distance from Cape Denison than Mawson had wanted and with a coastline nearly thirty kilometres away.

Davis was not known for his optimism—he was frequently referred to as Gloomy Davis, though not to his face—but his diary shows a more personable side, with genuine concern for the men and ship in an unknown, hostile environment. Feeling he had been harsh towards Wild's men on one occasion, Davis remonstrated with himself the next day, ‘Since I wrote up my log yesterday evening I have recovered my temper. I was irritated then and I feel differently about the party as they have behaved in a very generous manner…I feel that it was very nice of them as I have hardly been friendly to anyone this last month with the constant worry and anxiety let alone the repeated disappointment. However it was very pleasant to feel that the party appreciate the fact that we have done our best for them.'

When the
Aurora
left, on 21 February, Davis recorded his worries in his diary: ‘Was this an ice-shelf, attached to the land, on which we were leaving them? Or would it, and they, have “gone to sea” before the arrival of the “Aurora” next year?'

With two bases now established on the Antarctic continent—of sorts—and one on Macquarie Island, Davis was eager to get his ship and crew out of danger and back to Hobart. He was desperately short of fuel, yet managed to make the 4300-kilometre journey, arriving with just nine tonnes of coal to spare. The
Aurora
straggled into Hobart on 12 March 1912 to find the
Fram
at anchor: Amundsen had beaten Scott to the South Geographic Pole.

Davis's role was not only to safely deliver men and equipment to disparate, troublesome locations: Mawson had also entrusted him with overseeing a major part of the scientific program. After restocking the
Aurora
and making necessary repairs, the expedition's second-in-command was to undertake an extensive oceanographic survey of the Southern Ocean, taking depth soundings, and collecting biological and water samples.

Davis was keen; like Mawson, he was scathing of the attempt on the South Geographical Pole. Writing to William Speirs Bruce, a kindred spirit, Davis remarked: ‘I hope to hear that you are going away with a Scottish Expedition before long. If Scott or Amundsen reach the Pole, people will perhaps realise that nothing much can be learnt from this sort of thing and be more willing to help really useful work.' During the Australasian Antarctic Expedition, Davis would take the
Aurora
to Antarctica three times and the subantarctic twice more, charting new territory.

Travelling the wild Southern Ocean may not have been the most glamorous of roles, but taking soundings and trawling its depths could crack the great scientific conundrum Mawson had raised with David years before: had there been a land bridge between Australia and Antarctica in the past? By 1912 scientists appreciated that, on geological timescales, mountains could be thrown up and oceans created—a process described as diastrophism—but how such large upheavals in the past came about was often the subject of outlandish conjecture.