The Caledonia

Their relationship held the same warmth as the ice flow that now confronted the ship. A genuine dislike had ignited upon their first meeting, and both men had worked tirelessly over the last several months in cultivating it. Like a magnificent and crafted sculpture, together, they were proud of what their chisels had accomplished, and a joined debate could be manifested that their mutual disdain was really the only thing they agreed upon.

The HMS Caledonia was now approaching the Bellot Strait after spending the previous 14-hours locked in an ice flow that necessitated not one, but two, Canadian ice breakers to excavate the research vessel. Captain Lafayette Alexander had repeatedly voiced his displeasure, his complaints, against the doctor – in both the ship’s log and directly to the man’s indifferent face. It was his hope that, by the grace of God they made it home, the official record could be used against the bespectacled fool in some form of a severe condemnation or expulsion, or whatever they do to these arrogant professor-types. Alexander had signaled his desire to steer the vessel north, and do an end run around Prince Leopold Island – approach the shipwreck of the doomed Blackwell Expedition – from the western edge of the most treacherous region to navigation that exists anywhere in the world. It would add an additional 600 km or more, but it was the safer of the two options, and as captain, master of the research vessel Caledonia, he had the final say – especially when it came to the well being of both his crew and the team of scientists he was charged with looking after. Another thing he reminded his rival repeatedly despite his dissertation falling upon insouciant ears.

Dr. Nathaniel Hardwicke would have nothing to do with the captain’s concerns. The stakes for him were just too high to bend to anything that could jeopardize this expedition, This quest, as he often reminded himself. He couldn’t make the captain understand that he was well aware of this Arctic Circle environment, but any further delays could close their window of opportunity, and that was a gamble he was unwilling to take. He had come close, or thought he had, too many times, only to find himself empty-handed at the end. A recurring theme that had now been securely established as a fait accompli in silent whispers behind his back – that he was certain. The most recent vanquishing by fate’s sword had been administered in Mumbai – only to be thwarted when a closer examination of the museum’s records unveiled forgery by an unscrupulous director interested in tall tales and dipping into the international subsides trust that Hardwicke’s Cambridge program offered. Particularly for preferred nations of the loosely affiliated Commonwealth even though they had long since declared their independence from the Crown. Deep down Hardwicke knew it had been too good to be true. It had never been to that region from what he could gather later – instead having made its way west escaping Portuguese hands by way of Palestine, and then Arabia, before settling for a handful of the last few centuries in the Tower Of London next to the Crown Jewels.

The Eye of Surat was a diamond of comparable size and karat to the Akbar Shah, but considered by some twice as beautiful for its radiance that seemed to oscillate between fine teal and cobalt, depending on how the fractures of light hit it when examined, and sparked virulent debates postulated by high-strung gemologists. It had meant to be loaned for display to Emperor Ayahito Ninkō in an effort to support, to re-establish, his ruling dominance that had been on the slope of decline along with the fading shōgun of the age – not to mention stroke his ego for trade concessions.

Just as Ninkō’s reign was plagued by natural disasters and the political corruption that is commonplace with the seat of any absolute power, so too was the failed Blackwell Expedition of 1839.

Officially the Blackwell campaign was to map the Northwest Passage and to gather scientific data on the Earth’s magnetic field to aid in navigation with the instruments of the era. Unofficially it was carrying with it The Eye of Surat for transit to Japan. The route chosen specifically for its isolation and, more importantly, for it being void of pirated waters less the precious jewel fall into the wrong hands and be lost forever. Something the newly minted Queen Victoria Court would not have.

Life is replete with self-fulfilling prophecies. Rather than losing the treasured diamond to spirited buccaneers it was lost to the fury of nature’s cold heart. The turbulent Arctic waters speckled with seemingly endless sheets of ice, dangerous serrated and jagged polygons, and uncharted shallows were too much in the age of wooden ships. The HMS Robert Clive and its sister ship HMS Eyre Coote both ran a ground and partially sank in the area of sudden shallows. Lacking modern communications the Blackwell survivors were forever marooned in a frozen desert with no possibility of rescue. Two search parties were dispatched when there had been no word. The first roughly fourteen months later, a second in 1842, both failing to locate the wrecks – barely making it back to civilization themselves. Another team of explorers stumbled upon a few wooden huts in the Kitikmeot Region in 1901. Built from some of the rescued wood from one of the ships. They were long since abandoned and void of any semblance of humanity. However, there was a noteworthy find in the Clive, according to what research Hardwicke had come across, that indicated she was carrying the Surat, and it would be that ship they would look to identify first – with any luck – and examine what remained of the holds.

The sea rarely gives up its secrets willingly, and the frigid Arctic waves are no exception. While not lost in the deepest of depths the Clive was still ravaged by centuries of erosion, and its cannibalization for make-shift shelters, that hindered identification. Still, Hardwicke felt confident that both vessels could be quickly identified and their holds searched for the prize he had sought most of his adult life.

The Caledonia was a sturdy ship with modern equipment, and built for science and exploration. He had needed a cover story for this true endeavor, and such, he had sufficiently argued that the identification of both vessels, and their locations, was a necessity to the safety of navigation – particularly the annual sea lifts that supplied the most rural of communities such as Grise Fiord, Igloolik, and Sanirajak – through the Northwestern Passages and Baffin Bay. It was what he also had told Captain Alexander – whom he supplied filtered information so as to coerce the seaman’s decision making to his own desired outcome. The less others knew about his goal to retrieve the Surat the better.

“All stop.” Alexander said evenly.

“All stop. Aye aye, captain.” the second mate acknowledged.

“Why are you stopping?” Hardwicke asked. His silhouette was back-lit from the light of the passageway.

“Why are you on my bridge when I specifically requested you not be? Do I need to call the SSO?” Alexander asked plainly.

Hardwicke ignored him as usual. “I want to know why you’re stopping?”

The bridge was shadowed in darkness; illuminated only by various glowing instrument panels and a singular desk lamp that bathed the chart table. It was doubtful that Hardwicke could even see Alexander’s perturbed expression as he selected his words.

“That is the reason.” Alexander finally uttered after a dramatic pause. He pointed at the forward bow. Hardwicke could only see darkness, and the faintest sliver of first pink daylight at the distant horizon. The ship was now facing the pack sheets of ice at the Bellot Strait. The widest point roughly three-quarters of a mile before the sharply rising high rock face and cliffs ascend as if an amphitheater – its razor edges ready to shred the Caledonia.

“I see nothing.”

“I see everything,” Alexander replied, “and what I see is impossible. We’ll have to go around another way.”

“Impossible.” Hardwicke rebuked. “We have already lost precious time and with the tides and the end of season upon us we cannot afford an additional delay. We must make the wreck site.”

Alexander decided to take the professional approach. Reason with him. “I don’t disagree. However, safety trumps all else. Even your precious scientific observations. That is a shortcut we dare not take.”

“May I remind you captain of who is in charge of this expedition?”

“The expedition, yes, but not of this vessel. You seem to keep forgetting that, sir.”

“Captain Alexander, I do not understand why you continue to undermine our activities.”

“Undermine?”

“Yes, undermine. Time and time again your decisions have cost us valuable time. Time we can no longer afford, and if this course is to give us the best chance of success it is imperative that you take it.”

“Nothing is imperative when it comes to safety, Mr. Hardwicke.” Alexander deliberately dropped the word ‘doctor’ from his vocabulary when dealing with the man. “My guess is the Blackwell troop discovered that the hard way.”

“We must get there sir.” It was Hardwicke’s turn to drop off monikers of rank.

“Not at the risk of shearing off a propeller on a sheet of ice. Or going head long into a rock face. Or running aground. That would end your little field trip real fast too. At one point our instruments read a two-meter draft under the ship. I have greater responsibilities, sir.”

Around the bridge the crew kept focus on their respective instrument panels. Heads down. Avoiding any kind of eye contact as the two men squared off in their contest of wills.

“Can’t you summon the coast guard again?” Hardwicke asked.

“I can, but that’s a call I do not wish to make again if it can be avoided. It would take some two hours for them to get here.”

“Better two than the five or six it would take to go around. No, captain. I must insist that you call for assistance again.”

The bridge fell silent. Captain Alexander knew better, but there was just no reasoning with the man. He weighed his options. How could he explain his actions in his final report? There was always that measure of doubt. What if the damn fool is right? What then? He would be called before the board and likely lose his command. At worst he could lose his ship, his life, and the lives of his men.

Hardwicke reset himself. “Please, captain. Please call them. I saw those ice breakers. What do they have? Close to fifteen-thousand horse power? Those big sheets of ice were just pushed aside earlier. It is paramount that we make the wreck site, do what we need, and then you can head for home via Madagascar for all I care. Please make the call.”

Alexander let out a reluctant rush of air. He wasn’t convinced, but reached for the red phone anyway.

Two hours – what felt like two years to Hardwicke – the Canadian Coast Guard icebreakers Wallace and Cornelius were once again on site, and by the curt response Alexander felt they were unconvinced as to the necessity of the situation. Returning to guide the Caledonia meant they were not rescuing others – perhaps in more periling situations.

“Caledonia,” the scratchy voice said, “we’ve cleared a path from the forward bow. Fall in behind us.”

“Roger that.” Alexander replied. Then gave the order, “Start the bow thruster.”

“Bow thruster, aye aye captain.”

The forward bow thruster began to churn and orientate the Caledonia in the right direction.

“All ahead full.”

“Aye aye captain. All ahead full.”

Hardwicke was watching from just outside the bridge on the outer deck. He was bundled in a heavy parka and his mittens made him look grandfatherly – or so many of the crew thought.

Slowly the Caledonia followed the pair of icebreakers into the Ballot Strait, when both Alexander and Hardwicke saw the rotors of a helicopter begin to churn to speed. Soon it was lifting off the stern.

“Caledonia, over?” the radio squawked.

“This is Caledonia, over.”

“We’re sending out a scout team to look ahead. The outlook isn’t promising. The strait appears to be fairly choked with ice.”

“Copy that.” Alexander replied. He wasn’t the least bit surprised. Daylight had broke now and all he could see in front of him was a sea of white frozen plains one could walk across. This is impossible, he thought.

Roughly twenty-minutes later the helicopter returned to its landing pad at the stern of the icebreaker.

“Caledonia, over?”

“This is Caledonia, over.”

“Caledonia, this ice flow runs the gamut of the strait. Advise you take the more northerly course to destination. Over?”

Which is what I wanted to do to begin with. “Roger that. As soon as I’m able to I’ll turn around.”

Alexander had been following behind the icebreakers Wallace and Cornelius at a discreet distance. However, they had barely carved a path through the ice sheet before it was once again closing in behind them. Alexander was about to take this opportunity in the open water to reorientate the ship again, And get the hell out of here.

“Copy that, Caledonia.” the voice scratched again over the radio.

Alexander gave the order for the bow thruster again. Meant for docking he was now going to use it to do an about-face, and get out of the strait.

“Captain, look.” one of the bridge crew pointed.

It was the Cornelius. With all the horsepower at its disposal it was now jammed up in the ice, and like a turtle on its back it was unable to free itself as the forward bow seemed to squat awkwardly on a large sheet of ice.

The Wallace wasn’t fairing much better. Aware of its sister ship’s distress, it was attempting to reposition itself to double-back and break up part of the jagged flow, but it lacked leverage as the result of its turn.

The Caledonia was now a spectator. By reversing its turn the Wallace had broken off a large sheet in order to get to the Cornelius, but like a moving jigsaw puzzle the action was now pushing another large section of ice pack directly at the Caledonia. Alexander now found he had lost control of the vessel, and he was being pushed towards the rock face of the narrow passageway.

“Wallace, this is Caledonia. Please stop. Your actions are pushing me to the rocks.”

“Say again Caledonia.”

“Stop. You’re pushing the ice sheets in my direction and it’s driving me into the rocks!”

“Copy that.”

It took a dozen seconds or so, but eventually Alexander saw the turbulence from the rear propellers of Wallace turn down. Cornelius was effectively out of commission still stuck atop one of the jagged shelves, bobbing as it did so, and occasionally trying to gun their engines in order to dislodge themselves from their predicament.

Hardwicke watched on near the railing just outside the bridge. He thought the Cornelius oddly resembled a car stuck in the snow, and spinning its tires achieving nothing. Can’t any of these sailors sail anymore? he thought in dismay. His arrogance and ignorance of the situation holding true to the end.

Captain Alexander had his mental note of both icebreakers’ positions, but he held his own concerns. He needed to get away from the approaching cliffs towering over the strait as the ice continued to push the Caledonia. In desperation he gave the order. “Starboard bow thruster to full.”

“Aye aye captain. Starboard thruster to full.”

There was a momentary rumble that even Hardwicke felt along the bridge deck. The Caledonia was not responding.

“I said starboard thruster to full!” Alexander did not like raising his voice. An agitated captain was an ineffectual one, and it wouldn’t do for any crew to see their captain in a panic. However, the jagged amphitheater was now towering over the forward bow. The strike seemed inevitable. Damn him! Damn! Alexander swore silently. Why had he caved? For what purpose?

“Caledonia, over? Caledonia, do you copy? Over? You’re too close to the rocks!” the voice stitched over the speaker.

“Captain, we have no readings on the thruster.”

The revelation had come as no surprise to Alexander. He figured chunks from the ice flow had gotten into the bow thruster housing in spite of the grating, and likely sheared off the propeller.

“Back full!” Alexander shouted. “All back full!”

“There was another momentary rumble of the screws turning, but as they churned an upwelling deep below the waterline they too became compromised – sheared and damaged by the unrelenting submerged chunks of ice shrapnel that had been birthed by both icebreakers and their own maneuvering.

Hardwicke hadn’t even noticed the initial strike. It seemed almost like a glancing blow, but when the ice had cleared the forward bow the pack from behind drove them head-long into the rising cliffs. The nose of the Caledonia crinkled and split open, and quickly they began to take on water.

“Abandon ship! All hands, abandon ship!” Alexander shouted. “See to safety of all hands.” he said in turn to the officer of the watch.

The crews of the Wallace and Cornelius watched in horror. Already they were on the radio reporting the Caledonia’s collision with the slopes of the strait, but support craft would still take time to reach them. Their own team of first responders were now scrambling to assist, but the Caledonia was sinking rapidly.

Instead of immediately heading for the lifeboat, Hardwicke went first to his cabin to retrieve his precious notes regarding The Eye of Surat. It would not do for them to be lost at the bottom of the Arctic!

The action would cost Hardwicke his life. He failed to make it to the lifeboat, and like the diamond he so long coveted, his fate was also sealed at the bottom of the Arctic.