Shackleton at the helm kept looking astern for another tell-tale streak of brightness. But none appeared, and ever so slowly, as they frantically pumped and bailed and ladled the water overboard, the Caird lifted to the seas again.
The ballast had shifted and the glass on the compass was broken - but they apparently had won. It took more than two hours to get her emptied out, and much of the time they were working in icy water to their knees.
Crean started a search for the Primus stove. He found it at last, wedged up against the ribs of the boat, but it was completely clogged. For a half hour he worked over it in the dark, his patience slowly ebbing away. Finally, through clenched teeth, he swore at the stove. Then it lit and they had some hot milk.
Chapter Five
The dawn of May 6 revealed an ugly scene. The wind was blowing nearly so knots from the northwest, and the Caird was straining into it, trying to hold to a northeasterly course. As every wave passed, some portion of it poured on board the boat.
But it seemed really not to matter too much. They had been pounded and bruised and drenched almost to the point of insensibility. Furthermore, the wave during the night had somehow changed their attitude. For thirteen days they had suffered through almost ceaseless gales, then finally a huge rogue sea. They had been the underdog, fit only to endure the punishment inflicted on them.
But sufficiently provoked, there is hardly a creature on God's earth that ultimately won't turn and attempt to fight, regardless of the odds. In an unspoken sense, that was much the way they felt now. They were possessed by an angry determination to see the journey through - no matter what. They felt that they had earned it. For thirteen days they had absorbed everything that the Drake Passage could throw at them - and now, by God, they deserved to make it.
Their resolve was strengthened when Worsley worked out the position. It put them at 54°26' South, 4044' West. If this figure was accurate, they were a scant 91 miles from the western tip of South Georgia, and very soon there should be a sign of land - a bit of seaweed or a piece of driftwood.
As if to mock their determination, though, the sea rose menacingly throughout the morning. By noon it had grown so treacherous that Shackleton felt it was foolhardy to press on, though Worsley urged hint to do so. At one o'clock, Shackleton gave the order to heave to. They came about and dropped the sail. The jib was run up the mainmast and they began once again to tack back and forth into the wind.
All of them fell sullen - even Shackleton, who from the beginning had required of the men that they make every effort to remain cheerful in order to avoid antagonisms. But it seemed too much - to be so close, possibly only one good day's run, and to have to stop.
The strain on Shackleton was so great that he lost his temper over a trivial incident. A small, bob-tailed bird appeared over the boat and flew annoyingly about, like a mosquito intent on landing. Shackleton stood it for several minutes, then he leaped to his feet, swearing and batting furiously at the bird with his arms. But he realized at once the poor example he had set and dropped back down again with a chagrined expression on his face.
The rest of the afternoon passed without incident until almost dusk when Crean started to prepare the evening hoosh. A minute or two later, he called for Shackleton to come below. Crean handed him a mug of water to taste, and Shackleton took a small sip; then a grave expression came over his face. The second cask of water - the one that had got adrift during the launching of the Caird, from Elephant Island - was foul. It had the unmistakable brackish taste of sea water that apparently had seeped into it. Not only that, but the cask was hardly half full, indicating that a great deal of the water had leaked out.
Crean asked Shackleton what he should do, and Shackleton, rather snappishly, replied that there was obviously nothing they could do - it was the only water they had, and they would have to use it.
Crean went ahead and made the hoosh. When it was ready the men sampled it cautiously, and found that it was disagreeably salty.
For Shackleton, the discovery meant simply that the need for haste had now become acute. As soon as it was dark and Worsley was at the helm, he went aft and the two men discussed the situation. Their food, Shackleton said, should last two weeks. But they had less than a week's supply of water - and that was brackish. Thus a landing had to be made, and soon.
The inevitable question then became - would they hit South Georgia? Shackleton asked Worsley how accurate he thought their navigation had been.Worsley shook his head.With luck, he said, maybe within io miles, but it was always possible to make a mistake.
They both knew that except for one or two tiny islands, the Atlantic Ocean eastward beyond South Georgia is a void all the way to South Africa, nearly 3,000 miles away. If, through a miscalculation or because of a southerly gale, they missed the island, there would be no second chance. The land would then lie to windward of them, and they could never beat back toward it. They dared not miss.
Fortunately, as the night wore on, the northwesterly gale diminished slightly, and the sky began to clear. At 1 a.m., Shackleton decided it was safe to get under way, and they again set their course for the northeast.
The all-important thing now was to learn the position, but soon after dawn a foglike mist moved in. They could see the sun, but only as a hazy outline. Worsley kept his sextant handy all morning, hoping that the fog would clear. After several hours, he took his notebook and, partly in desperation, he scribbled: `Most unfavourable conditions for Obs. Misty with boat jumping like a flea ...'
Normally, in taking a sight, the perimeter of the sun is brought down to the horizon with the sextant. Now the best that Worsley could do was to peer through the mists at the sun's blurred image and try to estimate its center. Again and again he took sights on the theory that when he averaged them out he might come up with a reasonably accurate fix. He finally put the position at S4°38' South, 39°36' West, 68 miles from the tip of South Georgia. But he warned Shackleton not to put much stock in it.
The original plan had been to round the western tip of South Georgia, passing between Willis and Bird Islands, then swing east and run along the coast to the whaling station at Leith Harbor. But that had assumed reasonably decent navigating conditions, and had not taken into account the shortage of water. Now it no longer mattered where they landed, just so long as they did land. So they altered course to the east, hoping to hit anywhere on the west coast of the island, and it was of very little consequence where.
It turned out, too, that the water situation was considerably more serious than they had first imagined. Not only was the water brackish, but it was polluted with sediment and reindeer hairs which had somehow gotten into the cask. This noisome liquid, that had to be strained through gauze from the medicine chest, was drinkable - but just barely so, and it only aggravated their thirst. Furthermore, Shackleton had reduced each man's ration to about a half-cup per day, and the serving of hot milk at the beginning of each watch during the night had been eliminated. That afternoon, Shackleton informed them that for the rest of the voyage, they could only afford to have hoosh twice a day.
Throughout the afternoon there had been a mounting air of expectancy that they would sight some indication that the land was close by - birds or kelp or something. But there was none. And with the approach of evening, the attitude of expectancy gave way to one of apprehension - of a strangely paradoxical sort.
By Worsley's estimate they should have been a little more than So miles off the coast. But Worsley's calculations were admittedly crude, and they could easily have been much closer.
On the west coast of South Georgia there was not the smallest settlement, much less a beacon light or even a buoy to guide them. In fact, even to this day, the west coast of South Georgia is only sketchily charted. Thus it was entirely conceivable that they might come upon the coast in the dark - suddenly and disastrously.
On the other hand, their fear of running onto the island was oddly counterbalanced by the dread awareness that they might just as ea
sily miss it altogether - run by it in the night, and never know it was there. Indeed, they might already have done so.
The darkness was now complete, and the Caircl pounded forward on an ENE course with the wind on her port beam. The men peered ahead into the night with salt-rimmed eyes for the shadowy image of a headland; and they strained their ears for any unusual noise, perhaps the sound of surf pounding on a reef. But visibility could hardly have been worse - an overcast blotted out the stars, and the foggy mist still swept across the surface of the water. The only sounds that could be heard were the moaning of the wind through the stays and the surge of the heavy confused sea that was running.
Thirst, of course, heightened their expectation and prolonged each anxious minute. But in spite of the discomfort and uncertainty, there was an undercurrent of suppressed excitement. Each of the watches made wild, speculative guesses about how soon they would reach the whaling station and what it would be like to bathe and have clean clothes and sleep in a real bed and actually eat food served on a table.
Gradually the hours crept by, though there was nothing to indicate that they were nearing the coast. At 4 a.m., when Worsley's watch came on, Shackleton remained with him at the helm to keep a lookout for the land. They were making about 3 knots, and by six o'clock they should have been less than r miles offshore - but there was not a sign of it - not the smallest bit of ice or shred of seaweed.
Seven o'clock came - 12 miles from the island, and yet no trace. The air of anticipation was slowly being replaced by a feeling of increasing tension. Some of the peaks on South Georgia were nearly i o,ooo feet high. Surely they would be visible by now.
At eight o'clock, Shackleton's watch was due to take over. But nobody thought about watches. Instead all hands crowded into the cockpit, searching ahead and to each side in an atmosphere of competition, of hoping, of anxiety - all at once. But there was only the sea and sky, just the same as there had always been.
Toward nine o'clock, Shackleton sent Crean below to prepare some hooch. When it was ready they ate it hurriedly in order to return to their lookout posts.
It was a strange time, a time of eagerness and expectation - underscored by grave, unspoken doubts. It was all so nearly over. An occasion for excitement, even jubilation. And yet, in the back of their minds was a nagging voice which refused to be silent - they might very well be looking in vain. If the island was there, they should have sighted it hours before.
Then, at just after ten-thirty, Vincent spotted a clump of seaweed, and a few minutes later a cormorant was sighted overhead. Hope flared anew. Cormorants rarely ventured farther than 15 miles from land.
Soon the foggy mists began to break up, though ever so slowly. Ragged clouds still scudded along close to the surface of the water. But visibility was better. At noon the fog was almost gone. But the interminably heaving sea stretched in every direction.
`Land!'
It was McCarthy's voice, strong and confident. He was pointing dead ahead. And there it was. A black, frowning cliff with patches of snow clinging to its sides. It was just visible between the clouds, possibly i o miles away. A moment later the clouds moved like a curtain across the water, shutting off the view.
But no matter. It was there, and they had all seen it.
Chapter Six
Shackleton was the only one who spoke.
`We've done it,' he said, and his voice was strangely unsteady.
Not a sound came from the others. They simply stared ahead, watching for the land to reappear, just to be sure. And in a minute or two, when the clouds had blown away again, it did. Feeble, foolish grins spread across their faces, not of triumph or even joy, but simply of unspeakable relief.
They held the Caird on a course straight for the point they had first seen and within an hour they were close enough to make out the general contour of the land. Worsley took out his notebook and drew a rough sketch of it.
He then compared it with the chart and it appeared to correspond to the area of Cape Demidov. If so, it meant that his navigation had been very nearly faultless. They were only about 16 miles from the western tip of the island, the point for which they had originally been aiming.
By two-thirty, the Caird was a little more than 3 miles off the coast and it was possible to see patches of green lichens and areas of yellow-brown tussock grass showing through the snow on the steep sides of the headlands. Growing things - the first they had seen in more than sixteen months. And they would be standing amongst them in an hour or a little more.
Everything seemed perfect. But not for long. Within a few minutes, the deep rumbling sound of breakers reached them. Then dead ahead and off to the right an occasional spout of bursting spray shot skyward. As they drew closer they could see the backs of great seething combers hurtling shoreward as the Cape Horn graybeards blindly advanced to their destruction on uncharted reefs.
The whole complexion of things was suddenly changed. There could be no thought of a landing, not here at least, for the boat would not have lived ten seconds in those breakers. It was something they didn't deserve - a needless cruelty. The land lay just in front of them, and they had earned it. Yet now that the journey was done, sanctuary was ironically denied them.
They could not even hold to this course much longer. Crean hurriedly took over the helm from Worsley who spread the chart out so that he and Shackleton might study it. A decision had to be made quickly.
If the point ahead was Cape Demidov, and it appeared almost certain now that it was, their chart showed two possibilities of finding shelter. One was King Haakon Bay, some i o miles east along the coast to starboard. The other was Wilson Harbor, just to the north of the point for which they were now making.
But King Haakon Bay lay in a generally east-west position, and was therefore almost totally exposed to the northwesterly wind that was blowing. Furthermore, it would take them until night even to reach its entrance and whatever reefs guarded the opening would have to be negotiated in the dark.
Wilson Harbor, on the other hand, though it was only about 4 miles away, and possibly would have offered a somewhat better shelter, unfortunately lay just enough to windward to put it out of reach in view of the sea that was running.
Consequently, although there were two theoretical choices, there was really none worthy of the risk. By three o'clock the land was only 2 miles distant. They could easily have reached it in less than forty-five minutes. But they would have died doing so.
Thus, at 3: 1o p.m., Shackleton gave the order to come about. They swung onto the starboard tack and headed seaward once again to lay off until morning in the hope that they could then make a better approach or perhaps find a way through the reefs.
Worsley took out his navigation book again and wrote this:
`... Heavy westerly swell.
Very bad lumpy sea.
Stood off for night; wind increasing ...'
They set a course for the SSE, intending to get far enough offshore so that they might safely heave to and wait for daylight. As the boat heeled to port before the following wind, hardly a one of them spoke. Individually they were fighting somehow to console their awful disappointment. But there was now, truly, but one more night to go.
Toward five o'clock the light began to fail, and the sky off the Caird's starboard quarter was kindled into vivid, almost angry shades of orange and red that slowly faded. It was dark by 6 p.m.
Overhead a heavy bank of clouds rolled in, and the wind gradually increased and began to move toward the west. Crean prepared some hoosh, but they were nearing the bottom of the spoiled cask, and the food seemed particularly foul. A deliberate effort was required to swallow it.
The wind had an ominous sound, and it was rising with every hour. At eight o'clock, rain began to fall. Before long the rain turned into sleet, then hail that drummed across the decking. By i i p.m., the storm had reached gale force, and the Caird was caught in a cross sea that drove in from every direction,
hurling the boat one way, then slamming her another.
They ran before the quartering gale until midnight; and though they had not the slightest idea where they might be, Shackleton decided they must be far enough offshore to heave to. Crean and McCarthy cautiously made their way forward in the dark and removed the mainsail and jib, then set the jib on the mainmast. The Caird's bow was brought up into the wind, and the long wait for daybreak was begun.
The remainder of that night was an eternity, composed of seconds individually endured until they merged into minutes and minutes finally grew into hours. And through it all there was the voice of the wind, shrieking as they had never heard it shriek before in all their lives.
The dawn of May 9 finally came, but there was no real dawn. Instead the wild blackness of the night slowly gave way to a thick gray pall. Only an estimate could be made of the wind's actual speed, though it was at least 65 knots.The cross sea was the worst it had been, and added to it there was now a mountainous westerly swell sweeping inland before the gale. The rollers that raced shoreward were perhaps 40 feet high, maybe more.
The Caird, with her miserable little rag of a trysail blown stiff by the wind, rose to the top of each onrushing swell and there she quivered before the fury of the gale. It seemed strong enough almost to peel the canvas decking off her. There, too, it was difficult even to breathe. The atmosphere was a saturated substance, composed less of air than of rain and snow, and mostly wind-driven mist, torn from the surface of the water.
Visibility was reduced to a hazy sphere surrounding the boat. Beyond that was only a blinding sameness that screamed by without interruption.
Endurance, Deluxe Ed: The Greatest Adventure Story Ever Told by Alfred Lansing Page 26