Shackleton's Stowaway

by Victoria McKernan

  “Are you all well?”

  “All well,” Crean replied in a croaky voice. “Well, I'll have to go to confession as soon as I get home,” he said to Perce under his breath. “For that's the biggest damn lie I've ever told.” He had been at the tiller for hours, singing to himself to stay awake. Crean sang all the time he was steering. No one could ever tell exactly what he was singing. He only sang in three or four notes, and those notes were flat. It might have been Irish ballads. It might have been Buddhist chants.

  “It could be bloody Mongolian folk songs for all we can tell,” Billy laughed.

  Even before it got light enough to see, Perce knew something was wrong with the boat. She just wasn't floating right. As the sky lightened, what he saw was terrifying. All three boats were encased in a thick shell of ice.

  Crean nudged the nearest sleeping man in the pile of bodies. “Up gently, boys,” he said calmly. “Don't anyone move.” The Stancomb Wills was so heavy, the gunwales were barely two inches above the water. So it wasn't a dream. Perce carefully shifted and reached out his hand. He felt ice a foot thick.

  “Boss?” Crean called out.

  “Aye,” Shackleton croaked. “I see. Let's raft up.”

  “Easy does it, lads,” Crean directed. They carefully brought the three boats alongside each other and tied up for stability. Perce slowly unbent his cramped body. His coat crackled with ice. He looked around for a tool. There was nothing near but a long iron pike. He wasn't sure he could stand to use it. For one thing, the boat was too unstable. For another, his feet felt odd. He tried wiggling them to get the blood moving. Perhaps it was just the awkward way he had been sitting.

  The sounds of chipping ice rang out rhythmically.

  All the men were stiff with cold and dizzy with fatigue. Five minutes' work left them shaking. Some could not or would not work at all. Orde Lees lay seasick and moaning, curled up in the only sheltered spot on the Dudley Docker. The other men were furious at him. He had pushed another man out to take the place and refused to let anyone else in.

  Billy crab-walked down from the bow, keeping his weight low so as not to tip the boat. He had been hammering ice off the bow. His cheeks were flushed from the exertion. He held his hammer out to Perce.

  “Go on, have a turn. It's fun. Warms you up nice.”

  “In a minute.”

  “What? You joining the slackers now?” Perce turned his face away into the wind. He felt scared and embarrassed.

  “Perce?” Billy crawled over and sat beside him. “What's wrong?”

  “My feet,” Perce whispered. “Something's wrong. Don't tell the Boss, but I don't think I can stand.”

  There wasn't much need to tell Shackleton anything. He knew his men well. When he saw Orde Lees refusing to work, he wasn't surprised. But when he saw Perce sitting silently doing nothing, he was worried. A little while later, Doc Macklin came climbing across the boats and wiggled into a spot near Perce and Billy.

  “How's everyone over here? Doing well?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, we took the seasick for you up front, I'll say. Bumpy ride, that. Of course, hardest part was trying to restrain ourselves from throwing the Old Lady overboard. Says he can't row, isn't any good at it. And by God, when we gave him a chance, he worked hard to prove he wasn't.”

  A great chunk of ice fell from the side just then, and the boat rocked in a rebound. They all held on until it settled again. Macklin looked Perce up and down.

  “Boss says you were limping a bit on the floe yesterday,” he went on in the same casual tone. “Shall I have a look at your feet? Could be a touch of frostbite. Greenstreet has one foot pretty bad. I've had a bit of trouble myself.”

  “They don't hurt,” Perce said. “But I can't seem to get them to work.”

  Macklin gently eased Perce's left boot off and peeled down the sock. Perce saw him flinch, then look away.

  “Is it frostbite?” he asked, worried by the doctor's abrupt silence.

  “Well—” Macklin cleared his throat. The foot was frozen solid. He gently pressed on the skin. It was white and waxy, the underlying flesh hard as a piece of marble. He felt in vain for a pulse on top of the foot. He checked the other foot and found it the same.

  “Well, the cold has rather got to them,” Macklin finally said. “But you'll be more comfortable if we just leave them alone for now. Until we get to some proper shelter.” He bit his lip. “As long as they're cold, they won't hurt so much. If we try to thaw them now, we risk more damage when they refreeze.” Macklin picked up Perce's wet sock, and little bits of ice crumbled off. “We'll switch you to the James Caird,” Macklin suggested. “It's not so wet.”

  “No!” Perce said quickly. “I want to stay. I can still row.” His own voice sounded far off. “And what's the sense if my feet are already gone? They won't get any worse here.” He couldn't bear the thought of another man taking his place and risking the same fate. “I can row.” Perce stared at his feet with a weird mix of horror and revulsion. They looked like statue feet. There was a buzz in his head and golden sparkles at the front of his brain. He could hear no sound except the clang and crash of ice being smashed off the boats. Then he felt hands on his back and the warm breath of someone speaking in his ear. The voice was faint and tinny.

  “There you go, lad. Put your head down a minute. Won't do to faint.”

  When his head cleared, Perce found he was leaning against Billy, and Tim was sitting across with a handful of nut bars. The smell of peanuts was overpowering. Tim smiled through a mouthful.

  “Come on, Perce.” He pressed a bar into Perce's hand and raised his own like a toast. “Boss ordered a gorgie. Eat our fill, he said!”

  Shackleton had opened a case of sledging rations and told the men to eat as much as they wanted. In the next boat, the Primus stove was hissing and the pot bubbling. Perce took a bite, but his mouth was so dry, he couldn't chew. He carefully spit the bite out in his hand to save for when he got a drink. He looked down at his feet and saw that his boots were back on. That was good. He couldn't bear to look at the horrible white flesh.

  “Do you think Doc will have to cut my feet off ?”

  “Oh, no,” Billy said confidently. “Well, a couple of toes, maybe. Not much.”

  “Bits and pieces,” Tim offered. “Hardly nothing at all!”

  They were silent for a while. Then Perce took a deep breath. “Do you suppose they'll be any good for eating, then? The bits he whacks off ?” Billy stared at him for a minute, then the three friends started laughing. They laughed and laughed until it hurt. What else could they do? They laughed until the tears froze on their cheeks.

  chapter twenty-nine

  Almost as soon as the boats were chipped free, the wind picked up. By noon, it was almost a gale.

  “She's blowing our way, boys!” Crean shouted. “Touch wood.” It was hard to trust fortune by now, but the good wind held strong and the boats raced along. Worsley figured the course would take them to Elephant Island, maybe even by nightfall. It was the sixth day in the boats, and the men could not be more wretched. Their faces were cracked, their bodies covered with saltwater boils. Everyone had some frostbite. Empty stomachs growled, but thirst was the cruelest affliction. The pack ice was not very good for water, since there was still a lot of salt in it. Some of the men tried chewing on pieces of raw seal, but it was little help and maybe worse. The seal blood was salty.

  Besides that, most were now suffering diarrhea. The only way to handle that was to drop your pants and hang your bare bottom over the side while other men held your arms. The freezing water would splash up on you the whole time. The only relief was the promise of land, and finally, by late afternoon, the mountains and cliffs of Elephant Island came into view. Some dared to believe they would be ashore that very night.

  They were wrong.

  Around five o'clock, the wind simply stopped. They took up the oars again. They were only a mile offshore now. But hard as they rowed, they got no closer.
The currents near the island churned and spun into whirlpools. The wind screamed down the cliffs and held them off. They could not fight these forces. There would be one more night in the boats. At least they knew it would only be one more. For after this, they would either land or die.

  All Perce remembered from that long night was a hand in the darkness. It was impossible that he could have seen it. It was so dark, the men in his own boat were only shadows. But he remembered seeing the hand, glowing like the hand of an angel, holding on to the rope that tied their boat to the others. Of course it was not an angel but Shackleton. He didn't trust the worn old rope, so he held it all night. He called to the men throughout the night, trying to keep spirits up. But his voice was so hoarse, he could hardly speak.

  “Blackborow? he called once.

  “Here, sir,” Perce croaked.

  “We shall be on Elephant Island tomorrow. No one has ever landed there before, and as you are our youngest member, you will be the first ashore.”

  Perce knew he should feel honored, but instead he felt strangely annoyed, even angry. Damn him! he thought. That means I'll have to stay alive all night! He wanted to go to sleep and not have to wake. But Shackleton ordered it, so Perce would have to try and stay alive one more night. I can't let him down now. I can't let him down. Perce said it over and over to himself through the endless bitter night.

  Daylight came, and all twenty-eight men clung to life. There was no cup of hot milk, not even a sip of water. Those who were still able picked up the oars. For a week, the promise of land had kept hope alive. Now the cruel reality of this land hit them hard. Elephant Island was a rock. A bleak, desolate rock, nothing but cliffs and boulders. There was no beach, no inlet, no cove or bay. No place to land.

  “I think when we round the point, we'll have better luck!” Shackleton's voice was almost gone. His eyes were sunken in his blistered face. They rowed on. It was afternoon when they finally saw a narrow fringe of rocks just offshore, with what might be a channel. The spray from crashing waves was high, but it was the best landing they had seen so far.

  “Heave to,” Shackleton told Wild. He watched the waves for a while, studying the shore. “We might do it. We just might do it,” he whispered. “I'll go in with the Stancomb Wills first,” he directed. “She's lighter and easier to maneuver.” The two boats pulled together, and Shackleton climbed over. Crean maneuvered them into perfect position. The men, facing backward, sculled to keep the boat in place until the right moment. Perce saw the perfect wave coming and felt his blood warm and his head clear with the challenge. If they let the boat slip broadside, a wave would crush them into the rocks. The boat surged forward with the swell, then coasted easily over the shoal and into the calm water. One more wave and they felt the hull scrape the rocky beach. Land. No one said a word. They were too stunned to cheer.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Blackie?” Shackleton grabbed hold of his arm. “A red carpet? Off with you now! Claim it for England!” He hoisted Perce over the side. Perce fell to his hands and knees. A wave knocked him over, and he sat in the surf.

  “Come on, stand up.”

  “I—I can't, sir,” Perce stammered.

  “His feet, Boss—” Billy said as he quickly jumped over and pulled Perce up.

  “Oh, bloody hell—I'm sorry, Perce.” Shackleton's voice choked. “I'm so sorry.” He started to climb out, but Billy stopped him.

  “I've got him, Boss.” Billy threw Perce's arm over his shoulders and dragged him up the beach. Billy could barely walk himself. The others got out and staggered like drunken men. When Billy set him down, Perce couldn't sit up. The whole world was spinning. He fell back on the stones and dug his hands in, holding on to the earth.

  Billy had to leave him and hurry back to the boat. Four other men had to be dragged ashore, too weak to walk. Then they carried the blubber stove up onto the beach. Crean cut up some blubber and got the fire going while Billy filled a pot with ice to melt. Frail little Charlie had collapsed two days ago, but as soon as he had his “kitchen” back, he revived. Still, he could only stand up for a few minutes at a time. He would wobble over to the stove and put in a piece of blubber, then lie back down until he gathered enough strength to stir the pot.

  “Have you any more in you, lads?” Shackleton said with as much cheer as he could muster. “I think the James Caird is too heavy to get over the shoal. We'll have to shuttle her cargo in first.”

  “Aye,” Crean said. He sat heavily on one of the crates and put his head down between his knees. Billy could only nod. For the few able-bodied, there were many hours of hard labor still ahead.

  chapter thirty

  Perce lay on the rocks. His head was spinning. For the next few hours, nothing made sense. Boats came and went away again. Some men staggered over the rocks with crates and bundles. Others wandered the beach, screaming, crying, cursing, laughing, stumbling. Someone killed a seal and started hacking off chunks of meat and eating it raw. Then a dozen seals appeared pulling a sled. On the sled were four fluffy puppies. They came up to Perce, and he tried to pet them, but they started chewing on his feet. He tried to kick them off but found he couldn't move. More boats came. Now there were dozens of dark ragged men. It was a crew from a workhouse in Nicholas Nickleby. An endless procession of penguins walked past in single file. Each one stopped in front of him and bowed. He had to smash every one in the head. A cup appeared in his hand. It was full of hot, sweet milk. Thousands of white fairies flew from tall black castles. Then, happily, nothing for a while.

  When Perce woke, the sun was bright overhead. His head felt clear. Thirst was gone. He sat up on his elbows and blinked. They really were on land. That part wasn't a dream, thank God. There were no fairies, only terns and gulls. He saw smoke rising from the blubber stove.

  “Hello, are you back with us?”

  Perce turned and saw Greenstreet. “Aye. Was I—was I off my head?”

  “Not bad as some,” Greenstreet said. “And not so long. We're all taking turns at the collapsing. Only fair.”

  “Are your feet very bad?” Perce asked.

  “Just the one.” Greenstreet kicked his good foot around to demonstrate. “And it may be starting to thaw. Hurts a bugger.”

  “That's good, isn't it?” Perce could still feel nothing in his own feet.

  “I suppose it is, yes.” Greenstreet laughed. Perce sat up all the way and stretched. He actually felt remarkably good. Certainly better than he had felt in a week. His boots were off, and his clothes were half dry from the sun. He saw two other men lying on the other side of Greenstreet. Both were asleep or unconscious.

  “Are we at the infirmary, then?”

  “Aye.” Greenstreet smiled. “And here's our lovely nurse.”

  Doc Macklin came over and squatted beside them.

  “Food's almost ready, and the stove is warm. You can come sit near if you keep your feet away. We don't want to thaw them until we know we can keep them that way.” He put Greenstreet's arm over his shoulders and helped him hop away. Perce tried pressing his feet against the stones. Could he hop? He couldn't bear to be carried. He looked up and cringed when he saw Shackleton coming toward him.

  “Can I give you a hand to the stove, lad?”

  “I'm fine here. Thank you.”

  “Come on, join your mates. It's a party.”

  “I don't really want to go just yet, Boss. If you don't mind.”

  “Oh, come on—” Shackleton took his arm, but Perce shook it off in a flash of anger. “Perce—” Shackleton said quietly. “Everyone's knackered one way or another. There's no shame in that.”

  “Can you please just leave me alone, sir?”

  “No.” Shackleton sat on the rocks beside him. “Look, Perce,” he said in a low voice. “Every man here is one tiny step from breaking down. And it's going to get worse. Right now, we're in paradise just because we're on solid ground. Tomorrow, when reality sinks in—well, we're in for a long, rough time of it. I need you to be brave.”
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  Perce squeezed his eyes shut.

  “But I'm not brave,” he said. He tried to stop himself, but words came tumbling out. “I thought all along I would be. Or that I would try to be, or I would die trying. But I thought it would be like—like Wild was brave when he shot the charging sea leopard. Or like Crean was brave when he saved his mate. Brave where you can do something.” Perce wiped his face on his sleeve, and the half-frozen cloth scratched his cracked lips. He was glad for the sting. “What can I do now? I can't carry gear. I can't kill seals. I can't even chop ice for water. I'm useless.”

  “We have plenty of men to carry gear and chop ice.” Shackleton rubbed his hands over his face and looked out at the ocean. “Sometimes being brave is very dull,” he said. “Sometimes it's just keeping quiet when you want to fuss or being optimistic when there's no bloody hope. You've done that, Perce. I need you to keep with it now. You're the worst off, lad. If the men see you going on all right, they'll feel they can come through this too.”

  “I don't know that I can, sir.”

  “Do you trust me, lad?”

  “Oh, yes, sir!”

  “Then trust me when I say I know you can. Could that be enough?”

  “I don't know. If I lose my feet—”

  “You won't,” Shackleton interrupted sharply. “Toes, maybe. Maybe a little more. Not much. Just enough for a good story.” He smiled. “You'll have a wee bit of a limp, and the ladies will say, ‘Oh, poor lad, what happened to you?’ And you'll say, ‘Oh, 'tis nothing at all. A bit of frostbite, you see. From when I was exploring in Antarctica with Shackleton.’ Oh, my—they'll be eating that up with a spoon.”

  Perce laughed in spite of himself.

  “But why am I the only one so bad?”

  “I don't know. You weren't exactly sailing in first class, were you? And sometimes it just happens how it happens.” Shackleton looked at the men huddling around the smoky stove. “Did you know that on my first trip down here, with Scott in 1901, I was invalided home?”