CHAPTER IX

THE BOAT JOURNEY

The increasing sea made it necessary for us to drag the boats farther

up the beach. This was a task for all hands, and after much labour we

got the boats into safe positions among the rocks and made fast the

painters to big boulders. Then I discussed with Wild and Worsley the

chances of reaching South Georgia before the winter locked the seas

against us. Some effort had to be made to secure relief. Privation and

exposure had left their mark on the party, and the health and mental

condition of several men were causing me serious anxiety. Blackborrow’s

feet, which had been frost-bitten during the boat journey, were in a

bad way, and the two doctors feared that an operation would be

necessary. They told me that the toes would have to be amputated unless

animation could be restored within a short period. Then the food-supply

was a vital consideration. We had left ten cases of provisions in the

crevice of the rocks at our first camping-place on the island. An

examination of our stores showed that we had full rations for the whole

party for a period of five weeks. The rations could be spread over

three months on a reduced allowance and probably would be supplemented

by seals and sea-elephants to some extent. I did not dare to count with

full confidence on supplies of meat and blubber, for the animals seemed

to have deserted the beach and the winter was near. Our stocks included

three seals and two and a half skins (with blubber attached). We were

mainly dependent on the blubber for fuel, and, after making a

preliminary survey of the situation, I decided that the party must be

limited to one hot meal a day.

A boat journey in search of relief was necessary and must not be

delayed. That conclusion was forced upon me. The nearest port where

assistance could certainly be secured was Port Stanley, in the Falkland

Islands, 540 miles away, but we could scarcely hope to beat up against

the prevailing north-westerly wind in a frail and weakened boat with a

small sail area. South Georgia was over 800 miles away, but lay in the

area of the west winds, and I could count upon finding whalers at any

of the whaling-stations on the east coast. A boat party might make the

voyage and be back with relief within a month, provided that the sea

was clear of ice and the boat survive the great seas. It was not

difficult to decide that South Georgia must be the objective, and I

proceeded to plan ways and means. The hazards of a boat journey across

800 miles of stormy sub-Antarctic ocean were obvious, but I calculated

that at worst the venture would add nothing to the risks of the men

left on the island. There would be fewer mouths to feed during the

winter and the boat would not require to take more than one month’s

provisions for six men, for if we did not make South Georgia in that

time we were sure to go under. A consideration that had weight with me

was that there was no chance at all of any search being made for us on

Elephant Island.

The case required to be argued in some detail, since all hands knew

that the perils of the proposed journey were extreme. The risk was

justified solely by our urgent need of assistance. The ocean south of

Cape Horn in the middle of May is known to be the most tempestuous

storm-swept area of water in the world. The weather then is unsettled,

the skies are dull and overcast, and the gales are almost unceasing. We

had to face these conditions in a small and weather-beaten boat,

already strained by the work of the months that had passed. Worsley and

Wild realized that the attempt must be made, and they both asked to be

allowed to accompany me on the voyage. I told Wild at once that he

would have to stay behind. I relied upon him to hold the party together

while I was away and to make the best of his way to Deception Island

with the men in the spring in the event of our failure to bring help.

Worsley I would take with me, for I had a very high opinion of his

accuracy and quickness as a navigator, and especially in the snapping

and working out of positions in difficult circumstances—an opinion that

was only enhanced during the actual journey. Four other men would be

required, and I decided to call for volunteers, although, as a matter

of fact, I pretty well knew which of the people I would select. Crean I

proposed to leave on the island as a right-hand man for Wild, but he

begged so hard to be allowed to come in the boat that, after

consultation with Wild, I promised to take him. I called the men

together, explained my plan, and asked for volunteers. Many came

forward at once. Some were not fit enough for the work that would have

to be done, and others would not have been much use in the boat since

they were not seasoned sailors, though the experiences of recent months

entitled them to some consideration as seafaring men. McIlroy and

Macklin were both anxious to go but realized that their duty lay on the

island with the sick men. They suggested that I should take Blackborrow

in order that he might have shelter and warmth as quickly as possible,

but I had to veto this idea. It would be hard enough for fit men to

live in the boat. Indeed, I did not see how a sick man, lying helpless

in the bottom of the boat, could possibly survive in the heavy weather

we were sure to encounter. I finally selected McNeish, McCarthy, and

Vincent in addition to Worsley and Crean. The crew seemed a strong one,

and as I looked at the men I felt confidence increasing.

The decision made, I walked through the blizzard with Worsley and Wild

to examine the _James Caird_. The 20-ft. boat had never looked big; she

appeared to have shrunk in some mysterious way when I viewed her in the

light of our new undertaking. She was an ordinary ship’s whaler, fairly

strong, but showing signs of the strains she had endured since the

crushing of the _Endurance_. Where she was holed in leaving the pack

was, fortunately, about the water-line and easily patched. Standing

beside her, we glanced at the fringe of the storm-swept, tumultuous sea

that formed our path. Clearly, our voyage would be a big adventure. I

called the carpenter and asked him if he could do anything to make the

boat more seaworthy. He first inquired if he was to go with me, and

seemed quite pleased when I said “Yes.” He was over fifty years of age

and not altogether fit, but he had a good knowledge of sailing-boats

and was very quick. McCarthy said that he could contrive some sort of

covering for the _James Caird_ if he might use the lids of the cases

and the four sledge-runners that we had lashed inside the boat for use

in the event of a landing on Graham Land at Wilhelmina Bay. This bay,

at one time the goal of our desire, had been left behind in the course

of our drift, but we had retained the runners. The carpenter proposed

to complete the covering with some of our canvas; and he set about

making his plans at once.

Noon had passed and the gale was more severe than ever. We could not

proceed with our preparations that day. The tents were suffering in the

wind and the sea was rising. We made our way to the snow-slope at the

shoreward end of the spit, with the intention of digging a hole in the

snow large enough to provide shelter for the party. I had an idea that

Wild and his men might camp there during my absence, since it seemed

impossible that the tents could hold together for many more days

against the attacks of the wind; but an examination of the spot

indicated that any hole we could dig probably would be filled quickly

by the drift. At dark, about 5 p.m., we all turned in, after a supper

consisting of a pannikin of hot milk, one of our precious biscuits, and

a cold penguin leg each.

The gale was stronger than ever on the following morning (April 20). No

work could be done. Blizzard and snow, snow and blizzard, sudden lulls

and fierce returns. During the lulls we could see on the far horizon to

the north-east bergs of all shapes and sizes driving along before the

gale, and the sinister appearance of the swift-moving masses made us

thankful indeed that, instead of battling with the storm amid the ice,

we were required only to face the drift from the glaciers and the

inland heights. The gusts might throw us off our feet, but at least we

fell on solid ground and not on the rocking floes. Two seals came up on

the beach that day, one of them within ten yards of my tent. So urgent

was our need of food and blubber that I called all hands and organized

a line of beaters instead of simply walking up to the seal and hitting

it on the nose. We were prepared to fall upon this seal _en masse_ if

it attempted to escape. The kill was made with a pick-handle, and in a

few minutes five days’ food and six days’ fuel were stowed in a place

of safety among the boulders above high-water mark. During this day the

cook, who had worked well on the floe and throughout the boat journey,

suddenly collapsed. I happened to be at the galley at the moment and

saw him fall. I pulled him down the slope to his tent and pushed him

into its shelter with orders to his tent-mates to keep him in his

sleeping-bag until I allowed him to come out or the doctors said he was

fit enough. Then I took out to replace the cook one of the men who had

expressed a desire to lie down and die. The task of keeping the galley

fire alight was both difficult and strenuous, and it took his thoughts

away from the chances of immediate dissolution. In fact, I found him a

little later gravely concerned over the drying of a naturally not

over-clean pair of socks which were hung up in close proximity to our

evening milk. Occupation had brought his thoughts back to the ordinary

cares of life.

There was a lull in the bad weather on April 21, and the carpenter

started to collect material for the decking of the _James Caird_. He

fitted the mast of the _Stancomb Wills_ fore and aft inside the _James

Caird_ as a hog-back and thus strengthened the keel with the object of

preventing our boat “hogging”—that is, buckling in heavy seas. He had

not sufficient wood to provide a deck, but by using the sledge-runners

and box-lids he made a framework extending from the forecastle aft to a

well. It was a patched-up affair, but it provided a base for a canvas

covering. We had a bolt of canvas frozen stiff, and this material had

to be cut and then thawed out over the blubber-stove, foot by foot, in

order that it might be sewn into the form of a cover. When it had been

nailed and screwed into position it certainly gave an appearance of

safety to the boat, though I had an uneasy feeling that it bore a

strong likeness to stage scenery, which may look like a granite wall

and is in fact nothing better than canvas and lath. As events proved,

the covering served its purpose well. We certainly could not have lived

through the voyage without it.

Another fierce gale was blowing on April 22, interfering with our

preparations for the voyage. The cooker from No. 5 tent came adrift in

a gust, and, although it was chased to the water’s edge, it disappeared

for good. Blackborrow’s feet were giving him much pain, and McIlroy and

Macklin thought it would be necessary for them to operate soon. They

were under the impression then that they had no chloroform, but they

found some subsequently in the medicine-chest after we had left. Some

cases of stores left on a rock off the spit on the day of our arrival

were retrieved during this day. We were setting aside stores for the

boat journey and choosing the essential equipment from the scanty stock

at our disposal. Two ten-gallon casks had to be filled with water

melted down from ice collected at the foot of the glacier. This was a

rather slow business. The blubber-stove was kept going all night, and

the watchmen emptied the water into the casks from the pot in which the

ice was melted. A working party started to dig a hole in the snow-slope

about forty feet above sea-level with the object of providing a site

for a camp. They made fairly good progress at first, but the snow

drifted down unceasingly from the inland ice, and in the end the party

had to give up the project.

[Illustration: Launching the _James Caird_]

[Illustration: The _Stancomb Wills_]

The weather was fine on April 23, and we hurried forward our

preparations. It was on this day I decided finally that the crew for

the _James Caird_ should consist of Worsley, Crean, McNeish, McCarthy,

Vincent, and myself. A storm came on about noon, with driving snow and

heavy squalls. Occasionally the air would clear for a few minutes, and

we could see a line of pack-ice, five miles out, driving across from

west to east. This sight increased my anxiety to get away quickly.

Winter was advancing, and soon the pack might close completely round

the island and stay our departure for days or even for weeks, I did not

think that ice would remain around Elephant Island continuously during

the winter, since the strong winds and fast currents would keep it in

motion. We had noticed ice and bergs, going past at the rate of four or

five knots. A certain amount of ice was held up about the end of our

spit, but the sea was clear where the boat would have to be launched.

Worsley, Wild, and I climbed to the summit of the seaward rocks and

examined the ice from a better vantage-point than the beach offered.

The belt of pack outside appeared to be sufficiently broken for our

purposes, and I decided that, unless the conditions forbade it, we

would make a start in the _James Caird_ on the following morning.

Obviously the pack might close at any time. This decision made, I spent

the rest of the day looking over the boat, gear, and stores, and

discussing plans with Worsley and Wild.

Our last night on the solid ground of Elephant Island was cold and

uncomfortable. We turned out at dawn and had breakfast. Then we

launched the _Stancomb Wills_ and loaded her with stores, gear, and

ballast, which would be transferred to the _James Caird_ when the

heavier boat had been launched. The ballast consisted of bags made from

blankets and filled with sand, making a total weight of about 1000 lbs.

In addition we had gathered a number of round boulders and about 250

lbs. of ice, which would supplement our two casks of water.

The stores taken in the _James Caird_, which would last six men for one

month, were as follows:

30 boxes of matches.

6½ gallons paraffin.

1 tin methylated spirit.

10 boxes of flamers.

1 box of blue lights.

2 Primus stoves with spare parts and prickers.

1 Nansen aluminium cooker.

6 sleeping-bags.

A few spare socks.

A few candles and some blubber-oil in an oil-bag.

_Food_:

3 cases sledging rations = 300 rations.

2 cases nut food = 200 ”

2 cases biscuits = 600 biscuits.

1 case lump sugar.

30 packets of Trumilk.

1 tin. of Bovril cubes.

1 tin of Cerebos salt.

36 gallons of water.

250 lbs. of ice.

_Instruments_:

Sextant.

Sea-anchor.

Binoculars.

Charts.

Prismatic compass.

Aneroid.

The swell was slight when the _Stancomb Wills_ was launched and the

boat got under way without any difficulty; but half an hour later, when

we were pulling down the _James Caird_, the swell increased suddenly.

Apparently the movement of the ice outside had made an opening and

allowed the sea to run in without being blanketed by the line of pack.

The swell made things difficult. Many of us got wet to the waist while

dragging the boat out—a serious matter in that climate. When the _James

Caird_ was afloat in the surf she nearly capsized among the rocks

before we could get her clear, and Vincent and the carpenter, who were

on the deck, were thrown into the water. This was really bad luck, for

the two men would have small chance of drying their clothes after we

had got under way. Hurley, who had the eye of the professional

photographer for “incidents,” secured a picture of the upset, and I

firmly believe that he would have liked the two unfortunate men to

remain in the water until he could get a “snap” at close quarters; but

we hauled them out immediately, regardless of his feelings.

The _James Caird_ was soon clear of the breakers. We used all the

available ropes as a long painter to prevent her drifting away to the

north-east, and then the _Stancomb Wills_ came alongside, transferred

her load, and went back to the shore for more. As she was being beached

this time the sea took her stern and half filled her with water. She

had to be turned over and emptied before the return journey could be

made. Every member of the crew of the _Stancomb Wills_ was wet to the

skin. The water-casks were towed behind the _Stancomb Wills_ on this

second journey, and the swell, which was increasing rapidly, drove the

boat on to the rocks, where one of the casks was slightly stove in.

This accident proved later to be a serious one, since some sea-water

had entered the cask and the contents were now brackish.

By midday the _James Caird_ was ready for the voyage. Vincent and the

carpenter had secured some dry clothes by exchange with members of the

shore party (I heard afterwards that it was a full fortnight before the

soaked garments were finally dried), and the boat’s crew was standing

by waiting for the order to cast off. A moderate westerly breeze was

blowing. I went ashore in the _Stancomb Wills_ and had a last word with

Wild, who was remaining in full command, with directions as to his

course of action in the event of our failure to bring relief, but I

practically left the whole situation and scope of action and decision

to his own judgment, secure in the knowledge that he would act wisely.

I told him that I trusted the party to him and said good-bye to the

men. Then we pushed off for the last time, and within a few minutes I

was aboard the _James Caird_. The crew of the _Stancomb Wills_ shook

hands with us as the boats bumped together and offered us the last good

wishes. Then, setting our jib, we cut the painter and moved away to the

north-east. The men who were staying behind made a pathetic little

group on the beach, with the grim heights of the island behind them and

the sea seething at their feet, but they waved to us and gave three

hearty cheers. There was hope in their hearts and they trusted us to

bring the help that they needed.

I had all sails set, and the _James Caird_ quickly dipped the beach and

its line of dark figures. The westerly wind took us rapidly to the line

of pack, and as we entered it I stood up with my arm around the mast,

directing the steering, so as to avoid the great lumps of ice that were

flung about in the heave of the sea. The pack thickened and we were

forced to turn almost due east, running before the wind towards a gap I

had seen in the morning from the high ground. I could not see the gap

now, but we had come out on its bearing and I was prepared to find that

it had been influenced by the easterly drift. At four o’clock in the

afternoon we found the channel, much narrower than it had seemed in the

morning but still navigable. Dropping sail, we rowed through without

touching the ice anywhere, and by 5.30 p.m. we were clear of the pack

with open water before us. We passed one more piece of ice in the

darkness an hour later, but the pack lay behind, and with a fair wind

swelling the sails we steered our little craft through the night, our

hopes centred on our distant goal. The swell was very heavy now, and

when the time came for our first evening meal we found great difficulty

in keeping the Primus lamp alight and preventing the hoosh splashing

out of the pot. Three men were needed to attend to the cooking, one man

holding the lamp and two men guarding the aluminium cooking-pot, which

had to be lifted clear of the Primus whenever the movement of the boat

threatened to cause a disaster. Then the lamp had to be protected from

water, for sprays were coming over the bows and our flimsy decking was

by no means water-tight. All these operations were conducted in the

confined space under the decking, where the men lay or knelt and

adjusted themselves as best they could to the angles of our cases and

ballast. It was uncomfortable, but we found consolation in the

reflection that without the decking we could not have used the cooker

at all.

The tale of the next sixteen days is one of supreme strife amid heaving

waters. The sub-Antarctic Ocean lived up to its evil winter reputation.

I decided to run north for at least two days while the wind held and so

get into warmer weather before turning to the east and laying a course

for South Georgia. We took two-hourly spells at the tiller. The men who

were not on watch crawled into the sodden sleeping-bags and tried to

forget their troubles for a period; but there was no comfort in the

boat. The bags and cases seemed to be alive in the unfailing knack of

presenting their most uncomfortable angles to our rest-seeking bodies.

A man might imagine for a moment that he had found a position of ease,

but always discovered quickly that some unyielding point was impinging

on muscle or bone. The first night aboard the boat was one of acute

discomfort for us all, and we were heartily glad when the dawn came and

we could set about the preparation of a hot breakfast.

This record of the voyage to South Georgia is based upon scanty notes

made day by day. The notes dealt usually with the bare facts of

distances, positions, and weather, but our memories retained the

incidents of the passing days in a period never to be forgotten. By

running north for the first two days I hoped to get warmer weather and

also to avoid lines of pack that might be extending beyond the main

body. We needed all the advantage that we could obtain from the higher

latitude for sailing on the great circle, but we had to be cautious

regarding possible ice-streams. Cramped in our narrow quarters and

continually wet by the spray, we suffered severely from cold throughout

the journey. We fought the seas and the winds and at the same time had

a daily struggle to keep ourselves alive. At times we were in dire

peril. Generally we were upheld by the knowledge that we were making

progress towards the land where we would be, but there were days and

nights when we lay hove to, drifting across the storm-whitened seas and

watching with eyes interested rather than apprehensive the uprearing

masses of water, flung to and fro by Nature in the pride of her

strength. Deep seemed the valleys when we lay between the reeling seas.

High were the hills when we perched momentarily on the tops of giant

combers. Nearly always there were gales. So small was our boat and so

great were the seas that often our sail flapped idly in the calm

between the crests of two waves. Then we would climb the next slope and

catch the full fury of the gale where the wool-like whiteness of the

breaking water surged around us. We had our moments of laughter—rare,

it is true, but hearty enough. Even when cracked lips and swollen

mouths checked the outward and visible signs of amusement we could see

a joke of the primitive kind. Man’s sense of humour is always most

easily stirred by the petty misfortunes of his neighbours, and I shall

never forget Worsley’s efforts on one occasion to place the hot

aluminium stand on top of the Primus stove after it had fallen off in

an extra heavy roll. With his frost-bitten fingers he picked it up,

dropped it, picked it up again, and toyed with it gingerly as though it

were some fragile article of lady’s wear. We laughed, or rather gurgled

with laughter.

The wind came up strong and worked into a gale from the north-west on

the third day out. We stood away to the east. The increasing seas

discovered the weaknesses of our decking. The continuous blows shifted

the box-lids and sledge-runners so that the canvas sagged down and

accumulated water. Then icy trickles, distinct from the driving sprays,

poured fore and aft into the boat. The nails that the carpenter had

extracted from cases at Elephant Island and used to fasten down the

battens were too short to make firm the decking. We did what we could

to secure it, but our means were very limited, and the water continued

to enter the boat at a dozen points. Much baling was necessary, and

nothing that we could do prevented our gear from becoming sodden. The

searching runnels from the canvas were really more unpleasant than the

sudden definite douches of the sprays. Lying under the thwarts during

watches below, we tried vainly to avoid them. There were no dry places

in the boat, and at last we simply covered our heads with our Burberrys

and endured the all-pervading water. The baling was work for the watch.

Real rest we had none. The perpetual motion of the boat made repose

impossible; we were cold, sore, and anxious. We moved on hands and

knees in the semi-darkness of the day under the decking. The darkness

was complete by 6 p.m., and not until 7 a.m. of the following day could

we see one another under the thwarts. We had a few scraps of candle,

and they were preserved carefully in order that we might have light at

meal-times. There was one fairly dry spot in the boat, under the solid

original decking at the bows, and we managed to protect some of our

biscuit from the salt water; but I do not think any of us got the taste

of salt out of our mouths during the voyage.

The difficulty of movement in the boat would have had its humorous side

if it had not involved us in so many aches and pains. We had to crawl

under the thwarts in order to move along the boat, and our knees

suffered considerably. When watch turned out it was necessary for me to

direct each man by name when and where to move, since if all hands had

crawled about at the same time the result would have been dire

confusion and many bruises. Then there was the trim of the boat to be

considered. The order of the watch was four hours on and four hours

off, three men to the watch. One man had the tiller-ropes, the second

man attended to the sail, and the third baled for all he was worth.

Sometimes when the water in the boat had been reduced to reasonable

proportions, our pump could be used. This pump, which Hurley had made

from the Flinder’s bar case of our ship’s standard compass, was quite

effective, though its capacity was not large. The man who was attending

the sail could pump into the big outer cooker, which was lifted and

emptied overboard when filled. We had a device by which the water could

go direct from the pump into the sea through a hole in the gunwale, but

this hole had to be blocked at an early stage of the voyage, since we

found that it admitted water when the boat rolled.

While a new watch was shivering in the wind and spray, the men who had

been relieved groped hurriedly among the soaked sleeping-bags and tried

to steal a little of the warmth created by the last occupants; but it

was not always possible for us to find even this comfort when we went

off watch. The boulders that we had taken aboard for ballast had to be

shifted continually in order to trim the boat and give access to the

pump, which became choked with hairs from the moulting sleeping-bags

and finneskoe. The four reindeer-skin sleeping-bags shed their hair

freely owing to the continuous wetting, and soon became quite bald in

appearance. The moving of the boulders was weary and painful work. We

came to know every one of the stones by sight and touch, and I have

vivid memories of their angular peculiarities even to-day. They might

have been of considerable interest as geological specimens to a

scientific man under happier conditions. As ballast they were useful.

As weights to be moved about in cramped quarters they were simply

appalling. They spared no portion of our poor bodies. Another of our

troubles, worth mention here, was the chafing of our legs by our wet

clothes, which had not been changed now for seven months. The insides

of our thighs were rubbed raw, and the one tube of Hazeline cream in

our medicine-chest did not go far in alleviating our pain, which was

increased by the bite of the salt water. We thought at the time that we

never slept. The fact was that we would doze off uncomfortably, to be

aroused quickly by some new ache or another call to effort. My own

share of the general unpleasantness was accentuated by a finely

developed bout of sciatica. I had become possessor of this originally

on the floe several months earlier.

Our meals were regular in spite of the gales. Attention to this point

was essential, since the conditions of the voyage made increasing calls

upon our vitality. Breakfast, at 8 a.m., consisted of a pannikin of hot

hoosh made from Bovril sledging ration, two biscuits, and some lumps of

sugar. Lunch came at 1 p.m., and comprised Bovril sledging ration,

eaten raw, and a pannikin of hot milk for each man. Tea, at 5 p.m., had

the same menu. Then during the night we had a hot drink, generally of

milk. The meals were the bright beacons in those cold and stormy days.

The glow of warmth and comfort produced by the food and drink made

optimists of us all. We had two tins of Virol, which we were keeping

for an emergency; but, finding ourselves in need of an oil-lamp to eke

out our supply of candles, we emptied one of the tins in the manner

that most appealed to us, and fitted it with a wick made by shredding a

bit of canvas. When this lamp was filled with oil it gave a certain

amount of light, though it was easily blown out, and was of great

assistance to us at night. We were fairly well off as regarded fuel,

since we had 6½ gallons of petroleum.

A severe south-westerly gale on the fourth day out forced us to heave

to. I would have liked to have run before the wind, but the sea was

very high and the _James Caird_ was in danger of broaching to and

swamping. The delay was vexatious, since up to that time we had been

making sixty or seventy miles a day, good going with our limited sail

area. We hove to under double-reefed mainsail and our little jigger,

and waited for the gale to blow itself out. During that afternoon we

saw bits of wreckage, the remains probably of some unfortunate vessel

that had failed to weather the strong gales south of Cape Horn. The

weather conditions did not improve, and on the fifth day out the gale

was so fierce that we were compelled to take in the double-reefed

mainsail and hoist our small jib instead. We put out a sea-anchor to

keep the _James Caird’s_ head up to the sea. This anchor consisted of a

triangular canvas bag fastened to the end of the painter and allowed to

stream out from the bows. The boat was high enough to catch the wind,

and, as she drifted to leeward, the drag of the anchor kept her head to

windward. Thus our boat took most of the seas more or less end on. Even

then the crests of the waves often would curl right over us and we

shipped a great deal of water, which necessitated unceasing baling and

pumping. Looking out abeam, we would see a hollow like a tunnel formed

as the crest of a big wave toppled over on to the swelling body of

water. A thousand times it appeared as though the _James Caird_ must be

engulfed; but the boat lived. The south-westerly gale had its

birthplace above the Antarctic Continent, and its freezing breath

lowered the temperature far towards zero. The sprays froze upon the

boat and gave bows, sides, and decking a heavy coat of mail. This

accumulation of ice reduced the buoyancy of the boat, and to that

extent was an added peril; but it possessed a notable advantage from

one point of view. The water ceased to drop and trickle from the

canvas, and the spray came in solely at the well in the after part of

the boat. We could not allow the load of ice to grow beyond a certain

point, and in turns we crawled about the decking forward, chipping and

picking at it with the available tools.

When daylight came on the morning of the sixth day out we saw and felt

that the _James Caird_ had lost her resiliency. She was not rising to

the oncoming seas. The weight of the ice that had formed in her and

upon her during the night was having its effect, and she was becoming

more like a log than a boat. The situation called for immediate action.

We first broke away the spare oars, which were encased in ice and

frozen to the sides of the boat, and threw them overboard. We retained

two oars for use when we got inshore. Two of the fur sleeping-bags went

over the side; they were thoroughly wet, weighing probably 40 lbs.

each, and they had frozen stiff during the night. Three men constituted

the watch below, and when a man went down it was better to turn into

the wet bag just vacated by another man than to thaw out a frozen bag

with the heat of his unfortunate body. We now had four bags, three in

use and one for emergency use in case a member of the party should

break down permanently. The reduction of weight relieved the boat to

some extent, and vigorous chipping and scraping did more. We had to be

very careful not to put axe or knife through the frozen canvas of the

decking as we crawled over it, but gradually we got rid of a lot of

ice. The _James Caird_ lifted to the endless waves as though she lived

again.

About 11 a.m. the boat suddenly fell off into the trough of the sea.

The painter had parted and the sea-anchor had gone. This was serious.

The _James Caird_ went away to leeward, and we had no chance at all of

recovering the anchor and our valuable rope, which had been our only

means of keeping the boat’s head up to the seas without the risk of

hoisting sail in a gale. Now we had to set the sail and trust to its

holding. While the _James Caird_ rolled heavily in the trough, we beat

the frozen canvas until the bulk of the ice had cracked off it and then

hoisted it. The frozen gear worked protestingly, but after a struggle

our little craft came up to the wind again, and we breathed more

freely. Skin frost-bites were troubling us, and we had developed large

blisters on our fingers and hands. I shall always carry the scar of one

of these frost-bites on my left hand, which became badly inflamed after

the skin had burst and the cold had bitten deeply.

We held the boat up to the gale during that day, enduring as best we

could discomforts that amounted to pain. The boat tossed interminably

on the big waves under grey, threatening skies. Our thoughts did not

embrace much more than the necessities of the hour. Every surge of the

sea was an enemy to be watched and circumvented. We ate our scanty

meals, treated our frost-bites, and hoped for the improved conditions

that the morrow might bring. Night fell early, and in the lagging hours

of darkness we were cheered by a change for the better in the weather.

The wind dropped, the snow-squalls became less frequent, and the sea

moderated. When the morning of the seventh day dawned there was not

much wind. We shook the reef out of the sail and laid our course once

more for South Georgia. The sun came out bright and clear, and

presently Worsley got a snap for longitude. We hoped that the sky would

remain clear until noon, so that we could get the latitude. We had been

six days out without an observation, and our dead reckoning naturally

was uncertain. The boat must have presented a strange appearance that

morning. All hands basked in the sun. We hung our sleeping-bags to the

mast and spread our socks and other gear all over the deck. Some of the

ice had melted off the _James Caird_ in the early morning after the

gale began to slacken; and dry patches were appearing in the decking.

Porpoises came blowing round the boat, and Cape pigeons wheeled and

swooped within a few feet of us. These little black-and-white birds

have an air of friendliness that is not possessed by the great circling

albatross. They had looked grey against the swaying sea during the

storm as they darted about over our heads and uttered their plaintive

cries. The albatrosses, of the black or sooty variety, had watched with

hard, bright eyes, and seemed to have a quite impersonal interest in

our struggle to keep afloat amid the battering seas. In addition to the

Cape pigeons an occasional stormy petrel flashed overhead. Then there

was a small bird, unknown to me, that appeared always to be in a fussy,

bustling state, quite out of keeping with the surroundings. It

irritated me. It had practically no tail, and it flitted about vaguely

as though in search of the lost member. I used to find myself wishing

it would find its tail and have done with the silly fluttering.

We revelled in the warmth of the sun that day. Life was not so bad,

after all. We felt we were well on our way. Our gear was drying, and we

could have a hot meal in comparative comfort. The swell was still

heavy, but it was not breaking and the boat rode easily. At noon

Worsley balanced himself on the gunwale and clung with one hand to the

stay of the mainmast while he got a snap of the sun. The result was

more than encouraging. We had done over 380 miles and were getting on

for half-way to South Georgia. It looked as though we were going to get

through.

The wind freshened to a good stiff breeze during the afternoon, and the

_James Caird_ made satisfactory progress. I had not realized until the

sunlight came how small our boat really was. There was some influence

in the light and warmth, some hint of happier days, that made us revive

memories of other voyages, when we had stout decks beneath our feet,

unlimited food at our command, and pleasant cabins for our ease. Now we

clung to a battered little boat, “alone, alone—all, all alone; alone on

a wide, wide sea.” So low in the water were we that each succeeding

swell cut off our view of the sky-line. We were a tiny speck in the

vast vista of the sea—the ocean that is open to all and merciful to

none, that threatens even when it seems to yield, and that is pitiless

always to weakness. For a moment the consciousness of the forces

arrayed against us would be almost overwhelming. Then hope and

confidence would rise again as our boat rose to a wave and tossed aside

the crest in a sparkling shower like the play of prismatic colours at

the foot of a waterfall. My double-barrelled gun and some cartridges

had been stowed aboard the boat as an emergency precaution against a

shortage of food, but we were not disposed to destroy our little

neighbours, the Cape pigeons, even for the sake of fresh meat. We might

have shot an albatross, but the wandering king of the ocean aroused in

us something of the feeling that inspired, too late, the Ancient

Mariner. So the gun remained among the stores and sleeping-bags in the

narrow quarters beneath our leaking deck, and the birds followed us

unmolested.

The eighth, ninth, and tenth days of the voyage had few features worthy

of special note. The wind blew hard during those days, and the strain

of navigating the boat was unceasing, but always we made some advance

towards our goal. No bergs showed on our horizon, and we knew that we

were clear of the ice-fields. Each day brought its little round of

troubles, but also compensation in the form of food and growing hope.

We felt that we were going to succeed. The odds against us had been

great, but we were winning through. We still suffered severely from the

cold, for, though the temperature was rising, our vitality was

declining owing to shortage of food, exposure, and the necessity of

maintaining our cramped positions day and night. I found that it was

now absolutely necessary to prepare hot milk for all hands during the

night, in order to sustain life till dawn. This meant lighting the

Primus lamp in the darkness and involved an increased drain on our

small store of matches. It was the rule that one match must serve when

the Primus was being lit. We had no lamp for the compass and during the

early days of the voyage we would strike a match when the steersman

wanted to see the course at night; but later the necessity for strict

economy impressed itself upon us, and the practice of striking matches

at night was stopped. We had one water-tight tin of matches. I had

stowed away in a pocket, in readiness for a sunny day, a lens from one

of the telescopes, but this was of no use during the voyage. The sun

seldom shone upon us. The glass of the compass got broken one night,

and we contrived to mend it with adhesive tape from the medicine-chest.

One of the memories that comes to me from those days is of Crean

singing at the tiller. He always sang while he was steering, and nobody

ever discovered what the song was. It was devoid of tune and as

monotonous as the chanting of a Buddhist monk at his prayers; yet

somehow it was cheerful. In moments of inspiration Crean would attempt

“The Wearing of the Green.”

On the tenth night Worsley could not straighten his body after his

spell at the tiller. He was thoroughly cramped, and we had to drag him

beneath the decking and massage him before he could unbend himself and

get into a sleeping-bag. A hard north-westerly gale came up on the

eleventh day (May 5) and shifted to the south-west in the late

afternoon. The sky was overcast and occasional snow-squalls added to

the discomfort produced by a tremendous cross-sea—the worst, I thought,

that we had experienced. At midnight I was at the tiller and suddenly

noticed a line of clear sky between the south and south-west. I called

to the other men that the sky was clearing, and then a moment later I

realized that what I had seen was not a rift in the clouds but the

white crest of an enormous wave. During twenty-six years’ experience of

the ocean in all its moods I had not encountered a wave so gigantic. It

was a mighty upheaval of the ocean, a thing quite apart from the big

white-capped seas that had been our tireless enemies for many days. I

shouted, “For God’s sake, hold on! It’s got us!” Then came a moment of

suspense that seemed drawn out into hours. White surged the foam of the

breaking sea around us. We felt our boat lifted and flung forward like

a cork in breaking surf. We were in a seething chaos of tortured water;

but somehow the boat lived through it, half-full of water, sagging to

the dead weight and shuddering under the blow. We baled with the energy

of men fighting for life, flinging the water over the sides with every

receptacle that came to our hands, and after ten minutes of uncertainty

we felt the boat renew her life beneath us. She floated again and

ceased to lurch drunkenly as though dazed by the attack of the sea.

Earnestly we hoped that never again would we encounter such a wave.

The conditions in the boat, uncomfortable before, had been made worse

by the deluge of water. All our gear was thoroughly wet again. Our

cooking-stove had been floating about in the bottom of the boat, and

portions of our last hoosh seemed to have permeated everything. Not

until 3 a.m., when we were all chilled almost to the limit of

endurance, did we manage to get the stove alight and make ourselves hot

drinks. The carpenter was suffering particularly, but he showed grit

and spirit. Vincent had for the past week ceased to be an active member

of the crew, and I could not easily account for his collapse.

Physically he was one of the strongest men in the boat. He was a young

man, he had served on North Sea trawlers, and he should have been able

to bear hardships better than McCarthy, who, not so strong, was always

happy.

The weather was better on the following day (May 6), and we got a

glimpse of the sun. Worsley’s observation showed that we were not more

than a hundred miles from the north-west corner of South Georgia. Two

more days with a favourable wind and we would sight the promised land.

I hoped that there would be no delay, for our supply of water was

running very low. The hot drink at night was essential, but I decided

that the daily allowance of water must be cut down to half a pint per

man. The lumps of ice we had taken aboard had gone long ago. We were

dependent upon the water we had brought from Elephant Island, and our

thirst was increased by the fact that we were now using the brackish

water in the breaker that had been slightly stove in in the surf when

the boat was being loaded. Some sea-water had entered at that time.

Thirst took possession of us. I dared not permit the allowance of water

to be increased since an unfavourable wind might drive us away from the

island and lengthen our voyage by many days. Lack of water is always

the most severe privation that men can be condemned to endure, and we

found, as during our earlier boat voyage, that the salt water in our

clothing and the salt spray that lashed our faces made our thirst grow

quickly to a burning pain. I had to be very firm in refusing to allow

any one to anticipate the morrow’s allowance, which I was sometimes

begged to do. We did the necessary work dully and hoped for the land. I

had altered the course to the east so as to make sure of our striking

the island, which would have been impossible to regain if we had run

past the northern end. The course was laid on our scrap of chart for a

point some thirty miles down the coast. That day and the following day

passed for us in a sort of nightmare. Our mouths were dry and our

tongues were swollen. The wind was still strong and the heavy sea

forced us to navigate carefully, but any thought of our peril from the

waves was buried beneath the consciousness of our raging thirst. The

bright moments were those when we each received our one mug of hot milk

during the long, bitter watches of the night. Things were bad for us in

those days, but the end was coming. The morning of May 8 broke thick

and stormy, with squalls from the north-west. We searched the waters

ahead for a sign of land, and though we could see nothing more than had

met our eyes for many days, we were cheered by a sense that the goal

was near at hand. About ten o’clock that morning we passed a little bit

of kelp, a glad signal of the proximity of land. An hour later we saw

two shags sitting on a big mass of kelp, and knew then that we must be

within ten or fifteen miles of the shore. These birds are as sure an

indication of the proximity of land as a lighthouse is, for they never

venture far to sea. We gazed ahead with increasing eagerness, and at

12.30 p.m., through a rift in the clouds, McCarthy caught a glimpse of

the black cliffs of South Georgia, just fourteen days after our

departure from Elephant Island. It was a glad moment. Thirst-ridden,

chilled, and weak as we were, happiness irradiated us. The job was

nearly done.

[Illustration: In Sight of our Goal: Nearing South Georgia]

[Illustration: Landing on South Georgia]

We stood in towards the shore to look for a landing-place, and

presently we could see the green tussock-grass on the ledges above the

surf-beaten rocks. Ahead of us and to the south, blind rollers showed

the presence of uncharted reefs along the coast. Here and there the

hungry rocks were close to the surface, and over them the great waves

broke, swirling viciously and spouting thirty and forty feet into the

air. The rocky coast appeared to descend sheer to the sea. Our need of

water and rest was well-nigh desperate, but to have attempted a landing

at that time would have been suicidal. Night was drawing near, and the

weather indications were not favourable. There was nothing for it but

to haul off till the following morning, so we stood away on the

starboard tack until we had made what appeared to be a safe offing.

Then we hove to in the high westerly swell. The hours passed slowly as

we waited the dawn, which would herald, we fondly hoped, the last stage

of our journey. Our thirst was a torment and we could scarcely touch

our food; the cold seemed to strike right through our weakened bodies.

At 5 a.m. the wind shifted to the north-west and quickly increased to

one of the worst hurricanes any of us had ever experienced. A great

cross-sea was running and the wind simply shrieked as it tore the tops

off the waves and converted the whole seascape into a haze of driving

spray. Down into valleys, up to tossing heights, straining until her

seams opened, swung our little boat, brave still but labouring heavily.

We knew that the wind and set of the sea was driving us ashore, but we

could do nothing. The dawn showed us a storm-torn ocean, and the

morning passed without bringing us a sight of the land; but at 1 p.m.,

through a rift in the flying mists, we got a glimpse of the huge crags

of the island and realized that our position had become desperate. We

were on a dead lee shore, and we could gauge our approach to the unseen

cliffs by the roar of the breakers against the sheer walls of rock. I

ordered the double-reefed mainsail to be set in the hope that we might

claw off, and this attempt increased the strain upon the boat. The

_James Caird_ was bumping heavily, and the water was pouring in

everywhere. Our thirst was forgotten in the realization of our imminent

danger, as we baled unceasingly, and adjusted our weights from time to

time; occasional glimpses showed that the shore was nearer. I knew that

Annewkow Island lay to the south of us, but our small and badly marked

chart showed uncertain reefs in the passage between the island and the

mainland, and I dared not trust it, though as a last resort we could

try to lie under the lee of the island. The afternoon wore away as we

edged down the coast, with the thunder of the breakers in our ears. The

approach of evening found us still some distance from Annewkow Island,

and, dimly in the twilight, we could see a snow-capped mountain looming

above us. The chance of surviving the night, with the driving gale and

the implacable sea forcing us on to the lee shore, seemed small. I

think most of us had a feeling that the end was very near. Just after 6

p.m., in the dark, as the boat was in the yeasty backwash from the seas

flung from this iron-bound coast, then, just when things looked their

worst, they changed for the best. I have marvelled often at the thin

line that divides success from failure and the sudden turn that leads

from apparently certain disaster to comparative safety. The wind

suddenly shifted, and we were free once more to make an offing. Almost

as soon as the gale eased, the pin that locked the mast to the thwart

fell out. It must have been on the point of doing this throughout the

hurricane, and if it had gone nothing could have saved us; the mast

would have snapped like a carrot. Our backstays had carried away once

before when iced up and were not too strongly fastened now. We were

thankful indeed for the mercy that had held that pin in its place

throughout the hurricane.

We stood off shore again, tired almost to the point of apathy. Our

water had long been finished. The last was about a pint of hairy

liquid, which we strained through a bit of gauze from the

medicine-chest. The pangs of thirst attacked us with redoubled

intensity, and I felt that we must make a landing on the following day

at almost any hazard. The night wore on. We were very tired. We longed

for day. When at last the dawn came on the morning of May 10 there was

practically no wind, but a high cross-sea was running. We made slow

progress towards the shore. About 8 a.m. the wind backed to the

north-west and threatened another blow. We had sighted in the meantime

a big indentation which I thought must be King Haakon Bay, and I

decided that we must land there. We set the bows of the boat towards

the bay and ran before the freshening gale. Soon we had angry reefs on

either side. Great glaciers came down to the sea and offered no

landing-place. The sea spouted on the reefs and thundered against the

shore. About noon we sighted a line of jagged reef, like blackened

teeth, that seemed to bar the entrance to the bay. Inside,

comparatively smooth water stretched eight or nine miles to the head of

the bay. A gap in the reef appeared, and we made for it. But the fates

had another rebuff for us. The wind shifted and blew from the east

right out of the bay. We could see the way through the reef, but we

could not approach it directly. That afternoon we bore up, tacking five

times in the strong wind. The last tack enabled us to get through, and

at last we were in the wide mouth of the bay. Dusk was approaching. A

small cove, with a boulder-strewn beach guarded by a reef, made a break

in the cliffs on the south side of the bay, and we turned in that

direction. I stood in the bows directing the steering as we ran through

the kelp and made the passage of the reef. The entrance was so narrow

that we had to take in the oars, and the swell was piling itself right

over the reef into the cove; but in a minute or two we were inside, and

in the gathering darkness the _James Caird_ ran in on a swell and

touched the beach. I sprang ashore with the short painter and held on

when the boat went out with the backward surge. When the _James Caird_

came in again three of the men got ashore, and they held the painter

while I climbed some rocks with another line. A slip on the wet rocks

twenty feet up nearly closed my part of the story just at the moment

when we were achieving safety. A jagged piece of rock held me and at

the same time bruised me sorely. However, I made fast the line, and in

a few minutes we were all safe on the beach, with the boat floating in

the surging water just off the shore. We heard a gurgling sound that

was sweet music in our ears, and, peering around, found a stream of

fresh water almost at our feet. A moment later we were down on our

knees drinking the pure, ice-cold water in long draughts that put new

life into us. It was a splendid moment.

The next thing was to get the stores and ballast out of the boat, in

order that we might secure her for the night. We carried the stores and

gear above high-water mark and threw out the bags of sand and the

boulders that we knew so well. Then we attempted to pull the empty boat

up the beach, and discovered by this effort how weak we had become. Our

united strength was not sufficient to get the _James Caird_ clear of

the water. Time after time we pulled together, but without avail. I saw

that it would be necessary to have food and rest before we beached the

boat. We made fast a line to a heavy boulder and set a watch to fend

the _James Caird_ off the rocks of the beach. Then I sent Crean round

to the left side of the cove, about thirty yards away, where I had

noticed a little cave as we were running in. He could not see much in

the darkness, but reported that the place certainly promised some

shelter. We carried the sleeping-bags round and found a mere hollow in

the rock-face, with a shingle floor sloping at a steep angle to the

sea. There we prepared a hot meal, and when the food was finished I

ordered the men to turn in. The time was now about 8 p.m., and I took

the first watch beside the _James Caird_, which was still afloat in the

tossing water just off the beach.

Fending the _James Caird_ off the rocks in the darkness was awkward

work. The boat would have bumped dangerously if allowed to ride in with

the waves that drove into the cove. I found a flat rock for my feet,

which were in a bad way owing to cold, wetness, and lack of exercise in

the boat, and during the next few hours I laboured to keep the _James

Caird_ clear of the beach. Occasionally I had to rush into the seething

water. Then, as a wave receded, I let the boat out on the alpine rope

so as to avoid a sudden jerk. The heavy painter had been lost when the

sea-anchor went adrift. The _James Caird_ could be seen but dimly in

the cove, where the high black cliffs made the darkness almost

complete, and the strain upon one’s attention was great. After several

hours had passed I found that my desire for sleep was becoming

irresistible, and at 1 a.m. I called Crean. I could hear him groaning

as he stumbled over the sharp rocks on his way down the beach. While he

was taking charge of the _James Caird_ she got adrift, and we had some

anxious moments. Fortunately, she went across towards the cave and we

secured her, unharmed. The loss or destruction of the boat at this

stage would have been a very serious matter, since we probably would

have found it impossible to leave the cove except by sea. The cliffs

and glaciers around offered no practicable path towards the head of the

bay. I arranged for one-hour watches during the remainder of the night

and then took Crean’s place among the sleeping men and got some sleep

before the dawn came.

[Illustration: [Cave Cove on South Georgia]]

[Illustration: [Surroundings of King Haakon Bay]]

The sea went down in the early hours of the morning (May 11), and after

sunrise we were able to set about getting the boat ashore, first

bracing ourselves for the task with another meal. We were all weak

still. We cut off the topsides and took out all the movable gear. Then

we waited for Byron’s “great ninth wave,” and when it lifted the _James

Caird_ in we held her and, by dint of great exertion, worked her round

broadside to the sea. Inch by inch we dragged her up until we reached

the fringe of the tussock-grass and knew that the boat was above

high-water mark. The rise of the tide was about five feet, and at

spring tide the water must have reached almost to the edge of the

tussock-grass. The completion of this job removed our immediate

anxieties, and we were free to examine our surroundings and plan the

next move. The day was bright and clear.

King Haakon Bay is an eight-mile sound penetrating the coast of South

Georgia in an easterly direction. We had noticed that the northern and

southern sides of the sound were formed by steep mountain-ranges, their

flanks furrowed by mighty glaciers, the outlets of the great ice-sheet

of the interior. It was obvious that these glaciers and the precipitous

slopes of the mountains barred our way inland from the cove. We must

sail to the head of the sound. Swirling clouds and mist-wreaths had

obscured our view of the sound when we were entering, but glimpses of

snow-slopes had given us hope that an overland journey could be begun

from that point. A few patches of very rough, tussocky land, dotted

with little tarns, lay between the glaciers along the foot of the

mountains, which were heavily scarred with scree-slopes. Several

magnificent peaks and crags gazed out across their snowy domains to the

sparkling waters of the sound.

Our cove lay a little inside the southern headland of King Haakon Bay.

A narrow break in the cliffs, which were about a hundred feet high at

this point, formed the entrance to the cove. The cliffs continued

inside the cove on each side and merged into a hill which descended at

a steep slope to the boulder beach. The slope, which carried

tussock-grass, was not continuous. It eased at two points into little

peaty swamp terraces dotted with frozen pools and drained by two small

streams. Our cave was a recess in the cliff on the left-hand end of the

beach. The rocky face of the cliff was undercut at this point, and the

shingle thrown up by the waves formed a steep slope, which we reduced

to about one in six by scraping the stones away from the inside. Later

we strewed the rough floor with the dead, nearly dry underleaves of the

tussock-grass, so as to form a slightly soft bed for our sleeping-bags.

Water had trickled down the face of the cliff and formed long icicles,

which hung down in front of the cave to the length of about fifteen

feet. These icicles provided shelter, and when we had spread our sails

below them, with the assistance of oars, we had quarters that, in the

circumstances, had to be regarded as reasonably comfortable. The camp

at least was dry, and we moved our gear there with confidence. We built

a fireplace and arranged our sleeping-bags and blankets around it. The

cave was about 8 ft. deep and 12 ft. wide at the entrance.

While the camp was being arranged Crean and I climbed the tussock slope

behind the beach and reached the top of a headland overlooking the

sound. There we found the nests of albatrosses, and, much to our

delight, the nests contained young birds. The fledgelings were fat and

lusty, and we had no hesitation about deciding that they were destined

to die at an early age. Our most pressing anxiety at this stage was a

shortage of fuel for the cooker. We had rations for ten more days, and

we knew now that we could get birds for food; but if we were to have

hot meals we must secure fuel. The store of petroleum carried in the

boat was running very low, and it seemed necessary to keep some

quantity for use on the overland journey that lay ahead of us. A

sea-elephant or a seal would have provided fuel as well as food, but we

could see none in the neighbourhood. During the morning we started a

fire in the cave with wood from the top-sides of the boat, and though

the dense smoke from the damp sticks inflamed our tired eyes, the

warmth and the prospect of hot food were ample compensation. Crean was

cook that day, and I suggested to him that he should wear his goggles,

which he happened to have brought with him. The goggles helped him a

great deal as he bent over the fire and tended the stew. And what a

stew it was! The young albatrosses weighed about fourteen pounds each

fresh killed, and we estimated that they weighed at least six pounds

each when cleaned and dressed for the pot. Four birds went into the pot

for six men, with a Bovril ration for thickening. The flesh was white

and succulent, and the bones, not fully formed, almost melted in our

mouths. That was a memorable meal. When we had eaten our fill, we dried

our tobacco in the embers of the fire and smoked contentedly. We made

an attempt to dry our clothes, which were soaked with salt water, but

did not meet with much success. We could not afford to have a fire

except for cooking purposes until blubber or driftwood had come our

way.

[Illustration: [Plan of Sleeping Berths in Cave]]

The final stage of the journey had still to be attempted. I realized

that the condition of the party generally, and particularly of McNeish

and Vincent, would prevent us putting to sea again except under

pressure of dire necessity. Our boat, moreover, had been weakened by

the cutting away of the topsides, and I doubted if we could weather the

island. We were still 150 miles away from Stromness whaling-station by

sea. The alternative was to attempt the crossing of the island. If we

could not get over, then we must try to secure enough food and fuel to

keep us alive through the winter, but this possibility was scarcely

thinkable. Over on Elephant Island twenty-two men were waiting for the

relief that we alone could secure for them. Their plight was worse than

ours. We must push on somehow. Several days must elapse before our

strength would be sufficiently recovered to allow us to row or sail the

last nine miles up to the head of the bay. In the meantime we could

make what preparations were possible and dry our clothes by taking

advantage of every scrap of heat from the fires we lit for the cooking

of our meals. We turned in early that night, and I remember that I

dreamed of the great wave and aroused my companions with a shout of

warning as I saw with half-awakened eyes the towering cliff on the

opposite side of the cove. Shortly before midnight a gale sprang up

suddenly from the north-east with rain and sleet showers. It brought

quantities of glacier-ice into the cove, and by 2 a.m. (May 12) our

little harbour was filled with ice, which surged to and fro in the

swell and pushed its way on to the beach. We had solid rock beneath our

feet and could watch without anxiety. When daylight came rain was

falling heavily, and the temperature was the highest we had experienced

for many months. The icicles overhanging our cave were melting down in

streams and we had to move smartly when passing in and out lest we

should be struck by falling lumps. A fragment weighing fifteen or

twenty pounds crashed down while we were having breakfast. We found

that a big hole had been burned in the bottom of Worsley’s reindeer

sleeping-bag during the night. Worsley had been awakened by a burning

sensation in his feet, and had asked the men near him if his bag was

all right; they looked and could see nothing wrong. We were all

superficially frostbitten about the feet, and this condition caused the

extremities to burn painfully, while at the same time sensation was

lost in the skin. Worsley thought that the uncomfortable heat of his

feet was due to the frost-bites, and he stayed in his bag and presently

went to sleep again. He discovered when he turned out in the morning

that the tussock-grass which we had laid on the floor of the cave had

smouldered outwards from the fire and had actually burned a large hole

in the bag beneath his feet. Fortunately, his feet were not harmed.

Our party spent a quiet day, attending to clothing and gear, checking

stores, eating and resting. Some more of the young albatrosses made a

noble end in our pot. The birds were nesting on a small plateau above

the right-hand end of our beach. We had previously discovered that when

we were landing from the boat on the night of May 10 we had lost the

rudder. The _James Caird_ had been bumping heavily astern as we were

scrambling ashore, and evidently the rudder was then knocked off. A

careful search of the beach and the rocks within our reach failed to

reveal the missing article. This was a serious loss, even if the voyage

to the head of the sound could be made in good weather. At dusk the ice

in the cove was rearing and crashing on the beach. It had forced up a

ridge of stones close to where the _James Caird_ lay at the edge of the

tussock-grass. Some pieces of ice were driven right up to the canvas

wall at the front of our cave. Fragments lodged within two feet of

Vincent, who had the lowest sleeping-place, and within four feet of our

fire. Crean and McCarthy had brought down six more of the young

albatrosses in the afternoon, so we were well supplied with fresh food.

The air temperature that night probably was not lower than 38° or 40°

Fahr., and we were rendered uncomfortable in our cramped sleeping

quarters by the unaccustomed warmth. Our feelings towards our

neighbours underwent a change. When the temperature was below 20° Fahr,

we could not get too close to one another—every man wanted to cuddle

against his neighbour; but let the temperature rise a few degrees and

the warmth of another man’s body ceased to be a blessing. The ice and

the waves had a voice of menace that night, but I heard it only in my

dreams.

The bay was still filled with ice on the morning of Saturday, May 13,

but the tide took it all away in the afternoon. Then a strange thing

happened. The rudder, with all the broad Atlantic to sail in and the

coasts of two continents to search for a resting-place, came bobbing

back into our cove. With anxious eyes we watched it as it advanced,

receded again, and then advanced once more under the capricious

influence of wind and wave. Nearer and nearer it came as we waited on

the shore, oars in hand, and at last we were able to seize it. Surely a

remarkable salvage! The day was bright and clear; our clothes were

drying and our strength was returning. Running water made a musical

sound down the tussock slope and among the boulders. We carried our

blankets up the hill and tried to dry them in the breeze 300 ft. above

sea-level. In the afternoon we began to prepare the _James Caird_ for

the journey to the head of King Haakon Bay. A noon observation on this

day gave our latitude as 54° 10´ 47´´ S., but according to the German

chart the position should have been 54° 12´ S. Probably Worsley’s

observation was the more accurate. We were able to keep the fire alight

until we went to sleep that night, for while climbing the rocks above

the cove I had seen at the foot of a cliff a broken spar, which had

been thrown up by the waves. We could reach this spar by climbing down

the cliff, and with a reserve supply of fuel thus in sight we could

afford to burn the fragments of the _James Caird’s_ topsides more

freely.

During the morning of this day (May 13) Worsley and I tramped across

the hills in a north-easterly direction with the object of getting a

view of the sound and possibly gathering some information that would be

useful to us in the next stage of our journey. It was exhausting work,

but after covering about 2½ miles in two hours, we were able to look

east, up the bay. We could not see very much of the country that we

would have to cross in order to reach the whaling-station on the other

side of the island. We had passed several brooks and frozen tarns, and

at a point where we had to take to the beach on the shore of the sound

we found some wreckage—an 18-ft. pine-spar (probably part of a ship’s

topmast), several pieces of timber, and a little model of a ship’s

hull, evidently a child’s toy. We wondered what tragedy that pitiful

little plaything indicated. We encountered also some gentoo penguins

and a young sea-elephant, which Worsley killed.

When we got back to the cave at 3 p.m., tired, hungry, but rather

pleased with ourselves, we found a splendid meal of stewed albatross

chicken waiting for us. We had carried a quantity of blubber and the

sea-elephant’s liver in our blouses, and we produced our treasures as a

surprise for the men. Rough climbing on the way back to camp had nearly

persuaded us to throw the stuff away, but we had held on (regardless of

the condition of our already sorely tried clothing), and had our reward

at the camp. The long bay had been a magnificent sight, even to eyes

that had dwelt on grandeur long enough and were hungry for the simple,

familiar things of everyday life. Its green-blue waters were being

beaten to fury by the north-westerly gale. The mountains, “stern peaks

that dared the stars,” peered through the mists, and between them huge

glaciers poured down from the great ice-slopes and fields that lay

behind. We counted twelve glaciers and heard every few minutes the

reverberating roar caused by masses of ice calving from the parent

streams.

On May 14 we made our preparations for an early start on the following

day if the weather held fair. We expected to be able to pick up the

remains of the sea-elephant on our way up the sound. All hands were

recovering from the chafing caused by our wet clothes during the boat

journey. The insides of our legs had suffered severely, and for some

time after landing in the cove we found movement extremely

uncomfortable. We paid our last visit to the nests of the albatrosses,

which were situated on a little undulating plateau above the cave amid

tussocks, snow-patches, and little frozen tarns. Each nest consisted of

a mound over a foot high of tussock-grass, roots, and a little earth.

The albatross lays one egg and very rarely two. The chicks, which are

hatched in January, are fed on the nest by the parent birds for almost

seven months before they take to the sea and fend for themselves. Up to

four months of age the chicks are beautiful white masses of downy

fluff, but when we arrived on the scene their plumage was almost

complete. Very often one of the parent birds was on guard near the

nest. We did not enjoy attacking these birds, but our hunger knew no

law. They tasted so very good and assisted our recuperation to such an

extent that each time we killed one of them we felt a little less

remorseful.

May 15 was a great day. We made our hoosh at 7.30 a.m. Then we loaded

up the boat and gave her a flying launch down the steep beach into the

surf. Heavy rain had fallen in the night and a gusty north-westerly

wind was now blowing, with misty showers. The _James Caird_ headed to

the sea as if anxious to face the battle of the waves once more. We

passed through the narrow mouth of the cove with the ugly rocks and

waving kelp close on either side, turned to the east, and sailed

merrily up the bay as the sun broke through the mists and made the

tossing waters sparkle around us. We were a curious-looking party on

that bright morning, but we were feeling happy. We even broke into

song, and, but for our Robinson Crusoe appearance, a casual observer

might have taken us for a picnic party sailing in a Norwegian fiord or

one of the beautiful sounds of the west coast of New Zealand. The wind

blew fresh and strong, and a small sea broke on the coast as we

advanced. The surf was sufficient to have endangered the boat if we had

attempted to land where the carcass of the sea-elephant was lying, so

we decided to go on to the head of the bay without risking anything,

particularly as we were likely to find sea-elephants on the upper

beaches. The big creatures have a habit of seeking peaceful quarters

protected from the waves. We had hopes, too, of finding penguins. Our

expectation as far as the sea-elephants were concerned was not at

fault. We heard the roar of the bulls as we neared the head of the bay,

and soon afterwards saw the great unwieldy forms of the beasts lying on

a shelving beach towards the bay-head. We rounded a high, glacier-worn

bluff on the north side, and at 12.30 p.m. we ran the boat ashore on a

low beach of sand and pebbles, with tussock growing above high-water

mark. There were hundreds of sea-elephants lying about, and our

anxieties with regard to food disappeared. Meat and blubber enough to

feed our party for years was in sight. Our landing-place was about a

mile and a half west of the north-east corner of the bay. Just east of

us was a glacier-snout ending on the beach but giving a passage towards

the head of the bay, except at high water or when a very heavy surf was

running. A cold, drizzling rain had begun to fall, and we provided

ourselves with shelter as quickly as possible. We hauled the _James

Caird_ up above highwater mark and turned her over just to the lee or

east side of the bluff. The spot was separated from the mountain-side

by a low morainic bank, rising twenty or thirty feet above sea-level.

Soon we had converted the boat into a very comfortable cabin _à la_

Peggotty, turfing it round with tussocks, which we dug up with knives.

One side of the _James Caird_ rested on stones so as to afford a low

entrance, and when we had finished she looked as though she had grown

there. McCarthy entered into this work with great spirit. A

sea-elephant provided us with fuel and meat, and that evening found a

well-fed and fairly contented party at rest in Peggotty Camp.

[Illustration: Sea Elephants on South Georgia]

[Illustration: The Cliffs we descended whilst crossing the Island]

Our camp, as I have said, lay on the north side of King Haakon Bay near

the head. Our path towards the whaling-stations led round the seaward

end of the snouted glacier on the east side of the camp and up a

snow-slope that appeared to lead to a pass in the great Allardyce

Range, which runs north-west and south-east and forms the main backbone

of South Georgia. The range dipped opposite the bay into a well-defined

pass from east to west. An ice-sheet covered most of the interior,

filling the valleys and disguising the configurations of the land,

which, indeed, showed only in big rocky ridges, peaks, and nunataks.

When we looked up the pass from Peggotty Camp the country to the left

appeared to offer two easy paths through to the opposite coast, but we

knew that the island was uninhabited at that point (Possession Bay). We

had to turn our attention farther east, and it was impossible from the

camp to learn much of the conditions that would confront us on the

overland journey. I planned to climb to the pass and then be guided by

the configuration of the country in the selection of a route eastward

to Stromness Bay, where the whaling-stations were established in the

minor bays, Leith, Husvik, and Stromness. A range of mountains with

precipitous slopes, forbidding peaks, and large glaciers lay

immediately to the south of King Haakon Bay and seemed to form a

continuation of the main range. Between this secondary range and the

pass above our camp a great snow-upland sloped up to the inland

ice-sheet and reached a rocky ridge that stretched athwart our path and

seemed to bar the way. This ridge was a right-angled offshoot from the

main ridge. Its chief features were four rocky peaks with spaces

between that looked from a distance as though they might prove to be

passes.

The weather was bad on Tuesday, May 16, and we stayed under the boat

nearly all day. The quarters were cramped but gave full protection from

the weather, and we regarded our little cabin with a great deal of

satisfaction. Abundant meals of sea-elephant steak and liver increased

our contentment. McNeish reported during the day that he had seen rats

feeding on the scraps, but this interesting statement was not verified.

One would not expect to find rats at such a spot, but there was a bare

possibility that they had landed from a wreck and managed to survive

the very rigorous conditions.

A fresh west-south-westerly breeze was blowing on the following morning

(Wednesday, May 17), with misty squalls, sleet, and rain. I took

Worsley with me on a pioneer journey to the west with the object of

examining the country to be traversed at the beginning of the overland

journey. We went round the seaward end of the snouted glacier, and

after tramping about a mile over stony ground and snow-coated debris,

we crossed some big ridges of scree and moraines. We found that there

was good going for a sledge as far as the north-east corner of the bay,

but did not get much information regarding the conditions farther on

owing to the view becoming obscured by a snow-squall. We waited a

quarter of an hour for the weather to clear but were forced to turn

back without having seen more of the country. I had satisfied myself,

however, that we could reach a good snow-slope leading apparently to

the inland ice. Worsley reckoned from the chart that the distance from

our camp to Husvik, on an east magnetic course, was seventeen

geographical miles, but we could not expect to follow a direct line.

The carpenter started making a sledge for use on the overland journey.

The materials at his disposal were limited in quantity and scarcely

suitable in quality.

We overhauled our gear on Thursday, May 18; and hauled our sledge to

the lower edge of the snouted glacier. The vehicle proved heavy and

cumbrous. We had to lift it empty over bare patches of rock along the

shore, and I realized that it would be too heavy for three men to

manage amid the snow-plains, glaciers, and peaks of the interior.

Worsley and Crean were coming with me, and after consultation we

decided to leave the sleeping-bags behind us and make the journey in

very light marching order. We would take three days’ provisions for

each man in the form of sledging ration and biscuit. The food was to be

packed in three sacks, so that each member of the party could carry his

own supply. Then we were to take the Primus lamp filled with oil, the

small cooker, the carpenter’s adze (for use as an ice-axe), and the

alpine rope, which made a total length of fifty feet when knotted. We

might have to lower ourselves down steep slopes or cross crevassed

glaciers. The filled lamp would provide six hot meals, which would

consist of sledging ration boiled up with biscuit. There were two boxes

of matches left, one full and the other partially used. We left the

full box with the men at the camp and took the second box, which

contained forty-eight matches. I was unfortunate as regarded footgear,

since I had given away my heavy Burberry boots on the floe, and had now

a comparatively light pair in poor condition. The carpenter assisted me

by putting several screws in the sole of each boot with the object of

providing a grip on the ice. The screws came out of the _James Caird_.

We turned in early that night, but sleep did not come to me. My mind

was busy with the task of the following day. The weather was clear and

the outlook for an early start in the morning was good. We were going

to leave a weak party behind us in the camp. Vincent was still in the

same condition, and he could not march. McNeish was pretty well broken

up. The two men were not capable of managing for themselves and

McCarthy must stay to look after them. He might have a difficult task

if we failed to reach the whaling station. The distance to Husvik,

according to the chart, was no more than seventeen geographical miles

in a direct line, but we had very scanty knowledge of the conditions of

the interior. No man had ever penetrated a mile from the coast of South

Georgia at any point, and the whalers I knew regarded the country as

inaccessible. During that day, while we were walking to the snouted

glacier, we had seen three wild duck flying towards the head of the bay

from the eastward. I hoped that the presence of these birds indicated

tussock-land and not snow-fields and glaciers in the interior, but the

hope was not a very bright one.

We turned out at 2 a.m. on the Friday morning and had our hoosh ready

an hour later. The full moon was shining in a practically cloudless

sky, its rays reflected gloriously from the pinnacles and crevassed ice

of the adjacent glaciers. The huge peaks of the mountains stood in bold

relief against the sky and threw dark shadows on the waters of the

sound. There was no need for delay, and we made a start as soon as we

had eaten our meal. McNeish walked about 200 yds with us; he could do

no more. Then we said good-bye and he turned back to the camp. The

first task was to get round the edge of the snouted glacier, which had

points like fingers projecting towards the sea. The waves were reaching

the points of these fingers, and we had to rush from one recess to

another when the waters receded. We soon reached the east side of the

glacier and noticed its great activity at this point. Changes had

occurred within the preceding twenty-four hours. Some huge pieces had

broken off, and the masses of mud and stone that were being driven

before the advancing ice showed movement. The glacier was like a

gigantic plough driving irresistibly towards the sea.

Lying on the beach beyond the glacier was wreckage that told of many

ill-fated ships. We noticed stanchions of teakwood, liberally carved,

that must have came from ships of the older type; iron-bound timbers

with the iron almost rusted through; battered barrels and all the usual

debris of the ocean. We had difficulties and anxieties of our own, but

as we passed that graveyard of the sea we thought of the many tragedies

written in the wave-worn fragments of lost vessels. We did not pause,

and soon we were ascending a snow-slope heading due east on the last

lap of our long trail.

The snow-surface was disappointing. Two days before we had been able to

move rapidly on hard, packed snow; now we sank over our ankles at each

step and progress was slow. After two hours’ steady climbing we were

2500 ft. above sea-level. The weather continued fine and calm, and as

the ridges drew nearer and the western coast of the island spread out

below, the bright moonlight showed us that the interior was broken

tremendously. High peaks, impassable cliffs, steep snow-slopes, and

sharply descending glaciers were prominent features in all directions,

with stretches of snow-plain over laying the ice-sheet of the interior.

The slope we were ascending mounted to a ridge and our course lay

direct to the top. The moon, which proved a good friend during this

journey, threw a long shadow at one point and told us that the surface

was broken in our path. Warned in time, we avoided a huge hole capable

of swallowing an army. The bay was now about three miles away, and the

continued roaring of a big glacier at the head of the bay came to our

ears. This glacier, which we had noticed during the stay at Peggotty

Camp, seemed to be calving almost continuously.

I had hoped to get a view of the country ahead of us from the top of

the slope, but as the surface became more level beneath our feet, a

thick fog drifted down. The moon became obscured and produced a

diffused light that was more trying than darkness, since it illuminated

the fog without guiding our steps. We roped ourselves together as a

precaution against holes, crevasses, and precipices, and I broke trail

through the soft snow. With almost the full length of the rope between

myself and the last man we were able to steer an approximately straight

course, since, if I veered to the right or the left when marching into

the blank wall of the fog, the last man on the rope could shout a

direction. So, like a ship with its “port,” “starboard,” “steady,” we

tramped through the fog for the next two hours.

Then, as daylight came, the fog thinned and lifted, and from an

elevation of about 3000 ft. we looked down on what seemed to be a huge

frozen lake with its farther shores still obscured by the fog. We

halted there to eat a bit of biscuit while we discussed whether we

would go down and cross the flat surface of the lake, or keep on the

ridge we had already reached. I decided to go down, since the lake lay

on our course. After an hour of comparatively easy travel through the

snow we noticed the thin beginnings of crevasses. Soon they were

increasing in size and showing fractures, indicating that we were

travelling on a glacier. As the daylight brightened the fog dissipated;

the lake could be seen more clearly, but still we could not discover

its east shore. A little later the fog lifted completely, and then we

saw that our lake stretched to the horizon, and realized suddenly that

we were looking down upon the open sea on the east coast of the island.

The slight pulsation at the shore showed that the sea was not even

frozen; it was the bad light that had deceived us. Evidently we were at

the top of Possession Bay, and the island at that point could not be

more than five miles across from the head of King Haakon Bay. Our rough

chart was inaccurate. There was nothing for it but to start up the

glacier again. That was about seven o’clock in the morning, and by nine

o’clock we had more than recovered our lost ground. We regained the

ridge and then struck south-east, for the chart showed that two more

bays indented the coast before Stromness. It was comforting to realize

that we would have the eastern water in sight during our journey,

although we could see there was no way around the shore line owing to

steep cliffs and glaciers. Men lived in houses lit by electric light on

the east coast. News of the outside world waited us there, and, above

all, the east coast meant for us the means of rescuing the twenty-two

men we had left on Elephant Island.