Shackleton's Stowaway

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by Victoria McKernan


  chapter eighteen

  When you follow ships for a living,” Billy said sadly, “you have a feeling they get to be human.” All the sailors felt that way. Even the scientists who had never been interested in ships before had grown fond of the Endurance. She was a valiant little ship and had carried them far. But ten million tons of crushing ice were too much for her. They worked for three more days in a desperate attempt to save her. They worked around the clock. When they were too tired to move another step, they dropped for exhausted naps. In the wreckage of the galley, Charlie still managed to cook a few hot meals.

  On the third day, while some men still pumped to keep her afloat, others began the long, sad task of emptying her out. Shackleton and Wild found a stable section of the ice floe about fifty yards away. All day long, like a line of ants, the men carried off everything they could.

  Charlie cooked one last hot meal. Perce helped him hand the bowls out, bracing his back against the downhill side of the doorway and his feet up against what used to be the floor. The men ate silently, too sad, too tired to talk. Even if they wanted to talk, no one could hear over the death noises of the ship. Planks and timbers screeched as they were twisted by the ice. It was like an endless thunderstorm. Sometimes a whole row of planks would start snapping one after another, so it sounded like gunfire.

  At five o'clock, Shackleton gave the order they had all been waiting for. Abandon ship. The men took their personal bags and began to climb over the shattered decks and down the broken side of their ship. They made a slide out of canvas and slid the dogs down one by one.

  The men set up the tents on the ice. Shackleton had never planned for twenty-eight men to sleep in tents. They were crowded, but crowding at least provided some body heat. There were two large tents and three small, all made of canvas. Some were held up with hoops; others needed poles and ropes to stake them out. The tents did not have floors sewn in; there were separate groundsheets. These were also made of canvas and provided very little protection from the ice.

  The men worked in a daze, like zombies. Perce held up a tent pole, while Tim pounded a stake in. Perce glanced back at the ship. The crushed hull stuck up out of the ice. Her mast was still erect. One lonely light still burned. Maybe Shackleton was wrong. Maybe tomorrow the ice would open and she could be saved. McNeish was a good carpenter; maybe …

  “Hey, Perce.” Tim nudged him. “It's done; you can let go.”

  Perce wearily let his arm drop. After the tents were erected, Wild gathered the men up to distribute sleeping bags. There were only eighteen warm reindeer fur sleeping bags; the rest were woolen.

  “I think the best way to distribute these would be by lot. Are you all agreeable to that?” Shackleton asked.

  “Oh right and see how that turns out,” Vincent grumbled. “See how many of the lower deck wind up with fur.”

  “I have eighteen blue-tipped matches and ten red.” Shackleton shook a metal box. “Blue get the fur bags.” He held the box up so no one could see in, and the men began to draw lots.

  The lottery did seem to be rigged, but not as Vincent had suspected. One after another, the sailors all drew the blue matches. Charlie Green got one, and so did the coal stokers and the engineers. One after another, everybody from the “lower deck” walked away with a warm reindeer fur bag. It was purely by chance, Shackleton insisted, that he himself got a woolen bag. Purely by chance, in fact, that all the most senior officers, Crean, Wild, Worsley, Greenstreet, and the others, drew the red matches. Orde Lees drew one of the blue matches and walked off with a warm fur bag, smiling over his good luck, apparently clueless. Perce and Billy looked at each other.

  “How d'ya think he did it?” Billy asked.

  “There's only blue in the tin,” Perce guessed. “Some had red matches already. Easy enough to hide one in a mitt.”

  “Damn good of them.”

  “Aye.”

  By seven o'clock, despite the conditions, most of the men were fast asleep. Perce thought he would never sleep. He was more tired than he ever thought possible, but he felt all jangled inside. He turned on his side and pulled the sleeping bag tighter over his head. The fur was nice, thick and silky, but it did little to cushion the hard ice beneath him.

  He thought of his comfortable bunk on the Endurance. He thought of his bed back home. He had always shared a bed with one or two of his brothers. On a really cold night or in a scary storm, all five might pile in with him. He would growl at them for wiggling too much and groan when stray elbows and ankles jabbed him. But it was nice to wake up all snuggled like a litter of puppies, with a soft, curly baby head under your chin. Perce would carefully untangle all the arms and legs to creep out of bed. Sometimes he had to wiggle his toes to find out which were his own feet.

  Just as he was working himself up into a grand misery of homesickness, he heard footsteps outside. He lifted up the skirt of the tent and saw Shackleton and Wild. They were walking around the tents, checking the ice, checking the dogs, keeping all well. He could hear the murmur of their quiet talk and smell the pipe tobacco. They did not look like stranded explorers on a splintering ice floe but simply two old friends out for a stroll. Perce's anxiety melted away and in seconds he was asleep.

  In the morning, in those odd minutes between deep sleep and fully awakening, Perce was happy. He was still half in a dream. Everything was quiet and peaceful. He heard footsteps crunching outside and thought it was the milkman coming up the front walk. Then he opened his eyes, and all dreaming ended. Perce sat up. His brain felt foggy and dull. He thought there was something wrong with his ears, for he heard nothing but a low hum. Then he realized that it was just the quiet. The horrible screeching and groaning death noises of the Endurance had been with them for so long, the silence was strange. The other men in his tent began to move and shift until all eight were awake.

  The tent flap opened, and Wild poked his head in. He had a crate full of mugs of hot tea. Perce sleepily took one and passed it back. Then another until everyone had a cup.

  Frank Wild squatted outside, watching with a half smile on his face. “I'm certainly glad you're liking your breakfast in bed,” he chided. “If any of you gentlemen would like your boots cleaned, just put them outside!”

  Perce felt ashamed. Wild and Shackleton had been up all night and worked hard to fix a hot drink and no one had even said thank you. “Sorry, Mr. Wild. Thank you.” The others realized their rudeness, and the tent rang out with appreciation. “But can you make it cocoa tomorrow?” Tim teased.

  The day was gray and overcast but not terribly cold. Hussey's thermometer read six degrees above zero. The men came out of their tents, moving slowly with aching muscles and sore backs. No one said much. Shackleton didn't push them but waited until everyone sorted themselves out. Finally, after everyone had a hot drink and some time to get moving, Wild gathered the men for a meeting. They sat on sleds and crates. Some smoked their pipes, others just sat quietly in a daze. Shackleton walked among them, talking casually to each man in his easy way until all were assembled. Then he stood before the group. Whatever fear was in his heart, the men never glimpsed it. The Boss appeared relaxed and confident. There was no sign of his sleepless night.

  “Well, boys, we made a damn good try of it. But it looks like what the ice gets, the ice keeps. Ship and stores have gone—so now we'll go home!”

  Some of the men smiled. A few cheered. This simple assurance was really so absurd that maybe, just maybe it might be true.

  “You all know the general plan,” Shackleton went on. “We're going to load everything we need on the dog sleds and two of the lifeboats. McNeish has built sleds for the boats so we can pull them along. Then we'll march northwest, toward Paulet or Snow Hill Island. It's a bit of a walk to be sure,” Shackleton said lightly. Some of the men laughed, some sat stone-faced and grim. It was 346 miles to Paulet Island.

  “There's a hut there and some stores. They were put there a few years ago specifically for the chance of shipwrecked whaler
s. Since I helped make the supply list, I can personally assure you that there is a generous supply of chocolate!” The reassurance fell a little flat. Vincent spat on the ice.

  “We're hoping to cover five miles a day,” Shackleton went on.

  Perce and Billy looked at each other. Five miles a day dragging several tons of food and gear over rough ice would be no easy task. It would take three months at best. And once they got there, if they got there, they were still far from rescue. They would have to camp on the island and wait for a passing whale ship to find them.

  “Ideally, though, the ice will break up before that, and we can get in the boats,” Shackleton said, trying to sound optimistic. “That gives us several other possible destinations: Deception Island or Clarence or Elephant Island. Worsley and I have plotted courses to all of them, so anytime the ice opens, we'll be ready. I'd like to start in a day or two if you're all agreeable. There's quite enough sorting and packing to keep us busy until then.”

  They had unloaded so much so quickly that everything lay about in chaos. No one was even sure what stores they had. Food and equipment, ammunition, cans of fuel, tools, and clothing were scattered chaotically everywhere. Hurley wanted to go back to the ship to try and rescue his photographs. He had left them behind in the refrigerator for safekeeping, but then the crushing ice had trapped them underwater. Shackleton wouldn't let him return for them. It was too dangerous, and the plates would be too heavy anyway.

  “We need to lighten our load as much as possible, so I'm asking each of you to leave behind all but the essentials.”

  Perce noticed Crean drop his head and squeeze his hands when Shackleton said this. That was odd. Of all the men on the ship, Crean probably had the least attachment to possessions.

  “Keep your warm clothing, of course. Two pair of boots and mittens. Beyond that, each man may carry two pounds of personal gear.” There was a murmur of protest. Two pounds was nothing.

  “No article has any value when measured against our survival.” Shackleton raised his voice and held up his hand for quiet. Then, with perfect showmanship, he unbuckled his gold watch and held it up for all to see. He dropped the watch in the snow.

  “We get through this together or not at all,” he said solemnly. He took out his gold cigarette case and a handful of gold coins and dropped them in the snow. Then he picked up the heavy Bible that had been a gift from the queen of England. He tore out the inscribed flyleaf, a page from the book of Job, and the Twenty-third Psalm: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. Solemnly, he folded the three pages and tucked them into his pocket. Then he dropped the Bible in the snow.

  “Everything is replaceable,” he said gently. “Except your lives.” He paused. “Though it might do to have a bit of music along, so Hussey, could you bring your banjo?”

  “Aye, Boss! How about my extra strings?”

  “Well, how much do they weigh?” Shackleton replied. The men laughed. Shackleton looked over the men. His ship was gone, his dream of crossing Antarctica was shattered. This was his mission now, to get these men home.

  “Shall we get on with it, then?”

  The men stood up and began to mill around.

  “McNeish,” Shackleton called. “Could I have a word?” The carpenter went over to Shackleton's side. Crean stood up slowly. He looked at Shackleton, then down at the ice again. He folded his arms and seemed uneasy.

  “Mr. Crean?” Perce asked. “Are your eyes all right?”

  “My eyes?”

  “They're all red.”

  “Snow blindness,” Crean said gruffly. “If you've nothing to do, Charlie was asking for a bit of shelter for the stove. Could you gather up some boards and see to that?”

  “Aye,” Perce said. He walked off, puzzled by Crean's abruptness.

  Crean waited, shivering a little. He had been working outside most of the past three days and did have a touch of snow blindness. His eyes burned and felt like they were full of sand. But that wasn't the only reason they were red. He watched Shackleton take McNeish aside. Crean knew what was coming.

  “I hate to do it, Harry,” Shackleton said in a low voice to McNeish. “But you know Mrs. Chippy can't last out here. The dogs will get him or the cold will. Or he'll run off and get lost. It's going to be hard enough without that sort of thing down the road to get everyone down. We need to make a clean break. At least this way, it will be quick. I am sorry.”

  McNeish said nothing but nodded.

  “Who's to do it, Boss?”

  “Crean. All the small pups too.”

  “Aye.”

  McNeish slowly walked back to the tents. Perce was hammering some planks into a windbreak when McNeish came up to him. Perce thought he looked a hundred years old. He was carrying Mrs. Chippy in his arms. The big cat's fur was ruffled against the cold, but otherwise he looked like his usual unflappable self.

  “Would you do me a favor, lad?”

  “Aye. Of course.”

  “Could you find us a wee treat for Mrs. Chippy? He isn't coming with us, you see. You always feed him in the morning. Would you do it now? So he gets the idea everything is normal, eh? So he won't be nervous or frightened. And he'll have a nice full belly.”

  Perce saw Crean come out of Shackleton's tent. He was carrying a pistol. Perce swallowed and nodded. Wild came from the other side of the camp, leading the three youngest puppies. They were only three months old, playful little puffballs. At least Sally's pups would be spared, Perce thought with relief. They were ten months old and strong enough to pull. Perce looked at Mrs. Chippy. The big cat was purring happily, but the carpenter's hands were shaking.

  “Aye. I'll find him something nice.” Perce swallowed hard. His own eyes started to burn, and he didn't try to pretend otherwise. There were just some things even a man ought to go ahead and cry about. He walked over to the food boxes and found a can of sardines for Mrs. Chippy's last meal.

  chapter nineteen

  Perce had learned a lot on this voyage so far, but the most surprising thing was that ice is not slippery. Dragging the overloaded boats was like trying to drag an elephant through sand. The sled runners simply would not slide.

  “Well, you see, you don't actually slide on ice,” Orde Lees was only too happy to explain. “What you slide on is water—water on top of the ice! Ice, after all, is made of crystals, and crystals are rough, just like sand crystals. But when you move a ski or a sled runner over the ice, the friction melts a thin layer of water. That's what you slide on. See? But if it's too cold—like this—the ice doesn't melt at all. No melt, no slide.” Orde Lees was an experienced skier, so they figured he must know. But since he was the only one not pulling or pushing something, it was a little hard to listen to him describe why they had to work so hard.

  The whole line of hauling men stretched out about a half mile. Shackleton went ahead with three men to clear a path. The ice was so cracked and piled up, they had to chop through hummocks and shovel snow into makeshift ramps. After Shackleton came the seven dog teams. There was so much gear to carry that the dogs relayed the loads, pulling one as far as the cleared path, then returning for another while Shackleton chopped and leveled a few more yards. Finally came the men pulling the lifeboats. They also had to relay, dragging one boat a few hundred yards, then walking back for the other. They had to leave the third lifeboat behind entirely. It would take all their strength just to haul two. Orde Lees's job was to ski back and forth along the line, relaying information and directions. Someone had to do it, and he was the best skier, but it was hard for the men to watch him with such an easy job.

  “It's only yourself to blame,” Tim chided Billy when he grumbled. “There you were with your head in a book all winter when you could've been out on the ice, learning to ski.”

  “I'll remember that for the next time I'm stranded in Antarctica, thank you very much!”

  They had all tried the skis a few times over the winter, but it was a difficult skill that took a lot of practice. The wooden skis were
eight feet long and weighed fifteen pounds each. They needed different kinds of wax for different kinds of snow. Amundsen and his team had reached the South Pole partly because they were all good skiers. But they were Norwegians who had skied since they were born. And even Norwegians would have had trouble skiing here. The sea ice was heaved up and buckled, with hummocks and holes and pressure ridges taller than a man. Orde Lees could only manage by staying in the trail that Shackleton cleared.

  The men strained against the harnesses. Twelve men pulled from the front while Vincent and Perce pushed from behind. Two others pushed from the sides, trying to keep the awkward load on track. Perce dug his feet in and threw all his weight behind the sled. It was like pushing against a wall. By day's end they had covered barely one mile.

  “At least we're moving,” Billy said optimistically. “Better than just sitting around on our butts looking at the wreckage.”

  The worst part was that they could still see the wreckage they had left behind. The Endurance's twisted mast stuck out of the ice, awful as a broken bone. It was a sad and quiet camp that night. The temperature was climbing. A heavy wet snow fell that kept them trapped until the next afternoon. The rough sandy ice had been bad, but now warm temperature, fresh snow, and bright sunlight made it even worse. Now they were dragging the elephant through mashed potatoes. The men sweated and struggled, heaved and hacked and strained and pulled all day. Sometimes they sank up to their hips. After struggling all day, they had covered only another mile. At this rate, it would take them over a year to reach Snow Hill Island.

  October 30, 1915

  I think back, almost exactly one year, to when I first looked at our ship and felt burning with how much I wanted to go. I thought about how it could get hard and would I do all right. But I couldn't have thought how it could be so slow, and confusing and dull too. When the papers write stories about explorers, it always sounds very exciting. Even when they tell how Shackleton sledged day after day after day to get to the pole, those days don't sound like so much in the papers. Now we had one of those days, and I think we are in for a lot more. It is very long and very dull and everything hurts after, so I want to cry. But tomorrow we have to just do it again and not fail. That's really more of what exploring is, I suppose.

 

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