by David Barrie
On April 9, 1916, at the beginning of the Antarctic autumn, after drifting some six hundred miles northward, Shackleton and his men—twenty-eight in all—launched the three surviving boats as the floes began to break up around them. Sextant sights now indicated that they were about sixty miles southeast of Elephant Island, itself about 480 miles southeast of Cape Horn.16
Lanes of open water began to appear on the western horizon, so they packed everything ready for launching and struck the tents. The floe on which they were encamped suddenly cracked, right across the camp and through the site of Shackleton’s tent, which he had only just vacated. Having launched the boats and pulled clear into an area of partially open water, they were nearly caught by a heavy rush of wind-driven pack ice that drove toward them at an alarming pace:
Two dangerous walls were converging as well as overtaking us, with a wave of foaming water in front. We only just managed by pulling our damnedest for an hour to save ourselves and the boats from being nipped and crushed. It was a hot hour in spite of the freezing temperature.17
That night, while camped out on a floe-berg with the boats pulled out beside them, the heavy swell cracked the ice beneath one of the tents, ripping it in two. One of its occupants fell into the water, in his sleeping bag, but in spite of the darkness Shackleton managed with one heave to pull the man and his bag up onto the ice. A moment later “the halves of the floe swung together in the hollow of the swell with a thousand-ton blow.”18
By April 11, the swell had reached a “tremendous height,” and Worsley described the “magnificent and beautiful” but at the same time fearsome spectacle:
Great rolling hills of jostling ice sweeping past us in half-mile-long waves. A few dark lines and cracks sharply contrasted against the white pack were the only signs of the sea beneath. But it was a sight we did not like, for the floes were thudding against our floe-berg with increasing violence. Our temporary home was being swept away at an unpleasantly rapid rate.19
Luckily they drifted into a patch of open water and launched the boats again in a hurry. A “cold, wet, rotten night—all hands wet and shivering” followed, as they dodged through the ice pack in temperatures that fell to 25 degrees Fahrenheit below freezing (about –14 Celsius). At dawn on April 12 they set sail again, and “as soon as the horizon cleared” Worsley took sextant sights for longitude, followed by a mer alt at noon for latitude. But when he worked out their position, it was a “terrible disappointment.” He had previously told Shackleton that they had made thirty miles’ progress toward Elephant Island, but the sights proved that they were, in fact, thirty miles farther away from their destination:
Though the responsibility must rest on the leader of an expedition, I can never forget my acute anxiety for the next two days. If there was a mistake in my sights, which were taken under very difficult conditions, twenty-eight men would have sailed out into death. Fortunately the sights proved correct. We made the Island ahead fifty hours later.20
After two days of dead reckoning while they worked their way through the ice, and two cold nights spent drifting to reduce the risk of a potentially disastrous collision with a berg, “the peaks and ice uplands of Elephant Island showed cold and gloomy, thirty-five miles to the NNW.”21 They were exactly on the bearing Worsley had predicted and Shackleton praised him warmly, but he modestly admitted that there had been “a large element of luck in making this good landfall.” As they approached the island on April 15 they were separated from the two other boats and found themselves in a dangerous tidal race that nearly sank them as the “seas leapt simultaneously over bows, beam and stern.” By bailing desperately they just managed to stay afloat, but many of the crew were suffering from frostbite, and thirst too was a big problem as they had run out of fresh water.22
Worsley had been steering for twenty straight hours and “constant peering to windward to ease her into the heaviest seas, and the continuous dash of salt-water into my face had almost bunged up” his eyes. He handed over the tiller and fell so fast asleep that his crewmates thought he was dead. When they began closing the land, they could wake him only by giving him a sharp kick in the head.
The prospect was imposing: “Great crags thrust up through the snow. A wall of ice faced us with high seas rolling along its base.”23 Now they were running before a gale, with heavy seas coming up astern that threatened to fill the boat, but they reached safety in the lee of the island and, as they approached a rocky beach, discovered to their delight that their companions had arrived before them. They had been at sea for one hundred hours—four full days and nights—and during this time Worsley had slept for only one hour. Shackleton had not slept at all.24 Even now they were far from safe. The beach proved untenable, and they had to move along the coast—a risky maneuver in the course of which strong offshore winds very nearly carried them out to sea. At last, after rowing desperately to save their lives, they reached the beach that was to be their new home “in the flaming glow of an amazingly beautiful but stormy sunset.” Their tents had been torn to shreds, so they now took shelter under the three upturned boats.25
Chapter 17
“These Are Men”
Day 20: Trickled along at 2 to 3 knots all through the night and a heavy-headed awakening at 0400. Grey skies but no fog and by midday a good southerly breeze which set us off at 5 knots or more. Finally on the Great Britain chart. No sun sight but roughly 47°50' N, 15°W at noon. A very exhilarating sail during the afternoon over smooth seas leaving a hissing, pulsing wake behind us. Put clocks forward another hour to match GMT—still an hour behind BST. Tired but happy.
Day 21: Another grey cloud-shrouded dawn—keeping to 6 knots in slight seas. Force 3 from SSE. Passed various ships—they are now becoming more plentiful.
Position at noon 48°46' N, 12° 07' W—I worked out the plot by myself. In the evening the wind dropped off and we passed some fishing boats—a sure sign that land is near. Close now to the edge of the Continental Shelf but still in water a mile deep.
On Elephant Island the southern winter was again approaching, and if the crew were to stand any chance of surviving someone would have to rescue them soon. Shackleton consulted Worsley and they decided that the best option was to try to reach one of the whaling stations on the north coast of the inhospitable island of South Georgia, discovered by Cook on his second voyage. This would entail a passage of eight hundred nautical miles, under sail, across the Southern Ocean in a ship’s boat that was only 23.5 feet long—the James Caird.* She was equipped with sails, four oars, a Primus stove, a compass, two water-breakers, some red flares, matches, and a small medicine chest, as well as—crucially—the sextant, chronometer, nautical almanac and charts. They extended her deck as best they could with the help of sledge-runners, canvas, and box lids, creating a cramped, low, dark, smelly cabin, where they laid their reindeer-fur sleeping bags (soon to be soaked through) on top of the boxes of stores. The mast from one of the other boats was then bolted to the James Caird’s keel to reduce the risk of her breaking her back in “extra heavy seas.” Even the expedition artist’s oil paints were put to use in making the boat’s seams more watertight, being topped off with seal’s blood. The crew had no sea boots or oilskins, as these had all worn out or been cut up and reused for other purposes.1
Before setting off, Worsley had one absolutely vital chore to perform with his sextant:
Every day I watched closely for the sun or stars to appear, to correct my chronometer, on the accuracy of which our lives and the success of the journey would depend. . . . Never a gleam of sun or stars showed through the dull grey or else storm-driven pall of clouds that in these latitudes seems ceaselessly and miserably to shroud the bright blue sky and the cheerful light of sun or moon.2
Shackleton chose to take Worsley with him, “for I had a very high opinion of his accuracy and quickness as a navigator, and especially in the snapping and working out of positions in difficult circumstances—an opinion that was only enhanced during the actual journey.”3
Four other crew members were needed, so he asked for volunteers and selected those he judged best able to withstand the rigors of the impending voyage. At last Shackleton decided that they could wait no longer, and on April 24 they began loading the boat. Luckily the sun came out at the last minute, enabling Worsley to get the crucial sight. Only one chronometer had survived “in good going order” out of the twenty-four with which they had first set out in the Endurance.4
After almost capsizing in the surf, the James Caird set sail on a voyage that was to last sixteen tumultuous days. Shackleton recorded the scene:
The men who were staying behind made a pathetic little group on the beach, with the grim heights of the island behind them and the sea seething at their feet, but they waved to us and gave three hearty cheers.5
The first night out, once clear of the ice floes, while the four other members of the crew rested beneath the makeshift deck, Worsley and Shackleton stood watch together:
I steered; he [Shackleton] sat beside me. We snuggled close together for warmth, for by midnight the sea was rising, and every other wave that hit her came over, wetting us through and through. Cold and clear, with the Southern Cross high overhead, we held her north by the stars, that swept in glittering procession over the Atlantic towards the Pacific. While I steered, his arm thrown over my shoulder, we discussed plans and yarned in low tones. We smoked all night—he rolled cigarettes for us both, a job at which I was unhandy. I often recall with proud affection memories of those hours with a great soul.6
They survived ten days of gales and had to pump every few hours to keep the small boat afloat. There was water everywhere, and soon almost everything was soaked through. As the air temperature was often well below freezing, they suffered from frostbite, and at one stage they had to clear a dangerous buildup of ice from the deck to prevent the boat capsizing7—a terrifying task with nothing to hold on to and no hope for anyone who slipped overboard. Occasionally at night “the great grey shroud” of cloud was torn aside and they checked their course by their “old friend” the star Antares—the red eye in the constellation Scorpio. They had no spare candles to light the compass, and during the whole voyage Worsley was able to obtain sun sights on only four occasions. And it was far from easy to obtain a fix when the opportunities occurred. His navigating books and log were “soaked through, stuck together, illegible and almost impossible to write in” and DR had “become a merry jest of guesswork.” Once or perhaps twice a week “the sun smiled a sudden wintry flicker, through storm-torn clouds” and, “if ready for it, and smart,” Worsley would catch it:
I peered out from our burrow—precious sextant cuddled under my chest to prevent the seas falling on it. Sir Ernest stood by under the canvas with chronometer, pencil and book. I shouted “Stand by” and knelt on the thwart—two men holding me up on either side. I brought the sun down to where the horizon ought to be and as the boat leapt frantically upward on the crest of a wave snapped a good guess at the altitude and yelled, “Stop.” Sir Ernest took the time, and I worked out the result. Then the fun started! Our fingers were so cold that he had to interpret his wobbly figures—my own so illegible that I had to recognize them by feats of memory. . . . My navigation books had to be half-opened, page by page, till the right one was reached, then opened carefully to prevent utter destruction. The epitome [containing all the necessary tables for the calculations] had had the cover, front and back pages washed away, while the Nautical Almanac shed its pages so rapidly before the onslaught of the seas that it was a race whether or not the month of May would last to South Georgia. It just did, but April had vanished completely.
The huge swells of the Southern Ocean often threatened to engulf them:
the highest, broadest and longest in the world, they race in their encircling course until they reach their birthplace again, and so reinforcing themselves sweep forward in fierce and haughty majesty, four hundred, a thousand yards, a mile apart in fine weather, silent and stately they pass along. Rising forty or fifty feet or more from crest to hollow they rage in apparent disorder during heavy gales.8
One night when Shackleton was on watch, Worsley heard him shout, “It’s clearing, boys!” and then immediately: “For God’s sake, hold on! It’s got us!”
The line of white along the southern horizon that he had taken for the sky clearing was, in fact, the crest of an enormous sea. I was crawling out of my bag as the sea struck us. There was a roaring of water around and above us—it was almost as though we had foundered. The boat seemed full of water. We . . . seized any receptacle we could find and pushed, scooped and baled [sic] the water out for dear life. While Shackleton held her up to the wind, we worked like madmen, but for five minutes it was uncertain whether we would succeed or not . . . With the aid of the little home-made pump and two dippers it took us nearly an hour to get rid of the water and restore the boat to her normal state of only having a few gallons of water washing about the bilges through the stones and shingle.9
On the tenth day, the gale moderated and “Old Jamaica”—the sun—showed his face. Worsley’s few sights showed they had run 444 miles from Elephant Island—more than halfway to South Georgia. The next day was fine, with some blue sky and a moderate sea, and further sights were possible. Worsley had now found a better way of taking a sight, by sitting on the deck with one foot jammed between the mast and the halyards and the other braced against the shrouds that supported the mast. His fix put them 496 miles from Elephant Island.10 On the fourteenth day, after being hove-to for twelve hours in yet another gale, Worsley was more anxious than ever to get a sight as he reckoned they must be nearing their destination:
At 9.45 a.m. the sun’s limb was clear, but it was so misty that I kept low in the boat to bring the horizon closer, and so a little clearer. . . . At noon the sun’s limb was blurred by a thick haze, so I observed the centre for latitude. Error in latitude throws the longitude out, more so when the latter is observed, as now, too near to noon. I told Sir Ernest that I could not be sure of our position to ten miles, so he would not agree to my trying to weather the NW end of South Georgia, for fear of missing it. We then steered a little more easterly, to make a landfall on the west coast.11
Just before dark, when they were still eighty miles offshore, they joyfully spotted a piece of kelp. At dawn on the fifteenth day, they saw more pieces of seaweed, and Worsley looked anxiously for the sun. He was conscious that his navigation had been, “perforce, so extraordinarily crude that a good landfall could hardly be looked for.” Later they spotted a shag—a clear sign that land was near, since these birds rarely travel far from the coast. Then, just after noon, the fog cleared and they sighted land—“a towering black crag, with a lacework of snow around its flanks. One glimpse and it was hidden again.”12 Worsley had somehow managed a perfect landfall.
Their troubles, however, were far from over. Not only were the charts of this uninhabited side of the island incomplete, but the James Caird was now caught in a terrific storm. She remained hove-to till 2 P.M., when through “a sudden rift in the storm-driven clouds” her crew saw “two high, jagged crags and a line of precipitous cliffs and glacier fronts” astern of them. They were being blown onshore, in the most dangerous and unknown part of the coast—the stretch between King Haakon Sound and Annenkov Island.* The nearest settlements were the whaling stations on the north coast of South Georgia—on the far side of a range of peaks and glaciers. As the small boat drove inshore it seemed that “only three or four of the giant deep-sea swells” separated them from “the cliffs of destruction—the coast of death.” If they could but have appreciated it, “a magnificent, awe-inspiring scene” lay before them.
The sky all torn, flying scud—the sea to wind’ard like surf on a shallow coast—one great roaring line of breaking waves behind another, till lost in spume, spindrift, and the fierce squalls that were feeding the seas. Mist from their flying tops cut off by the wind filled the great hollows between the swells. The ocean everywhere covered by a gauzy tracery o
f foam with lines of yeasty froth, save where boiling white masses of breaking seas had left their mark on an acre of the surface.
On each sea the boat swept upward till she heeled before the droning fury of the hurricane, then fell staggering into the hollow, almost becalmed. Each sea, as it swept us closer in, galloped madly, with increasing fury, for the opposing cliffs, glaciers and rocky points. It seemed but a few moments till it was thundering on the coast beneath the icy uplands, great snow-clad peaks and cloud-piercing crags.
It was, said Worsley, “the most awe-inspiring and dangerous position any of us had ever been in.” It looked as though they were “doomed—past the skill of any man to save.” Yet, “with infinite difficulty,” they somehow managed to set a small amount of sail and began to claw their way slowly offshore, “praying to heaven that the mast would stand it.” The seams of the boat opened as she crashed through the massive seas, and they pumped ceaselessly to keep her afloat. As they looked at the “hellish, rock-bound coast, with its roaring breakers,” they wondered—almost dispassionately—at which spot their end was to come. The James Caird almost failed to weather the mountainous western extremity of Annenkov Island, which she passed at such close quarters that her crew had to crane their necks to see the snowy peak above them. Once they were beyond it, the wind at last began to moderate. They did well not to attempt the inside passage between Annenkov Island and South Georgia itself as it is encumbered by a dangerous reef that extends for about five miles from its eastern end.
For nine hours, Shackleton and his men had struggled through a hurricane in which, they later learned, a five-hundred-ton steamer on its way to South Georgia was lost with all hands. “I doubt if any of us had ever experienced a fiercer blow than that from noon to 9 P.M.,” commented Worsley. By now desperate with thirst and completely exhausted, they finally reached the shore at the entrance to King Haakon Sound. There was no shortage of fresh water but still little opportunity to rest.13