Shackleton's Stowaway

by Victoria McKernan

  Perce shook his head, surprised.

  “Three of us were out sledding for months: myself, Scott, and Ed Wilson—a great man he was. It was a horrible trek. We were off on what Scott called the Southern Journey, just trying to see how far we could get toward the pole. We had no clue what we were doing. We were out for three months. We had no dogs, Scott didn't believe in using dogs, so we were man-hauling all the way. All three of us starving and with the scurvy. Scott would never say it was scurvy. It was taboo, you know. But then I developed something else, a problem with my lungs. I was coughing up blood. I couldn't breathe. Toward the end, I couldn't pull. I skied alone behind the sleds while Scott and Wilson pulled. I was so ashamed. Later, when Scott told the story, he said I had broken down. That's how he put it: broken down. Our invalid, he called me. It seemed everything to me at the time. That I wasn't man enough.”

  Perce thought about this for a while. “So when did you know you really were?”

  “Really were what? Man enough?” Shackleton laughed. “When will I know, you mean.” He turned his face from the sea and looked at Perce. The lively blue eyes were so terribly tired. “When we all get home alive. Maybe absent a few toes, but alive.”

  Shackleton dragged his fingers through his long, greasy hair. For the first time since Perce had met him, Shackleton seemed like an ordinary man.

  “I like the glory, lad,” he sighed. “I won't pretend I don't. But when the speeches are over and the clapping stops and everyone goes home, it's your own heart you're left with. Your own conscience asking, did I do enough for my men? So. I've little hope of glory after this, but you can save me from failure.” Shackleton stood up and held out his hand. “Come on. I'm strong yet. They won't even know you're being helped.”

  Perce took Shackleton's hand and let him pull him up.

  The eating never stopped that day. They kept the fire going and the pan hot. It felt like a picnic, though a very strange picnic. It had been 497 days since they had last stood on land. Some men were silent; some talked without stopping. Billy, one of the few who had worked to the end unloading the boats, finally collapsed on the bare rocks and slept as if on a feather bed. Hurley walked off by himself to the end of the spit and sat watching the birds. McNeish looked over their boats, obsessively examining every crack and split as if he had to repair them immediately. Orde Lees sat at the edge of the circle. He was trying to be helpful now, but some of the men were still mad at him. He had partly redeemed himself toward the end of the terrible trip by bailing for several hours when the boat was swamped by waves. Worsley said Orde Lees had single-handedly saved them from sinking. Others were not so generous. “He was the only one strong enough to bail, for he hadn't rowed a lick all week!” McNeish insisted.

  Charlie hardly said a word, for he was either laughing or grinning all the time. He laughed as he sliced up seal steaks and grinned as they sizzled in the pan. Sometimes he stomped his feet a little, as if checking to be sure they really were on dry land. All who could stand stood around the stove, and those who couldn't sat on crates or lay on the rocks nearby. Tim told stories as if he were back home in a comfortable pub. He was making the horrible boat journey sound like a rollicking good time full of comical adventure.

  “So there's old Holie—just pulled out o' the water. Soaked through and the floe all busted up and the Boss drifting away on a bit of ice—” Tim waved to an imaginary figure in the distance. “Goodbye, Boss! It's been nice sailing with you! And of course here's McNeish trying to rescue him—” Tim switched to a heavy Scottish accent. “Why, na ya doon't, ya blighter— y'er na gett'n away so easy! Na afore ya sign my paycheck!” The men were rolling with laughter at this.

  “While over here—” Tim switched accents again and mimicked the dunked sailor Holness desperately patting his clothes and looking worried. “My 'baccy!” he said in perfect imitation. “I've lost all my 'baccy! You'd think he lost a million pounds, not his bloody tobacco!”

  “I'd smoke the million pounds if I did have it,” growled Holness. “Or spend it on one good pipeful.”

  They made camp slowly. Sleeping bags were spread on the rocks to dry. The tent poles and hoops had been thrown away to cut weight, so they rigged makeshift tents using the oars. Every man had some frostbite, and Doc Macklin was busy bandaging with whatever scraps of cloth he could find. The weather stayed kind. The sky was clear, the moon bright.

  “Can you believe we're on good solid earth again?” Billy said. “Do you think we could ever tell anyone how we're feeling right now?”

  “Naw. You need words from books, not our own heads. You need one of the Boss's poets to tell it,” Perce said.

  “Ha,” Tim laughed. “Wouldn't you like to see Mr. Byron or Mr. Browning out here just now? With those poetical shirts all flapping in the wind! You think they would've made it this far?”

  “And that Mr. Coleridge,” Billy added. “Well, that ‘Ancient Mariner’ was a bang-up poem, but Boss said Coleridge wasn't even a sailor at all! He just walked around the countryside in England, dreaming it all up.”

  “Aye.” Perce stretched out on his bed of stones. “Wish this was something we just dreamed up.”

  chapter thirty-one

  The sky was still clear the next morning, and Shackleton let them sleep late. All morning he simply strolled around and asked how everyone was feeling. Some men wouldn't say anything, as if pretending the hellish journey hadn't even happened. Others wouldn't stop talking, as if that were the only way to get all the bad memories out. Shackleton let each deal with it as he wanted. When they were finally all awake and full again on seal meat, he gathered them all up around the stove.

  “I'm afraid I've a bit of bad news,” he said simply. “If you haven't noticed the water marks on the cliffs, look around now.” Crean and Wild did not look up. Perce looked carefully for the first time and saw the clear signs on the rocks. By the amount of fresh seaweed and debris, it looked like the beach had been covered fairly recently.

  “It looks like this place is underwater more often than not,” Shackleton went on matter-of-factly. “So we're going to scout out a better place somewhere up along the coast.” A horrified murmur of objection rumbled through the ragged group. “Wild and Worsley will take a few men out tomorrow in the Dudley Docker.”

  Perce glanced at Tim and saw the shadow of fear seize his friend. He was easily the best small boat sailor and among the few men strong enough to go. Tim said nothing, but Perce saw his shoulders slump, his whole body shrinking into itself as if he could vanish before the cruel task. But a minute later, when Wild walked over and squatted beside him, Tim just nodded.

  April 17, 1916

  My mind is dull. So can I even write? But it is about heroes I'm thinking, and duty. It is easy to see Shackleton as a hero, and Wild and Crean as well. And they are, for we would long ago be dead. But isn't Tim just as much today for saying he would go? You could say was only duty. But I think I understand now what Shackleton said yesterday, how hero is not always doing something grand. It's when things get so bad, and you keep on anyway. Like Charlie Green signed on to be ship's cook in a neat little galley with proper stores. Now he whacks up bloody penguins and stands through all evil weather over the sooty fire every day. He could have said bugger that. But he hasn't. Even just Hussey playing music to cheer us up, with his hands so cold. All just doing their duty. But more. And I feel proud of them.

  For the men on the beach, the day passed in sunny relaxation. They mended clothes and cut their beards, aired out the sleeping bags, and ate their fill. For the men out scouting, the day was a long, cold struggle. They sailed and rowed along the rough coast of Elephant Island, searching for a better home. The beach needed to be high enough to stay dry in the worst storms. There had to be a glacier for water and enough seals and penguins to feed them for several months. Most importantly, they had to be able to get the boats in and out. No one back at the beach talked about it, but Perce knew everyone was thinking the same thing. What if there was
no place?

  Darkness fell, and the scouts had still not returned. Shackleton paced the rocky beach, looking anxiously out to sea. He kept the blubber stove going with the door open so the light would guide them in. Finally, a little after eight, they heard Wild hail from the darkness. Shackleton ran down to the shore, waving a bit of white sailcloth to guide them in over the dangerous shoals. All who could walk went down to help pull the boat in. Perce watched from the beach as the shadows approached and turned into men in the light of the stove. Tim sank down on a crate by the stove but tumbled right off it again, too exhausted to even sit up. Even Wild staggered. It was the first time Perce had seen a crack in his unshakable strength. Shackleton quickly handed around mugs of hot milk.

  After a few sips, Wild could talk. “We found a place. About seven miles away. No one will mistake it for the Garden of Eden, but I think it will do.”

  “Good, then,” Shackleton said with relief. “Well done. The weather is closing in. We'll leave first thing in the morning.”

  April 18, 1916

  New camp on the bad side of nowhere and through hell to get here. Storm hit just after we started out yesterday morning, kept at us all day. Sleet and wind so we could hardly see. Just getting in the boats to leave was bad. Some men cried, out of their heads with the fear of it all over again. They had to be dragged over and hauled in the boats. I think there is not one of us who is altogether right today. All are wet through, and the storm still raging. Men were fainting and having spells. I could only watch it all, of course. Doing nothing. Trying, as the Boss said, to keep up spirits. But all the angels in heaven couldn't do that here. Now we are lying under one of the boats for shelter. The tents are all torn from the wind. The blizzard won't let up.

  It was a long way to get here, seven hard miles and the sea rougher than any yet. I wanted a turn at the oars, but Doc said no, for pressing on my feet would be bad. It would tear them all up, he said, because they are frozen so hard. But it would make me warm too and not feel like a sack of potatoes to be carted around. And a sack of potatoes would be much more welcome here! My boat nearly smashed on the rocks coming in. That was pretty bad. Then the men had to stand waist-deep in the water to unload everything. And carry me ashore.

  We were the last boat to land. The first men in killed a sea elephant, and when we landed, some of the men had hands so cold, they ran over and put them in the carcass to warm. Then Rickinson, one of our engineers, fell over with a heart attack. He's still alive, but Doc doesn't know. We set up the tents, but during the night, all were ripped or collapsed from the wind. So we just lay there the rest of the night under the canvas, no one with the strength to move. Today we turned over one of the boats for some shelter, and here we are. No more now.

  chapter thirty-two

  The men called their new home Cape Wild. It was partly to honor Frank Wild, who had found it, but partly because it was simply the most wild and inhospitable place anyone had ever seen. It was a narrow strip of rocky peninsula, barely a hundred yards long and thirty yards across. There was a cliff and glacier at one end and scattered rock islands at the other. Waves washed from both sides, but the ground in the middle seemed high enough. It was obviously a penguin rookery in the breeding season, and the birds would not nest where they would be washed away. During that first terrible night, the wind was so violent that it picked up one of the boats and spun it around like a toy. The men could do nothing but huddle together under the canvas of the collapsed tents. Daylight brought little relief. The hard wind never stopped. Shards of ice and pebbles zinged around like buckshot.

  Finally, on the second day, the wind eased. Slowly the men began to crawl out and have a good look at their new home. Billy and Tim carried Perce to some dry rocks. For a while they all just stood around dumbly. Then Hurley got the blubber stove going. Billy and Tim went to chop ice from the glacier. Crean and Wild examined the torn tents. Everyone was weary and disoriented. A man would start doing one thing, then forget what he was doing, drift away, sit down, and pick up a handful of rocks. Even Shackleton moved slowly, like a deep-sea diver plodding across the ocean floor.

  By afternoon, things settled down. McNeish built a windbreak for the stove, and Charlie cooked up some seal hoosh. He flavored it with the last of the curry powder. It was a rare treat.

  “I think I'll move to India after this,” Crean said as he devoured his. “Eat curry every day.”

  “Too hot in India,” Hurley said.

  “The devil's own kitchen won't be too hot for me!”

  “Are you not liking your accommodations here, Mr. Crean?” Shackleton asked.

  “Oh, no, sir, they're very fine. Very fine indeed. Why, just like the best hotel in London, the bed won't crack in two or melt away from under you while you're sleeping.” They all laughed.

  “Well, speaking of our accommodations,” Shackleton went on casually. “As I'm sure you all agree, there are not so many attractions here that would keep fine gentlemen such as yourselves entertained for very long.”

  The laughter fell away, and the men exchanged nervous glances. Was Shackleton thinking of moving them all again?

  “You all know that Elephant Island, paradise as it is, was not exactly our first choice of destinations. The whaling ships don't come anywhere near, so we can't count on rescue from them. No one from England is going to be looking for us for another year at best. So I've decided to take a few men and sail up to South Georgia Island.” This was not a complete surprise to the men. It was one of many plans they had considered since the Endurance sank. But now that they'd had a taste of the open sea, this plan seemed awful. Just one week in the small boats had nearly killed them, and the distance to South Georgia was eight times as far. Besides that, when they left the crumbling ice floe ten days ago, they had several possible “targets” to hit. Now Shackleton would have only one. One tiny island in the middle of a vast stormy sea.

  “It's a bit of a journey,” Shackleton went on. “I've asked Mr. Worsley to come along, since he's pretty handy with the navigation, and McNeish, for he can keep us afloat. I'll need three more men.”

  Several hands shot up immediately, but Shackleton waved them down. “No need to all jump at once. This is something to think about. I don't need to tell you how it will be. We need a few days to prepare the James Caird, so there's plenty of time to think about it.”

  “Will you go, Billy?” Perce asked that night as they tried to sleep under one of the overturned boats.

  “If he'll take me.”

  “I know how you hate sitting around.”

  “That is the truth,” Billy whispered. Sound echoed terribly under the boat. “It's going to be a rotten journey, though.”

  “Aye. But Shackleton can do it.”

  If it could be done. No one spoke it, but all thought it. Sailing to South Georgia was all but impossible. Navigating that distance and hitting one tiny island would be like throwing a dart and hitting a tennis ball a mile away. But there was no other option. They could not survive here for long. A tiny chance was better than no chance at all.

  Preparations kept everyone busy for the next few days. McNeish didn't have many tools left, but he managed to shore up the James Caird. He took the mast from the Stancomb Wills and used it to strengthen the keel. With bits of wood from packing cases and the old sleds, he built the gunwales up even higher. An open boat could not possibly make the trip, but there was not enough wood to build a deck unless they took apart one of the other boats. So instead he built a framework of sticks to be covered with canvas. All the canvas had of course been soaked and was now frozen solid. They thawed it bit by bit over the stove. It was still so stiff, they had to use pliers to pull the needle through.

  Orde Lees carefully packed up a six-week supply of the sledging rations. Men chipped ice all day and kept the stove burning around the clock to melt it. They filled two casks with water and chopped out some extra blocks of ice to take along. Once they were in the open ocean, they could not count on finding
good ice.

  Perce sewed sacks for ballast stones. He was glad there were jobs he could help with. He couldn't walk at all now or even bear pressure on his feet. His legs up to the knees were swollen three times their size, and the work kept his mind off the pain. The James Caird needed ballast to keep her steady, but they could not just fill her hull with loose rocks. They would roll around in rough seas and be difficult to throw overboard if necessary.

  While the James Caird was being made ready, the men were also at work building a more permanent shelter. First they dug out a cave in the glacier but soon abandoned that idea. Their body heat melted too much ice, and it was always wet inside. The new plan was to make a hut out of the two smaller lifeboats. They would build walls of stones, then set the boats upside down on top for a roof. It was a grueling job. There weren't many big stones on the beach, so the men had to carry them a long distance. They had to make the walls thick enough to stand up to the ferocious winds. There was no grass or moss or even mud to stuff between the rocks. Elephant Island was only rock and sand.

  “There's nothing here to turn the sand into dirt,” Crean pointed out. “Nothing living to rot away, no plants, no bugs, no worms.”

  Throughout these busy days, Shackleton hardly slept. He walked back and forth on the little spit, talking with Wild about how to manage the camp. And always, he kept a watchful eye on the sea. If the bay filled with ice, there would be no escape.

  Finally, on the morning of April 23, Tim came and sat beside Billy and Perce while they were eating breakfast.

  “Tomorrow's the day,” he said simply. “And I'm to go. Boss just told me.”

  “Oh.” Perce felt like he had been hit in the stomach. “Well, of course you are, Tim,” he said, trying to sound happy. “Anybody would want you along. You're the best sailor by far, and you'll keep them all cheerful.”