South: The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917
The swell made things difficult. Many of us got wet to the waist while
dragging the boat out—a serious matter in that climate. When the _James
Caird_ was afloat in the surf she nearly capsized among the rocks
before we could get her clear, and Vincent and the carpenter, who were
on the deck, were thrown into the water. This was really bad luck, for
the two men would have small chance of drying their clothes after we
had got under way. Hurley, who had the eye of the professional
photographer for “incidents,” secured a picture of the upset, and I
firmly believe that he would have liked the two unfortunate men to
remain in the water until he could get a “snap” at close quarters; but
we hauled them out immediately, regardless of his feelings.
The _James Caird_ was soon clear of the breakers. We used all the
available ropes as a long painter to prevent her drifting away to the
north-east, and then the _Stancomb Wills_ came alongside, transferred
her load, and went back to the shore for more. As she was being beached
this time the sea took her stern and half filled her with water. She
had to be turned over and emptied before the return journey could be
made. Every member of the crew of the _Stancomb Wills_ was wet to the
skin. The water-casks were towed behind the _Stancomb Wills_ on this
second journey, and the swell, which was increasing rapidly, drove the
boat on to the rocks, where one of the casks was slightly stove in.
This accident proved later to be a serious one, since some sea-water
had entered the cask and the contents were now brackish.
By midday the _James Caird_ was ready for the voyage. Vincent and the
carpenter had secured some dry clothes by exchange with members of the
shore party (I heard afterwards that it was a full fortnight before the
soaked garments were finally dried), and the boat’s crew was standing
by waiting for the order to cast off. A moderate westerly breeze was
blowing. I went ashore in the _Stancomb Wills_ and had a last word with
Wild, who was remaining in full command, with directions as to his
course of action in the event of our failure to bring relief, but I
practically left the whole situation and scope of action and decision
to his own judgment, secure in the knowledge that he would act wisely.
I told him that I trusted the party to him and said good-bye to the
men. Then we pushed off for the last time, and within a few minutes I
was aboard the _James Caird_. The crew of the _Stancomb Wills_ shook
hands with us as the boats bumped together and offered us the last good
wishes. Then, setting our jib, we cut the painter and moved away to the
north-east. The men who were staying behind made a pathetic little
group on the beach, with the grim heights of the island behind them and
the sea seething at their feet, but they waved to us and gave three
hearty cheers. There was hope in their hearts and they trusted us to
bring the help that they needed.
I had all sails set, and the _James Caird_ quickly dipped the beach and
its line of dark figures. The westerly wind took us rapidly to the line
of pack, and as we entered it I stood up with my arm around the mast,
directing the steering, so as to avoid the great lumps of ice that were
flung about in the heave of the sea. The pack thickened and we were
forced to turn almost due east, running before the wind towards a gap I
had seen in the morning from the high ground. I could not see the gap
now, but we had come out on its bearing and I was prepared to find that
it had been influenced by the easterly drift. At four o’clock in the
afternoon we found the channel, much narrower than it had seemed in the
morning but still navigable. Dropping sail, we rowed through without
touching the ice anywhere, and by 5.30 p.m. we were clear of the pack
with open water before us. We passed one more piece of ice in the
darkness an hour later, but the pack lay behind, and with a fair wind
swelling the sails we steered our little craft through the night, our
hopes centred on our distant goal. The swell was very heavy now, and
when the time came for our first evening meal we found great difficulty
in keeping the Primus lamp alight and preventing the hoosh splashing
out of the pot. Three men were needed to attend to the cooking, one man
holding the lamp and two men guarding the aluminium cooking-pot, which
had to be lifted clear of the Primus whenever the movement of the boat
threatened to cause a disaster. Then the lamp had to be protected from
water, for sprays were coming over the bows and our flimsy decking was
by no means water-tight. All these operations were conducted in the
confined space under the decking, where the men lay or knelt and
adjusted themselves as best they could to the angles of our cases and
ballast. It was uncomfortable, but we found consolation in the
reflection that without the decking we could not have used the cooker
at all.
The tale of the next sixteen days is one of supreme strife amid heaving
waters. The sub-Antarctic Ocean lived up to its evil winter reputation.
I decided to run north for at least two days while the wind held and so
get into warmer weather before turning to the east and laying a course
for South Georgia. We took two-hourly spells at the tiller. The men who
were not on watch crawled into the sodden sleeping-bags and tried to
forget their troubles for a period; but there was no comfort in the
boat. The bags and cases seemed to be alive in the unfailing knack of
presenting their most uncomfortable angles to our rest-seeking bodies.
A man might imagine for a moment that he had found a position of ease,
but always discovered quickly that some unyielding point was impinging
on muscle or bone. The first night aboard the boat was one of acute
discomfort for us all, and we were heartily glad when the dawn came and
we could set about the preparation of a hot breakfast.
This record of the voyage to South Georgia is based upon scanty notes
made day by day. The notes dealt usually with the bare facts of
distances, positions, and weather, but our memories retained the
incidents of the passing days in a period never to be forgotten. By
running north for the first two days I hoped to get warmer weather and
also to avoid lines of pack that might be extending beyond the main
body. We needed all the advantage that we could obtain from the higher
latitude for sailing on the great circle, but we had to be cautious
regarding possible ice-streams. Cramped in our narrow quarters and
continually wet by the spray, we suffered severely from cold throughout
the journey. We fought the seas and the winds and at the same time had
a daily struggle to keep ourselves alive. At times we were in dire
peril. Generally we were upheld by the knowledge that we were making
progress towards the land where we would be, but there were days and
nights when we lay hove to, drifting across the storm-whitened seas and
watching with eyes interested rather than apprehensive the uprearing
masses of water, flung to and fro by Nature in the pride of her
strength. Deep seemed the valleys when we lay between the reeling seas.
High were the hills when we perched momentarily on the tops of giant
combers. Nearly always there were gales. So small was our boat and so
great were the seas that often our sail flapped idly in the calm
between the crests of two waves. Then we would climb the next slope and
catch the full fury of the gale where the wool-like whiteness of the
breaking water surged around us. We had our moments of laughter—rare,
it is true, but hearty enough. Even when cracked lips and swollen
mouths checked the outward and visible signs of amusement we could see
a joke of the primitive kind. Man’s sense of humour is always most
easily stirred by the petty misfortunes of his neighbours, and I shall
never forget Worsley’s efforts on one occasion to place the hot
aluminium stand on top of the Primus stove after it had fallen off in
an extra heavy roll. With his frost-bitten fingers he picked it up,
dropped it, picked it up again, and toyed with it gingerly as though it
were some fragile article of lady’s wear. We laughed, or rather gurgled
with laughter.
The wind came up strong and worked into a gale from the north-west on
the third day out. We stood away to the east. The increasing seas
discovered the weaknesses of our decking. The continuous blows shifted
the box-lids and sledge-runners so that the canvas sagged down and
accumulated water. Then icy trickles, distinct from the driving sprays,
poured fore and aft into the boat. The nails that the carpenter had
extracted from cases at Elephant Island and used to fasten down the
battens were too short to make firm the decking. We did what we could
to secure it, but our means were very limited, and the water continued
to enter the boat at a dozen points. Much baling was necessary, and
nothing that we could do prevented our gear from becoming sodden. The
searching runnels from the canvas were really more unpleasant than the
sudden definite douches of the sprays. Lying under the thwarts during
watches below, we tried vainly to avoid them. There were no dry places
in the boat, and at last we simply covered our heads with our Burberrys
and endured the all-pervading water. The baling was work for the watch.
Real rest we had none. The perpetual motion of the boat made repose
impossible; we were cold, sore, and anxious. We moved on hands and
knees in the semi-darkness of the day under the decking. The darkness
was complete by 6 p.m., and not until 7 a.m. of the following day could
we see one another under the thwarts. We had a few scraps of candle,
and they were preserved carefully in order that we might have light at
meal-times. There was one fairly dry spot in the boat, under the solid
original decking at the bows, and we managed to protect some of our
biscuit from the salt water; but I do not think any of us got the taste
of salt out of our mouths during the voyage.
The difficulty of movement in the boat would have had its humorous side
if it had not involved us in so many aches and pains. We had to crawl
under the thwarts in order to move along the boat, and our knees
suffered considerably. When watch turned out it was necessary for me to
direct each man by name when and where to move, since if all hands had
crawled about at the same time the result would have been dire
confusion and many bruises. Then there was the trim of the boat to be
considered. The order of the watch was four hours on and four hours
off, three men to the watch. One man had the tiller-ropes, the second
man attended to the sail, and the third baled for all he was worth.
Sometimes when the water in the boat had been reduced to reasonable
proportions, our pump could be used. This pump, which Hurley had made
from the Flinder’s bar case of our ship’s standard compass, was quite
effective, though its capacity was not large. The man who was attending
the sail could pump into the big outer cooker, which was lifted and
emptied overboard when filled. We had a device by which the water could
go direct from the pump into the sea through a hole in the gunwale, but
this hole had to be blocked at an early stage of the voyage, since we
found that it admitted water when the boat rolled.
While a new watch was shivering in the wind and spray, the men who had
been relieved groped hurriedly among the soaked sleeping-bags and tried
to steal a little of the warmth created by the last occupants; but it
was not always possible for us to find even this comfort when we went
off watch. The boulders that we had taken aboard for ballast had to be
shifted continually in order to trim the boat and give access to the
pump, which became choked with hairs from the moulting sleeping-bags
and finneskoe. The four reindeer-skin sleeping-bags shed their hair