South: The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917
pipes going and a cup of hot milk for each man, we were able to
discover some bright spots in our outlook. At any rate, we were on the
move at last, and if dangers and difficulties lay ahead we could meet
and overcome them. No longer were we drifting helplessly at the mercy
of wind and current.
The first glimmerings of dawn came at 6 a.m., and I waited anxiously
for the full daylight. The swell was growing, and at times our ice was
surrounded closely by similar pieces. At 6.30 a.m. we had hot hoosh,
and then stood by waiting for the pack to open. Our chance came at 8,
when we launched the boats, loaded them, and started to make our way
through the lanes in a northerly direction. The _James Caird_ was in
the lead, with the _Stancomb Wills_ next and the _Dudley Docker_
bringing up the rear. In order to make the boats more seaworthy we had
left some of our shovels, picks, and dried vegetables on the floe, and
for a long time we could see the abandoned stores forming a dark spot
on the ice. The boats were still heavily loaded. We got out of the
lanes, and entered a stretch of open water at 11 a.m. A strong easterly
breeze was blowing, but the fringe of pack lying outside protected us
from the full force of the swell, just as the coral-reef of a tropical
island checks the rollers of the Pacific. Our way was across the open
sea, and soon after noon we swung round the north end of the pack and
laid a course to the westward, the _James Caird_ still in the lead.
Immediately our deeply laden boats began to make heavy weather. They
shipped sprays, which, freezing as they fell, covered men and gear with
ice, and soon it was clear that we could not safely proceed. I put the
_James Caird_ round and ran for the shelter of the pack again, the
other boats following. Back inside the outer line of ice the sea was
not breaking. This was at 3 p.m., and all hands were tired and cold. A
big floeberg resting peacefully ahead caught my eye, and half an hour
later we had hauled up the boats and pitched camp for the night. It was
a fine, big, blue berg with an attractively solid appearance, and from
our camp we could get a good view of the surrounding sea and ice. The
highest point was about 15 ft. above sea-level. After a hot meal all
hands, except the watchman, turned in. Every one was in need of rest
after the troubles of the previous night and the unaccustomed strain of
the last thirty-six hours at the oars. The berg appeared well able to
withstand the battering of the sea, and too deep and massive to be
seriously affected by the swell; but it was not as safe as it looked.
About midnight the watchman called me and showed me that the heavy
north-westerly swell was undermining the ice. A great piece had broken
off within eight feet of my tent. We made what inspection was possible
in the darkness, and found that on the westward side of the berg the
thick snow covering was yielding rapidly to the attacks of the sea. An
ice-foot had formed just under the surface of the water. I decided that
there was no immediate danger and did not call the men. The
north-westerly wind strengthened during the night.
The morning of April 11 was overcast and misty. There was a haze on the
horizon, and daylight showed that the pack had closed round our berg,
making it impossible in the heavy swell to launch the boats. We could
see no sign of the water. Numerous whales and killers were blowing
between the floes, and Cape pigeons, petrels, and fulmars were circling
round our berg. The scene from our camp as the daylight brightened was
magnificent beyond description, though I must admit that we viewed it
with anxiety. Heaving hills of pack and floe were sweeping towards us
in long undulations, later to be broken here and there by the dark
lines that indicated open water. As each swell lifted around our
rapidly dissolving berg it drove floe-ice on to the ice-foot, shearing
off more of the top snow-covering and reducing the size of our camp.
When the floes retreated to attack again the water swirled over the
ice-foot, which was rapidly increasing in width. The launching of the
boats under such conditions would be difficult. Time after time, so
often that a track was formed, Worsley, Wild, and I, climbed to the
highest point of the berg and stared out to the horizon in search of a
break in the pack. After long hours had dragged past, far away on the
lift of the swell there appeared a dark break in the tossing field of
ice. Æons seemed to pass, so slowly it approached. I noticed enviously
the calm peaceful attitudes of two seals which lolled lazily on a
rocking floe. They were at home and had no reason for worry or cause
for fear. If they thought at all, I suppose they counted it an ideal
day for a joyous journey on the tumbling ice. To us it was a day that
seemed likely to lead to no more days. I do not think I had ever before
felt the anxiety that belongs to leadership quite so keenly. When I
looked down at the camp to rest my eyes from the strain of watching the
wide white expanse broken by that one black ribbon of open water, I
could see that my companions were waiting with more than ordinary
interest to learn what I thought about it all. After one particularly
heavy collision somebody shouted sharply, “She has cracked in the
middle.” I jumped off the look-out station and ran to the place the men
were examining. There was a crack, but investigation showed it to be a
mere surface break in the snow with no indication of a split in the
berg itself. The carpenter mentioned calmly that earlier in the day he
had actually gone adrift on a fragment of ice. He was standing near the
edge of our camping-ground when the ice under his feet parted from the
parent mass. A quick jump over the widening gap saved him.
The hours dragged on. One of the anxieties in my mind was the
possibility that we would be driven by the current through the
eighty-mile gap between Clarence Island and Prince George Island into
the open Atlantic; but slowly the open water came nearer, and at noon
it had almost reached us. A long lane, narrow but navigable, stretched
out to the south-west horizon. Our chance came a little later. We
rushed our boats over the edge of the reeling berg and swung them clear
of the ice-foot as it rose beneath them. The _James Caird_ was nearly
capsized by a blow from below as the berg rolled away, but she got into
deep water. We flung stores and gear aboard and within a few minutes
were away. The _James Caird_ and _Dudley Docker_ had good sails and
with a favourable breeze could make progress along the lane, with the
rolling fields of ice on either side. The swell was heavy and spray was
breaking over the ice-floes. An attempt to set a little rag of sail on
the _Stancomb Wills_ resulted in serious delay. The area of sail was
too small to be of much assistance, and while the men were engaged in
this work the boat drifted down towards the ice-floe, where her
position was likely to be perilous. Seeing her plight, I sent the
_Dudley Docker_ back for her and tied the _James Caird_ up to a piece
of ice. The _Dudley Docker_ had to tow the _Stancomb Wills_, and the
delay cost us two hours of valuable daylight. When I had the three
boats together again we continued down the lane, and soon saw a wider
stretch of water to the west; it appeared to offer us release from the
grip of the pack. At the head of an ice-tongue that nearly closed the
gap through which we might enter the open space was a wave-worn berg
shaped like some curious antediluvian monster, an icy Cerberus guarding
the way. It had head and eyes and rolled so heavily that it almost
overturned. Its sides dipped deep in the sea, and as it rose again the
water seemed to be streaming from its eyes, as though it were weeping
at our escape from the clutch of the floes. This may seem fanciful to
the reader, but the impression was real to us at the time. People
living under civilized conditions, surrounded by Nature’s varied forms
of life and by all the familiar work of their own hands, may scarcely
realize how quickly the mind, influenced by the eyes, responds to the
unusual and weaves about it curious imaginings like the firelight
fancies of our childhood days. We had lived long amid the ice, and we
half-unconsciously strove to see resemblances to human faces and living
forms in the fantastic contours and massively uncouth shapes of berg
and floe.
At dusk we made fast to a heavy floe, each boat having its painter
fastened to a separate hummock in order to avoid collisions in the
swell. We landed the blubber-stove, boiled some water in order to
provide hot milk, and served cold rations. I also landed the dome tents
and stripped the coverings from the hoops. Our experience of the
previous day in the open sea had shown us that the tents must be packed
tightly. The spray had dashed over the bows and turned to ice on the
cloth, which had soon grown dangerously heavy. Other articles off our
scanty equipment had to go that night. We were carrying only the things
that had seemed essential, but we stripped now to the barest limit of
safety. We had hoped for a quiet night, but presently we were forced to
cast off, since pieces of loose ice began to work round the floe.
Drift-ice is always attracted to the lee side of a heavy floe, where it
bumps and presses under the influence of the current. I had determined
not to risk a repetition of the last night’s experience and so had not
pulled the boats up. We spent the hours of darkness keeping an offing
from the main line of pack under the lee of the smaller pieces.
Constant rain and snow squalls blotted out the stars and soaked us
through, and at times it was only by shouting to each other that we
managed to keep the boats together. There was no sleep for anybody
owing to the severe cold, and we dare not pull fast enough to keep
ourselves warm since we were unable to see more than a few yards ahead.
Occasionally the ghostly shadows of silver, snow, and fulmar petrels
flashed close to us, and all around we could hear the killers blowing,
their short, sharp hisses sounding like sudden escapes of steam. The
killers were a source of anxiety, for a boat could easily have been
capsized by one of them coming up to blow. They would throw aside in a
nonchalant fashion pieces of ice much bigger than our boats when they
rose to the surface, and we had an uneasy feeling that the white
bottoms of the boats would look like ice from below. Shipwrecked
mariners drifting in the Antarctic seas would be things not dreamed of
in the killers’ philosophy, and might appear on closer examination to
be tasty substitutes for seal and penguin. We certainly regarded the
killers with misgivings.
Early in the morning of April 12 the weather improved and the wind
dropped. Dawn came with a clear sky, cold and fearless. I looked around
at the faces of my companions in the _James Caird_ and saw pinched and
drawn features. The strain was beginning to tell. Wild sat at the
rudder with the same calm, confident expression that he would have worn
under happier conditions; his steel-blue eyes looked out to the day
ahead. All the people, though evidently suffering, were doing their
best to be cheerful, and the prospect of a hot breakfast was
inspiriting. I told all the boats that immediately we could find a
suitable floe the cooker would be started and hot milk and Bovril would
soon fix everybody up. Away we rowed to the westward through open pack,
floes of all shapes and sizes on every side of us, and every man not
engaged in pulling looking eagerly for a suitable camping-place. I
could gauge the desire for food of the different members by the
eagerness they displayed in pointing out to me the floes they