South: The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917
troubles, but also compensation in the form of food and growing hope.
We felt that we were going to succeed. The odds against us had been
great, but we were winning through. We still suffered severely from the
cold, for, though the temperature was rising, our vitality was
declining owing to shortage of food, exposure, and the necessity of
maintaining our cramped positions day and night. I found that it was
now absolutely necessary to prepare hot milk for all hands during the
night, in order to sustain life till dawn. This meant lighting the
Primus lamp in the darkness and involved an increased drain on our
small store of matches. It was the rule that one match must serve when
the Primus was being lit. We had no lamp for the compass and during the
early days of the voyage we would strike a match when the steersman
wanted to see the course at night; but later the necessity for strict
economy impressed itself upon us, and the practice of striking matches
at night was stopped. We had one water-tight tin of matches. I had
stowed away in a pocket, in readiness for a sunny day, a lens from one
of the telescopes, but this was of no use during the voyage. The sun
seldom shone upon us. The glass of the compass got broken one night,
and we contrived to mend it with adhesive tape from the medicine-chest.
One of the memories that comes to me from those days is of Crean
singing at the tiller. He always sang while he was steering, and nobody
ever discovered what the song was. It was devoid of tune and as
monotonous as the chanting of a Buddhist monk at his prayers; yet
somehow it was cheerful. In moments of inspiration Crean would attempt
“The Wearing of the Green.”
On the tenth night Worsley could not straighten his body after his
spell at the tiller. He was thoroughly cramped, and we had to drag him
beneath the decking and massage him before he could unbend himself and
get into a sleeping-bag. A hard north-westerly gale came up on the
eleventh day (May 5) and shifted to the south-west in the late
afternoon. The sky was overcast and occasional snow-squalls added to
the discomfort produced by a tremendous cross-sea—the worst, I thought,
that we had experienced. At midnight I was at the tiller and suddenly
noticed a line of clear sky between the south and south-west. I called
to the other men that the sky was clearing, and then a moment later I
realized that what I had seen was not a rift in the clouds but the
white crest of an enormous wave. During twenty-six years’ experience of
the ocean in all its moods I had not encountered a wave so gigantic. It
was a mighty upheaval of the ocean, a thing quite apart from the big
white-capped seas that had been our tireless enemies for many days. I
shouted, “For God’s sake, hold on! It’s got us!” Then came a moment of
suspense that seemed drawn out into hours. White surged the foam of the
breaking sea around us. We felt our boat lifted and flung forward like
a cork in breaking surf. We were in a seething chaos of tortured water;
but somehow the boat lived through it, half-full of water, sagging to
the dead weight and shuddering under the blow. We baled with the energy
of men fighting for life, flinging the water over the sides with every
receptacle that came to our hands, and after ten minutes of uncertainty
we felt the boat renew her life beneath us. She floated again and
ceased to lurch drunkenly as though dazed by the attack of the sea.
Earnestly we hoped that never again would we encounter such a wave.
The conditions in the boat, uncomfortable before, had been made worse
by the deluge of water. All our gear was thoroughly wet again. Our
cooking-stove had been floating about in the bottom of the boat, and
portions of our last hoosh seemed to have permeated everything. Not
until 3 a.m., when we were all chilled almost to the limit of
endurance, did we manage to get the stove alight and make ourselves hot
drinks. The carpenter was suffering particularly, but he showed grit
and spirit. Vincent had for the past week ceased to be an active member
of the crew, and I could not easily account for his collapse.
Physically he was one of the strongest men in the boat. He was a young
man, he had served on North Sea trawlers, and he should have been able
to bear hardships better than McCarthy, who, not so strong, was always
happy.
The weather was better on the following day (May 6), and we got a
glimpse of the sun. Worsley’s observation showed that we were not more
than a hundred miles from the north-west corner of South Georgia. Two
more days with a favourable wind and we would sight the promised land.
I hoped that there would be no delay, for our supply of water was
running very low. The hot drink at night was essential, but I decided
that the daily allowance of water must be cut down to half a pint per
man. The lumps of ice we had taken aboard had gone long ago. We were
dependent upon the water we had brought from Elephant Island, and our
thirst was increased by the fact that we were now using the brackish
water in the breaker that had been slightly stove in in the surf when
the boat was being loaded. Some sea-water had entered at that time.
Thirst took possession of us. I dared not permit the allowance of water
to be increased since an unfavourable wind might drive us away from the
island and lengthen our voyage by many days. Lack of water is always
the most severe privation that men can be condemned to endure, and we
found, as during our earlier boat voyage, that the salt water in our
clothing and the salt spray that lashed our faces made our thirst grow
quickly to a burning pain. I had to be very firm in refusing to allow
any one to anticipate the morrow’s allowance, which I was sometimes
begged to do. We did the necessary work dully and hoped for the land. I
had altered the course to the east so as to make sure of our striking
the island, which would have been impossible to regain if we had run
past the northern end. The course was laid on our scrap of chart for a
point some thirty miles down the coast. That day and the following day
passed for us in a sort of nightmare. Our mouths were dry and our
tongues were swollen. The wind was still strong and the heavy sea
forced us to navigate carefully, but any thought of our peril from the
waves was buried beneath the consciousness of our raging thirst. The
bright moments were those when we each received our one mug of hot milk
during the long, bitter watches of the night. Things were bad for us in
those days, but the end was coming. The morning of May 8 broke thick
and stormy, with squalls from the north-west. We searched the waters
ahead for a sign of land, and though we could see nothing more than had
met our eyes for many days, we were cheered by a sense that the goal
was near at hand. About ten o’clock that morning we passed a little bit
of kelp, a glad signal of the proximity of land. An hour later we saw
two shags sitting on a big mass of kelp, and knew then that we must be
within ten or fifteen miles of the shore. These birds are as sure an
indication of the proximity of land as a lighthouse is, for they never
venture far to sea. We gazed ahead with increasing eagerness, and at
12.30 p.m., through a rift in the clouds, McCarthy caught a glimpse of
the black cliffs of South Georgia, just fourteen days after our
departure from Elephant Island. It was a glad moment. Thirst-ridden,
chilled, and weak as we were, happiness irradiated us. The job was
nearly done.
We stood in towards the shore to look for a landing-place, and
presently we could see the green tussock-grass on the ledges above the
surf-beaten rocks. Ahead of us and to the south, blind rollers showed
the presence of uncharted reefs along the coast. Here and there the
hungry rocks were close to the surface, and over them the great waves
broke, swirling viciously and spouting thirty and forty feet into the
air. The rocky coast appeared to descend sheer to the sea. Our need of
water and rest was well-nigh desperate, but to have attempted a landing
at that time would have been suicidal. Night was drawing near, and the
weather indications were not favourable. There was nothing for it but
to haul off till the following morning, so we stood away on the
starboard tack until we had made what appeared to be a safe offing.
Then we hove to in the high westerly swell. The hours passed slowly as
we waited the dawn, which would herald, we fondly hoped, the last stage
of our journey. Our thirst was a torment and we could scarcely touch
our food; the cold seemed to strike right through our weakened bodies.
At 5 a.m. the wind shifted to the north-west and quickly increased to
one of the worst hurricanes any of us had ever experienced. A great
cross-sea was running and the wind simply shrieked as it tore the tops
off the waves and converted the whole seascape into a haze of driving
spray. Down into valleys, up to tossing heights, straining until her
seams opened, swung our little boat, brave still but labouring heavily.
We knew that the wind and set of the sea was driving us ashore, but we
could do nothing. The dawn showed us a storm-torn ocean, and the
morning passed without bringing us a sight of the land; but at 1 p.m.,
through a rift in the flying mists, we got a glimpse of the huge crags
of the island and realized that our position had become desperate. We
were on a dead lee shore, and we could gauge our approach to the unseen
cliffs by the roar of the breakers against the sheer walls of rock. I
ordered the double-reefed mainsail to be set in the hope that we might
claw off, and this attempt increased the strain upon the boat. The
_James Caird_ was bumping heavily, and the water was pouring in
everywhere. Our thirst was forgotten in the realization of our imminent
danger, as we baled unceasingly, and adjusted our weights from time to
time; occasional glimpses showed that the shore was nearer. I knew that
Annewkow Island lay to the south of us, but our small and badly marked
chart showed uncertain reefs in the passage between the island and the
mainland, and I dared not trust it, though as a last resort we could
try to lie under the lee of the island. The afternoon wore away as we
edged down the coast, with the thunder of the breakers in our ears. The
approach of evening found us still some distance from Annewkow Island,
and, dimly in the twilight, we could see a snow-capped mountain looming
above us. The chance of surviving the night, with the driving gale and
the implacable sea forcing us on to the lee shore, seemed small. I
think most of us had a feeling that the end was very near. Just after 6
p.m., in the dark, as the boat was in the yeasty backwash from the seas
flung from this iron-bound coast, then, just when things looked their
worst, they changed for the best. I have marvelled often at the thin
line that divides success from failure and the sudden turn that leads
from apparently certain disaster to comparative safety. The wind
suddenly shifted, and we were free once more to make an offing. Almost
as soon as the gale eased, the pin that locked the mast to the thwart
fell out. It must have been on the point of doing this throughout the
hurricane, and if it had gone nothing could have saved us; the mast
would have snapped like a carrot. Our backstays had carried away once
before when iced up and were not too strongly fastened now. We were
thankful indeed for the mercy that had held that pin in its place
throughout the hurricane.
We stood off shore again, tired almost to the point of apathy. Our
water had long been finished. The last was about a pint of hairy
liquid, which we strained through a bit of gauze from the