South: The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917
bays indented the coast before Stromness. It was comforting to realize
that we would have the eastern water in sight during our journey,
although we could see there was no way around the shore line owing to
steep cliffs and glaciers. Men lived in houses lit by electric light on
the east coast. News of the outside world waited us there, and, above
all, the east coast meant for us the means of rescuing the twenty-two
men we had left on Elephant Island.
CHAPTER X
ACROSS SOUTH GEORGIA
The sun rose in the sky with every appearance of a fine day, and we
grew warmer as we toiled through the soft snow. Ahead of us lay the
ridges and spurs of a range of mountains, the transverse range that we
had noticed from the bay. We were travelling over a gently rising
plateau, and at the end of an hour we found ourselves growing
uncomfortably hot. Years before, on an earlier expedition, I had
declared that I would never again growl at the heat of the sun, and my
resolution had been strengthened during the boat journey. I called it
to mind as the sun beat fiercely on the blinding white snow-slope.
After passing an area of crevasses we paused for our first meal. We dug
a hole in the snow about three feet deep with the adze and put the
Primus into it. There was no wind at the moment, but a gust might come
suddenly. A hot hoosh was soon eaten and we plodded on towards a sharp
ridge between two of the peaks already mentioned. By 11 a.m. we were
almost at the crest. The slope had become precipitous and it was
necessary to cut steps as we advanced. The adze proved an excellent
instrument for this purpose, a blow sufficing to provide a foothold.
Anxiously but hopefully I cut the last few steps and stood upon the
razor-back, while the other men held the rope and waited for my news.
The outlook was disappointing. I looked down a sheer precipice to a
chaos of crumpled ice 1500 ft. below. There was no way down for us. The
country to the east was a great snow upland, sloping upwards for a
distance of seven or eight miles to a height of over 4000 ft. To the
north it fell away steeply in glaciers into the bays, and to the south
it was broken by huge outfalls from the inland ice-sheet. Our path lay
between the glaciers and the outfalls, but first we had to descend from
the ridge on which we stood. Cutting steps with the adze, we moved in a
lateral direction round the base of a dolomite, which blocked our view
to the north. The same precipice confronted us. Away to the north-east
there appeared to be a snow-slope that might give a path to the lower
country, and so we retraced our steps down the long slope that had
taken us three hours to climb. We were at the bottom in an hour. We
were now feeling the strain of the unaccustomed marching. We had done
little walking since January and our muscles were out of tune. Skirting
the base of the mountain above us, we came to a gigantic bergschrund, a
mile and a half long and 1000 ft. deep. This tremendous gully, cut in
the snow and ice by the fierce winds blowing round the mountain, was
semicircular in form, and it ended in a gentle incline. We passed
through it, under the towering precipice of ice, and at the far end we
had another meal and a short rest. This was at 12:30 p.m. Half a pot of
steaming Bovril ration warmed us up, and when we marched again
ice-inclines at angles of 45 degrees did not look quite as formidable
as before.
Once more we started for the crest. After another weary climb we
reached the top. The snow lay thinly on blue ice at the ridge, and we
had to cut steps over the last fifty yards. The same precipice lay
below, and my eyes searched vainly for a way down. The hot sun had
loosened the snow, which was now in a treacherous condition, and we had
to pick our way carefully. Looking back, we could see that a fog was
rolling up behind us and meeting in the valleys a fog that was coming
up from the east. The creeping grey clouds were a plain warning that we
must get down to lower levels before becoming enveloped.
The ridge was studded with peaks, which prevented us getting a clear
view either to the right or to the left. The situation in this respect
seemed no better at other points within our reach, and I had to decide
that our course lay back the way we had come. The afternoon was wearing
on and the fog was rolling up ominously from the west. It was of the
utmost importance for us to get down into the next valley before dark.
We were now up 4500 ft. and the night temperature at that elevation
would be very low. We had no tent and no sleeping-bags, and our clothes
had endured much rough usage and had weathered many storms during the
last ten months. In the distance, down the valley below us, we could
see tussock-grass close to the shore, and if we could get down it might
be possible to dig out a hole in one of the lower snow-banks, line it
with dry grass, and make ourselves fairly comfortable for the night.
Back we went, and after a detour we reached the top of another ridge in
the fading light. After a glance over the top I turned to the anxious
faces of the two men behind me and said, “Come on, boys.” Within a
minute they stood beside me on the ice-ridge. The surface fell away at
a sharp incline in front of us, but it merged into a snow-slope. We
could not see the bottom clearly owing to mist and bad light, and the
possibility of the slope ending in a sheer fall occurred to us; but the
fog that was creeping up behind allowed no time for hesitation. We
descended slowly at first, cutting steps in the snow; then the surface
became softer, indicating that the gradient was less severe. There
could be no turning back now, so we unroped and slid in the fashion of
youthful days. When we stopped on a snow-bank at the foot of the slope
we found that we had descended at least 900 ft. in two or three
minutes. We looked back and saw the grey fingers of the fog appearing
on the ridge, as though reaching after the intruders into untrodden
wilds. But we had escaped.
The country to the east was an ascending snow upland dividing the
glaciers of the north coast from the outfalls of the south. We had seen
from the top that our course lay between two huge masses of crevasses,
and we thought that the road ahead lay clear. This belief and the
increasing cold made us abandon the idea of camping. We had another
meal at 6 p.m. A little breeze made cooking difficult in spite of the
shelter provided for the cooker by a hole. Crean was the cook, and
Worsley and I lay on the snow to windward of the lamp so as to break
the wind with our bodies. The meal over, we started up the long, gentle
ascent. Night was upon us, and for an hour we plodded along in almost
complete darkness, watching warily for signs of crevasses. Then about 8
p.m. a glow which we had seen behind the jagged peaks resolved itself
into the full moon, which rose ahead of us and made a silver pathway
for our feet. Along that pathway in the wake of the moon we advanced in
safety, with the shadows cast by the edges of crevasses showing black
on either side of us. Onwards and upwards through soft snow we marched,
resting now and then on hard patches which had revealed themselves by
glittering ahead of us in the white light. By midnight we were again at
an elevation of about 4000 ft. Still we were following the light, for
as the moon swung round towards the north-east, our path curved in that
direction. The friendly moon seemed to pilot our weary feet. We could
have had no better guide. If in bright daylight we had made that march
we would have followed the course that was traced for us that night.
Midnight found us approaching the edge of a great snowfield, pierced by
isolated nunataks which cast long shadows like black rivers across the
white expanse. A gentle slope to the north-east lured our
all-too-willing feet in that direction. We thought that at the base of
the slope lay Stromness Bay. After we had descended about 300 ft. a
thin wind began to attack us. We had now been on the march for over
twenty hours, only halting for our occasional meals. Wisps of cloud
drove over the high peaks to the southward, warning us that wind and
snow were likely to come. After 1 a.m. we cut a pit in the snow, piled
up loose snow around it, and started the Primus again. The hot food
gave us another renewal of energy. Worsley and Crean sang their old
songs when the Primus was going merrily. Laughter was in our hearts,
though not on our parched and cracked lips.
We were up and away again within half an hour, still downward to the
coast. We felt almost sure now that we were above Stromness Bay. A dark
object down at the foot of the slope looked like Mutton Island, which
lies off Husvik. I suppose our desires were giving wings to our
fancies, for we pointed out joyfully various landmarks revealed by the
now vagrant light of the moon, whose friendly face was cloud-swept. Our
high hopes were soon shattered. Crevasses warned us that we were on
another glacier, and soon we looked down almost to the seaward edge of
the great riven ice-mass. I knew there was no glacier in Stromness and
realized that this must be Fortuna Glacier. The disappointment was
severe. Back we turned and tramped up the glacier again, not directly
tracing our steps but working at a tangent to the south-east. We were
very tired.
At 5 a.m. we were at the foot of the rocky spurs of the range. We were
tired, and the wind that blew down from the heights was chilling us. We
decided to get down under the lee of a rock for a rest. We put our
sticks and the adze on the snow, sat down on them as close to one
another as possible, and put our arms round each other. The wind was
bringing a little drift with it and the white dust lay on our clothes.
I thought that we might be able to keep warm and have half an hour’s
rest this way. Within a minute my two companions were fast asleep. I
realized that it would be disastrous if we all slumbered together, for
sleep under such conditions merges into death. After five minutes I
shook them into consciousness again, told them that they had slept for
half an hour, and gave the word for a fresh start. We were so stiff
that for the first two or three hundred yards we marched with our knees
bent. A jagged line of peaks with a gap like a broken tooth confronted
us. This was the ridge that runs in a southerly direction from Fortuna
Bay, and our course eastward to Stromness lay across it. A very steep
slope led up to the ridge and an icy wind burst through the gap.
We went through the gap at 6 a.m. with anxious hearts as well as weary
bodies. If the farther slope had proved impassable our situation would
have been almost desperate; but the worst was turning to the best for
us. The twisted, wave-like rock formations of Husvik Harbour appeared
right ahead in the opening of dawn. Without a word we shook hands with
one another. To our minds the journey was over, though as a matter of
fact twelve miles of difficult country had still to be traversed. A
gentle snow-slope descended at our feet towards a valley that separated
our ridge from the hills immediately behind Husvik, and as we stood
gazing Worsley said solemnly, “Boss, it looks too good to be true!”
Down we went, to be checked presently by the sight of water 2500 ft.
below. We could see the little wave-ripples on the black beach,
penguins strutting to and fro, and dark objects that looked like seals
lolling lazily on the sand. This was an eastern arm of Fortuna Bay,
separated by the ridge from the arm we had seen below us during the
night. The slope we were traversing appeared to end in a precipice
above this beach. But our revived spirits were not to be damped by