Survival Tails: Endurance in Antarctica

by Katrina Charman

Bummer’s excitement was short-lived. Their small beach was unsheltered from the elements, and the wind and rain raged at them. Numerous times, the men had to chase after tents and supplies that had been blown out into the small bay. To Bummer’s horror, Shackleton suggested that they return to the boats to sail to a more hospitable part of the island. Bummer would have preferred to stay where he was, but as a blizzard began to draw in, he knew they would have little chance if they did that.

  They navigated the boats carefully around a peninsula to the west, where they set up Wild Camp. Bummer thought it certainly lived up to its name. They were no better sheltered than where they had come from, but there was more space, and plenty of seals and fish.

  No sooner had they arrived than a gale blew up around them. There was no time to erect tents or build any kind of shelter, so the men dragged the boats up onto the shore and turned them over, creating temporary shelters. Men and dogs huddled together miserably beneath the boats, listening to the wailing storm outside and the crash of waves on the beach.

  “This is almost as bad as being out on the boats,” Bummer muttered to Samson, who was huddled against him.

  “I thought there would at least be more… land,” Samson replied. “So that we could run and race… maybe even make a home here.”

  Bummer peered out at the raging storm beneath a gap at the bottom of the boat.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said, his gut twisting. “We’re not made for this type of environment.”

  Bummer felt Samson nod beside him, but he stayed silent. Both knew that they had sailed for salvation only to find themselves just as stranded. Bummer didn’t know what the boss’s plan was, but it needed to be a good one, because Elephant Island was not a place where men or dogs could survive for very long.

  CHAPTER 20

  BUMMER

  April 20, 1916

  It had quickly become clear to Bummer that they couldn’t just sit on Elephant Island and wait to be rescued. No one in the outside world knew they were there, and they were not on any shipping route, so there would be no passing ships, whalers, or fishermen to hail. The only chance of rescue they had lay with them alone, and what limited resources they had left.

  Bummer sat at Wild’s feet as he chatted with Captain Worsley, hoping to scavenge a few scraps of food from them when Shackleton joined them. The boss bent to ruffle the fur on Bummer’s head and broke off a piece of the dry biscuit he had in his hand, passing it to Bummer.

  “We can’t stay here,” Wild told Shackleton.

  The boss nodded, then smiled. “I know. That’s why I have come up with a plan!”

  Bummer’s ears pricked up, eager to find out what the boss had in mind, and Shackleton winked at him.

  “We are going to sail back to South Georgia,” Shackleton declared.

  Wild spat out the water he had been drinking. “We… How are we going to do that? The men barely made it here in one piece.”

  “McNish can fix up the best boat, make her as seaworthy as possible, and then I’ll lead a group of us back to Grytviken, where we can get help. I’ll need you, of course, Worsley, and perhaps McNish to keep him out of trouble. We can decide the others later.”

  Shackleton looked at the two men staring at him openmouthed. “Come on! We’ve got work to do.”

  The three men set off. The boss paused. “You too, Bummer. We need every man and dog to help out.”

  Bummer scrambled to his feet, caught up in the boss’s excitement. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

  The boss ordered McNish to set to work on the most stable of the lifeboats—the James Caird. Bummer kept the carpenter company as he worked, remembering Mrs. Chippy. After the ship was lost, Bummer had returned to search for her, but there had been no sign of the sly cat apart from a few small footprints leading away from the shipwreck to disappear into the snow.

  “What’s he doing?” Samson asked, joining Bummer on the rough shingle beach.

  “He’s making her seaworthy,” Bummer replied, watching as the carpenter worked quickly with his tools to rebuild the hull, strengthening it with wood from the other boats and using the mast from the Dudley Docker to reinforce it.

  “Isn’t she already seaworthy?” Samson asked. “She made it all this way over here, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Bummer said slowly, unsure whether to tell his friend what he had overheard or keep it to himself for now. He knew that as soon as Samson found out about Shackleton’s crazy endeavor to head to South Georgia, he would want to go along. Selfishly, Bummer wanted Samson to stay on the island. It was going to be hard enough being left behind on Elephant Island without his best friend being gone, too.

  In the end, Bummer realized he had no choice. Samson would go whether Bummer wanted him to or not, and he couldn’t persuade him otherwise.

  “The boss plans to sail to South Georgia,” Bummer said finally. “To Grytviken whaling station.”

  Samson barked with laughter; then his jaw dropped when he saw Bummer’s serious expression. “But that must be hundreds of miles away! He plans to sail all the way? In that small boat?”

  Bummer nodded. “The captain reckons it is at least seven hundred miles away, maybe more.”

  Samson blew out a long puff of air as he shook his head slowly.

  They sat in silence for a while, watching McNish work feverishly. He fitted a canvas sheet over the top of the boat, securing it tightly with nails to provide waterproof shelter for the men to escape to. Samson and Bummer tried to be as helpful as they could, bringing him pieces of wood and tools and other things they thought he might need, but after Bummer dropped a hammer on his foot, McNish chased them away.

  Other men brought sacks filled with heavy stones and sand to create ballast for the hull of the ship, to make it more stable and ensure that it wouldn’t easily capsize when confronted with the huge waves they were likely to be up against out in the open ocean. Melted ice was poured into kegs and placed in the hull along with food and provisions.

  “How long do you think it will take to sail all that way?” Samson asked.

  “There’s enough food to last for four weeks,” Bummer said, the enormity of the task Shackleton and his men were about to undertake weighing heavily in the pit of his stomach. “If they haven’t made it to South Georgia by then, all hope will be lost.”

  April 24, 1916

  “I’m going to go with the boss,” Samson announced. “I need to see this expedition through to the end.”

  Bummer didn’t bother to argue. The boss had already chosen his crew of men—McNish, Worsley, Crean, and able seamen Vincent and McCarthy, and, of course, Shackleton himself. There was only one obvious choice as to which dog should accompany them. As second-in-command, Wild would be in charge of the men and dogs staying behind.

  “Don’t leave, Samson!” Roger cried as the men and dogs gathered on the beach to say their farewells. “Who will teach us how to pull a sled properly?”

  Sally laughed. “I don’t think any dog could pull a sled over these rocks.”

  “You have Bummer here to teach you everything you need to know. He will be taking my place as leader while I am away,” Samson said, winking at Bummer.

  “I didn’t know any dog had appointed you leader,” Bummer retorted, but he supposed that since Amundsen had died, it had been more or less accepted by the dogs—even Wolf and Hercules—that Samson was their unofficial leader.

  “You’d better tell Judge that.” Nelson frowned. “He’s been bossing me around all day.”

  “Will you come back?” Nell snuffled. “So that we can get home to our father?”

  Samson paused. Bummer knew he couldn’t make such a promise. “He will try his very best,” Bummer said as Samson nodded at him gratefully.

  Samson said goodbye to each of the pups in turn, touching his nose to theirs. Then he rubbed his head against Sally’s.

  “We’ll see you again,” Sally said sternly. “This isn’t goodbye, just farewell for now.�
�

  The boss whistled to Samson.

  Finally, Samson turned to Bummer. “I will miss you, old friend,” he said.

  Bummer swallowed, trying to find the right words. “I’ll miss you, too,” he said. “Make sure you return to us.”

  Samson took a deep breath, then bounded across the beach and into the Dudley Docker, which carried them to the James Caird, moored a little way out in the bay.

  As they sailed away, Samson turned and barked over the cheers of the men: “Honor and recognition!”

  Bummer ran into the water until only his head and shoulders remained above. “Honor and recognition!” he barked back, watching until the boat was a small blot on the horizon.

  “So now we wait,” Bummer whispered to himself, looking out over the water as it sparkled with reflected sunlight. At least they had chosen a good day—the sea was calmer than Bummer had ever seen it, and it had been the first time since they’d arrived on the island that the clouds had faded long enough for the sun to appear.

  Bummer hoped that was a good omen and the weather would last. Samson had a long journey ahead of him, and he would need all the luck he could get if they were to make it to South Georgia.

  CHAPTER 21

  SAMSON

  Late April 1916

  The James Caird navigated out of the small bay, heading for open water. Samson took a moment to take in every detail of Elephant Island: the dark, craggy rocks and tall cliffs surrounding it, the seals basking on the shore close by, staying just out of the dogs’ reach. In the distance, snow-topped mountains glittered in the sunlight like tall beacons. Samson hoped he would see those beacons again when they returned for their friends, guiding them in the right direction.

  The sea had been relatively calm at first, but as they sailed away from land, the choppy waters hit, slapping against the hull of the boat to splash frigid water in Samson’s face. Samson knew he’d have no chance of sleeping even if he wanted to, although the carpenter had done a pretty good job on what the boss jokingly referred to as belowdecks. The canvas sheet at least provided enough cover so that the men and Samson could take turns beneath it to eat some food and get what little sleep they could.

  They carefully navigated through the narrow passages, between the pack ice and past vast icebergs that rose to the sky, just as they’d done on the Endurance all those months ago. The boat was already being jostled this way and that. Once they were out in open water, there would be nothing to soften the blows.

  As night fell, Samson and three of the men, Vincent, McCarthy, and McNish, retired below to prepare some food on the small stove, making something they called hoosh. Samson’s mouth watered as his rump pressed tightly against the water kegs while the men sat cramped together with their knees up to their chests, huddling around the dull warmth of the stove. Vincent mixed beef, a chunk of lard, oatmeal, sugar, and salt with water from one of the kegs. The concoction made a kind of stew that was rather like pemmican but had a strange aftertaste. It was better than blubber, though, and Samson lapped his portion up gratefully.

  Once they had finished, they lay down as best they could, soaking, cold, and shivering as they tried to get some rest, turning out the dim light from a small oil lamp hanging above their heads. Samson tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, but every time he did so, he ended up sticking a paw or tail in one of the men’s faces, much to their annoyance, so he decided to keep the boss company above decks.

  The sky was filled with clouds that only drifted away for the briefest of moments to reveal the stars by which Worsley tried to navigate. Worsley stood shakily, holding up a peculiar metal instrument, while Crean and Shackleton clung tightly to his legs to steady him. Samson watched curiously as Worsley lined up the instrument with a small patch of stars in the sky. But no sooner had he started than the sky clouded over once more, so that Worsley was only able to make an educated guess as to whether or not they were heading in the right direction.

  Worsley turned with a sigh and, seeing Samson back on deck, decided to go down below for some food. Samson made his way over the top of the canvas, being careful not to step in the wrong place or lose his footing and be thrown overboard. He sat beside Shackleton at the bow as they gazed out into the nothingness surrounding them. Without maps to guide the way, Worsley navigated by estimating their direction and the distance they had traveled. Samson had no idea how this worked, but the boss seemed to have faith in Worsley, so Samson decided he should, too.

  May 2, 1916

  The men were sick, and Samson wasn’t in much better condition. But at least his fur coat kept him warm, even if it was sodden. The men’s own coats were soaked through, and they were freezing. Two of them had frostbitten ears and were barely able to hold down anything the boss gave them to eat or drink. Samson remained above the canvas. At first he had tried to lie with the men to warm their bodies with his own thick fur. But as the stench of illness grew stronger, it became too much for Samson to bear.

  They had been sailing for ten days and nights. Worsley had estimated that they were halfway into their journey, although with the limited readings he was able to take, it was hard to tell. For all Samson knew, they could be heading in the opposite direction, or going around in circles. There was nothing but the rare glimpses of the sun and stars in the cloudy sky to help Samson get his bearings.

  The boss ordered the others to get a hot drink inside them, worried that they would all catch the sickness until there was nobody left but Samson to steer the boat. Samson remained up top, keeping watch. He turned to look behind them and spotted what appeared to be a thin line of clear sky not too far in the distance. Samson barked to get the attention of Shackleton, who in turn called down to Worsley to bring up his instrument to take a reading. It had been days since the sky had been clear enough to do so. One wrong calculation and they could end up hundreds of miles off course.

  Samson kept his eye on the thin line. It seemed to be moving, not in the gentle way that clouds move, but in a way that made Samson realize that he wasn’t looking at the sky at all. He jumped up, barking a warning to the men, trying to urge Shackleton and Worsley belowdecks as the line galloped closer. It was not a clearing in the sky at all but a colossal wave thundering toward them like a herd of angry elephants, set to destroy everything in its path.

  Samson barely had time to dive beneath the canvas before the thundering wave hit. The roar was deafening. Samson braced himself, waiting for the water to rush in as the boat was knocked sideways by the immense force. But miraculously, the boat remained afloat. Samson released a deep puff of air as he realized that the only reason they hadn’t capsized was likely the handiwork of McNish, with a whole lot of luck thrown in for good measure.

  The men quickly bailed out the water that filled both the hull below and the deck above. Some of the food rations and water in the kegs had been spoiled, and anything that had been slightly dry was now as waterlogged as Samson’s fur.

  “Most of our water has been tainted by seawater,” McNish said. “We’ve probably one day’s worth of drinking water left… if that.”

  “We’ll have to ration what there is,” Worsley said.

  McNish grunted. “Our rations were small enough as it was.”

  Samson watched helplessly as they continued to bail out water for almost an hour, keeping watch for anything that might pose a threat or be useful to the boss—especially any more mammoth waves. When the men had done all they could, they joined Samson above decks, sitting in a shivery silence, knowing that none of them would have any chance of sleeping after such a close brush with disaster.

  The following day, they had the first glimpse of real sunlight since they had departed from Elephant Island. It felt to Samson like more than a lifetime ago, and he couldn’t quite remember why he’d been so keen to go along with Shackleton rather than remain on the relative safety of solid ground that wasn’t constantly trying to drown him or toss him back and forth.

  Worsley stood on the canv
as at the bow, as steady as he was able. Shackleton and McCarthy held on to his legs and he held up his instrument to the sun, finally able to get a more accurate reading. Samson feared the worst: that they had drifted in the wrong direction and would be even farther from their destination than when they’d started—although he thought maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if they were heading toward Canada so that he could just return home. He shook his head at himself for his selfishness. The pups were counting on him—they all were.

  “We’re still on course,” Worsley announced, to Samson’s surprise. “If nothing terrible intervenes in the meantime, we’ll reach land in a few more days.”

  Samson felt his stomach and muscles unclench for the first time since he’d set foot on the James Caird. They were almost there. They were going to make it.

  CHAPTER 22

  SAMSON

  May 7, 1916

  Samson lay on the canvas deck, gazing out at the water, searching for any sign of land. He’d finally found his sea legs again, and the constant swaying up and down, to and fro, no longer bothered him. He hadn’t yet spotted anything that looked even remotely like land, apart from the time he’d mistaken a floating patch of brown seaweed for a rock.

  As they continued on, more patches of seaweed bobbed alongside the boat like watery companions, and it occurred to Samson that the only other place he had seen seaweed before was on the shore at Elephant Island. He jumped up and barked excitedly.

  “What is it, boy?” the boss asked, just as a pair of huge white birds with yellow beaks and the largest wings Samson had ever seen circled overhead, calling out to the boat below to see if they had any fish to offer.

  Albatrosses.

  The men laughed at the sight, clapping each other on the back and shaking hands, while Samson joined in, wagging his tail and jumping up at them until they included him in their celebration. If there were birds, there was land close by. But their jubilation was short-lived. Dark clouds drew in, bringing with them gale-force winds that threw up the sea around them, jostling the small boat as they tried to hold course, fighting against the elements with every last bit of strength they had left.