CHAPTER VIII

ESCAPE FROM THE ICE

On April 7 at daylight the long-desired peak of Clarence Island came

into view, bearing nearly north from our camp. At first it had the

appearance of a huge berg, but with the growing light we could see

plainly the black lines of scree and the high, precipitous cliffs of

the island, which were miraged up to some extent. The dark rocks in the

white snow were a pleasant sight. So long had our eyes looked on

icebergs that apparently grew or dwindled according to the angles at

which the shadows were cast by the sun; so often had we discovered

rocky islands and brought in sight the peaks of Joinville Land, only to

find them, after some change of wind or temperature, floating away as

nebulous cloud or ordinary berg; that not until Worsley, Wild, and

Hurley had unanimously confirmed my observation was I satisfied that I

was really looking at Clarence Island. The land was still more than

sixty miles away, but it had to our eyes something of the appearance of

home, since we expected to find there our first solid footing after all

the long months of drifting on the unstable ice. We had adjusted

ourselves to the life on the floe, but our hopes had been fixed all the

time on some possible landing-place. As one hope failed to materialize,

our anticipations fed themselves on another. Our drifting home had no

rudder to guide it, no sail to give it speed. We were dependent upon

the caprice of wind and current; we went whither those irresponsible

forces listed. The longing to feel solid earth under our feet filled

our hearts.

In the full daylight Clarence Island ceased to look like land and had

the appearance of a berg of more than eight or ten miles away, so

deceptive are distances in the clear air of the Antarctic. The sharp

white peaks of Elephant Island showed to the west of north a little

later in the day.

“I have stopped issuing sugar now, and our meals consist of seal meat

and blubber only, with 7 ozs. of dried milk per day for the party,” I

wrote. “Each man receives a pinch of salt, and the milk is boiled up to

make hot drinks for all hands. The diet suits us, since we cannot get

much exercise on the floe and the blubber supplies heat. Fried slices

of blubber seem to our taste to resemble crisp bacon. It certainly is

no hardship to eat it, though persons living under civilized conditions

probably would shudder at it. The hardship would come if we were unable

to get it.”

I think that the palate of the human animal can adjust itself to

anything. Some creatures will die before accepting a strange diet if

deprived of their natural food. The Yaks of the Himalayan uplands must

feed from the growing grass, scanty and dry though it may be, and would

starve even if allowed the best oats and corn.

“We still have the dark water-sky of the last week with us to the

south-west and west, round to the north-east. We are leaving all the

bergs to the west and there are few within our range of vision now. The

swell is more marked to-day, and I feel sure we are at the verge of the

floe-ice. One strong gale, followed by a calm would scatter the pack, I

think, and then we could push through. I have been thinking much of our

prospects. The appearance of Clarence Island after our long drift

seems, somehow, to convey an ultimatum. The island is the last outpost

of the south and our final chance of a landing-place. Beyond it lies

the broad Atlantic. Our little boats may be compelled any day now to

sail unsheltered over the open sea with a thousand leagues of ocean

separating them from the land to the north and east. It seems vital

that we shall land on Clarence Island or its neighbour, Elephant

Island. The latter island has attraction for us, although as far as I

know nobody has ever landed there. Its name suggests the presence of

the plump and succulent sea-elephant. We have an increasing desire in

any case to get firm ground under our feet. The floe has been a good

friend to us, but it is reaching the end of its journey, and it is

liable at any time now to break up and fling us into the unplumbed

sea.”

A little later, after reviewing the whole situation in the light of our

circumstances, I made up my mind that we should try to reach Deception

Island. The relative positions of Clarence, Elephant, and Deception

Islands can be seen on the chart. The two islands first named lay

comparatively near to us and were separated by some eighty miles of

water from Prince George Island, which was about 150 miles away from

our camp on the berg. From this island a chain of similar islands

extends westward, terminating in Deception Island. The channels

separating these desolate patches of rock and ice are from ten to

fifteen miles wide. But we knew from the Admiralty sailing directions

that there were stores for the use of shipwrecked mariners on Deception

Island, and it was possible that the summer whalers had not yet

deserted its harbour. Also we had learned from our scanty records that

a small church had been erected there for the benefit of the transient

whalers. The existence of this building would mean to us a supply of

timber, from which, if dire necessity urged us, we could construct a

reasonably seaworthy boat. We had discussed this point during our drift

on the floe. Two of our boats were fairly strong, but the third, the

_James Caird_, was light, although a little longer than the others. All

of them were small for the navigation of these notoriously stormy seas,

and they would be heavily loaded, so a voyage in open water would be a

serious undertaking. I fear that the carpenter’s fingers were already

itching to convert pews into topsides and decks. In any case, the worst

that could befall us when we had reached Deception Island would be a

wait until the whalers returned about the middle of November.

Another bit of information gathered from the records of the west side

of the Weddell Sea related to Prince George Island. The Admiralty

“Sailing Directions,” referring to the South Shetlands, mentioned a

cave on this island. None of us had seen that cave or could say if it

was large or small, wet or dry; but as we drifted on our floe and

later, when navigating the treacherous leads and making our uneasy

night camps, that cave seemed to my fancy to be a palace which in

contrast would dim the splendours of Versailles.

The swell increased that night and the movement of the ice became more

pronounced. Occasionally a neighbouring floe would hammer against the

ice on which we were camped, and the lesson of these blows was plain to

read. We must get solid ground under our feet quickly. When the

vibration ceased after a heavy surge, my thoughts flew round to the

problem ahead. If the party had not numbered more than six men a

solution would not have been so hard to find; but obviously the

transportation of the whole party to a place of safety, with the

limited means at our disposal, was going to be a matter of extreme

difficulty. There were twenty-eight men on our floating cake of ice,

which was steadily dwindling under the influence of wind, weather,

charging floes, and heavy swell. I confess that I felt the burden of

responsibility sit heavily on my shoulders; but, on the other hand, I

was stimulated and cheered by the attitude of the men. Loneliness is

the penalty of leadership, but the man who has to make the decisions is

assisted greatly if he feels that there is no uncertainty in the minds

of those who follow him, and that his orders will be carried out

confidently and in expectation of success.

The sun was shining in the blue sky on the following morning (April 8).

Clarence Island showed clearly on the horizon, and Elephant Island

could also be distinguished. The single snow-clad peak of Clarence

Island stood up as a beacon of safety, though the most optimistic

imagination could not make an easy path of the ice and ocean that

separated us from that giant, white and austere.

“The pack was much looser this morning, and the long rolling swell from

the north-east is more pronounced than it was yesterday. The floes rise

and fall with the surge of the sea. We evidently are drifting with the

surface current, for all the heavier masses of floe, bergs, and

hummocks are being left behind. There has been some discussion in the

camp as to the advisability of making one of the bergs our home for the

time being and drifting with it to the west. The idea is not sound. I

cannot be sure that the berg would drift in the right direction. If it

did move west and carried us into the open water, what would be our

fate when we tried to launch the boats down the steep sides of the berg

in the sea-swell after the surrounding floes had left us? One must

reckon, too, the chance of the berg splitting or even overturning

during our stay. It is not possible to gauge the condition of a big

mass of ice by surface appearance. The ice may have a fault, and when

the wind, current, and swell set up strains and tensions, the line of

weakness may reveal itself suddenly and disastrously. No, I do not like

the idea of drifting on a berg. We must stay on our floe till

conditions improve and then make another attempt to advance towards the

land.”

[Illustration: “There was no Sleep for us that Night, so we lit the

Blubber Stove”]

[Illustration: Hauling up the Boats for the Night]

At 6.30 p.m. a particularly heavy shock went through our floe. The

watchman and other members of the party made an immediate inspection

and found a crack right under the _James Caird_ and between the other

two boats and the main camp. Within five minutes the boats were over

the crack and close to the tents. The trouble was not caused by a blow

from another floe. We could see that the piece of ice we occupied had

slewed and now presented its long axis towards the oncoming swell. The

floe, therefore, was pitching in the manner of a ship, and it had

cracked across when the swell lifted the centre, leaving the two ends

comparatively unsupported. We were now on a triangular raft of ice, the

three sides measuring, roughly, 90, 100, and 120 yds. Night came down

dull and overcast, and before midnight the wind had freshened from the

west. We could see that the pack was opening under the influence of

wind, wave, and current, and I felt that the time for launching the

boats was near at hand. Indeed, it was obvious that even if the

conditions were unfavourable for a start during the coming day, we

could not safely stay on the floe many hours longer. The movement of

the ice in the swell was increasing, and the floe might split right

under our camp. We had made preparations for quick action if anything

of the kind occurred. Our case would be desperate if the ice broke into

small pieces not large enough to support our party and not loose enough

to permit the use of the boats.

The following day was Sunday (April 9), but it proved no day of rest

for us. Many of the important events of our Expedition occurred on

Sundays, and this particular day was to see our forced departure from

the floe on which we had lived for nearly six months, and the start of

our journeyings in the boats.

“This has been an eventful day. The morning was fine, though somewhat

overcast by stratus and cumulus clouds; moderate south-south-westerly

and south-easterly breezes. We hoped that with this wind the ice would

drift nearer to Clarence Island. At 7 a.m. lanes of water and leads

could be seen on the horizon to the west. The ice separating us from

the lanes was loose, but did not appear to be workable for the boats.

The long swell from the north-west was coming in more freely than on

the previous day and was driving the floes together in the utmost

confusion. The loose brash between the masses of ice was being churned

to mudlike consistency, and no boat could have lived in the channels

that opened and closed around us. Our own floe was suffering in the

general disturbance, and after breakfast I ordered the tents to be

struck and everything prepared for an immediate start when the boats

could be launched.”

I had decided to take the _James Caird_ myself, with Wild and eleven

men. This was the largest of our boats, and in addition to her human

complement she carried the major portion of the stores. Worsley had

charge of the _Dudley Docker_ with nine men, and Hudson and Crean were

the senior men on the _Stancomb Wills_.

Soon after breakfast the ice closed again. We were standing by, with

our preparations as complete as they could be made, when at 11 a.m. our

floe suddenly split right across under the boats. We rushed our gear on

to the larger of the two pieces and watched with strained attention for

the next development. The crack had cut through the site of my tent. I

stood on the edge of the new fracture, and, looking across the widening

channel of water, could see the spot where for many months my head and

shoulders had rested when I was in my sleeping-bag. The depression

formed by my body and legs was on our side of the crack. The ice had

sunk under my weight during the months of waiting in the tent, and I

had many times put snow under the bag to fill the hollow. The lines of

stratification showed clearly the different layers of snow. How fragile

and precarious had been our resting-place! Yet usage had dulled our

sense of danger. The floe had become our home, and during the early

months of the drift we had almost ceased to realize that it was but a

sheet of ice floating on unfathomed seas. Now our home was being

shattered under our feet, and we had a sense of loss and incompleteness

hard to describe.

The fragments of our floe came together again a little later, and we

had our lunch of seal meat, all hands eating their fill. I thought that

a good meal would be the best possible preparation for the journey that

now seemed imminent, and as we would not be able to take all our meat

with us when we finally moved, we could regard every pound eaten as a

pound rescued. The call to action came at 1 p.m. The pack opened well

and the channels became navigable. The conditions were not all one

could have desired, but it was best not to wait any longer. The _Dudley

Docker_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ were launched quickly. Stores were

thrown in, and the two boats were pulled clear of the immediate floes

towards a pool of open water three miles broad, in which floated a lone

and mighty berg. The _James Caird_ was the last boat to leave, heavily

loaded with stores and odds and ends of camp equipment. Many things

regarded by us as essentials at that time were to be discarded a little

later as the pressure of the primitive became more severe. Man can

sustain life with very scanty means. The trappings of civilization are

soon cast aside in the face of stern realities, and given the barest

opportunity of winning food and shelter, man can live and even find his

laughter ringing true.

The three boats were a mile away from our floe home at 2 p.m. We had

made our way through the channels and had entered the big pool when we

saw a rush of foam-clad water and tossing ice approaching us, like the

tidal bore of a river. The pack was being impelled to the east by a

tide-rip, and two huge masses of ice were driving down upon us on

converging courses. The _James Caird_ was leading. Starboarding the

helm and bending strongly to the oars, we managed to get clear. The two

other boats followed us, though from their position astern at first

they had not realized the immediate danger. The _Stancomb Wills_ was

the last boat and she was very nearly caught, but by great exertion she

was kept just ahead of the driving ice. It was an unusual and startling

experience. The effect of tidal action on ice is not often as marked as

it was that day. The advancing ice, accompanied by a large wave,

appeared to be travelling at about three knots; and if we had not

succeeded in pulling clear we would certainly have been swamped.

We pulled hard for an hour to windward of the berg that lay in the open

water. The swell was crashing on its perpendicular sides and throwing

spray to a height of sixty feet. Evidently there was an ice-foot at the

east end, for the swell broke before it reached the berg-face and flung

its white spray on to the blue ice-wall. We might have paused to have

admired the spectacle under other conditions; but night was coming on

apace, and we needed a camping-place. As we steered north-west, still

amid the ice-floes, the _Dudley Docker_ got jammed between two masses

while attempting to make a short cut. The old adage about a short cut

being the longest way round is often as true in the Antarctic as it is

in the peaceful countryside. The _James Caird_ got a line aboard the

_Dudley Docker_, and after some hauling the boat was brought clear of

the ice again. We hastened forward in the twilight in search of a flat,

old floe, and presently found a fairly large piece rocking in the

swell. It was not an ideal camping-place by any means, but darkness had

overtaken us. We hauled the boats up, and by 8 p.m. had the tents

pitched and the blubber-stove burning cheerily. Soon all hands were

well fed and happy in their tents, and snatches of song came to me as I

wrote up my log.

Some intangible feeling of uneasiness made me leave my tent about 11

p.m. that night and glance around the quiet camp. The stars between the

snow-flurries showed that the floe had swung round and was end on to

the swell, a position exposing it to sudden strains. I started to walk

across the floe in order to warn the watchman to look carefully for

cracks, and as I was passing the men’s tent the floe lifted on the

crest of a swell and cracked right under my feet. The men were in one

of the dome-shaped tents, and it began to stretch apart as the ice

opened. A muffled sound, suggestive of suffocation, came from beneath

the stretching tent. I rushed forward, helped some emerging men from

under the canvas, and called out, “Are you all right?”

“There are two in the water,” somebody answered. The crack had widened

to about four feet, and as I threw myself down at the edge, I saw a

whitish object floating in the water. It was a sleeping-bag with a man

inside. I was able to grasp it, and with a heave lifted man and bag on

to the floe. A few seconds later the ice-edges came together again with

tremendous force. Fortunately, there had been but one man in the water,

or the incident might have been a tragedy. The rescued bag contained

Holness, who was wet down to the waist but otherwise unscathed. The

crack was now opening again. The _James Caird_ and my tent were on one

side of the opening and the remaining two boats and the rest of the

camp on the other side. With two or three men to help me I struck my

tent; then all hands manned the painter and rushed the _James Caird_

across the opening crack. We held to the rope while, one by one, the

men left on our side of the floe jumped the channel or scrambled over

by means of the boat. Finally I was left alone. The night had swallowed

all the others and the rapid movement of the ice forced me to let go

the painter. For a moment I felt that my piece of rocking floe was the

loneliest place in the world. Peering into the darkness; I could just

see the dark figures on the other floe. I hailed Wild, ordering him to

launch the _Stancomb Wills_, but I need not have troubled. His quick

brain had anticipated the order and already the boat was being manned

and hauled to the ice-edge. Two or three minutes later she reached me,

and I was ferried across to the Camp.

We were now on a piece of flat ice about 200 ft. long and 100 ft. wide.

There was no more sleep for any of us that night. The killers were

blowing in the lanes around, and we waited for daylight and watched for

signs of another crack in the ice. The hours passed with laggard feet

as we stood huddled together or walked to and fro in the effort to keep

some warmth in our bodies. We lit the blubber-stove at 3 a.m., and with

pipes going and a cup of hot milk for each man, we were able to

discover some bright spots in our outlook. At any rate, we were on the

move at last, and if dangers and difficulties lay ahead we could meet

and overcome them. No longer were we drifting helplessly at the mercy

of wind and current.

The first glimmerings of dawn came at 6 a.m., and I waited anxiously

for the full daylight. The swell was growing, and at times our ice was

surrounded closely by similar pieces. At 6.30 a.m. we had hot hoosh,

and then stood by waiting for the pack to open. Our chance came at 8,

when we launched the boats, loaded them, and started to make our way

through the lanes in a northerly direction. The _James Caird_ was in

the lead, with the _Stancomb Wills_ next and the _Dudley Docker_

bringing up the rear. In order to make the boats more seaworthy we had

left some of our shovels, picks, and dried vegetables on the floe, and

for a long time we could see the abandoned stores forming a dark spot

on the ice. The boats were still heavily loaded. We got out of the

lanes, and entered a stretch of open water at 11 a.m. A strong easterly

breeze was blowing, but the fringe of pack lying outside protected us

from the full force of the swell, just as the coral-reef of a tropical

island checks the rollers of the Pacific. Our way was across the open

sea, and soon after noon we swung round the north end of the pack and

laid a course to the westward, the _James Caird_ still in the lead.

Immediately our deeply laden boats began to make heavy weather. They

shipped sprays, which, freezing as they fell, covered men and gear with

ice, and soon it was clear that we could not safely proceed. I put the

_James Caird_ round and ran for the shelter of the pack again, the

other boats following. Back inside the outer line of ice the sea was

not breaking. This was at 3 p.m., and all hands were tired and cold. A

big floeberg resting peacefully ahead caught my eye, and half an hour

later we had hauled up the boats and pitched camp for the night. It was

a fine, big, blue berg with an attractively solid appearance, and from

our camp we could get a good view of the surrounding sea and ice. The

highest point was about 15 ft. above sea-level. After a hot meal all

hands, except the watchman, turned in. Every one was in need of rest

after the troubles of the previous night and the unaccustomed strain of

the last thirty-six hours at the oars. The berg appeared well able to

withstand the battering of the sea, and too deep and massive to be

seriously affected by the swell; but it was not as safe as it looked.

About midnight the watchman called me and showed me that the heavy

north-westerly swell was undermining the ice. A great piece had broken

off within eight feet of my tent. We made what inspection was possible

in the darkness, and found that on the westward side of the berg the

thick snow covering was yielding rapidly to the attacks of the sea. An

ice-foot had formed just under the surface of the water. I decided that

there was no immediate danger and did not call the men. The

north-westerly wind strengthened during the night.

The morning of April 11 was overcast and misty. There was a haze on the

horizon, and daylight showed that the pack had closed round our berg,

making it impossible in the heavy swell to launch the boats. We could

see no sign of the water. Numerous whales and killers were blowing

between the floes, and Cape pigeons, petrels, and fulmars were circling

round our berg. The scene from our camp as the daylight brightened was

magnificent beyond description, though I must admit that we viewed it

with anxiety. Heaving hills of pack and floe were sweeping towards us

in long undulations, later to be broken here and there by the dark

lines that indicated open water. As each swell lifted around our

rapidly dissolving berg it drove floe-ice on to the ice-foot, shearing

off more of the top snow-covering and reducing the size of our camp.

When the floes retreated to attack again the water swirled over the

ice-foot, which was rapidly increasing in width. The launching of the

boats under such conditions would be difficult. Time after time, so

often that a track was formed, Worsley, Wild, and I, climbed to the

highest point of the berg and stared out to the horizon in search of a

break in the pack. After long hours had dragged past, far away on the

lift of the swell there appeared a dark break in the tossing field of

ice. Æons seemed to pass, so slowly it approached. I noticed enviously

the calm peaceful attitudes of two seals which lolled lazily on a

rocking floe. They were at home and had no reason for worry or cause

for fear. If they thought at all, I suppose they counted it an ideal

day for a joyous journey on the tumbling ice. To us it was a day that

seemed likely to lead to no more days. I do not think I had ever before

felt the anxiety that belongs to leadership quite so keenly. When I

looked down at the camp to rest my eyes from the strain of watching the

wide white expanse broken by that one black ribbon of open water, I

could see that my companions were waiting with more than ordinary

interest to learn what I thought about it all. After one particularly

heavy collision somebody shouted sharply, “She has cracked in the

middle.” I jumped off the look-out station and ran to the place the men

were examining. There was a crack, but investigation showed it to be a

mere surface break in the snow with no indication of a split in the

berg itself. The carpenter mentioned calmly that earlier in the day he

had actually gone adrift on a fragment of ice. He was standing near the

edge of our camping-ground when the ice under his feet parted from the

parent mass. A quick jump over the widening gap saved him.

The hours dragged on. One of the anxieties in my mind was the

possibility that we would be driven by the current through the

eighty-mile gap between Clarence Island and Prince George Island into

the open Atlantic; but slowly the open water came nearer, and at noon

it had almost reached us. A long lane, narrow but navigable, stretched

out to the south-west horizon. Our chance came a little later. We

rushed our boats over the edge of the reeling berg and swung them clear

of the ice-foot as it rose beneath them. The _James Caird_ was nearly

capsized by a blow from below as the berg rolled away, but she got into

deep water. We flung stores and gear aboard and within a few minutes

were away. The _James Caird_ and _Dudley Docker_ had good sails and

with a favourable breeze could make progress along the lane, with the

rolling fields of ice on either side. The swell was heavy and spray was

breaking over the ice-floes. An attempt to set a little rag of sail on

the _Stancomb Wills_ resulted in serious delay. The area of sail was

too small to be of much assistance, and while the men were engaged in

this work the boat drifted down towards the ice-floe, where her

position was likely to be perilous. Seeing her plight, I sent the

_Dudley Docker_ back for her and tied the _James Caird_ up to a piece

of ice. The _Dudley Docker_ had to tow the _Stancomb Wills_, and the

delay cost us two hours of valuable daylight. When I had the three

boats together again we continued down the lane, and soon saw a wider

stretch of water to the west; it appeared to offer us release from the

grip of the pack. At the head of an ice-tongue that nearly closed the

gap through which we might enter the open space was a wave-worn berg

shaped like some curious antediluvian monster, an icy Cerberus guarding

the way. It had head and eyes and rolled so heavily that it almost

overturned. Its sides dipped deep in the sea, and as it rose again the

water seemed to be streaming from its eyes, as though it were weeping

at our escape from the clutch of the floes. This may seem fanciful to

the reader, but the impression was real to us at the time. People

living under civilized conditions, surrounded by Nature’s varied forms

of life and by all the familiar work of their own hands, may scarcely

realize how quickly the mind, influenced by the eyes, responds to the

unusual and weaves about it curious imaginings like the firelight

fancies of our childhood days. We had lived long amid the ice, and we

half-unconsciously strove to see resemblances to human faces and living

forms in the fantastic contours and massively uncouth shapes of berg

and floe.

[Illustration: The Reeling Berg]

[Illustration: Sailing South Again]

At dusk we made fast to a heavy floe, each boat having its painter

fastened to a separate hummock in order to avoid collisions in the

swell. We landed the blubber-stove, boiled some water in order to

provide hot milk, and served cold rations. I also landed the dome tents

and stripped the coverings from the hoops. Our experience of the

previous day in the open sea had shown us that the tents must be packed

tightly. The spray had dashed over the bows and turned to ice on the

cloth, which had soon grown dangerously heavy. Other articles off our

scanty equipment had to go that night. We were carrying only the things

that had seemed essential, but we stripped now to the barest limit of

safety. We had hoped for a quiet night, but presently we were forced to

cast off, since pieces of loose ice began to work round the floe.

Drift-ice is always attracted to the lee side of a heavy floe, where it

bumps and presses under the influence of the current. I had determined

not to risk a repetition of the last night’s experience and so had not

pulled the boats up. We spent the hours of darkness keeping an offing

from the main line of pack under the lee of the smaller pieces.

Constant rain and snow squalls blotted out the stars and soaked us

through, and at times it was only by shouting to each other that we

managed to keep the boats together. There was no sleep for anybody

owing to the severe cold, and we dare not pull fast enough to keep

ourselves warm since we were unable to see more than a few yards ahead.

Occasionally the ghostly shadows of silver, snow, and fulmar petrels

flashed close to us, and all around we could hear the killers blowing,

their short, sharp hisses sounding like sudden escapes of steam. The

killers were a source of anxiety, for a boat could easily have been

capsized by one of them coming up to blow. They would throw aside in a

nonchalant fashion pieces of ice much bigger than our boats when they

rose to the surface, and we had an uneasy feeling that the white

bottoms of the boats would look like ice from below. Shipwrecked

mariners drifting in the Antarctic seas would be things not dreamed of

in the killers’ philosophy, and might appear on closer examination to

be tasty substitutes for seal and penguin. We certainly regarded the

killers with misgivings.

Early in the morning of April 12 the weather improved and the wind

dropped. Dawn came with a clear sky, cold and fearless. I looked around

at the faces of my companions in the _James Caird_ and saw pinched and

drawn features. The strain was beginning to tell. Wild sat at the

rudder with the same calm, confident expression that he would have worn

under happier conditions; his steel-blue eyes looked out to the day

ahead. All the people, though evidently suffering, were doing their

best to be cheerful, and the prospect of a hot breakfast was

inspiriting. I told all the boats that immediately we could find a

suitable floe the cooker would be started and hot milk and Bovril would

soon fix everybody up. Away we rowed to the westward through open pack,

floes of all shapes and sizes on every side of us, and every man not

engaged in pulling looking eagerly for a suitable camping-place. I

could gauge the desire for food of the different members by the

eagerness they displayed in pointing out to me the floes they

considered exactly suited to our purpose. The temperature was about 10°

Fahr., and the Burberry suits of the rowers crackled as the men bent to

the oars. I noticed little fragments of ice and frost falling from arms

and bodies. At eight o’clock a decent floe appeared ahead and we pulled

up to it. The galley was landed, and soon the welcome steam rose from

the cooking food as the blubber-stove flared and smoked. Never did a

cook work under more anxious scrutiny. Worsley, Crean, and I stayed in

our respective boats to keep them steady and prevent collisions with

the floe, since the swell was still running strong, but the other men

were able to stretch their cramped limbs and run to and fro “in the

kitchen,” as somebody put it. The sun was now rising gloriously. The

Burberry suits were drying and the ice was melting off our beards. The

steaming food gave us new vigour, and within three-quarters of an hour

we were off again to the west with all sails set. We had given an

additional sail to the _Stancomb Wills_ and she was able to keep up

pretty well. We could see that we were on the true pack-edge, with the

blue, rolling sea just outside the fringe of ice to the north.

White-capped waves vied with the glittering floes in the setting of

blue water, and countless seals basked and rolled on every piece of ice

big enough to form a raft.

We had been making westward with oars and sails since April 9, and fair

easterly winds had prevailed. Hopes were running high as to the noon

observation for position. The optimists thought that we had done sixty

miles towards our goal, and the most cautious guess gave us at least

thirty miles. The bright sunshine and the brilliant scene around us may

have influenced our anticipations. As noon approached I saw Worsley, as

navigating officer, balancing himself on the gunwale of the _Dudley

Docker_ with his arm around the mast, ready to snap the sun. He got his

observation and we waited eagerly while he worked out the sight. Then

the _Dudley Docker_ ranged up alongside the _James Caird_ and I jumped

into Worsley’s boat in order to see the result. It was a grievous

disappointment. Instead of making a good run to the westward we had

made a big drift to the south-east. We were actually thirty miles to

the east of the position we had occupied when we left the floe on the

9th. It has been noted by sealers operating in this area that there are

often heavy sets to the east in the Belgica Straits, and no doubt it

was one of these sets that we had experienced. The originating cause

would be a north-westerly gale off Cape Horn, producing the swell that

had already caused us so much trouble. After a whispered consultation

with Worsley and Wild, I announced that we had not made as much

progress as we expected, but I did not inform the hands of our

retrograde movement.

The question of our course now demanded further consideration.

Deception Island seemed to be beyond our reach. The wind was foul for

Elephant Island, and as the sea was clear to the south-west; I

discussed with Worsley and Wild the advisability of proceeding to Hope

Bay on the mainland of the Antarctic Continent, now only eighty miles

distant. Elephant Island was the nearest land, but it lay outside the

main body of pack, and even if the wind had been fair we would have

hesitated at that particular time to face the high sea that was running

in the open. We laid a course roughly for Hope Bay, and the boats moved

on again. I gave Worsley a line for a berg ahead and told him, if

possible, to make fast before darkness set in. This was about three

o’clock in the afternoon. We had set sail, and as the _Stancomb Wills_

could not keep up with the other two boats I took her in tow, not being

anxious to repeat the experience of the day we left the reeling berg.

The _Dudley Docker_ went ahead, but came beating down towards us at

dusk. Worsley had been close to the berg, and he reported that it was

unapproachable. It was rolling in the swell and displaying an ugly

ice-foot. The news was bad. In the failing light we turned towards a

line of pack, and found it so tossed and churned by the sea that no

fragment remained big enough to give us an anchorage and shelter. Two

miles away we could see a larger piece of ice, and to it we managed,

after some trouble, to secure the boats. I brought my boat bow on to

the floe, whilst Howe, with the painter in his hand, stood ready to

jump. Standing up to watch our chance, while the oars were held ready

to back the moment Howe had made his leap, I could see that there would

be no possibility of getting the galley ashore that night. Howe just

managed to get a footing on the edge of the floe, and then made the

painter fast to a hummock. The other two boats were fastened alongside

the _James Caird_. They could not lie astern of us in a line, since

cakes of ice came drifting round the floe and gathering under its lee.

As it was we spent the next two hours poling off the drifting ice that

surged towards us. The blubber-stove could not be used, so we started

the Primus lamps. There was a rough, choppy sea, and the _Dudley

Docker_ could not get her Primus under way, something being adrift. The

men in that boat had to wait until the cook on the _James Caird_ had

boiled up the first pot of milk.

The boats were bumping so heavily that I had to slack away the painter

of the _Stancomb Wills_ and put her astern. Much ice was coming round

the floe and had to be poled off. Then the _Dudley Docker_, being the

heavier boat, began to damage the _James Caird_, and I slacked the

_Dudley Docker_ away. The _James Caird_ remained moored to the ice,

with the _Dudley Docker_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ in line behind her.

The darkness had become complete, and we strained our eye to see the

fragments of ice that threatened us. Presently we thought we saw a

great berg bearing down upon us, its form outlined against the sky, but

this startling spectacle resolved itself into a low-lying cloud in

front of the rising moon. The moon appeared in a clear sky. The wind

shifted to the south-east as the light improved and drove the boats

broadside on towards the jagged edge of the floe. We had to cut the

painter of the _James Caird_ and pole her off, thus losing much

valuable rope. There was no time to cast off. Then we pushed away from

the floe, and all night long we lay in the open, freezing sea, the

_Dudley Docker_ now ahead, the _James Caird_ astern of her, and the

_Stancomb Wills_ third in the line. The boats were attached to one

another by their painters. Most of the time the _Dudley Docker_ kept

the _James Caird_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ up to the swell, and the men

who were rowing were in better pass than those in the other boats,

waiting inactive for the dawn. The temperature was down to 4° below

zero, and a film of ice formed on the surface of the sea. When we were

not on watch we lay in each other’s arms for warmth. Our frozen suits

thawed where our bodies met, and as the slightest movement exposed

these comparatively warm spots to the biting air, we clung motionless,

whispering each to his companion our hopes and thoughts. Occasionally

from an almost clear sky came snow-showers, falling silently on the sea

and laying a thin shroud of white over our bodies and our boats.

The dawn of April 13 came clear and bright, with occasional passing

clouds. Most of the men were now looking seriously worn and strained.

Their lips were cracked and their eyes and eyelids showed red in their

salt-encrusted faces. The beards even of the younger men might have

been those of patriarchs, for the frost and the salt spray had made

them white. I called the _Dudley Docker_ alongside and found the

condition of the people there was no better than in the _James Caird_.

Obviously we must make land quickly, and I decided to run for Elephant

Island. The wind had shifted fair for that rocky isle, then about one

hundred miles away, and the pack that separated us from Hope Bay had

closed up during the night from the south. At 6 p.m. we made a

distribution of stores among the three boats, in view of the

possibility of their being separated. The preparation of a hot

breakfast was out of the question. The breeze was strong and the sea

was running high in the loose pack around us. We had a cold meal, and I

gave orders that all hands might eat as much as they pleased, this

concession being due partly to a realization that we would have to

jettison some of our stores when we reached open sea in order to

lighten the boats. I hoped, moreover, that a full meal of cold rations

would compensate to some extent for the lack of warm food and shelter.

Unfortunately, some of the men were unable to take advantage of the

extra food owing to seasickness. Poor fellows, it was bad enough to be

huddled in the deeply laden, spray-swept boats, frost-bitten and

half-frozen, without having the pangs of seasickness added to the list

of their woes. But some smiles were caused even then by the plight of

one man, who had a habit of accumulating bits of food against the day

of starvation that he seemed always to think was at hand, and who was

condemned now to watch impotently while hungry comrades with

undisturbed stomachs made biscuits, rations, and sugar disappear with

extraordinary rapidity.

We ran before the wind through the loose pack, a man in the bow of each

boat trying to pole off with a broken oar the lumps of ice that could

not be avoided. I regarded speed as essential. Sometimes collisions

were not averted. The _James Caird_ was in the lead, where she bore the

brunt of the encounter with lurking fragments, and she was holed above

the water-line by a sharp spur of ice, but this mishap did not stay us.

Later the wind became stronger and we had to reef sails, so as not to

strike the ice too heavily. The _Dudley Docker_ came next to the _James

Caird_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ followed. I had given order that the

boats should keep 30 or 40 yds. apart, so as to reduce the danger of a

collision if one boat was checked by the ice. The pack was thinning,

and we came to occasional open areas where thin ice had formed during

the night. When we encountered this new ice we had to shake the reef

out of the sails in order to force a way through. Outside of the pack

the wind must have been of hurricane force. Thousands of small dead

fish were to be seen, killed probably by a cold current and the heavy

weather. They floated in the water and lay on the ice, where they had

been cast by the waves. The petrels and skua-gulls were swooping down

and picking them up like sardines off toast.

We made our way through the lanes till at noon we were suddenly spewed

out of the pack into the open ocean. Dark blue and sapphire green ran

the seas. Our sails were soon up, and with a fair wind we moved over

the waves like three Viking ships on the quest of a lost Atlantis. With

the sheet well out and the sun shining bright above, we enjoyed for a

few hours a sense of the freedom and magic of the sea, compensating us

for pain and trouble in the days that had passed. At last we were free

from the ice, in water that our boats could navigate. Thoughts of home,

stifled by the deadening weight of anxious days and nights, came to

birth once more, and the difficulties that had still to be overcome

dwindled in fancy almost to nothing.

During the afternoon we had to take a second reef in the sails, for the

wind freshened and the deeply laden boats were shipping much water and

steering badly in the rising sea. I had laid the course for Elephant

Island and we were making good progress. The _Dudley Docker_ ran down

to me at dusk and Worsley suggested that we should stand on all night;

but already the _Stancomb Wills_ was barely discernible among the

rollers in the gathering dusk, and I decided that it would be safer to

heave to and wait for the daylight. It would never have done for the

boats to have become separated from one another during the night. The

party must be kept together, and, moreover, I thought it possible that

we might overrun our goal in the darkness and not be able to return. So

we made a sea-anchor of oars and hove to, the _Dudley Docker_ in the

lead, since she had the longest painter. The _James Caird_ swung astern

of the _Dudley Docker_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ again had the third

place. We ate a cold meal and did what little we could to make things

comfortable for the hours of darkness. Rest was not for us. During the

greater part of the night the sprays broke over the boats and froze in

masses of ice, especially at the stern and bows. This ice had to be

broken away in order to prevent the boats growing too heavy. The

temperature was below zero and the wind penetrated our clothes and

chilled us almost unbearably. I doubted if all the men would survive

that night. One of our troubles was lack of water. We had emerged so

suddenly from the pack into the open sea that we had not had time to

take aboard ice for melting in the cookers, and without ice we could

not have hot food. The _Dudley Docker_ had one lump of ice weighing

about ten pounds, and this was shared out among all hands. We sucked

small pieces and got a little relief from thirst engendered by the salt

spray, but at the same time we reduced our bodily heat. The condition

of most of the men was pitiable. All of us had swollen mouths and we

could hardly touch the food. I longed intensely for the dawn. I called

out to the other boats at intervals during the night, asking how things

were with them. The men always managed to reply cheerfully. One of the

people on the _Stancomb Wills_ shouted, “We are doing all right, but I

would like some dry mitts.” The jest brought a smile to cracked lips.

He might as well have asked for the moon. The only dry things aboard

the boats were swollen mouths and burning tongues. Thirst is one of the

troubles that confront the traveller in polar regions. Ice may be

plentiful on every hand, but it does not become drinkable until it is

melted, and the amount that may be dissolved in the mouth is limited.

We had been thirsty during the days of heavy pulling in the pack, and

our condition was aggravated quickly by the salt spray. Our

sleeping-bags would have given us some warmth, but they were not within

our reach. They were packed under the tents in the bows, where a

mail-like coating of ice enclosed them, and we were so cramped that we

could not pull them out.

At last daylight came, and with the dawn the weather cleared and the

wind fell to a gentle south-westerly breeze. A magnificent sunrise

heralded in what we hoped would be our last day in the boats. Rose-pink

in the growing light, the lofty peak of Clarence Island told of the

coming glory of the sun. The sky grew blue above us and the crests of

the waves sparkled cheerfully. As soon as it was light enough we

chipped and scraped the ice off the bows and sterns. The rudders had

been unshipped during the night in order to avoid the painters catching

them. We cast off our ice-anchor and pulled the oars aboard. They had

grown during the night to the thickness of telegraph-poles while rising

and falling in the freezing seas, and had to be chipped clear before

they could be brought inboard.

We were dreadfully thirsty now. We found that we could get momentary

relief by chewing pieces of raw seal meat and swallowing the blood, but

thirst came back with redoubled force owing to the saltness of the

flesh. I gave orders, therefore, that meat was to be served out only at

stated intervals during the day or when thirst seemed to threaten the

reason of any particular individual. In the full daylight Elephant

Island showed cold and severe to the north-north-west. The island was

on the bearings that Worsley had laid down, and I congratulated him on

the accuracy of his navigation under difficult circumstances, with two

days dead reckoning while following a devious course through the

pack-ice and after drifting during two nights at the mercy of wind and

waves. The _Stancomb Wills_ came up and McIlroy reported that

Blackborrow’s feet were very badly frost-bitten. This was unfortunate,

but nothing could be done. Most of the people were frost-bitten to some

extent, and it was interesting to notice that the “oldtimers,” Wild,

Crean, Hurley, and I, were all right. Apparently we were acclimatized

to ordinary Antarctic temperature, though we learned later that we were

not immune.

All day, with a gentle breeze on our port bow, we sailed and pulled

through a clear sea. We would have given all the tea in China for a

lump of ice to melt into water, but no ice was within our reach. Three

bergs were in sight and we pulled towards them, hoping that a trail of

brash would be floating on the sea to leeward; but they were hard and

blue, devoid of any sign of cleavage, and the swell that surged around

them as they rose and fell made it impossible for us to approach

closely. The wind was gradually hauling ahead, and as the day wore on

the rays of the sun beat fiercely down from a cloudless sky on

pain-racked men. Progress was slow, but gradually Elephant Island came

nearer. Always while I attended to the other boats, signalling and

ordering, Wild sat at the tiller of the _James Caird_. He seemed

unmoved by fatigue and unshaken by privation. About four o’clock in the

afternoon a stiff breeze came up ahead and, blowing against the

current, soon produced a choppy sea. During the next hour of hard

pulling we seemed to make no progress at all. The _James Caird_ and the

_Dudley Docker_ had been towing the _Stancomb Wills_ in turn, but my

boat now took the _Stancomb Wills_ in tow permanently, as the _James

Caird_ could carry more sail than the _Dudley Docker_ in the freshening

wind.

We were making up for the south-east side of Elephant Island, the wind

being between north-west and west. The boats, held as close to the wind

as possible, moved slowly, and when darkness set in our goal was still

some miles away. A heavy sea was running. We soon lost sight of the

_Stancomb Wills_, astern of the _James Caird_ at the length of the

painter, but occasionally the white gleam of broken water revealed her

presence. When the darkness was complete I sat in the stern with my

hand on the painter, so that I might know if the other boat broke away,

and I kept that position during the night. The rope grew heavy with the

ice as the unseen seas surged past us and our little craft tossed to

the motion of the waters. Just at dusk I had told the men on the

_Stancomb Wills_ that if their boat broke away during the night and

they were unable to pull against the wind, they could run for the east

side of Clarence Island and await our coming there. Even though we

could not land on Elephant Island, it would not do to have the third

boat adrift.

It was a stern night. The men, except the watch, crouched and huddled

in the bottom of the boat, getting what little warmth they could from

the soaking sleeping-bags and each other’s bodies. Harder and harder

blew the wind and fiercer and fiercer grew the sea. The boat plunged

heavily through the squalls and came up to the wind, the sail shaking

in the stiffest gusts. Every now and then, as the night wore on, the

moon would shine down through a rift in the driving clouds, and in the

momentary light I could see the ghostly faces of men, sitting up to

trim the boat as she heeled over to the wind. When the moon was hidden

its presence was revealed still by the light reflected on the streaming

glaciers of the island. The temperature had fallen very low, and it

seemed that the general discomfort of our situation could scarcely have

been increased; but the land looming ahead was a beacon of safety, and

I think we were all buoyed up by the hope that the coming day would see

the end of our immediate troubles. At least we would get firm land

under our feet. While the painter of the _Stancomb Wills_ tightened and

drooped under my hand, my thoughts were busy with plans for the future.

Towards midnight the wind shifted to the south-west, and this change

enabled us to bear up closer to the island. A little later the _Dudley

Docker_ ran down to the _James Caird_, and Worsley shouted a suggestion

that he should go ahead and search for a landing-place. His boat had

the heels of the _James Caird_, with the _Stancomb Wills_ in tow. I

told him he could try, but he must not lose sight of the _James Caird_.

Just as he left me a heavy snow-squall came down, and in the darkness

the boats parted. I saw the _Dudley Docker_ no more. This separation

caused me some anxiety during the remaining hours of the night. A

cross-sea was running and I could not feel sure that all was well with

the missing boat. The waves could not be seen in the darkness, though

the direction and force of the wind could be felt, and under such

conditions, in an open boat, disaster might overtake the most

experienced navigator. I flashed our compass-lamp on the sail in the

hope that the signal would be visible on board the _Dudley Docker_, but

could see no reply. We strained our eyes to windward in the darkness in

the hope of catching a return signal and repeated our flashes at

intervals.

My anxiety, as a matter of fact, was groundless. I will quote Worsley’s

own account of what happened to the _Dudley Docker:_

“About midnight we lost sight of the _James Caird_ with the _Stancomb

Wills_ in tow, but not long after saw the light of the _James Caird’s_

compass-lamp, which Sir Ernest was flashing on their sail as a guide to

us. We answered by lighting our candle under the tent and letting the

light shine through. At the same time we got the direction of the wind

and how we were hauling from my little pocket-compass, the boat’s

compass being smashed. With this candle our poor fellows lit their

pipes, their only solace, as our raging thirst prevented us from eating

anything. By this time we had got into a bad tide-rip, which, combined

with the heavy, lumpy sea, made it almost impossible to keep the

_Dudley Docker_ from swamping. As it was we shipped several bad seas

over the stern as well as abeam and over the bows, although we were ‘on

a wind.’ Lees, who owned himself to be a rotten oarsman, made good here

by strenuous baling, in which he was well seconded by Cheetham.

Greenstreet, a splendid fellow, relieved me at the tiller and helped

generally. He and Macklin were my right and left bowers as stroke-oars

throughout. McLeod and Cheetham were two good sailors and oars, the

former a typical old deep-sea salt and growler, the latter a pirate to

his finger-tips. In the height of the gale that night Cheetham was

buying matches from me for bottles of champagne, one bottle per match

(too cheap; I should have charged him two bottles). The champagne is to

be paid when he opens his pub in Hull and I am able to call that

way.... We had now had one hundred and eight hours of toil, tumbling,

freezing, and soaking, with little or no sleep. I think Sir Ernest,

Wild, Greenstreet, and I could say that we had no sleep at all.

Although it was sixteen months since we had been in a rough sea, only

four men were actually seasick, but several others were off colour.

“The temperature was 20° below freezing-point; fortunately, we were

spared the bitterly low temperature of the previous night.

Greenstreet’s right foot got badly frost-bitten, but Lees restored it

by holding it in his sweater against his stomach. Other men had minor

frost-bites, due principally to the fact that their clothes were soaked

through with salt water.... We were close to the land as the morning

approached, but could see nothing of it through the snow and spindrift.

My eyes began to fail me. Constant peering to windward, watching for

seas to strike us, appeared to have given me a cold in the eyes. I

could not see or judge distance properly, and found myself falling

asleep momentarily at the tiller. At 3 a.m. Greenstreet relieved me

there. I was so cramped from long hours, cold, and wet, in the

constrained position one was forced to assume on top of the gear and

stores at the tiller, that the other men had to pull me amidships and

straighten me out like a jack-knife, first rubbing my thighs, groin,

and stomach.

“At daylight we found ourselves close alongside the land, but the

weather was so thick that we could not see where to make for a landing.

Having taken the tiller again after an hour’s rest under the shelter

(save the mark!) of the dripping tent, I ran the _Dudley Docker_ off

before the gale, following the coast around to the north. This course

for the first hour was fairly risky, the heavy sea before which we were

running threatening to swamp the boat, but by 8 a.m. we had obtained a

slight lee from the land. Then I was able to keep her very close in,

along a glacier front, with the object of picking up lumps of

fresh-water ice as we sailed through them. Our thirst was intense. We

soon had some ice aboard, and for the next hour and a half we sucked

and chewed fragments of ice with greedy relish.

“All this time we were coasting along beneath towering rocky cliffs and

sheer glacier-faces, which offered not the slightest possibility of

landing anywhere. At 9.30 a.m. we spied a narrow, rocky beach at the

base of some very high crags and cliff, and made for it. To our joy, we

sighted the _James Caird_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ sailing into the

same haven just ahead of us. We were so delighted that we gave three

cheers, which were not heard aboard the other boats owing to the roar

of the surf. However, we soon joined them and were able to exchange

experiences on the beach.”

Our experiences on the _James Caird_ had been similar, although we had

not been able to keep up to windward as well as the _Dudley Docker_ had

done. This was fortunate as events proved, for the _James Caird_ and

_Stancomb Wills_ went to leeward of the big bight the _Dudley Docker_

entered and from which she had to turn out with the sea astern. We thus

avoided the risk of having the _Stancomb Wills_ swamped in the

following sea. The weather was very thick in the morning. Indeed at 7

a.m. we were right under the cliffs, which plunged sheer into the sea,

before we saw them. We followed the coast towards the north, and ever

the precipitous cliffs and glacier-faces presented themselves to our

searching eyes. The sea broke heavily against these walls and a landing

would have been impossible under any conditions. We picked up pieces of

ice and sucked them eagerly. At 9 a.m. at the north-west end of the

island we saw a narrow beach at the foot of the cliffs. Outside lay a

fringe of rocks heavily beaten by the surf but with a narrow channel

showing as a break in the foaming water. I decided that we must face

the hazards of this unattractive landing-place. Two days and nights

without drink or hot food had played havoc with most of the men, and we

could not assume that any safer haven lay within our reach. The

_Stancomb Wills_ was the lighter and handier boat—and I called her

alongside with the intention of taking her through the gap first and

ascertaining the possibilities of a landing before the _James Caird_

made the venture. I was just climbing into the _Stancomb Wills_ when I

saw the _Dudley Docker_ coming up astern under sail. The sight took a

great load off my mind.

[Illustration: The First Landing ever made on Elephant Island, April

15, 1916]

[Illustration: “We Pulled the Three Boats a little Higher on the

Beach”]

Rowing carefully and avoiding the blind rollers which showed where

sunken rocks lay, we brought the _Stancomb Wills_ towards the opening

in the reef. Then, with a few strong strokes we shot through on the top

of a swell and ran the boat on to a stony beach. The next swell lifted

her a little farther. This was the first landing ever made on Elephant

Island, and a thought came to me that the honour should belong to the

youngest member of the Expedition, so I told Blackborrow to jump over.

He seemed to be in a state almost of coma, and in order to avoid delay

I helped him, perhaps a little roughly, over the side of the boat. He

promptly sat down in the surf and did not move. Then I suddenly

realized what I had forgotten, that both his feet were frost-bitten

badly. Some of us jumped over and pulled him into a dry place. It was a

rather rough experience for Blackborrow, but, anyhow, he is now able to

say that he was the first man to sit on Elephant Island. Possibly at

the time he would have been willing to forgo any distinction of the

kind. We landed the cook with his blubber-stove, a supply of fuel and

some packets of dried milk, and also several of the men. Then the rest

of us pulled out again to pilot the other boats through the channel.

The _James Caird_ was too heavy to be beached directly, so after

landing most of the men from the _Dudley Docker_ and the _Stancomb

Wills_ I superintended the transhipment of the _James Caird’s_ gear

outside the reef. Then we all made the passage, and within a few

minutes the three boats were aground. A curious spectacle met my eyes

when I landed the second time. Some of the men were reeling about the

beach as if they had found an unlimited supply of alcoholic liquor on

the desolate shore. They were laughing uproariously, picking up stones

and letting handfuls of pebbles trickle between their fingers like

misers gloating over hoarded gold. The smiles and laughter, which

caused cracked lips to bleed afresh, and the gleeful exclamations at

the sight of two live seals on the beach made me think for a moment of

that glittering hour of childhood when the door is open at last and the

Christmas-tree in all its wonder bursts upon the vision. I remember

that Wild, who always rose superior to fortune, bad and good, came

ashore as I was looking at the men and stood beside me as easy and

unconcerned as if he had stepped out of his car for a stroll in the

park.

Soon half a dozen of us had the stores ashore. Our strength was nearly

exhausted and it was heavy work carrying our goods over the rough

pebbles and rocks to the foot of the cliff, but we dare not leave

anything within reach of the tide. We had to wade knee-deep in the icy

water in order to lift the gear from the boats. When the work was done

we pulled the three boats a little higher on the beach and turned

gratefully to enjoy the hot drink the cook had prepared. Those of us

who were comparatively fit had to wait until the weaker members of the

party had been supplied; but every man had his pannikin of hot milk in

the end, and never did anything taste better. Seal steak and blubber

followed, for the seals that had been careless enough to await our

arrival on the beach had already given up their lives. There was no

rest for the cook. The blubber-stove flared and spluttered fiercely as

he cooked, not one meal, but many meals, which merged into a day-long

bout of eating. We drank water and ate seal meat until every man had

reached the limit of his capacity.

The tents were pitched with oars for supports, and by 3 p.m. our camp

was in order. The original framework of the tents had been cast adrift

on one of the floes in order to save weight. Most of the men turned in

early for a safe and glorious sleep, to be broken only by the call to

take a turn on watch. The chief duty of the watchman was to keep the

blubber-stove alight, and each man on duty appeared to find it

necessary to cook himself a meal during his watch, and a supper before

he turned in again.

Wild, Worsley, and Hurley accompanied me on an inspection of our beach

before getting into the tents. I almost wished then that I had

postponed the examination until after sleep, but the sense of caution

that the uncertainties of polar travel implant in one’s mind had made

me uneasy. The outlook we found to be anything but cheering. Obvious

signs showed that at spring tides the little beach would be covered by

the water right up to the foot of the cliffs. In a strong

north-easterly gale, such as we might expect to experience at any time,

the waves would pound over the scant barrier of the reef and break

against the sheer sides of the rocky wall behind us. Well-marked

terraces showed the effect of other gales, and right at the back of the

beach was a small bit of wreckage not more than three feet long,

rounded by the constant chafing it had endured. Obviously we must find

some better resting-place. I decided not to share with the men the

knowledge of the uncertainties of our situation until they had enjoyed

the full sweetness of rest untroubled by the thought that at any minute

they might be called to face peril again. The threat of the sea had

been our portion during many, many days, and a respite meant much to

weary bodies and jaded minds.

[Illustration]

The accompanying plan will indicate our exact position more clearly

than I can describe it. The cliffs at the back of the beach were

inaccessible except at two points where there were steep snow-slopes.

We were not worried now about food, for, apart from our own rations,

there were seals on the beach and we could see others in the water

outside the reef. Every now and then one of the animals would rise in

the shallows and crawl up on the beach, which evidently was a

recognized place of resort for its kind. A small rocky island which

protected us to some extent from the north-westerly wind carried a

ringed-penguin rookery. These birds were of migratory habit and might

be expected to leave us before the winter set in fully, but in the

meantime they were within our reach. These attractions, however, were

overridden by the fact that the beach was open to the attack of wind

and sea from the north-east and east. Easterly gales are more prevalent

than western in that area of the Antarctic during the winter. Before

turning in that night I studied the whole position and weighed every

chance of getting the boats and our stores into a place of safety out

of reach of the water. We ourselves might have clambered a little way

up the snow-slopes, but we could not have taken the boats with us. The

interior of the island was quite inaccessible. We climbed up one of the

slopes and found ourselves stopped soon by overhanging cliffs. The

rocks behind the camp were much weathered, and we noticed the sharp,

unworn boulders that had fallen from above. Clearly there was a danger

from overhead if we camped at the back of the beach. We must move on.

With that thought in mind I reached my tent and fell asleep on the

rubbly ground, which gave a comforting sense of stability. The fairy

princess who would not rest on her seven downy mattresses because a pea

lay underneath the pile might not have understood the pleasure we all

derived from the irregularities of the stones, which could not possibly

break beneath us or drift away; the very searching lumps were sweet

reminders of our safety.

Early next morning (April 15) all hands were astir. The sun soon shone

brightly and we spread out our wet gear to dry, till the beach looked

like a particularly disreputable gipsy camp. The boots and clothing had

suffered considerably during our travels. I had decided to send Wild

along the coast in the _Stancomb Wills_ to look for a new

camping-ground, and he and I discussed the details of the journey while

eating our breakfast of hot seal steak and blubber. The camp I wished

to find was one where the party could live for weeks or even months in

safety, without danger from sea or wind in the heaviest winter gale.

Wild was to proceed westwards along the coast and was to take with him

four of the fittest men, Marston, Crean, Vincent, and McCarthy. If he

did not return before dark we were to light a flare, which would serve

him as a guide to the entrance of the channel. The _Stancomb Wills_

pushed off at 11 a.m. and quickly passed out of sight around the

island. Then Hurley and I walked along the beach towards the west,

climbing through a gap between the cliff and a great detached pillar of

basalt. The narrow strip of beach was cumbered with masses of rock that

had fallen from the cliffs. We struggled along for two miles or more in

the search for a place where we could get the boats ashore and make a

permanent camp in the event of Wild’s search proving fruitless, but

after three hours’ vain toil we had to turn back. We had found on the

far side of the pillar of basalt a crevice in the rocks beyond the

reach of all but the heaviest gales. Rounded pebbles showed that the

seas reached the spot on occasions. Here I decided to depot ten cases

of Bovril sledging ration in case of our having to move away quickly.

We could come back for the food at a later date if opportunity offered.

[Illustration: The First Drink and Hot Food for Three-and-a-Half Days]

[Illustration: Mount Frank Houlder, Elephant Island]

Returning to the camp, we found the men resting or attending to their

gear. Clark had tried angling in the shallows off the rocks and had

secured one or two small fish. The day passed quietly. Rusty needles

were rubbed bright on the rocks and clothes were mended and darned. A

feeling of tiredness—due, I suppose, to reaction after the strain of

the preceding days—overtook us, but the rising tide, coming farther up

the beach than it had done on the day before, forced us to labour at

the boats, which we hauled slowly to a higher ledge. We found it

necessary to move our makeshift camp nearer the cliff. I portioned out

the available ground for the tents, the galley, and other purposes, as

every foot was of value. When night arrived the _Stancomb Wills_ was

still away, so I had a blubber-flare lit at the head of the channel.

About 8 p.m. we heard a hail in the distance. We could see nothing, but

soon like a pale ghost out of the darkness came the boat, the faces of

the men showing white in the glare of the fire. Wild ran her on the

beach with the swell, and within a couple of minutes we had dragged her

to a place of safety. I was waiting Wild’s report with keen anxiety,

and my relief was great when he told me that he had discovered a sandy

spit seven miles to the west, about 200 yds. long, running out at right

angles to the coast and terminating at the seaward end in a mass of

rock. A long snow-slope joined the spit at the shore end, and it seemed

possible that a “dugout” could be made in the snow. The spit, in any

case, would be a great improvement on our narrow beach. Wild added that

the place he described was the only possible camping-ground he had

seen. Beyond, to the west and south-west, lay a frowning line of cliffs

and glaciers, sheer to the water’s edge. He thought that in very heavy

gales either from the south-west or east the spit would be spray-blown,

but that the seas would not actually break over it. The boats could be

run up on a shelving beach.

After hearing this good news I was eager to get away from the beach

camp. The wind when blowing was favourable for the run along the coast.

The weather had been fine for two days and a change might come at any

hour. I told all hands that we would make a start early on the

following morning. A newly killed seal provided a luxurious supper of

steak and blubber, and then we slept comfortably till the dawn.

The morning of April 17 came fine and clear. The sea was smooth, but in

the offing we could see a line of pack, which seemed to be approaching.

We had noticed already pack and bergs being driven by the current to

the east and then sometimes coming back with a rush to the west. The

current ran as fast as five miles an hour, and it was a set of this

kind that had delayed Wild on his return from the spit. The rise and

fall of the tide was only about five feet at this time, but the moon

was making for full and the tides were increasing. The appearance of

ice emphasized the importance of getting away promptly. It would be a

serious matter to be prisoned on the beach by the pack. The boats were

soon afloat in the shallows, and after a hurried breakfast all hands

worked hard getting our gear and stores aboard. A mishap befell us when

we were launching the boats. We were using oars as rollers, and three

of these were broken, leaving us short for the journey that had still

to be undertaken. The preparations took longer than I had expected;

indeed, there seemed to be some reluctance on the part of several men

to leave the barren safety of the little beach and venture once more on

the ocean. But the move was imperative, and by 11 a.m. we were away,

the _James Caird_ leading. Just as we rounded the small island occupied

by the ringed penguins the “willywaw” swooped down from the 2000-ft.

cliffs behind us, a herald of the southerly gale that was to spring up

within half an hour.

Soon we were straining at the oars with the gale on our bows. Never had

we found a more severe task. The wind shifted from the south to the

south-west, and the shortage of oars became a serious matter. The

_James Caird_, being the heaviest boat, had to keep a full complement

of rowers, while the _Dudley Docker_ and the _Stancomb Wills_ went

short and took turns using the odd oar. A big swell was thundering

against the cliffs and at times we were almost driven on to the rocks

by swirling green waters. We had to keep close inshore in order to

avoid being embroiled in the raging sea, which was lashed snow-white

and quickened by the furious squalls into a living mass of sprays.

After two hours of strenuous labour we were almost exhausted, but we

were fortunate enough to find comparative shelter behind a point of

rock. Overhead towered the sheer cliffs for hundreds of feet, the

sea-birds that fluttered from the crannies of the rock dwarfed by the

height. The boats rose and fell in the big swell, but the sea was not

breaking in our little haven, and we rested there while we ate our cold

ration. Some of the men had to stand by the oars in order to pole the

boats off the cliff-face.

After half an hour’s pause I gave the order to start again. The _Dudley

Docker_ was pulling with three oars, as the _Stancomb Wills_ had the

odd one, and she fell away to leeward in a particularly heavy squall. I

anxiously watched her battling up against wind and sea. It would have

been useless to take the _James Caird_ back to the assistance of the

_Dudley Docker_ since we were hard pressed to make any progress

ourselves in the heavier boat. The only thing was to go ahead and hope

for the best. All hands were wet to the skin again and many men were

feeling the cold severely. We forged on slowly and passed inside a

great pillar of rock standing out to sea and towering to a height of

about 2400 ft. A line of reef stretched between the shore and this

pillar, and I thought as we approached that we would have to face the

raging sea outside; but a break in the white surf revealed a gap in the

reef and we laboured through, with the wind driving clouds of spray on

our port beam. The _Stancomb Wills_ followed safely. In the stinging

spray I lost sight of the _Dudley Docker_ altogether. It was obvious

she would have to go outside the pillar as she was making so much

leeway, but I could not see what happened to her and I dared not pause.

It was a bad time. At last, about 5 p.m., the _James Caird_ and the

_Stancomb Wills_ reached comparatively calm water and we saw Wild’s

beach just ahead of us. I looked back vainly for the _Dudley Docker_.

Rocks studded the shallow water round the spit and the sea surged

amongst them. I ordered the _Stancomb Wills_ to run on to the beach at

the place that looked smoothest, and in a few moments the first boat

was ashore, the men jumping out and holding her against the receding

wave. Immediately I saw she was safe I ran the _James Caird_ in. Some

of us scrambled up the beach through the fringe of the surf and slipped

the painter round a rock, so as to hold the boat against the backwash.

Then we began to get the stores and gear out, working like men

possessed, for the boats could not be pulled up till they had been

emptied. The blubber-stove was quickly alight and the cook began to

prepare a hot drink. We were labouring at the boats when I noticed

Rickenson turn white and stagger in the surf. I pulled him out of reach

of the water and sent him up to the stove, which had been placed in the

shelter of some rocks. McIlroy went to him and found that his heart had

been temporarily unequal to the strain placed upon it. He was in a bad

way and needed prompt medical attention. There are some men who will do

more than their share of work and who will attempt more than they are

physically able to accomplish. Rickenson was one of these eager souls.

He was suffering, like many other members of the Expedition, from bad

salt-water boils. Our wrists, arms, and legs were attacked. Apparently

this infliction was due to constant soaking with sea-water, the chafing

of wet clothes, and exposure.

I was very anxious about the _Dudley Docker_, and my eyes as well as my

thoughts were turned eastward as we carried the stores ashore; but

within half an hour the missing boat appeared, labouring through the

spume-white sea, and presently she reached the comparative calm of the

bay. We watched her coming with that sense of relief that the mariner

feels when he crosses the harbour-bar. The tide was going out rapidly,

and Worsley lightened the _Dudley Docker_ by placing some cases on an

outer rock, where they were retrieved subsequently. Then he beached his

boat, and with many hands at work we soon had our belongings ashore and

our three craft above high-water mark. The spit was by no means an

ideal camping-ground; it was rough, bleak, and inhospitable—just an

acre or two of rock and shingle, with the sea foaming around it except

where the snow-slope, running up to a glacier, formed the landward

boundary. But some of the larger rocks provided a measure of shelter

from the wind, and as we clustered round the blubber-stove, with the

acrid smoke blowing into our faces, we were quite a cheerful company.

After all, another stage of the homeward journey had been accomplished

and we could afford to forget for an hour the problems of the future.

Life was not so bad. We ate our evening meal while the snow drifted

down from the surface of the glacier, and our chilled bodies grew warm.

Then we dried a little tobacco at the stove and enjoyed our pipes

before we crawled into our tents. The snow had made it impossible for

us to find the tide-line and we were uncertain how far the sea was

going to encroach upon our beach. I pitched my tent on the seaward side

of the camp so that I might have early warning of danger, and, sure

enough, about 2 a.m. a little wave forced its way under the tent-cloth.

This was a practical demonstration that we had not gone far enough back

from the sea, but in the semi-darkness it was difficult to see where we

could find safety. Perhaps it was fortunate that experience had inured

us to the unpleasantness of sudden forced changes of camp. We took down

the tents and re-pitched them close against the high rocks at the

seaward end of the spit, where large boulders made an uncomfortable

resting-place. Snow was falling heavily. Then all hands had to assist

in pulling the boats farther up the beach, and at this task we suffered

a serious misfortune. Two of our four bags of clothing had been placed

under the bilge of the _James Caird_, and before we realized the danger

a wave had lifted the boat and carried the two bags back into the surf.

We had no chance of recovering them. This accident did not complete the

tale of the night’s misfortunes. The big eight-man tent was blown to

pieces in the early morning. Some of the men who had occupied it took

refuge in other tents, but several remained in their sleeping-bags

under the fragments of cloth until it was time to turn out.

A southerly gale was blowing on the morning of April 18 and the

drifting snow was covering everything. The outlook was cheerless

indeed, but much work had to be done and we could not yield to the

desire to remain in the sleeping-bags. Some sea-elephants were lying

about the beach above high-water mark, and we killed several of the

younger ones for their meat and blubber. The big tent could not be

replaced, and in order to provide shelter for the men we turned the

_Dudley Docker_ upside down and wedged up the weather side with

boulders. We also lashed the painter and stern-rope round the heaviest

rocks we could find, so as to guard against the danger of the boat

being moved by the wind. The two bags of clothing were bobbing about

amid the brash and glacier-ice to the windward side of the spit, and it

did not seem possible to reach them. The gale continued all day, and

the fine drift from the surface of the glacier was added to the big

flakes of snow falling from the sky. I made a careful examination of

the spit with the object of ascertaining its possibilities as a

camping-ground. Apparently, some of the beach lay above high-water mark

and the rocks that stood above the shingle gave a measure of shelter.

It would be possible to mount the snow-slope towards the glacier in

fine weather, but I did not push my exploration in that direction

during the gale. At the seaward end of the spit was the mass of rock

already mentioned. A few thousand ringed penguins, with some gentoos,

were on these rocks, and we had noted this fact with a great deal of

satisfaction at the time of our landing. The ringed penguin is by no

means the best of the penguins from the point of view of the hungry

traveller, but it represents food. At 8 a.m. that morning I noticed the

ringed penguins mustering in orderly fashion close to the water’s edge,

and thought that they were preparing for the daily fishing excursion;

but presently it became apparent that some important move was on foot.

They were going to migrate, and with their departure much valuable food

would pass beyond our reach. Hurriedly we armed ourselves with pieces

of sledge-runner and other improvised clubs, and started towards the

rookery. We were too late. The leaders gave their squawk of command and

the columns took to the sea in unbroken ranks. Following their leaders,

the penguins dived through the surf and reappeared in the heaving water

beyond. A very few of the weaker birds took fright and made their way

back to the beach, where they fell victims later to our needs; but the

main army went northwards and we saw them no more. We feared that the

gentoo penguins might follow the example of their ringed cousins, but

they stayed with us; apparently they had not the migratory habit. They

were comparatively few in number, but from time to time they would come

in from the sea and walk up our beach. The gentoo is the most strongly

marked of all the smaller varieties of penguins as far as colouring is

concerned, and it far surpasses the adelie in weight of legs and

breast, the points that particularly appealed to us.

The deserted rookery was sure to be above high-water mark at all times;

and we mounted the rocky ledge in search of a place to pitch our tents.

The penguins knew better than to rest where the sea could reach them

even when the highest tide was supported by the strongest gale. The

disadvantages of a camp on the rookery were obvious. The smell was

strong, to put it mildly, and was not likely to grow less pronounced

when the warmth of our bodies thawed the surface. But our choice of

places was not wide, and that afternoon we dug out a site for two tents

in the debris of the rookery, levelling it off with snow and rocks. My

tent, No. 1, was pitched close under the cliff, and there during my

stay on Elephant Island I lived. Crean’s tent was close by, and the

other three tents, which had fairly clean snow under them, were some

yards away. The fifth tent was a ramshackle affair. The material of the

torn eight-man tent had been drawn over a rough framework of oars, and

shelter of a kind provided for the men who occupied it.

The arrangement of our camp, the checking of our gear, the killing and

skinning of seals and sea-elephants occupied us during the day, and we

took to our sleeping-bags early. I and my companions in No. 1 tent were

not destined to spend a pleasant night. The heat of our bodies soon

melted the snow and refuse beneath us and the floor of the tent became

an evil smelling yellow mud. The snow drifting from the cliff above us

weighted the sides of the tent, and during the night a particularly

stormy gust brought our little home down on top of us. We stayed

underneath the snow-laden cloth till the morning, for it seemed a

hopeless business to set about re-pitching the tent amid the storm that

was raging in the darkness of the night.

The weather was still bad on the morning of April 19. Some of the men

were showing signs of demoralization. They were disinclined to leave

the tents when the hour came for turning out, and it was apparent they

were thinking more of the discomforts of the moment than of the good

fortune that had brought us to sound ground and comparative safety. The

condition of the gloves and headgear shown me by some discouraged men

illustrated the proverbial carelessness of the sailor. The articles had

frozen stiff during the night, and the owners considered, it appeared,

that this state of affairs provided them with a grievance, or at any

rate gave them the right to grumble. They said they wanted dry clothes

and that their health would not admit of their doing any work. Only by

rather drastic methods were they induced to turn to. Frozen gloves and

helmets undoubtedly are very uncomfortable, and the proper thing is to

keep these articles thawed by placing them inside one’s shirt during

the night.

The southerly gale, bringing with it much snow, was so severe that as I

went along the beach to kill a seal I was blown down by a gust. The

cooking-pots from No. 2 tent took a flying run into the sea at the same

moment. A case of provisions which had been placed on them to keep them

safe had been capsized by a squall. These pots, fortunately, were not

essential, since nearly all our cooking was done over the

blubber-stove. The galley was set up by the rocks close to my tent, in

a hole we had dug through the debris of the penguin rookery. Cases of

stores gave some shelter from the wind and a spread sail kept some of

the snow off the cook when he was at work. He had not much idle time.

The amount of seal and sea-elephant steak and blubber consumed by our

hungry party was almost incredible. He did not lack assistance—the

neighbourhood of the blubber-stove had attractions for every member of

the party; but he earned everybody’s gratitude by his unflagging energy

in preparing meals that to us at least were savoury and satisfying.

Frankly, we needed all the comfort that the hot food could give us. The

icy fingers of the gale searched every cranny of our beach and pushed

relentlessly through our worn garments and tattered tents. The snow,

drifting from the glacier and falling from the skies, swathed us and

our gear and set traps for our stumbling feet. The rising sea beat

against the rocks and shingle and tossed fragments of floe-ice within a

few feet of our boats. Once during the morning the sun shone through

the racing clouds and we had a glimpse of blue sky; but the promise of

fair weather was not redeemed. The consoling feature of the situation

was that our camp was safe. We could endure the discomforts, and I felt

that all hands would be benefited by the opportunity for rest and

recuperation.