“Gerroff, Samson!” Worsley groaned, running his hands down his face to wipe off the drool.
Samson turned his attention back to the boss, nudging at his shoulder with his head as hard as he could without knocking him over. Worsley finally came to properly and realized what Samson was trying to do. He shook Crean, calling his name while Samson continued to nudge Shackleton, licking at his face as he had done with Worsley. But Shackleton’s breathing was ever so shallow. Samson’s gut twisted with the thought that he might never wake up. What would they do without the boss? How could they possibly go on without him to guide them?
Samson redoubled his efforts as beside him Worsley finally roused Crean.
“Just let me sleep,” Crean groaned.
“Be glad that Samson woke us,” Worsley said gravely. He glanced over at Samson. “How’s the boss doing, boy?”
Samson barked as Shackleton began to stir. His face was whiter than the snow around them, and his teeth chattered and his hands shook as he slowly took in his surroundings. Worsley heated some lumps of snow over the stove in a small pan and handed it to the boss first to warm him. Once they were all slightly warmer, they stood groggily and gathered their belongings.
“Have to keep going!” Samson barked, even though they couldn’t understand him. He nudged them onward despite their protests as they waded slowly through the ever-thickening snow.
A few hours later, Samson saw his first glimpse of civilization. He barked with joy when he spotted a small wooden hut in the distance, a thin plume of smoke rising from its chimney. Samson led the men up and over large, craggy rocks, navigating around jagged peaks jutting out of the snow while the wild, chill wind stung his eyes and numbed his paws. He paused as he caught the sound of something on the wind. His ears pricked up, and the men stopped to listen, straining to make out the noise within the whirling winds around them. It came again—the distinct sound of a whistle. Samson remembered hearing it once before, when they had sailed from Grytviken. It was the call to the whalers living in the village to come to work.
Samson ran on, with the men struggling to keep up. At the peak of the hill, he could see all the way down into the bay. Far, far below, Samson spied tiny dark figures, as small as bugs, making their way toward the whaling boats docked in the bay.
“Stromness!” the men yelled.
Samson barked, spurring the men on as he bounded alongside a narrow river, but as he ran, he saw that the ground ahead disappeared. He barked to warn the men behind to slow down before they tumbled right over the cliff’s edge. The sound of running water echoed below as the river crashed down onto the rocky beach, creating a small waterfall that flowed out to the ocean. Samson ran along the cliff edge. There was no safe way down. No path or slope to slide down, no rocks to climb.
The boss had already come to the same conclusion. He tied one end of the rope to a nearby rock, winding it around three times, then tying a fisherman’s knot to make sure it was secure. Then he tied the other end around his waist. He lowered himself backward over the edge of the cliff, holding the rope as tightly as he could, and began walking down horizontally beside the waterfall.
After a few moments, there came a yell from below and the end of the rope was tossed back up to land beside Samson. He took the end in his jaws and held it out to Worsley. Worsley tied it around Samson’s belly, a little too tightly, and Samson had to breathe in to ease the squeeze of the rope as it chafed against his skin. He copied Shackleton, inching himself backward until his rear end hung in the air and his back legs scrambled to catch hold of anything beneath him. But he didn’t have long legs like the boss and wasn’t able to swing his legs any farther to find a foothold, so he closed his eyes and let go.
His stomach plummeted as he dropped a few feet. Crean and Worsley struggled above to hold on to the rope and keep their footing. Loose pebbles and dirt tumbled over the edge, narrowly missing Samson’s head as he tried to slow his racing heart and stop flailing his limbs in all directions like a crazed seagull. The men lowered him slowly toward the bottom of the waterfall, where Shackleton waited.
Samson gazed out over the ocean and fleetingly thought this must be how birds felt when they flew, although once he reached the ground he decided that it wasn’t an experience he particularly wanted to repeat anytime soon.
Crean came next, swiftly climbing down the waterfall; then Worsley followed. There was no way to retrieve the rope, so they left it hanging. They set off across the beach and into town. They drew a lot of attention as they walked along the cobbled streets, past the small wooden houses and people setting about their daily tasks. At first, Samson thought it must be the sight of such a large dog in their midst—he was sure that after months without a proper bath or good grooming, he looked more like a wild beast than a sled dog. But when the boss stopped to ask a boy where he could find the whaling station manager and the boy yelled in fright, taking off down the street, calling for his mother, Samson realized it was the men’s appearance as much as his own.
He vaguely remembered how they had looked when they’d set off—the men clean-shaven, their clothes brand-new and their boots lightly worn. Now they looked like walking skeletons, with their ragged clothes hanging off them and their boots worn to the soles as they shuffled along. They reached the station manager’s house, and Shackleton attempted to straighten his clothes and smooth down his hair and beard before knocking.
The door creaked open and a man’s face appeared, his eyes wide as he took in the disheveled-looking group.
“C-can I help you?” he stuttered as he stared at the state of them all.
“Don’t you recognize me?” Shackleton asked incredulously as the man stepped forward to inspect them more closely. “My name is Shackleton.”
Once the manager had realized that it was the great Ernest Shackleton lurking beneath all that grime and hair, he quickly let them in and invited them to stay as long as they wished. The men took hot baths and were given clean clothes, while Samson was hosed down in the yard with frigid water. He grumbled at first at the indignity of not being able to have a warm bath like the men, but as the water washed away layers and layers of thick grime and dirt encrusted in his fur, he felt like a newborn pup again.
Samson barked at the boss when he first emerged from the bathroom, not recognizing his face now that the buildup of life in the wilderness had been removed. The men and Samson ate until their bellies were full, and Worsley immediately set out again on a ship to rescue McNish, Vincent, and McCarthy in Haakon Bay.
But despite having a full stomach and a blanket to lie on beside the hearth, Samson found himself unable to sleep. A terrible gale had blown into the bay, the winds howling around the small village, reminding Samson of all the dogs who hadn’t made it. It seemed almost as if they were calling out to him, telling him he shouldn’t rest until his friends were safe and well.
Samson tossed and turned. He couldn’t shake the thought that had they not taken the risk of sledding down the mountain, they would likely be out in the storm now. When he did find himself dozing off, he would wake suddenly, with no idea where he was, or where Bummer and the pups were. It was only when the boss came downstairs to join him, settling in an armchair by the fire, that Samson was finally able to sleep a little.
Samson knew that the boss had the same thoughts running through his head and was likely making plans for the rest of the crew to join them. The minute the storm died down, the boss would be right back on another ship, heading for Elephant Island, and Samson with him.
CHAPTER 25
BUMMER
June 1916
Time seemed to move more slowly after Samson left. Bummer missed his friend desperately—his constant optimism and high spirits, reassuring Bummer that everything would be all right and that the boss had a plan.
But that had been weeks ago. What if, finally, the boss’s luck had run out? What if his plan had failed and they were as lost at sea as Bummer and the men who remained behind on Elephant Island
, their hope dripping away slowly like the melting ice until there was nothing left to grasp hold of?
The day after Shackleton and the men had set off for South Georgia, the bad weather moved in. The dark clouds in the sky above seemed to mirror the dark cloud of despair that hung over the camp. The bay was filled with pack ice, which had closed in on them overnight. Had the James Caird left one day later, they’d all have been stuck on the island.
The men had turned over the remaining two lifeboats to create a shelter, as there was otherwise nowhere to hide from the elements. Sally watched from camp while Bummer and the pups helped to gather large rocks and pebbles from the shore. The men used these to build walls on which to rest the shelter so that it wouldn’t be flooded by rain or the incoming tide.
The tattered tents were ripped up and nailed around the bottom of the shelter as a kind of buffer to keep the chilly wind at bay, and as soon as the men were more or less satisfied with their efforts, they retired to the shelter to spend the rest of the day in their damp sleeping bags.
Bummer couldn’t stand just lying around all day with no purpose, so he wandered down to the shore, hoping that if he waited patiently enough and quietly enough he might catch a fish or two. He watched for a while until he saw a flash of silver move beneath the surface. He crept closer, his jaws poised over the water, moving ever so slowly closer, closer, closer, until…
“Bummer!” Nelson yelled, splashing through the water and scaring the fish away.
Bummer tried to hold in a groan as he turned to smile at the pups—although he couldn’t really call them pups any longer; with the exception of Nell, they were all nearly as big as he was.
“Mother said we were to keep you company. We didn’t mean to disturb your fishing,” Nell said apologetically.
“No matter,” Bummer said. “You four can help me. Between us, we’ll have a pile of fish in no time.”
He demonstrated his fishing technique to the pups, using a stick that was floating on the surface.
“Usually,” he said with a frown, “the fish is a lot faster than the stick, so not as easy to catch.”
There was a splash nearby as Roger dunked his head into the water suddenly, emerging with a large silver fish flapping about in his jaws.
“Well,” Bummer said, feeling slightly put out that he’d been bested by a pup. “Beginner’s luck, perhaps.”
Nell, Toby, and Nelson copied their brother, standing with their paws in the freezing water and watching carefully for any fish that dared swim past.
“It might take a while,” Bummer told them quietly. “I’ve been out here for hours and haven’t caught a single thing, so don’t worry if—”
There was another splash, then another as Nell and Toby dived for the same fish. Nell emerged triumphant, dropping her catch on the shore beside Roger’s.
“It’s not so hard,” she said with a grin.
Bummer decided that perhaps he should just leave the pups to it and watch from the sidelines, since he clearly wasn’t cut out for fishing. If Samson had been there, he would likely have had a pile taller than his head by now.
Bummer looked out to sea, hoping to see a black dot on the horizon and his friend returning, but it was as empty as ever. He glanced back over to the pups, who had given up fishing and were splashing one another in the water. Roger had wandered out a little farther, jumping precariously from rock to rock. A little way ahead of him, a dark shadow moved beneath the water.
“Roger!” Bummer shouted, racing along the shore. “Get away from the water!”
Nell, Nelson, and Toby froze at Bummer’s tone as he flew past them, cutting his paws on grit and sharp slivers of rock as he ran.
Roger hadn’t heard him. He leaned forward, peering over the edge of the jutting rock as the shadow moved closer, closer.
Bummer threw himself into the shallow water, scrabbling up and over the rocks that jutted out, slowing him down. “Roger!” Bummer yelled. “Watch out!”
Roger finally heard him. Time seemed to slow as he turned to ask Bummer what was wrong. Bummer cried out, jumping from rock to rock, desperate to reach Roger in time as the long, dark shape moved alongside the rock Roger was standing on. Without warning, it rose out of the water. A leopard seal. Twice as big as the one Bummer had caught, with twice as many teeth.
Bummer roared and leaped from his rock, pushing Roger out of the way as the leopard seal’s huge body connected with his, sending him flying into the water. The back of Bummer’s head slammed onto a rock lying beneath the surface. But he had no time to pause or think. He pushed himself up to the surface of the water, then shook his dizzy head and tried to swim back to Roger’s rock. But the leopard seal was much quicker in the water. It bit down hard on Bummer’s paw, and Bummer yelped in agony as he felt the bones in his leg crunch.
The leopard seal moved closer, taking its time, knowing that Bummer had no way of escape now that he had been lamed. Bummer looked back at the pups, hoping Roger had made it safely back to shore, then whimpered as the leopard seal moved in for the kill.
There was a sudden bang, and the seal dropped beside Bummer, landing in the water with a loud splash.
“Bummer!” Sally yelled, running over. “Are you all right? Bummer!”
“What happened?” Bummer asked weakly as the men surrounded him, some hauling away the seal, others leaning over to see if Bummer was still alive.
“Dr. Macklin shot it,” Sally said, her voice shaking. “If he’d been a second later…”
Bummer felt his eyes close. He was so tired. The energy seemed to be draining out of him. His head felt light, his breathing slowed.
“Stay awake, Bummer,” Dr. Macklin said as Bummer felt himself being lifted out of the water by two pairs of rough hands.
“He’s not going to make it,” another voice said. “He’s too badly injured.”
“I don’t have any other option,” Dr. Macklin replied. “We’ve lost so many.… I have to try.”
Bummer tried to open his eyes, but they were too heavy. He felt himself drift away as another voice came to him.
“Bummer? It’s me, Sally. Stay strong. I’ll be right here with you. Hold on, Bummer.”
July 1916
Bummer was unable to walk with his heavily bandaged leg. The bite had been deep, and with limited medical supplies, the doctor had been unable to clean the wound properly. To make matters worse, Bummer found himself unable to eat. His stomach constantly churned with hunger, but when he tried to eat even the smallest of meals, it would come straight back up. Sally had taken to sleeping by his side, checking his every twitch to make sure he was all right.
He didn’t need to look at the dogs’ faces when they visited to know that he was very, very sick. He just hoped that when his time came, he could be as brave as Amundsen.
The men spent their days improving their shelter. They had placed a homemade blubber stove in the center, which at first had let off toxic fumes. Thick black smoke from the stove coated the men’s faces and the dogs’ fur with soot. Eventually Kerr, one of the engineers, came up with the ingenious idea of adding a chimney made from an old biscuit tin. The chimney led from the stove up and out through a hole in the ceiling, so that their lungs were no longer filled with the nasty smoke, which Bummer knew was doing him no good at all in his current condition.
As winter drew in, Bummer grew weaker. His only joy came in the evenings when Sally and the pups gathered around him and they listened to the men playing the banjo and singing songs. Often while the dogs slept, Bummer could hear the men talking about their favorite foods and what they would eat when the boss returned and took them home. Most of it, Bummer hadn’t even heard of, but it sounded delicious, and he wished he could have had the chance to taste some of it, just once.
With July came even wetter weather as the glacier looming above them began to melt, dripping water on them until the shelter floor was flooded and had to be cleared out as the stench of dirt, rotting blubber, and stagnant water became
unbearable. Bummer was helped out of the shelter by Sally and Judge, and he gulped down the fresh air as he watched the pups play on the shore. Then he looked out to sea, praying that Samson would return soon.
August 1916
After the boss’s four-week deadline passed painfully by and there was still no sign of rescue, the men began making excuses as to why Shackleton hadn’t yet returned. Maybe they took a different route? Maybe they were intercepted by another ship and taken elsewhere? Maybe they stopped somewhere on the way? Even Bummer knew that this last one was ridiculous. They all knew that there was no land between Elephant Island and South Georgia, so if Shackleton and the rest had stopped, the only place they could possibly be was at the bottom of the Weddell Sea. The one thing that none of them dared to say out loud was this: What if they are never coming back?
Bummer tried to be as optimistic as Samson, telling himself that it could be any day now. Any day, they would look out and see a boat on the horizon coming to save them all. But for Bummer, with the infection raging through his body, it already felt too late.
Sally came to sit beside him as they watched the men arguing for the fifth time that day about what they should do next. After Shackleton had left, Wild had instructed the men each day to gather everything together so they’d be ready when the boat came to pick them up, telling them, “The boss could arrive today!”
But as the days drew on, they eventually gave up, deciding not to waste precious energy on something that was likely to be fruitless. Wild yelled at the men that they would have to go out on the boats themselves, and some of the other men shut up at this, not wanting to take the risk, especially as the boats were hardly fit for such a journey since they had been turned into living quarters, and the men no longer had the carpenter around to make the boats seaworthy.
“How are you feeling?” Sally asked Bummer gently as he smiled to himself. He’d been thinking of something but couldn’t quite remember what.
Survival Tails: Endurance in Antarctica Page 12