“Did he say who else?” Billy asked.
“Crean—”
Crean! Perce thought. Well, who wouldn't want Crean along when the impossible needs doing. But how will we get by without him here?
“—and Vincent.”
“Vincent? He's taking Vincent?” Billy swallowed hard.
“He's strong yet.” Tim shrugged.
“Yes,” Billy said in a flat voice. “Well, we'll miss you.”
“As well you should.” Tim grinned. “But a few months from now, when we're all back home, you'll come up to Ireland for a visit, and what fun we'll have then! I'll take you to a ceili, and you'll dance with the prettiest girls. You'll see, Perce—Irish lassies are the best dancers—” He stopped short. His face went deep red. He couldn't help but glancing at Perce's damaged feet. “I'm sorry—”
“It's all right,” Perce said quickly. “When you're good-looking as I am and Welsh besides, you don't need to dance. The girls just come flocking around for your charm and personality.”
“That's right!” Tim grinned. “We'll none of us need to dance. We'll just stand around being handsome explorers and fascinate them with our tales!”
After breakfast, everyone went back to work on the shelter. Perce watched Billy walk far off by himself. He said he wanted to look for big rocks at the bottom of the glacier, but Perce knew Billy was upset at not being chosen. He couldn't help feeling glad that one good friend would be staying. Still, Perce remembered how bad he felt so long ago when he had been passed over for a place on the Endurance. A few minutes later, Perce saw Shackleton leave his boat preparations and go off in the same direction. Billy was chipping out a good-size rock when Shackleton came up behind him.
“Could I give you a hand with that, Billy?”
“It's almost out, Boss,” Billy said, still knocking at the ice. Shackleton picked up a rock, squatted down beside Billy, and began chipping anyway.
“I want to thank you for offering to go with me, Billy. It meant a lot, and I'm sorry I couldn't take you. Sorry for me, not for you. I'd be proud to have you along.”
Billy was startled. “So why don't you take me, Boss?”
“Because I can't leave Vincent behind,” Shackleton said bluntly. Both men stood up. “He'd be trouble here,” Shackleton went on. “I need good men here more than I need them in the boat. I wanted Crean to stay too, but he pleaded so hard, I finally gave in. And to be honest with you, Bill, I'm too much of a coward to try something like this without Tom Crean. Wild begged for him too and may never forgive me, but he'll rest easier with you here. And so will Perce. He'll be needing a good mate.”
Billy didn't know what to say. He felt half proud and half embarrassed.
“You're a good man, Bill. Especially for a Yank.”
“What?” Billy grinned. “How'd you know I was American, Boss?”
“How could I not know a thing like that after all this time! Mind you, we may keep you Canadian for the books. Can't very well have a rebel on the queen's expedition,” Shackleton laughed. “Well, that's an awful big rock we've dug out,” he said, squatting down by one side. “Take that end and I'll help you carry it back.”
April 23, 1916
This is it, then. The end of our crew after so long together. We can't make much fuss of them going. We only talk about when we will see each other again and how it will be. And of course all the things we will eat. We pretend there isn't death waiting out there. I know they should die on this trip. Odd, I don't think about the rest of it, that if they die, then we die too. Only that I will lose my friends, Tim McCarthy, Tom Crean, Captain Worsley, poor old Harry McNeish, who is still missing his Mrs. Chippy, even John Vincent, for he is not so bad, really, just is the way he is. But Shackleton, well, we shouldn't lose him. I think, honestly, the rest of the world will always go on fine without most of us, but sometimes there is a man like Shackleton, that when he is gone, the whole world is less and feels a broken heart and is lost.
The way life is, I would never have met Shackleton, or only to see him give a lecture, maybe, or in the newspaper. I would not have talked with him about my brothers and his sisters and what tricks we did to them. Or about books and poems. Some of his poems, I have to say, I did not understand until he explained them. In real life, a man like Shackleton does not explain poems to a man like me.
Tomorrow they will sail off. Maybe they will make it. Many times I didn't think we would ever get here, and here we are. I don't know what to feel right now. No matter what happens, everything in my life from now on will be different. I do want this to be over. But I also don't. That is crazy but true. I know this for sure, that I would rather die being one of these men than otherwise live my whole life without knowing them.
That night, the stars shone bright in a rare clear sky. Hussey's banjo had miraculously survived the journey, and he played as they all gathered around the blubber stove. The waves beat a gentle rhythm to the music. Flickers of firelight gleamed on worn, dirty faces. No one made any speeches or said any prayers. Shackleton just walked around, talking to his men. He told them how impressed he was with the hut and promised to bring back a proper doormat and some potted geraniums. Charlie boiled up some hot milk and used half the amount of powder instead of one quarter, plus lots of sugar. It was thick and sweet and delicious. They drank toast after toast: to the success of the James Caird; to Frank Wild; to Charlie, for feeding them so well; to the dogs, may they have lots of penguins to chase in heaven; to the Endurance, the finest little ship there ever was. Finally Hurley stood and raised his mug and toasted Shackleton.
“To a great leader,” he said simply. “And a greater friend. Safe home!”
The men stood. The firelight glinted on their metal cups as they cheered.
The next morning, a ragged band of forlorn men stood in the cold wind on the desolate beach and waved goodbye to six of their own. Shackleton took the tiller, Crean and Tim hauled up the sail, and the tiny boat sailed away on an impossible mission.
chapter thirty-three
Perce heard Charlie clattering his pans on the stove and knew, with a mixture of relief and dread, that it was morning. Another long, sleepless night was over, another grim day on Elephant Island had begun. It was one week since Shackleton left. Throughout the little hut, dark shapes began to move. In the dim light, they looked like wiggling grubs. Then shaggy heads appeared, and the men began to crawl out of their sleeping bags. The smell of frying seal steaks cut through the smoky air.
Perce heard rustling overhead and immediately turned over on his side and put his arm over his face. Ten men slept above in the “attic,” and when they got out of their sleeping bags in the morning, a shower of loose reindeer hairs fell on the men below. If they didn't warn Charlie to cover the pot before they started moving, breakfast was full of hair. The attic was simply boards and makeshift hammocks built across the thwarts of the overturned boats that made the roof of the hut. It was nice because it was the driest place, but there was barely a foot of headroom and no place to move around. Billy slept up there, in a sort of net he had woven for himself out of the wires they had used to stake out the dogs.
Perce lay in his sleeping bag and listened to the usual morning sounds: groans, farts, coughs, sniffs, yawns. He heard men stumbling toward the entryway, the swearing of those they stepped on to get there, and the swish of the canvas door as they crawled out to relieve themselves.
“Hoosh, oh!” Charlie called. Perce listened to the other men rolling up their sleeping bags. The damp hides made peculiar squelchy noises. Then there was the dull thump of wood against gravel as they moved the crates into seats around the stove. There wasn't enough room for everyone to sit close to the heat, so each day they rotated one spot. Whoever sat across from Charlie each day was the one to turn his back and call the names for each portion, the way they had done since Ocean Camp. Today the namer was Hurley.
“Whose is this?” Charlie said, holding a pannikin of fried seal.
“Hussey,”
Hurley replied, and the pannikin was passed around to Hussey.
“And whose is this?”
On and on it went. Perce listened to all this with detachment, almost like he was listening to a daily radio program. He didn't care much when or even if he got his share. He did not join the group on the crates around the stove. He was stuck in his sleeping bag day and night now. As Macklin had warned, once his frostbitten feet began to thaw, they began to hurt. The pain had started as a dull ache, then grew to constant hammering that jolted his whole body. There was no morphine left, not even an aspirin to treat it. Sleep was his only escape, and that did not come easily. He woke many times throughout the night, shocked that anything could hurt so bad. It was sharp, hot, cold, throbbing, stabbing all at once.
Sometimes he was oddly impressed by the pain, as a fighter might be impressed by a strong and clever enemy. But mostly he was just miserable. Any movement sent daggers up his legs. He could not bear the lightest touch. The weight of the reindeer hide was crushing, so Macklin had cut open the bottom of his sleeping bag, then put a crate over Perce's feet to protect them. Sometimes Perce imagined it was the box itself sending out waves of pain, like from a ray gun in a Jules Verne novel. It was easier to think of pain coming from outside.
Greenstreet was also suffering. His toes were a horrible purple color. There were four men in the “hospital ward” at one end of the hut. One had a huge boil on his hip and suffered from general collapse. Rickinson's heart was still weak, but he was getting better.
Billy brought Perce's breakfast over. The “ceiling” of the hut was only about four feet high, so even little Billy had to walk hunched over. Some of the men were still smacking their heads regularly, but most had developed the necessary stoop. With their ragged clothes and bearded faces, they looked like trolls.
“How are you?” Billy asked as always.
“Fine,” Perce answered as always. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” Billy replied. “I woke every two hours wanting to be fed!” There were no jokes that everyone hadn't heard a thousand times by now, but sometimes they told them anyway. Billy put the pannikin down on the crate that covered Perce's feet, being careful not to jostle it. He helped Perce sit up and stuffed one of the rolled-up sleeping bags under his shoulders.
“Here.” Billy handed him the pannikin. “Special treat— see what you think.” Perce peered into the mug. On top of the usual brown lump of seal meat was what looked like a tiny chicken breast. “What is it? A baby penguin?”
“A paddy!” Billy told him. “Little birds about the size of a pigeon. They've been pecking on our garbage pile, so yesterday I made some snares and caught three. Going to set some more snares out today. And the ice is out from the bay again, so we might have some penguins come up too.”
“That's good.” Perce took a bite of the little bird. It was tough and dry, but at least it was something different. Meals on Elephant Island were already dreadfully monotonous. Breakfast was fried seal or penguin. Lunch was a thin gruel made from crumbled biscuit and weak milk. Supper was a seal or penguin hoosh. There was no curry powder left, no spices at all. Even the salt was carefully rationed now. Each man got three sugar cubes a day and one precious nut bar on Sundays and Thursdays.
Billy finished his breakfast and wiped out his pannikin with his fingers. “I'm going out now while the weather holds, but I'll come see you later, okay? Do you want an encyclopedia?” Only two volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica had made it this far. They were all getting to be very knowledgeable about subjects beginning with L through P. Though Billy tried hard to preserve them, the pages were used more often for toilet paper than for reading.
“Later, maybe,” Perce replied. He felt too sick to hold up the heavy book. “I've a very busy day planned, you see.”
“Right, then.” Billy jumped up. Perce knew he was eager to be outside while the weather was good. “I'll see you later.”
“Morning, Boss!” Tim croaked cheerfully as Shackleton crawled out from under the canvas. “Another grand day it is, sir!”
“Aye,” Shackleton replied hoarsely. The cold and constant salt spray had scraped their throats raw. “Hoosh is hot. Need a pull?”
“Aye, thanks.” Tim was at the tiller, and as usual, his clothes were frozen to the seat. Shackleton took his hand and helped pull him free, then took his place. Tim slid down into the cockpit, ducked under the canvas decking, and folded himself up in the cramped space. Crean handed him the hot mug. Tim pulled his spoon out of his pocket and began to eat fast, trying to get as much as he could inside himself while it was still warm. Breakfast today was the usual. Every meal, in fact, was the usual: crumbled sledging rations and hard biscuit mixed with water and a little milk powder.
Even if there had been more interesting food, cooking aboard the James Caird was a tricky business. It took two men to prepare a meal, three in rough seas. They sat scrunched under the low decking, facing each other, backs pressed against the gunwales, feet together like toddlers playing ball. One man had to hold the Primus steady, while the other held the pot. Whenever the boat moved, they had to lift both stove and pot. In bad weather, a third man stuffed himself beside the other two to steady them as they steadied the pot. Their hands were now painfully blistered from burns as well as frostbite.
Tim held the pannikin in his shivering hands. He was so cold, he could barely open his mouth. His teeth chattered against the metal cup. It was hard to swallow in such a contorted position. The space belowdecks was hardly bigger than a coffin. It was seven feet long and five wide at the cockpit, growing even more narrow as the boat tapered toward the bow. It was dark and fetid and horribly closed in, with barely two feet of headroom. The sacks full of ballast rocks made an uncomfortable “floor.”
“Can you wait up with us a bit?” Worsley asked Tim. “The sky's clearing. I might be able to take a sight.”
“Sure.” Tim nodded as he choked down the last of his hoosh. A few more minutes before “bed” hardly mattered, and all hands were needed to take a sight. Worsley had barely finished eating when Shackleton called out.
“Blue sky, Skipper!”
Everyone scrambled. Worsley had only taken one sighting since they left. All his navigation since then had been dead reckoning, which was basically guessing. Worsley tucked the sextant inside his jacket and crawled forward to the mast. They had to be careful to put weight only on the wooden frame so as not to poke a hole in the canvas. Tim and Vincent each took hold of one of Worsley's legs so he would not be tossed overboard. He needed both hands for his instrument. Shackleton went below with the chronometer to watch the time. McNeish and Crean kept the boat under control. It seemed like hours. Worsley had to see the horizon through the sextant, and the little boat pitched so wildly, he had trouble. There were a hundred possibilities for error. Any one of them could mean they would miss South Georgia by miles. They waited anxiously as Worsley did the math.
“Two hundred thirty-eight miles!” He grinned. “If I've figured right.” It was a big if.
“Well done, lads!” Shackleton said. They were almost a third of the way. Six days into it. And still alive.
chapter thirty-four
The wind screamed down the cliffs, blowing a hail of small rocks against the hut. Perce tucked his head down between his elbows and squeezed as hard as he could, trying to shut out the noise. It sounded like an avalanche. His “bed” was in the corner, where the gunwales of the boat rested on the stone wall. Perce shifted, trying to find a comfortable way to write. The pages of his journal were warped from being wet so often, the pencil was just a stub, and the light was so dim, he could barely see. But it gave him something to do, filled a few precious minutes in the endless boredom.
May 3, 1916
Sometimes this is the worst thing, the noise of the wind. Never stops. Sometimes I think that will make me go crazy. But ha! Maybe crazy would be a good thing stuck in here! I can feel the vibrations of the wooden hull inside my chest. There are still cr
acks all over, so the wind screams through. Like a hundred children with new tin whistles and no lesson yet.
Billy is out to get ice for us. It seems like his turn always falls on the worst days. But then, on Elephant Island, every day is the worst day. Plus sometimes he trades others food to do their work. He would rather do almost anything than sit around in here. Hurley also is bad at idleness; he has got moody. When he is in a good mood, he comes to visit me, but that is not often. I think I know why. Because when I was strong, I felt that way around invalids. Like I was mad at them for being invalids. Which is strange, because you know they can't help it. (Though some here are thought malingerers.) But I think it's more that everyone is afraid how easy they could go bad too. They don't like to be reminded, and I remind them.
Hurley has fixed up the stove again. He built a box around the chimney out of an oilcan, so now we can cook in two pots at once and use half as many penguin skins. Still, the hut is always smoky and sooty and dark. I wonder, can a man just turn into dirt if you're in it enough? And dirt inside too, for there is always grit and dirt and hair in the water. I remember at home, getting the little ones' hands washed for tea, thinking how dirty they were, and now I laugh. They were clean as newborn babies compared to us!
Perce heard the flap of canvas open, felt the burst of cold air as Billy crawled in.
“Are you the last in, Billy?” Wild's voice came from a dark corner.
“I saw Hurley and Doc on the spit but coming this way. They've seen the weather. Let's hope it's better out at sea.”
Shackleton had been gone for ten days now. He could be landing on South Georgia right now. If there was a ship available and fair weather, he could be back for them in another week. No one talked about this, though. Realistically, they were anticipating two months, even three. Billy scooped out a cup of water, drank some, then carried the rest over to Perce, stepping over huddled bodies along the way. Stormy days were long and monotonous. Many men simply lay in their sleeping bags all day.
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