Day after day, they sailed through clear water. The puppies grew fatter, opened their eyes, and began to yip at the world. The sky was blue and the ocean even bluer, the mood optimistic.
“Isn't it strange,” Billy said one day as he and Perce stood watch together, “how, when things are going well, you can hardly remember when they were bad? Doesn't it seem now like there was never a pack of ice holding us back? Like every day was just like this—nothing but fair winds and endless clear blue seas?”
It was true about the forgetting, but not about the endless clear blue seas. On January 16, with only two hundred miles to go, Tim shouted down from his lookout at the top of the mast.
“Ice ho! Pack ice dead ahead!” The news went down to Shackleton's cabin, and he came on deck. His face looked serious, but he simply took the binoculars and looked out at the new obstacle. Then he scanned the sky, where thick thunderclouds were piling up.
“Well, nothing we haven't seen before,” he said calmly. “And a bit of weather on the way too. Shall we furl sail, Mr. Worsley?”
“Furl topsail!” Worsley commanded from the deck below. The men on deck began to haul on the sheets, and Perce leaned over the yard, gathering the stiff, frozen canvas as it was hauled up. Sometimes the ice was so thick on the canvas, they had to kick it off before they could furl the sail. The wind whipped through his hair and made his eyes tear. Perce could actually feel the pressure of the advancing storm. He looked over and saw Tim, balanced easily on the footropes even as the gusts whipped his clothes. Tim grinned and howled. As much as they all hated actually being in a storm, the approach of one was thrilling. Like watching a herd of wild horses stampeding toward you. You knew you were about to get smashed, but what a magnificent sight! Perce lashed his part of the sail into place, climbed back down, and ran to the foremast to repeat the process with the next sail.
Shackleton wiped the icy spray off his face and rubbed his frozen hands together. “Well, at least with a day or so of this, the pack ice should all blow away!” he said optimistically.
But for the next two awful days, Sally's puppies were the only creatures who really stayed optimistic. While the blowing snow scoured the decks, they snuggled deep into their mother's thick fur. While Perce and Charlie were smashed and bashed around the galley, trying to heat up some stew, the puppies slurped their mother's warm milk, rolled over, and went to sleep again. When the ship was tossed dangerously close to the iceberg and the men on deck fell back in terror, the puppies played and wrestled in their cozy bed of straw.
Finally, early on the morning of January 18, the gale began to fade. Worsley cautiously steered out from behind the protection of the iceberg. They were all dismayed at what they saw. The storm had not blown the pack ice away but had brought in even more. As far as they could see, in every direction, there was only ice. They were so close now, only eighty miles from the bay, one good day's sail in clear seas. But eighty miles was as good as eight hundred if you couldn't cross it.
Everyone's nerves were on edge. Shackleton never left the deck. He paced like a caged lion. Perce watched him, feeling like his own heart might break. With winter approaching, the success of the entire expedition was coming down to a matter of days. In the fo'c'sle at night, some of the sailors were grumbling.
“Even if, by some magic, the ice opens up and we get through tomorrow, it will still take at least a week at best to unload all the supplies,” Vincent said. “And nothing's been happing at the best now, has it? We should be on our way back to South Georgia right now!”
“A retreat now might be even more dangerous,” Tim pointed out. “The ice could trap us on the way back and freeze us in the middle of the Weddell Sea. We still have time to find a safe harbor down here.” Frozen for the winter in a protected bay near land would be uncomfortable but safe. Frozen in the middle of the sea, where the ice moved and shifted with crushing force, could be catastrophic.
“He won't risk our lives,” Perce insisted. “He turned back before he reached the pole, didn't he?”
“Aye, but that was a clear decision,” Walter How said. “They had twenty days of marching and five days of food. Here, he doesn't know what's the safest thing to do.”
“Can't know,” Perce said, a little defensively. “None of us can know. It all turns on the ice.” He could only guess at the agony Shackleton was going through.
The ship puttered slowly along for days, nudging her way through the ice. This was different from the pack ice they had encountered before. It was thicker, slushy, and sticky. It made a strange sucking sound as it washed against the wooden hull.
“It's like a bowl of bad dumplings,” Tim said.
“I've had a few of those in my life, I'll tell you,” Billy said.
“Oh, you have, have you? And how bad were they?”
Perce gave an exaggerated groan. He knew what was coming.
“Why, my granny's dumplings were so heavy, my gramps had to brace up the table,” Billy said.
“Oh, light enough for a table, were they?” Tim took up the challenge. “Ours we had to eat sitting on the floor. In case you dropped one, you see, you wouldn't break your foot.”
“And tough!” Billy went on. “Why, there was a cook at one of the logging camps, used to make dumplings so tough, we'd put 'em outside in a dish for the bears.”
“So they were tender enough for a bear to bite through?” Tim said. “What a treat!”
“Ah, well, yes, but they were so sticky, it would glue their fangs together.”
“My gran's would bounce, you see—like a rubber ball,” Tim countered. “One hit the floor one day, bounced clear out the window. Knocked a bird out of a tree. Bounced down the road and killed a cart horse. Bounced all the way to the dock, onto a ship, and went right through four decks and put a hole in the bottom.”
“It sank the ship, did it?” Billy played along.
“No, not entirely. The ship went down, but it landed on the dumpling and bounced right back up again. Shot up out of the water, it did. You can see it today, upside down in the town square where it landed.”
Perce laughed. Clearly there was no way to beat an Irishman at this game. “What about you, Perce,” Billy asked, “did your mother make a good dumping?”
“They weren't too bad,” Perce said seriously. “Nice and light they were, in fact. The only bad part was how the angels in heaven used to come down wanting some. They'd be flying all around the house. Neighbors would start complaining, y'see, flocks of angels clogging up the lane. And all that heavenly singing. It gets to be a bit much. Hallelujah this and hallelujah that. We used to have to go out with the flyswatter and chase them away so we could eat in peace.”
The three friends laughed. There was not much else they could do. The slushy ice got thicker. By Saturday morning, the ship was stuck.
chapter twelve
Days passed. Weeks passed. The Endurance remained trapped. The men tried to keep busy. They took walks on the ice, read books, and played cards, but the confinement was starting to get on everyone's nerves. Sometimes Perce climbed up in the rigging and sat on the yardarm just to be by himself. From there he could see for miles. Miles and miles of ice.
Then one night in late January, he was startled awake by a great boom like a cannon shot. The ship trembled. Everyone ran on deck, and Tim climbed the rigging for a better look.
“Crack dead ahead!” he cried triumphantly. As if by magic, a channel of water had opened only fifty yards in front of the ship.
“Can we break through?” Perce asked Crean.
“We'd be mad not to try. Nothing much else to do today, is there?”
“Right, then!” Shackleton's blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “Shall we give it a try?”
There was a festive feeling in the air as the sailors sprang to work. Perce and Billy climbed the rigging and unfurled the sails. The frozen canvas snapped alive and sent a shower of ice to the decks. Down in the engine room, men began to shovel coal furiously. Full power, all
sails set. Captain Worsley expertly steered the Endurance back and forth to knock her hull free of ice. When she floated free, he pushed her forward. Full power, full speed. Perce felt the timbers shudder with the impact. Nothing happened. Worsley tried again. Full power, full speed—a few bits of ice crunched off. Worsley reversed the engines, but there just wasn't enough room to get up any speed.
“It's like a mouse pushing against a pyramid,” Billy said.
“There's still a great chunk of ice built up on the keel here,” Crean said as he leaned over to examine the hull. “Might help to knock it off.” He looked up at Perce and Billy. “Can you two bring up the stern platform? Swing it around the side here.”
“Yes, sir.” Perce was glad to have something to do.
“Tim—fix us up some lines. Where's the bosun? We can use his muscle.”
Crean explained his plan to Shackleton, who agreed it might help. McNeish helped Billy and Perce release the stern platform and secure it to the side near the bow. Crean, Perce, and Vincent each tied a rope around his waist. Tim tied the other ends around the ship's rail, and Billy, Greenstreet, and McNeish each stood by, ready to pull them up if the ice suddenly broke out from under them.
“Choose your weapons, boys!” Crean picked up an iron pike. It was eleven feet long and an inch thick, with a flattened wedge at one end. Perce, being a good three inches shorter than Crean, chose an eight-foot pole that he had often used for chipping ice off the rudder. Vincent armed himself with a pickax. They climbed down to the platform and began to whack at the ice. It was awkward work, but it felt good to be doing something. They chipped and pried and stabbed. Little shards of ice went flying. Occasionally, a small chunk broke off, but mostly nothing happened.
“It's just freezing on thicker as soon as we knock it off,” Vincent grumbled.
“Then let's knock the whole block of it—off—once and for—all!” Crean's words were broken up by heavy breaths as he chopped at the ice with all his might. He was sweating, but he never stopped. He worked with a demon energy. Perce thrust his pike harder, trying to match Crean stroke for stroke. Crean grinned at him. “It's a challenge you want, do you? You know you're half my size, Blackie.”
“Aye,” Perce laughed. “But I'm also half your age.”
Perce's arms ached, but he wasn't about to slack off in a race. The men on deck began to cheer them on. Even Vincent began to swing faster. The iron pikes rang. Ice chips flew. The platform jerked around under their feet. Sweat ran down into Perce's eyes. Crean's face was red. Still, the ice would not come free. They began to slow down. The cheering faded, punctuated only now and then with a feeble shout of, “Come on, lads!” Finally Crean stopped. He rested the tip of his long iron pike on the platform, leaning the other end against his shoulder. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“All right, lads.” His breath came in fast white bursts. “She's not ours today. It was a good try.”
Vincent needed no urging. He handed up his pickax and quickly climbed back on board. Perce's whole body trembled with fatigue and frustration. This was just too cruel. With a last thrust, he stabbed at the stubborn ice.
“Come on, Blackie.” Crean smiled and took the pike from his shaking hand. “It could still all break up tomorrow. Go on up now.”
Perce grabbed the rope and started to climb. Suddenly there was a crack, and the huge ice chunk broke off. The bow of the ship, freed from the weight, swung wildly. Crean stumbled as the platform pitched up under his feet. Perce reached for him, but the wild motion of the platform jerked them apart. It all seemed to happen so slowly. The water churned. The platform heaved. The chunk of ice hit the water, then shot up into the air. Perce felt cold spray on his face, saw the milky slab of ice against the blue sky. It seemed to hang there for minutes, but it was hardly a second. Then the whole ton of ice crashed down directly on top of Crean, crushing him against the side of the ship. Perce felt a swoosh of cold air, heard the sickening crunch, saw Tom Crean's boots sticking out from beneath the slab of ice. At the same time, in the same slow motion, Perce felt himself being pulled up. He heard men shouting. The ship rolled again, and the ice tumbled away. Billy grabbed hold of his arm.
“You all right?” Tim asked. Perce nodded. Tim's hands were red and bleeding. He had been holding Crean's safety line and now had bad rope burns on his palms. Perce saw the other men haul Crean up over the side. He was limp as a rag doll. Someone was shouting for the doctor. They laid Crean out on the deck. Perce saw the big hands lying terribly still. He felt the deck shake as the doctor and Shackleton came running. It seemed like hours, but finally Perce heard a gasp and cough, followed by a loud, angry groan.
“Get offa me!” Crean coughed and tried to sit up. “Get your bloody hands offa me! Owww—Jaysus!”
“Tom? Tom, are you all right?” The men parted as Shackleton ran up. “Just lie still.” Shackleton knelt by Crean and put a hand on his chest. “Don't move.” Crean's forehead was bleeding, and one cheek was scraped raw.
“I'm not moving—bloody hell!” he groaned. The blow had knocked the wind and the curses right out of him. Doc Macklin, the ship's surgeon, dashed up and dropped to his knees beside Crean. He unbuttoned Crean's jacket and reached up under his sweater. He pressed his hands down the ribs, felt his arms and legs for broken bones and asked, “Can you feel this? And this? How about this?” to which Crean growled affirmatives.
“I'd know if I was broken,” he said roughly, getting some of his wind back. The color was coming back to his face. He drew a deep breath, though it appeared to hurt. Macklin helped him sit up.
“No damage a nip of Irish won't cure,” Crean said. The men laughed in relief. Shackleton took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from Crean's face.
“It's me needing the whiskey, Tom,” he said with a shaky laugh. “What do you mean, giving me such a scare?”
“Come on.” Macklin stood up. “Let's go look you over properly.” Shackleton and Macklin helped Crean to his feet. He was dazed but apparently unbroken. He favored one leg and winced when Macklin touched his ribs.
“Dang—would you take a look at this!” Billy picked up the iron pike that Crean had been using to chip at the ice. Everyone turned to look. The impact of the ice had wrapped the iron pike clear around Crean's chest. The inch-thick metal was bent like a cheap tin spoon.
“We knew you was a tough bugger, Crean!” Tim laughed. They called him “Iron Man” for a while after that or sometimes “The Anvil.”
chapter thirteen
On the seventeenth of February, the sun slipped below the horizon for the first time. Complete darkness was still a couple of months away, but it was a cruel reminder that winter was coming. The Endurance remained stuck. Sometimes leads of water would open nearby, teasing them with the lure of freedom. Then they would attack with poles and picks, saws and shovels, trying to chop through to open water. Officer, scientist, sailor, and Shackleton himself chopped and sawed and whacked away. Even Charlie, who was busy enough making three meals a day for them all, came out and worked. He was a small man who could hardly manage the long iron pike. When he broke off a chunk of ice, everyone cheered. But always the lead would close again before they could reach it.
Once they worked twenty-four hours around the clock and cut a channel over a hundred yards long. Perce worked until his shoulder muscles ached and his legs went wobbly. Chips of ice flew up and stung his face. The relentless glare of the ice burned his eyes, but hope grew with every yard. Then, suddenly, the ice got thicker. The men stood around, leaning on their pikes, white clouds of breath puffing in the cold air, watching the measuring line go down and down. Six feet, eight feet, ten, twelve—eighteen feet thick.
Finally Shackleton decided to accept their fate. No amount of work was going to free the Endurance.
“Well, men,” he announced. “Perhaps it's about time we tuck in for the winter.”
It was February 24, 1915. They had a grand supper that night. Not fancy as Christmas, but more extrava
gant than usual. Charlie made a cake with tinned peaches, and the men enjoyed a ration of grog. After supper, Shackleton stood up.
“Gentlemen, I could not have asked more from you. It has been an honor to sail with you. And it will be an honor to be stuck with you.” He raised his glass, and the men responded with stomps and cheers.
“You have worked hard. More importantly, you have shown generous spirit and good humor. I'm going to depend on those qualities during the upcoming winter. We've come a long way, and fate hasn't turned out exactly as we had hoped, but we are not conquered. Not by a long shot. We are, however—for the near future, at least—stuck.” He laughed as if he were merely telling them their picnic had been rained out. “As of tomorrow, we will operate as a winter station. Sea watches and ship's routines will be suspended. We'll rotate one man on night watch, unless weather requires more.”
Perce sat calmly, though waves of nervousness were rippling up through his stomach. He glanced at Billy, but his face didn't betray any worry. They had both read the story of the Belgica from Shackleton's library. That was the first ship that had ever spent a winter in the long black night of Antarctica, just seventeen years ago. Half the men went crazy; three never recovered. One man had died; all suffered from scurvy. Crean, Wild, and a few of the others had wintered before and knew what to expect, but the rest of them? Things could get tough. Even back home in Wales, winters were tough, with long, dark days and dull winter food, too many people in the house, and all the games played to death.
“Even though we're frozen in,” Shackleton went on cheerfully, “we will be moving.” He pointed to the map of the Weddell Sea that hung on the wall. “The ice here drifts in a clockwise pattern, so we'll be drifting effortlessly north all winter. Effortless or not, I expect there will be lots of duties to keep us all busy, so I look forward to the sort of optimism and enthusiasm you've all shown so far.”
Shackleton's Stowaway Page 7