South: The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917
snow. Yesterday we also had a rare form of snow, or, rather,
precipitation of ice-spicules, exactly like little hairs, about a third
of an inch long.
“The warmth in the tents at lunch-time was so great that we had all the
side-flaps up for ventilation, but it is a treat to get warm
occasionally, and one can put up with a little stuffy atmosphere now
and again for the sake of it. The wind has gone to the best quarter
this evening, the south-east, and is freshening.”
On these fine, clear, sunny days wonderful mirage effects could be
observed, just as occur over the desert. Huge bergs were apparently
resting on nothing, with a distinct gap between their bases and the
horizon; others were curiously distorted into all sorts of weird and
fantastic shapes, appearing to be many times their proper height. Added
to this, the pure glistening white of the snow and ice made a picture
which it is impossible adequately to describe.
Later on, the freshening south-westerly wind brought mild, overcast
weather, probably due to the opening up of the pack in that direction.
I had already made arrangements for a quick move in case of a sudden
break-up of the ice. Emergency orders were issued; each man had his
post allotted and his duty detailed; and the whole was so organized
that in less than five minutes from the sounding of the alarm on my
whistle, tents were struck, gear and provisions packed, and the whole
party was ready to move off. I now took a final survey of the men to
note their condition, both mental and physical. For our time at Ocean
Camp had not been one of unalloyed bliss. The loss of the ship meant
more to us than we could ever put into words. After we had settled at
Ocean Camp she still remained nipped by the ice, only her stern showing
and her bows overridden and buried by the relentless pack. The tangled
mass of ropes, rigging, and spars made the scene even more desolate and
depressing.
It was with a feeling almost of relief that the end came.
“_November_ 21, 1915.—This evening, as we were lying in our tents we
heard the Boss call out, ‘She’s going, boys!’ We were out in a second
and up on the look-out station and other points of vantage, and, sure
enough, there was our poor ship a mile and a half away struggling in
her death-agony. She went down bows first, her stern raised in the air.
She then gave one quick dive and the ice closed over her for ever. It
gave one a sickening sensation to see it, for, mastless and useless as
she was, she seemed to be a link with the outer world. Without her our
destitution seems more emphasized, our desolation more complete. The
loss of the ship sent a slight wave of depression over the camp. No one
said much, but we cannot be blamed for feeling it in a sentimental way.
It seemed as if the moment of severance from many cherished
associations, many happy moments, even stirring incidents, had come as
she silently up-ended to find a last resting-place beneath the ice on
which we now stand. When one knows every little nook and corner of
one’s ship as we did, and has helped her time and again in the fight
that she made so well, the actual parting was not without its pathos,
quite apart from one’s own desolation, and I doubt if there was one
amongst us who did not feel some personal emotion when Sir Ernest,
standing on the top of the look-out, said somewhat sadly and quietly,
‘She’s gone, boys.’
“It must, however, be said that we did not give way to depression for
long, for soon every one was as cheery as usual. Laughter rang out from
the tents, and even the Boss had a passage-at-arms with the storekeeper
over the inadequacy of the sausage ration, insisting that there should
be two each ‘because they were such little ones,’ instead of the one
and a half that the latter proposed.”
The psychological effect of a slight increase in the rations soon
neutralized any tendency to downheartedness, but with the high
temperatures surface-thaw set in, and our bags and clothes were soaked
and sodden. Our boots squelched as we walked, and we lived in a state
of perpetual wet feet. At nights, before the temperature had fallen,
clouds of steam could be seen rising from our soaking bags and boots.
During the night, as it grew colder, this all condensed as rime on the
inside of the tent, and showered down upon us if one happened to touch
the side inadvertently. One had to be careful how one walked, too, as
often only a thin crust of ice and snow covered a hole in the floe,
through which many an unwary member went in up to his waist. These
perpetual soakings, however, seemed to have had little lasting effect,
or perhaps it was not apparent owing to the excitement of the prospect
of an early release.
A north-westerly wind on December 7 and 8 retarded our progress
somewhat, but I had reason to believe that it would help to open the
ice and form leads through which we might escape to open water. So I
ordered a practice launching of the boats and stowage of food and
stores in them. This was very satisfactory. We cut a slipway from our
floe into a lead which ran alongside, and the boats took the water
“like a bird,” as one sailor remarked. Our hopes were high in
anticipation of an early release. A blizzard sprang up, increasing the
next day and burying tents and packing-cases in the drift. On December
12 it had moderated somewhat and veered to the south-east, and the next
day the blizzard had ceased, but a good steady wind from south and
south-west continued to blow us north.
“_December_ 15, 1915.—The continuance of southerly winds is exceeding
our best hopes, and raising our spirits in proportion. Prospects could
not be brighter than they are just now. The environs of our floe are
continually changing. Some days we are almost surrounded by small open
leads, preventing us from crossing over to the adjacent floes.”
After two more days our fortune changed, and a strong north-easterly
wind brought “a beastly cold, windy day” and drove us back three and a
quarter miles. Soon, however, the wind once more veered to the south
and south-west. These high temperatures, combined with the strong
changeable winds that we had had of late, led me to conclude that the
ice all around us was rotting and breaking up and that the moment of
our deliverance from the icy maw of the Antarctic was at hand.
On December 20, after discussing the question with Wild, I informed all
hands that I intended to try and make a march to the west to reduce the
distance between us and Paulet Island. A buzz of pleasurable
anticipation went round the camp, and every one was anxious to get on
the move. So the next day I set off with Wild, Crean, and Hurley, with
dog teams, to the westward to survey the route. After travelling about
seven miles we mounted a small berg, and there as far as we could see
stretched a series of immense flat floes from half a mile to a mile
across, separated from each other by pressure-ridges which seemed
easily negotiable with pick and shovel. The only place that appeared
likely to be formidable was a very much cracked-up area between the old
floe that we were on and the first of the series of young flat floes
about half a mile away.
December 22 was therefore kept as Christmas Day, and most of our small
remaining stock of luxuries was consumed at the Christmas feast. We
could not carry it all with us, so for the last time for eight months
we had a really good meal—as much as we could eat. Anchovies in oil,
baked beans, and jugged hare made a glorious mixture such as we have
not dreamed of since our school-days. Everybody was working at high
pressure, packing and repacking sledges and stowing what provisions we
were going to take with us in the various sacks and boxes. As I looked
round at the eager faces of the men I could not but hope that this time
the fates would be kinder to us than in our last attempt to march
across the ice to safety.
CHAPTER VI
THE MARCH BETWEEN
With the exception of the night-watchman we turned in at 11 p.m., and
at 3 a.m. on December 23 all hands were roused for the purpose of
sledging the two boats, the _James Caird_ and the _Dudley Docker_, over
the dangerously cracked portion to the first of the young floes, whilst
the surface still held its night crust. A thick sea-fog came up from
the west, so we started off finally at 4.30 a.m., after a drink of hot
coffee.
Practically all hands had to be harnessed to each boat in succession,
and by dint of much careful manipulation and tortuous courses amongst
the broken ice we got both safely over the danger-zone.
We then returned to Ocean Camp for the tents and the rest of the
sledges, and pitched camp by the boats about one and a quarter miles
off. On the way back a big seal was caught which provided fresh food
for ourselves and for the dogs. On arrival at the camp a supper of cold
tinned mutton and tea was served, and everybody turned in at 2 p.m. It
was my intention to sleep by day and march by night, so as to take
advantage of the slightly lower temperatures and consequent harder
surfaces.
At 8 p.m. the men were roused, and after a meal of cold mutton and tea,
the march was resumed. A large open lead brought us to a halt at 11
p.m., whereupon we camped and turned in without a meal. Fortunately
just at this time the weather was fine and warm. Several men slept out
in the open at the beginning of the march. One night, however, a slight
snow-shower came on, succeeded immediately by a lowering of the
temperature. Worsley, who had hung up his trousers and socks on a boat,
found them iced-up and stiff; and it was quite a painful process for
him to dress quickly that morning. I was anxious, now that we had
started, that we should make every effort to extricate ourselves, and
this temporary check so early was rather annoying. So that afternoon
Wild and I ski-ed out to the crack and found that it had closed up
again. We marked out the track with small flags as we returned. Each
day, after all hands had turned in, Wild and I would go ahead for two
miles or so to reconnoitre the next day’s route, marking it with pieces
of wood, tins, and small flags. We had to pick the road which though it
might be somewhat devious, was flattest and had least hummocks.
Pressure-ridges had to be skirted, and where this was not possible the
best place to make a bridge of ice-blocks across the lead or over the
ridge had to be found and marked. It was the duty of the dog-drivers to
thus prepare the track for those who were toiling behind with the heavy
boats. These boats were hauled in relays, about sixty yards at a time.
I did not wish them to be separated by too great a distance in case the
ice should crack between them, and we should be unable to reach the one
that was in rear. Every twenty yards or so they had to stop for a rest
and to take breath, and it was a welcome sight to them to see the
canvas screen go up on some oars, which denoted the fact that the cook
had started preparing a meal, and that a temporary halt, at any rate,
was going to be made. Thus the ground had to be traversed three times
by the boat-hauling party. The dog-sledges all made two, and some of
them three, relays. The dogs were wonderful. Without them we could
never have transported half the food and gear that we did.
We turned in at 7 p.m. that night, and at 1 a.m. next day, the 25th,
and the third day of our march, a breakfast of sledging ration was
served. By 2 a.m. we were on the march again. We wished one another a
merry Christmas, and our thoughts went back to those at home. We
wondered, too, that day, as we sat down to our “lunch” of stale, thin
bannock and a mug of thin cocoa, what they were having at home.