chapter twenty-seven
By April, the floe was bobbing like a raft on the currents. Waves washed across it regularly, soaking everything. There was no place to walk. Killer whales circled constantly. The men had their kits packed all the time, ready to run to the boats. Leads of water would open, then vanish as other floes came crashing together. Once a giant iceberg drifted straight for them like a slow-moving freight train. There was nothing they could do. They stood watching helplessly, expecting to be crushed any minute. Some men wept. Some shook hands and said their goodbyes. Shackleton lit a cigarette and stood watching with no sign of worry. At the last moment the huge berg veered a little and rumbled by them. It smacked a nearby floe instead, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
But finally, one evening just after supper, their floe cracked in two.
“The Caird!” Wild yelled, and started to run. They were about to lose the biggest lifeboat. It was half in the water, tipping dangerously and shipping water over the side. Perce raced after Wild. Together they leapt up and grabbed hold of the side. Tim and Worsley were right behind them. But the boat was filling with water. The four of them were lifted off the ice as the boat tilted farther. Perce clung to the wooden side. His feet kicked helplessly against the keel. He could feel the vibrations of the creaking wood in his chest. The four of them simply didn't weigh enough to right the heavy boat.
It seemed an eternity of dangling, but then other men caught hold and pulled. Slowly she started to come upright. Perce felt his feet hit the ice once again. He saw Shackleton, his face red, pulling on the lines with all his strength. In a few terrible minutes, the boat was sitting once again on solid ice. But even as they stood there, gasping for breath, they could see new cracks appearing beneath the sled runners. Then Shackleton's voice rang out.
“Strike the tents, gentlemen. Lash up and stow.”
It was time. Ice or not, they would have to take their chances. Every man had been assigned to a boat and given a specific job for the launching. The smaller boats would take eight and nine men, the James Caird, eleven. Perce and Billy would be in the Stancomb Wills with Crean. It was the least seaworthy boat, but having Crean more than made up for that. Tim was in the James Caird with Shackleton and Wild. Worsley would command the Dudley Docker.
The water was choppy as the men dragged the loaded Stancomb Wills toward the edge of the ice. They cut her loose from the sled and eased her into the water.
“Can you hold her, lad?” Crean asked Perce. “I need all hands to launch the others.”
“Aye.” Perce took hold of the rope and braced himself to hold the boat. Waves broke over the ice and sucked at his ankles. Even with his feet wet all the time, the shock of the freezing water was awful.
“We'll be needing you now, Blackie,” Crean said quietly. “You've grown up rowing, and half these men never rowed their arse across a bathtub. I'm counting on you.”
Perce just nodded. He was freezing cold and shaking with fear, but Crean's words made him feel stronger. “Iron Man” Crean, who had already braved about the worst a man could down here, was counting on him. Perce decided he would do it or die trying. He found his footing and held the boat in the tossing waves while the others dragged the Dudley Docker, then finally the James Caird into the sea. Finally all the boats were afloat. Everyone jumped in. Chunks of ice crashed all around them. Perce pulled on his oar with everything he had. It was a shock to discover how weak his arms were. The oars were fourteen feet long and hard to manage in the crowded boat.
“Row, you blighters! Row!” Crean shouted. “Billy—” He handed Billy an ice pike. “Go to the bow and fend off!”
The three boats pitched and tossed in the sloppy waves. They were caught in a “cross sea,” a place where the wind blew one way and the current ran the opposite. The combination made for big, choppy waves. Within a few minutes, half the men were seasick. The waves were so rough, they couldn't get the oars working together, for one would bite water and the other only air. The men who weren't rowing pushed chunks of ice away. Suddenly shouts erupted up and down the line of boats. Crean looked back over his shoulder.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” A wall of water two feet high was rushing toward them.
“Row!” Crean yelled. “Row for your bloody lives!” He grabbed an oar from a weaker man and with one powerful stroke got them moving. Some devilish current and cross of wind had stirred up a rip current. It was like a river, pushing up all the ice in its path, racing toward them like an avalanche.
Perce braced his feet and pulled with all his might. His muscles burned, and his hands became wood. He didn't know how long they raced the wave, minutes or hours. Finally they hit open water and the wall of ice fell away into the sea.
“Well done, men,” Crean gasped. “Spell the oarsmen.” Billy handed off his pike and came to relieve Perce.
“So how do I work these things?” Billy asked.
“Have you never rowed a boat?”
“Not much need for rowing in the north woods.”
“I'll stay on.”
“Come on, I need to warm up, and I've got to learn sometime. How hard can it be with all these knuckleheads doing just fine? Go and dry your feet,” Billy urged. “Much as you can anyway. Here.” He reached in his pocket and took out a precious pair of socks that were only slightly damp. Perce crawled to the bow but didn't have the energy to even undo his boots. It felt strange to be afloat again after so long. How long had it been? They had spent three months in Patience Camp, and was it two before that in Ocean Camp? And before that the months frozen in on the ship. He had to count on his fingers. Fourteen months since he had felt water under a hull.
They rowed all day. Thirty minutes on, thirty off. The Stancomb Wills was the slowest boat and stayed in the rear. McNeish had raised the sides of the other two boats, but there had not been enough wood for the Stancomb Wills: she had barely six inches of freeboard, and waves broke constantly over the gunwales. Their feet were wet all the time, and they had to bail constantly. It was terrifying at first to be in the water with so much ice crashing around, but after a while, Perce got used to even that. The bow was half covered with canvas and layers of ice built up as the waves washed over. They had to crawl up and knock the ice off. Spray froze on the men until their clothes crackled with ice. It was a wretched day, but spirits were high. At least they were doing something. No longer just sitting and waiting and drifting.
They rowed as long as the daylight lasted. As dusk approached, Shackleton began looking for a sturdy floe where they could camp for the night. He finally found one, and after six difficult attempts, they got the boats landed.
“And see there—dinner's waiting!” Hurley pointed out a large crabeater seal lying on the floe. Life was getting better all the time. Wild got the rifle, Charlie got the blubber stove, and within an hour, the men enjoyed a hot, filling meal of fried seal steaks. They could eat all they wanted. The boats were already too heavy to take more weight. They would carry only some blubber for fuel. As soon as they ate, the exhausted men crawled in their wet sleeping bags and fell asleep.
Shackleton set hour-long watches but still did not sleep himself. The swell was much bigger. The ice creaked and trembled. He was patroling the edge of the floe when there was a tremendous jolt. A crack ripped through the ice right between his feet. Even before he could shout an alarm, the crack raced on through the middle of camp. It split the ice in two, directly under the sailors' tent.
Perce woke when a gush of cold water splashed on his face. He bolted up in shock. It was too dark to see, but he could hear the open water just inches away. Chaos erupted in the tent. Men struggled to get out, kicking and crashing into each other in the dark, shouting and screaming.
“Someone's in!” Billy shouted. He plunged his arm into the black water. Ernie Holness, one of the stokers, had been sleeping right beside him. Now he was gone. Billy felt around in the black water. The breaking ice screeched in his ear. He plunged his arms deeper and finally f
elt a sleeping bag. He grabbed hold and pulled.
“Billy!” Perce shouted. “Where are you?”
“Here!” Billy gasped. Someone on the other side of the crack also caught hold of the bag, and together they hauled Holness's head above water.
“Hold still!” Billy shouted. Perce reached toward the voice, but the ice pitched up and tossed him back. Then the hoop poles of the tent stretched apart and the canvas fell down on top of them. Perce flailed at the canvas, reaching by instinct in the direction he thought Billy was. Finally he felt a leg and grabbed hold. Perce couldn't move under all the canvas, so he simply hung on, anchoring Billy with his body weight. The ice heaved up again, and Billy slid toward the open water. He was still holding on to Holness and couldn't stop himself. His chin scraped against the edge of the ice. The crack widened, and Holness sank again. Billy's face hit the water.
Then suddenly the canvas was pulled away and Shackleton was there. He plunged both arms into the water, grabbed Holness, and heaved him up on the ice, sleeping bag and all. Perce and Billy rolled to safety just as the crack slammed closed with a force that would have crushed them all.
“All well?” Shackleton gasped.
Before they could answer, another shout rang out—“Crack!” A new crack had split the floe. The James Caird and a dozen men were cut off. Wild grabbed a line and threw it across the open water. The men began to pull from both sides, dragging the ice chunks back together. Shackleton jumped across and helped the men push the James Caird over to the main floe. Then one by one, the stranded men jumped across. Shackleton, as usual, waited until the others were safely over. As he was about to jump, water surged up and pushed the pieces apart again. The tiny piece on which the Boss was standing began to drift away. Shackleton was stranded. Wild threw him the rope, but one man wasn't enough to pull against the strong current. The gap was too big for anyone to jump across to help him.
“Can you tie off ?” Wild shouted.
“No!” Shackleton replied. There was no hummock or anything he could tie the rope to. He was alone on a tiny raft of ice floating out into the Antarctic night.
“Launch a boat!” Wild cried. “I need hands!” Wild ran toward the Stancomb Wills. Perce, Tim, Crean, and some others threw themselves at the boat and shoved it into the water. They jumped aboard and grabbed the oars. Perce's blistered hands hurt with the first couple of strokes, but all he could think about was Shackleton.
“Boss?” Wild shouted into the black night.
“Here,” Shackleton replied faintly.
Wild called again, and Shackleton replied and the men tried to follow his voice. It was like a terrible game. They rowed a few strokes and called again. It wasn't more than ten minutes but seemed an eternity. Finally they bumped Shackleton's little ice raft. Wild pulled him aboard. Shackleton steadied himself on Perce's shoulder, and Perce felt a block of ice brush his cheek. It was Shackleton's coat sleeve frozen solid.
Back at what was left of the camp, Shackleton called the roll. As each man answered, they began to feel relief. Every man alive. Hurley lit the blubber stove, and Charlie boiled up some hot milk. They got Holness slightly warmed by the stove, then for the rest of the night they took turns walking him around to keep him from freezing. The water froze on his soaked clothing and fell off with little tinkles like wind chimes.
Dawn came with little cheer. The wind was strong, and launching the boats was difficult in the choppy water, but within an hour, they were once again rowing. When the wind picked up, they tried to sail, but only the James Caird could trim her sails well enough to handle the conditions. Shackleton insisted they should stay together, so he lowered one of his own sails to keep pace with the slower boats. They were eager to be free of the dangerous pack ice, but once they broke out into blue water, they had another cruel surprise. The open sea was far too rough for the little boats. They had to retreat to the shelter of the pack ice. They rowed and bailed and rowed and bailed. For lunch, they each had a piece of cold pemmican, six sugar cubes, and half a cup of water. Everyone was thirsty. Perce's lips were cracked. Shackleton knew the men desperately needed rest. No one had slept more than an hour or two in the past two days. As soon as the weather eased, they would have to go into open water, and then there would be no place to stop. He finally decided to risk camping on another iceberg. Landing was difficult; they had to haul the boats up a five-foot ledge of ice. Dinner was more cold pemmican, barely warm milk, and two lumps of sugar. But after so long with no sleep, hardly anyone cared. They crawled in their wet sleeping bags, and most fell asleep within minutes.
Perce lay awake, shivering. He couldn't tell how much from cold and how much from terror. Cold air seeped into his sleeping bag. No one buttoned up the bags anymore for fear of being trapped. They kept their boots on too, and Perce's feet ached. It wasn't so hard in the daytime, when there was work to do. But now in the dark terrible night, Perce was afraid he was falling apart. He wanted to cry and trembled with the effort not to. Here was the test he had wondered about so long ago on the dock in Buenos Aires. What if things got tough and he turned out to be weak? What if he was a coward? What if he wasn't strong enough, smart enough, brave enough?
He turned on his side and buried his face in the wet fur.
“Perce?” Billy whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?” Perce pressed his face harder into the sleeping bag, afraid to speak. Billy threw an arm around him. Finally Perce whispered.
“I—I don't think I can do this.”
“Don't think, then.” Perce felt Billy's arm tighten around him. Billy was shaking too. “Don't think. Just do.”
chapter twenty-eight
They rowed through another day and night. Everyone's hands were raw with blisters. Perce could no longer feel his feet. All around them, killer whales circled. One bumped against the boat and surfaced so close, Perce felt the warm mist of its blow.
On the fourth night, a heavy, wet snow fell, soaking through their clothes. Perce made his brain go empty. There was no cold, no sea, no tomorrow. Only this: stroke, stroke, stroke. And terrible, awful thirst. After a while he couldn't remember why they were rowing, but it didn't matter. It was lovely to row. He stopped shivering. He felt warm and peaceful.
“Okay, Perce. My turn.” He felt a big hand on his shoulder.
He shook the hand away. Why were people always interrupting when things were nice?
“Perce—take a break.”
“No.”
“Come on, time to switch off.”
Perce was confused. He felt his hands being pried off the oar. This frightened him, for then he would have nothing to hold on to. He struggled and tried to push away the hands.
“Perce—what's the matter? Do you know where you are? It's me, Crean. Get yourself together, man.”
Crean shook him. Perce felt a rush of cold air flood over him.
“Sorry. I must have been sleeping.”
“Something like that. Now come have a rest.”
Crean pulled on his arm, and Perce stood up. Then he stumbled and fell over the thwart. He could not feel his feet at all. Finally the sun rose. The men blinked and looked around like dead men rising from the grave. The winds had dropped, and the sea was calm. It was even warm, almost ten degrees above zero. Within an hour, they found a floe big enough to tie up to. Charlie and the blubber stove were put “ashore.” Soon black smoke was chugging up into the sky. There was enough room for the men to get out and stretch their legs.
Perce stumbled around on the edge of the ice. It was so queer to walk and not feel your feet.
Worsley got out the sextant to take a sight. It would be the first one since they took to the boats. Everyone speculated on how far they had come. Twenty miles? Thirty or more? Clarence and Elephant islands were only sixty miles away when they took their last reading in Patience Camp. They might be halfway there. Worsley sat down in the James Caird with his little stub of pencil and the tables. He did the math.
He frowned. He did it again. The men waited anxiously. Finally Shackleton told them the bad news. They had not done as well as expected. In fact, the little boats had been carried east by the strong currents. They were now farther from land than when they were in Patience Camp.
The news was devastating. Some men wept. Some argued that the sight or math had to be wrong. Perce closed his eyes and pressed his cold fingers against them, trying to feel anything else but this horror.
“We'll check again at noon,” Shackleton assured them. “And the wind is picking up. We'll just set a new course. Meanwhile, finish your drink and let's go on.”
They rowed silently. No one even tried to raise spirits; sometimes you just had to feel as bad as you felt. Worsley took the noon sight and did not even bother telling them the longitude and latitude. He just shook his head.
The wind grew steadily stronger all day and they could finally sail all three boats. But that night, the temperature began to fall. Perce could actually hear the seawater freezing around the boat. It was a delicate little sound, like when you sprinkle cinnamon sugar on a piece of toast. It was impossible to row safely anymore that night, so they tied the three boats up again, one behind the other in a line. Worsley made a sea anchor by lashing two oars together in the shape of a cross. As they drifted, the sea anchor would keep their bows pointed into the wind. If they turned broadside to the waves, they would quickly be tipped over. One man in each boat would also have to hold the tiller all night.
The men huddled together and tried to sleep. In the Stancomb Wills, there was not enough room to lie down. Waves washed over the side, so their feet were always wet. Shackleton stayed awake all night, checking on the men and constantly testing the lines that held the boats together. Once he called out to the men in the Stancomb Wills.
Shackleton's Stowaway Page 14