Shackleton's Stowaway

by Victoria McKernan

  “Look there!” Hurley shouted. Perce turned to look. A great spout of water shot into the air only a hundred feet from the ship.

  “A whale!” It was bigger than any whale Perce had ever seen. “It's as long as the ship!” he cried excitedly.

  “Blue whale.” Hurley shaded his eyes and watched it. “Beauty! Hand me the cine camera.”

  Hurley wound the camera and shot some footage of the whale, then handed the movie camera back to Perce and went on watching the ice. He didn't even pick up his box camera for a good ten minutes. What was he waiting for? The scenery wasn't really changing much. There was water and ice and ice and water. Finally Hurley took up the camera.

  “Hand me a plate,” he directed. Perce opened the box and carefully drew out one of the glass plates. When Hurley worked with the equipment, every movement was precise and sure. But it was different from just a workman with his tools, Perce thought. It was more like his mum changing a baby's nappy or pulling a splinter out of someone's hand. There was a tenderness about it.

  Hurley slipped the plate into the camera, then pulled the black cloth over the back of his head. Perce waited for the snap of the camera lens. He waited some more. He watched the shape of Hurley's head beneath the black cloth. The man barely moved. The wind howled through the rigging. Perce could feel the vibrations in his legs. What was Hurley waiting for? Despite the cold and the frantic swaying of the mast, Perce began to feel sleepy. A click snapped him back to his senses. Perce opened his eyes and saw Hurley tossing off the black cloth.

  “Right, then.”

  Perce shifted the heavy box full of plates. “That's all? Just one?”

  “All you need when the one is right.” Hurley grinned and sprang to his feet. Perce unwound his stiff legs.

  “Begging your pardon, sir—”

  “Oh, blast it, lad—you don't have to ‘sir’ me. I'm not an officer.”

  “Sorry, sir. I mean, all right. But could I ask, how do you know when the one is right?”

  Hurley grabbed Perce by the back of his jacket and helped him up. He steadied him as they both held on to the mast.

  “Look out there.” He pointed off the beam of the ship. “What do you see?”

  “Ice, sir.”

  “And this way?” Hurley turned Perce so he was looking toward the front of the ship, the direction Hurley had taken the photograph.

  “More ice. And the foremast.”

  “Ah, but you don't just see ice, do you? You see shapes of ice and shapes of water. You see light and dark. And you don't just see the foremast. You see the mast and the yardarm and the rigging. Altogether you see squares and lines, foreground, background. Now watch awhile.”

  Hurley leaned easily against the mast, barely holding on. “See when the shapes come together in a way that pleases your eye.”

  Perce clung to a halyard and shivered.

  “See there.” Hurley held up his hands again to frame the scene. “How the yardarm crosses straight up against that channel of water?”

  “Is … is that the most pleasing?” Perce asked.

  “Could be,” Hurley laughed. “That's up to you. There are some rules—you don't want a mishmash of lines every which way. But it's bloody cold up here to be discussing them now, don't you think? I wouldn't mind a cup of tea.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right, then.” Hurley slung his camera over his shoulder and helped Perce with the box of plates. “Thanks, mate.” He swung his feet over and began to climb down the frozen rope ladder. Perce took one last look at the horizon. The ship was turning slowly to port. As her bow shifted, Perce saw a line of square ice floes laid out point to point like stepping-stones in a garden. The sun caught them at a certain angle and made them seem like they were floating above the surface of the water and pointing the way to the end of the world. It was very dramatic. Very beautiful. There were so many different ways to look at the world.

  chapter eight

  Crack! Perce woke with a start as he flew through the air. He fell back on the bunk a good two feet from where he had been sleeping. He felt sharp claws scramble up his legs as a terrified Mrs. Chippy clawed his way to Perce's head. Perce tucked the cat under one arm and pulled his pillow over his ears. The timbers of the ship creaked.

  “Worsley's at the helm again,” Billy groaned from the bunk below. “Get your helmets on, boys.” After a week in the pack, each helmsman had developed his own technique for steering the ship through the ice. Frank Wild took a smooth steady course, finding openings that no one else would have seen. Mr. Greenstreet liked to chug along slowly, nudging the bergs gently aside with the bow. Captain Worsley thought it great fun to back the ship up in an open lane of water then build up speed and ram the floes as hard as he could, smashing them apart. The collisions made the whole ship shudder, but it was worst in the fo'c'sle.

  “A rat in a maze. That's what we are. A rat in a maze.” John Vincent threw his blanket back in anger. “Eight bloody days and we've got nowhere.”

  “And no one told you there was going to be ice in Antarctica?” Billy said.

  “Shut up!” John Vincent kicked the side of his bunk so hard, the whole cabin rattled again. Mrs. Chippy fluffed up his fur and hissed. “And if that damn cat keeps thumping around in here all night, I swear I'm going to throw it overboard.” He grabbed his jacket and stomped out.

  “Sure, and let the mice come and chew your ugly face off,” Perce muttered after him.

  “Now that I'd pay to see.” Billy turned over and stretched. “Did you hear the bell?”

  “No, but if Worsley's taken the helm, the watch must have changed.”

  Perce flung back his own blanket. He couldn't tell what time it was. It was midsummer now and light all the time. “I'm wide awake now anyway. I'll go check,” he said to Billy. Mrs. Chippy gave him a brief indignant look, then curled up in the warm place he left behind. Up on deck there was none of the bustle of a crew change. Some of the dogs were barking and pacing in their kennels. They had been disturbed by the crashing as well. Worsley was still at the helm. He was grinning like a schoolboy who had just captured the flag. First Officer Greenstreet was back by the stern, leaning over the railing. He straightened up as Perce approached, then looked at his watch.

  “Up early, aren't you? Watch doesn't change for another ten minutes.”

  “Had a bit of a toss below.”

  “That sod. Going to split the ship in two one of these days. We had clear water for a good three hours, doing seven, eight knots. Then more of this.” Greenstreet nodded at the pack ice. “I think he was happy to see it. Smooth sailing bores Mr. Worsley.”

  Perce heard hammering from below and leaned over to see McNeish, the carpenter. He had built a small wooden platform off the stern and was now pounding the last nails to fasten a railing in place.

  “What's that for?” Perce asked.

  “Fancy you should ask. We're just needing a volunteer to try it out.”

  “Aw, not that one, sir!” McNeish growled in his thick Scottish accent as he climbed back up on deck. “ 'e makes a good piecrust, 'at one does. Don't want ta lose him overboard.”

  “Then watch he doesn't fall, Mr. McNeish.” Greenstreet smiled. “Watch he doesn't.” Greenstreet turned to Perce. “What was it you said to me when you was begging for a job back in Buenos Aires? Oh, yes, very willing it was. Very willing.”

  Uh-oh, Perce thought. So far very willing had got him up the mast and down in the bilge. It got him peeling thousands of potatoes and hauling up wet, stinky drift nets for Clark the biologist. Greenstreet pointed down where chunks of ice were churning in the wake of the ship.

  “The rudder is getting dinged by all the ice. We thought we might put a man out there with a pole to push the floes away and help keep it clear.”

  The little platform bucked and bobbed with every swell.

  “You'll need seaboots,” Greenstreet said. “Some in the port locker there.” Perce got a pair of the rubber boots. He tugged his wool h
at snugly over his head and pulled up the hood of his oilskin jacket. The bell sounded the change of the watch. He would have liked a cup of tea and a bit of breakfast, but he was on duty now. He swung one leg over the side.

  “Wait a minute—use yer 'ead, boy.” McNeish scowled. He tossed Perce the end of a rope. “Tie yourself up, lad. I meant it about the piecrust.”

  “Thanks,” Perce said as he tied the line around his waist. McNeish handed Perce a long iron pole. Perce looped the tether strap around his wrist and tried the pole out on a small chunk of ice. There was a satisfying thwack, and the ice bobbed away. Right, then, this would be easy enough. Perce straightened up and looked around. The pack ice stretched as far as he could see. In clear water the ship could be making two hundred miles a day. In the pack, she was doing barely thirty.

  Ten minutes later, this new job didn't seem quite so easy. The platform grew slippery with freezing spray. Every now and then a big wave washed over and sucked at his ankles. He bent his knees and tried to balance, but he still slid and skipped around like a jerky marionette.

  “How are you doing there, Blackie?” Tom Crean appeared at the railing. “Having fun yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Great fun. Get to practice my dancing steps too!” He jabbed away another chunk of ice. “Are you needing any practice yourself, sir? I'd be glad to give you a go.”

  Crean laughed. “We'll change you off on the half hour.”

  How long had he been out here already? Cold air blew down from the sky and up from the sea, finding its way through the smallest opening in his clothing. The pole began to grow heavy. Perce's legs were starting to feel jiggly. A single large plate of ice drifted toward the propeller. Perce poked it. It floated lazily out of the way and bumped into another floe. Suddenly both chunks rose up out of the water. A great enormous head appeared between them. The shiny black snout of a killer whale poked through. One cold dark eye fixed itself on Perce. Pods of orcas, or killer whales, were common down here, but he had never seen one so close. Perce could smell the foul, fishy breath as the great snout edged closer to the platform. Each tooth was as big as a man's fist. He saw the fin of a second whale break the surface about ten feet away, then another behind that.

  The sea was calm and smooth as glass. He saw the black-and-white pattern of the first killer whale as it dove down and circled slowly beneath the stern. Perce leaned over the railing to get a better look. It was scary, but also fascinating. He watched the giant beast make another lazy circle. Suddenly, with one flick of its powerful tail, the whale rocketed up, knocking the bottom of the platform. Perce went flying.

  Time stood still as he stared down into the gaping mouth of the killer whale. The tongue looked plump and pink as a ham. The platform slammed back down on the water and Perce's feet slipped out from under him. He crashed down and slid across the platform. His feet plunged into the sea, and cold water rushed into the boots. It seemed to slosh up all the way to his heart. He grabbed frantically at the flimsy railing. He couldn't even cry out; terror seized his throat. At the same time, he had strange, slow thoughts. What a stupid way to die! Will I simply slide down that spongy throat? Or will I be crunched hard between those teeth first? In the same half second all this went through his mind, he felt a hard yank around his waist. The safety line caught him as his knees slid over the edge. He scrambled backward to get his footing. The enormous head fell back with a splash, and Perce felt the rope yank him up. For a few seconds, he was a puppet on a string, dangling mere inches from the cold, stinking maw of the killer whale. Then the solid timbers of the ship smacked against his back. He turned and clawed up the side. Big hands grabbed his arms and pulled him roughly over. Tom Crean fell backward with Perce on top of him.

  “Jesus, lad!” Crean gasped. “Where were you when the good Lord was handing out brains!” Perce rolled off and jumped to his feet. His legs were shaking so, he could hardly stand.

  “What—why—” Perce swallowed. “Why did it do that?”

  “Do what?” Crean said gruffly as he got up. “Try and eat you for breakfast? He was hunting! What the bloody hell did you think he was doing? Come to pay you a friendly visit? That's how they hunt the seals! Smash those great ugly heads up through the ice just like that. Knock the seal off into the water and chuuuck …” Crean made a gruesome smacking noise.

  Perce leaned against the stern rail. He crossed his arms tightly. He didn't want Tom Crean to see he was shaking. “Thanks. I—I'll be more careful,” he stammered.

  “Accchh—get yourself below and warm up. They got no business putting you out there, knowing nothing about nothing. Accchhh. Here—” Crean began to untie the knot in Perce's safety line. Perce held his breath so Crean wouldn't feel his stampeding heart.

  “You've seen them hunting like that? Knocking up the ice?” He tried to keep his voice steady, like he was just asking a casual question.

  “Aye. And worse.” Perce thought he saw stony Tom Crean shudder. “Almost made a Jonah out of me,” he said. “Years ago on Scott's first expedition. We were crossing some bloody rotten ice. Full of cracks it was. Had no business there, not one of us knew what we were doing back then. But Captain Scott tells us to go on across. So we go. And we're leading ponies besides.” The knot had tightened with the jerk, and Crean had to work at it. “Aye—we were waltzing with the devil that day. Ice breaking up all around us. Ponies over there on a wee bit of ice, us over here on another, and the killers all around. Those cold eyes. One pony finally went in, and we couldn't pull him out. Didn't want to see him eaten alive. Had to kill him there in the water.”

  “You shot the pony?”

  “Didn't have a gun. Put an ice ax through his skull.” Perce shuddered as he pictured it. The knot finally came free. Crean retied the safety line to the deck rail so it was shorter. “There you go. Next man out might only get his leg bit off,” he said.

  “If the rope doesn't break.”

  “Or the beast don't leap twenty feet clear up out of the sea.”

  “Aye. There's always something.” Perce and Crean both laughed.

  chapter nine

  A few days later, as Christmas approached, the Endurance was still making slow progress through the pack ice. Charlie was busy making mince pies and nut bread, so Perce was busy chopping nuts and rolling out piecrusts. The Christmas pudding came from a tin but still had to be steamed for hours. The galley was warm and damp with the condensation. The wardroom was decorated with paper lace streamers. Someone had brought a box of Christmas crackers, and he set each place with one of the brightly colored favors.

  “Oh, will you look at all this!” Tim whistled in appreciation as he came in with a load of coal for the stove. “Hey, Billy, come see how the high society does things now.” Billy stuck his head inside the wardroom. He had just come off watch. His eyebrows were white with frost, and little icicles clung to the hair around his face.

  “Luuv-ly, just luuv-ly,” he said in an exaggerated imitation of Tim's Irish accent. “What're these things?” Billy picked up one of the Christmas crackers. Drops of water fell from his frosty face and splashed on the tablecloth.

  “Hey, don't be melting all over my nice table!” Perce snapped his dish towel at him. Billy ducked.

  “You don't have crackers in Canada?” Tim stressed the word; he knew Billy's deep dark secret, and laughed at the expression on his face. “Hardly matters anymore, does it? But I'll keep your secret.”

  He wiped the coal dust off his hands and took the bright paper toy from Billy. “Snap the ends apart and it makes a noise. There's a little toy inside and a paper crown. Some have confetti too. Me mum hates that kind.”

  “There's some for us too,” Perce said, nodding toward a box on the bench. They would have their own Christmas celebration in the fo'c'sle. It was how things were on ships. Common sailors didn't mix with the officers and scientists. Shackleton wasn't very strict about this and in fact treated everyone so alike that some of the officers grumbled. He had them scrubbing floors and working
the lines alongside the sailors. He encouraged the sailors to take an interest in the science experiments. But for social activities, dinners, and parties, everyone stayed with their own kind.

  “You gonna do up the fo'c'sle next, Blackie?” Tim said. “We could use a little fancy froufrou up there.”

  “Orde Lees did all this, not me,” Perce said as he tacked another decoration in place. “Must have spent the whole night snipping paper.”

  “Well, at least he finally took himself a job around here.” Tim snorted as he stoked the stove. Thomas Orde Lees, an upper-class captain from the Royal Marines, had earned a reputation for ducking out of hard work.

  “I'm sure he'll show you how to cut paper lace if you ask him nicely,” Perce teased. Every child knew how to cut paper lace, but Orde Lees would certainly make a big deal out of it.

  The sailors nicknamed him the “Old Lady,” for he was forever fussing and fretting about little things. He collected odd bits of scrap like a magpie and spent hours carefully mending his favorite old green slippers. Orde Lees had been taken on as a motor expert (Shackleton had brought along three experimental ice tractors), but so far he hadn't shown himself to be very mechanical. Whenever anything needed fixing, it was usually Hurley who did it.

  Perce knew Orde Lees better than the other sailors did but still didn't know what to make of him. He was snobby, but then most of his class were. But when Charlie hurt his knee and Orde Lees was appointed cook for a few days, he didn't try to boss Perce around. In fact, he admitted he didn't have a clue about cooking and let Perce run the galley. The other officers and scientists found him at least a little peculiar, but even they would enjoy the decorated wardroom.

  “Well, you can frill the fo'c'sle up as much as you like.” Tim picked up the empty coal hod. “I've got watch, so I won't be down there anyway.”