South: The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917
exact spot where the carpenter and his two companions were camped,
while I started to prepare for the relief of the party on Elephant
Island. The whaling-vessel that was going round to King Haakon Bay was
expected back on the Monday morning, and was to call at Grytviken
Harbour, the port from which we had sailed in December 1914, in order
that the magistrate resident there might be informed of the fate of the
_Endurance_. It was possible that letters were awaiting us there.
Worsley went aboard the whaler at ten o’clock that night and turned in.
The next day the relief ship entered King Haakon Bay and he reached
Peggotty Camp in a boat. The three men were delighted beyond measure to
know that we had made the crossing in safety and that their wait under
the upturned _James Caird_ was ended. Curiously enough, they did not
recognize Worsley, who had left them a hairy, dirty ruffian and had
returned his spruce and shaven self. They thought he was one of the
whalers. When one of them asked why no member of the party had come
round with the relief, Worsley said, “What do you mean?” “We thought
the Boss or one of the others would come round,” they explained.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Worsley. Then it suddenly dawned
upon them that they were talking to the man who had been their close
companion for a year and a half. Within a few minutes the whalers had
moved our bits of gear into their boat. They towed off the _James
Caird_ and hoisted her to the deck of their ship. Then they started on
the return voyage. Just at dusk on Monday afternoon they entered
Stromness Bay, where the men of the whaling-station mustered on the
beach to receive the rescued party and to examine with professional
interest the boat we had navigated across 800 miles of the stormy ocean
they knew so well.
When I look back at those days I have no doubt that Providence guided
us, not only across those snowfields, but across the storm-white sea
that separated Elephant Island from our landing-place on South Georgia.
I know that during that long and racking march of thirty-six hours over
the unnamed mountains and glaciers of South Georgia it seemed to me
often that we were four, not three. I said nothing to my companions on
the point, but afterwards Worsley said to me, “Boss, I had a curious
feeling on the march that there was another person with us.” Crean
confessed to the same idea. One feels “the dearth of human words, the
roughness of mortal speech” in trying to describe things intangible,
but a record of our journeys would be incomplete without a reference to
a subject very near to our hearts.
CHAPTER XI
THE RESCUE
Our first night at the whaling-station was blissful. Crean and I shared
a beautiful room in Mr. Sorlle’s house, with electric light and two
beds, warm and soft. We were so comfortable that we were unable to
sleep. Late at night a steward brought us tea, bread and butter and
cakes, and we lay in bed, revelling in the luxury of it all. Outside a
dense snow-storm, which started two hours after our arrival and lasted
until the following day, was swirling and driving about the
mountain-slopes. We were thankful indeed that we had made a place of
safety, for it would have gone hard with us if we had been out on the
mountains that night. Deep snow lay everywhere when we got up the
following morning.
After breakfast Mr. Sorlle took us round to Husvik in a motor-launch.
We were listening avidly to his account of the war and of all that had
happened while we were out of the world of men. We were like men arisen
from the dead to a world gone mad. Our minds accustomed themselves
gradually to the tales of nations in arms, of deathless courage and
unimagined slaughter, of a world-conflict that had grown beyond all
conceptions, of vast red battlefields in grimmest contrast with the
frigid whiteness we had left behind us. The reader may not realize
quite how difficult it was for us to envisage nearly two years of the
most stupendous war of history. The locking of the armies in the
trenches, the sinking of the _Lusitania_, the murder of Nurse Cavell,
the use of poison-gas and liquid fire, the submarine warfare, the
Gallipoli campaign, the hundred other incidents of the war, almost
stunned us at first, and then our minds began to compass the train of
events and develop a perspective. I suppose our experience was unique.
No other civilized men could have been as blankly ignorant of
world-shaking happenings as we were when we reached Stromness Whaling
Station.
I heard the first rumour of the _Aurora’s_ misadventures in the Ross
Sea from Mr. Sorlle. Our host could tell me very little. He had been
informed that the _Aurora_ had broken away from winter quarters in
McMurdo Sound and reached New Zealand after a long drift, and that
there was no news of the shore party. His information was indefinite as
to details, and I had to wait until I reached the Falkland Islands some
time later before getting a definite report concerning the _Aurora_.
The rumour that had reached South Georgia, however, made it more than
ever important that I should bring out the rest of the Weddell Sea
party quickly, so as to free myself for whatever effort was required on
the Ross Sea side.
When we reached Husvik that Sunday morning we were warmly greeted by
the magistrate (Mr. Bernsten), whom I knew of old, and the other
members of the little community. Moored in the harbour was one of the
largest of the whalers, the _Southern Sky_, owned by an English company
but now laid up for the winter. I had no means of getting into
communication with the owners without dangerous delay, and on my
accepting all responsibility Mr. Bernsten made arrangements for me to
take this ship down to Elephant Island. I wrote out an agreement with
Lloyd’s for the insurance of the ship. Captain Thom, an old friend of
the Expedition, happened to be in Husvik with his ship, the _Orwell_,
loading oil for use in Britain’s munition works, and he at once
volunteered to come with us in any capacity. I asked him to come as
captain of the _Southern Sky_. There was no difficulty about getting a
crew. The whalers were eager to assist in the rescue of men in
distress. They started work that Sunday to prepare and stow the ship.
Parts of the engines were ashore, but willing hands made light labour.
I purchased from the station stores all the stores and equipment
required, including special comforts for the men we hoped to rescue,
and by Tuesday morning the _Southern Sky_ was ready to sail. I feel it
is my duty as well as my pleasure to thank here the Norwegian whalers
of South Georgia for the sympathetic hands they stretched out to us in
our need. Among memories of kindness received in many lands sundered by
the seas, the recollection of the hospitality and help given to me in
South Georgia ranks high. There is a brotherhood of the sea. The men
who go down to the sea in ships, serving and suffering, fighting their
endless battle against the caprice of wind and ocean, bring into their
own horizons the perils and troubles of their brother sailormen.
The _Southern Sky_ was ready on Tuesday morning, and at nine o’clock we
steamed out of the bay, while the whistles of the whaling-station
sounded a friendly farewell. We had forgathered aboard Captain Thom’s
ship on the Monday night with several whaling captains who were
bringing up their sons to their own profession. They were “old stagers”
with faces lined and seamed by the storms of half a century, and they
were even more interested in the story of our voyage from Elephant
Island than the younger generation was. They congratulated us on having
accomplished a remarkable boat journey. I do not wish to belittle our
success with the pride that apes humility. Under Providence we had
overcome great difficulties and dangers, and it was pleasant to tell
the tale to men who knew those sullen and treacherous southern seas.
McCarthy, McNeish, and Vincent had been landed on the Monday afternoon.
They were already showing some signs of increasing strength under a
regime of warm quarters and abundant food. The carpenter looked
woefully thin after he had emerged from a bath. He must have worn a lot
of clothes when he landed from the boat, and I did not realize how he
had wasted till I saw him washed and changed. He was a man over fifty
years of age, and the strain had told upon him more than upon the rest
of us. The rescue came just in time for him.
The early part of the voyage down to Elephant Island in the _Southern
Sky_ was uneventful. At noon on Tuesday, May 23, we were at sea and
steaming at ten knots on a south-westerly course. We made good
progress, but the temperature fell very low, and the signs gave me some
cause for anxiety as to the probability of encountering ice. On the
third night out the sea seemed to grow silent. I looked over the side
and saw a thin film of ice. The sea was freezing around us and the ice
gradually grew thicker, reducing our speed to about five knots. Then
lumps of old pack began to appear among the new ice. I realized that an
advance through pack-ice was out of the question. The _Southern Sky_
was a steel-built steamer, and her structure, while strong to resist
the waves, would not endure the blows of masses of ice. So I took the
ship north, and at daylight on Friday we got clear of the pancake-ice.
We skirted westward, awaiting favourable conditions. The morning of the
28th was dull and overcast, with little wind. Again the ship’s head was
turned to the south-west, but at 3 p.m. a definite line of pack showed
up on the horizon. We were about 70 miles from Elephant Island, but
there was no possibility of taking the steamer through the ice that
barred the way. North-west again we turned. We were directly north of
the island on the following day, and I made another move south. Heavy
pack formed an impenetrable barrier.
To admit failure at this stage was hard, but the facts had to be faced.
The _Southern Sky_ could not enter ice of even moderate thickness. The
season was late, and we could not be sure that the ice would open for
many months, though my opinion was that the pack would not become fast
in that quarter even in the winter, owing to the strong winds and
currents. The _Southern Sky_ could carry coal for ten days only, and we
had been out six days. We were 500 miles from the Falkland Islands and
about 600 miles from South Georgia. So I determined that, since we
could not wait about for an opening, I would proceed to the Falklands,
get a more suitable vessel either locally or from England, and make a
second attempt to reach Elephant Island from that point.
We encountered very bad weather on the way up, but in the early
afternoon of May 31 we arrived at Port Stanley, where the cable
provided a link with the outer world. The harbour-master came out to
meet us, and after we had dropped anchor I went ashore and met the
Governor, Mr. Douglas Young. He offered me his assistance at once. He
telephoned to Mr. Harding, the manager of the Falkland Islands station,
and I learned, to my keen regret, that no ship of the type required was
available at the islands. That evening I cabled to London a message to
His Majesty the King, the first account of the loss of the _Endurance_
and the subsequent adventures of the Expedition. The next day I
received the following message from the King:
“Rejoice to hear of your safe arrival in the Falkland Islands and trust
your comrades on Elephant Island may soon be rescued.
“GEORGE R.I.”
The events of the days that followed our arrival at the Falkland
Islands I will not attempt to describe in detail. My mind was bent upon
the rescue of the party on Elephant Island at the earliest possible