The Great Blow Falls
January 5th dawned in nowise different from other days. I kept
the anchor watch from 3 to 4 a.m., arousing automatically without
being called. Almost at once I felt a suggestion of suspense in the
atmosphere; what it was I could not tell. But at 7.30 that morning Mr.
Hussey came down to the wardroom with the order that all hands must
muster forthwith on the poop. We dressed quietly, asking ourselves
what this portended. It was a dismal morning; the South Georgian sky
was weeping copiously, and we donned oilskins and waterproofs as a
matter of course, and got us to the poop, where we were joined by
the rest of the hands from forrard, included amongst them being Mr.
Jeffrey, who had been confined to his bunk ever since we left Rio,
with a torn muscle in his thigh. When the doctor saw him he was very
wroth and ordered him back to his bunk again, saying that no permission
had been given for such a mad action; but before this little incident
ceased, Mr. Wild came to us, his face drawn and terribly downcast.
“Boys,” he said, “I have terrible news for you all. Sir Ernest
Shackleton died early this morning. The expedition will carry on.
That’s all.” And then he turned to Dell, our boatswain, and said:
“You’ll carry on the same, Dell.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Dell. There was no more to be said. Whole volumes
of dramatic rhetoric could not have conveyed the sad, sad truth to
our hearts more convincingly. We did not expect this tragedy; when
it came, therefore, it was staggering.
Mr. Wild left us, and we slowly dispersed to our quarters, walking
quietly, hushing our voices, for we were in the presence of death; a
hero had passed on. During the rest of the day we talked of nothing
else, recalling his kindnesses, his interest in us all, his genial
comradeship, his staunch courage and indomitable determination in the
face of the most trying odds. A great man had left us, and the ship
was lonely.
He had died suddenly, almost painlessly we were glad to know. To the
last he retained his old courage and good cheer; then in the chilly
solitudes he went hence, mourned by all as trustworthy leader, loyal
shipmate and wise counsellor. After midday he was wrapped up in our
silken ensign and reverently lowered into a motor-launch and taken
ashore, for Mr. Wild decided that all that was mortal of one of
Britain’s heroes should worthily lie in the soil of the land he had
served so well. That was the last I saw of the Boss.
So, wrapped in his country’s flag, to which he had brought nothing
but honour—the flag he loved with a genuinely passionate devotion
that was not merely expressed in words but also in stirring deeds—the
great British Antarctic explorer passed from amongst us. His name
will live when many others are forgotten; for the men he led, who
were his friends, must necessarily pass down to the generations the
truth of his greatness.
They took him ashore, intending to dispatch his body to the England
he loved; and we others, his followers and devoted disciples, were
left behind to mourn.
By the natural law of the sea the command passed to the next senior,
Commander Frank Wild, one who was prepared to carry out to the last
letter the programme of the man who had conceived the expedition.
It could not have been entrusted to a worthier substitute. Commander
Wild was engaged on his fifth Antarctic expedition; he knew intimately
every phase of the work involved, and there is no question that had
both hemispheres been fine-combed, a better man could not have been
selected.
Cæsar died, another Cæsar reigned in his stead; but it took some time
for our minds to adapt themselves to the altered order of things,
and for many days life was hazy, fogged and unreal. For it needs
the narrow environment of a small ship, I think, to enable one to
understand what death can really mean. In a shore community, with
many outside interests, the loss of even a great man is merely a
matter for temporary regret; but aboard ship when one goes hence his
loss is grievously felt: familiar echoes cease, the impact of the
dead man’s personality seems to vanish entirely and leave the vessel
without its soul.
It was not immediately possible to convey the sad tidings to the
outer civilized world. South Georgia is not in telegraphic touch with
England, or, indeed, any country, and our wireless was so limited
in its scope that it was hopeless for us to expect to transmit the
message of Shackleton’s death. Thus, lacking all knowledge of Lady
Shackleton’s desire, Commander Wild decided to send the body of our
leader to England; and ashore there in the little hospital the mortal
remains were prepared for the final journey. Mr. Hussey was delegated
to form the escort; he was one of the most competent members of the
staff, and his loss to the expedition would be irreparable, but a
good man deserves good companionship on his progress to the tomb,
and Commander Wild considered Mr. Hussey best qualified for the sad
duty. Right sorry we were to lose him; right sorry was he to go, for
he was the life and soul of the party; always provided with a quip
and a jest to ease off the foulest conditions, and his laughter made
even the worst days seem shot through with sudden sunbursts.
There was a steamer named the _Professor Gruvel_ lying in the harbour.
As she was due to clear for Monte Video in about ten days’ time, her
captain was prevailed upon to convey the coffin thus far, where it
could be transhipped for home. It subsequently transpired, however,
that Lady Shackleton preferred that our leader’s grave should be dug
in such a position that it would command the Gateway to the South; but
long ere he came back to the scene of one of his greatest exploits,
we, his comrades, were faring southward ho! with our new leader imbued
with desire to fulfil all Sir Ernest’s ambitions.