ACROSS SOUTH GEORGIA
The sun rose in the sky with every appearance of a fine day, and we
grew warmer as we toiled through the soft snow. Ahead of us lay the
ridges and spurs of a range of mountains, the transverse range that we
had noticed from the bay. We were travelling over a gently rising
plateau, and at the end of an hour we found ourselves growing
uncomfortably hot. Years before, on an earlier expedition, I had
declared that I would never again growl at the heat of the sun, and my
resolution had been strengthened during the boat journey. I called it
to mind as the sun beat fiercely on the blinding white snow-slope.
After passing an area of crevasses we paused for our first meal. We dug
a hole in the snow about three feet deep with the adze and put the
Primus into it. There was no wind at the moment, but a gust might come
suddenly. A hot hoosh was soon eaten and we plodded on towards a sharp
ridge between two of the peaks already mentioned. By 11 a.m. we were
almost at the crest. The slope had become precipitous and it was
necessary to cut steps as we advanced. The adze proved an excellent
instrument for this purpose, a blow sufficing to provide a foothold.
Anxiously but hopefully I cut the last few steps and stood upon the
razor-back, while the other men held the rope and waited for my news.
The outlook was disappointing. I looked down a sheer precipice to a
chaos of crumpled ice 1500 ft. below. There was no way down for us. The
country to the east was a great snow upland, sloping upwards for a
distance of seven or eight miles to a height of over 4000 ft. To the
north it fell away steeply in glaciers into the bays, and to the south
it was broken by huge outfalls from the inland ice-sheet. Our path lay
between the glaciers and the outfalls, but first we had to descend from
the ridge on which we stood. Cutting steps with the adze, we moved in a
lateral direction round the base of a dolomite, which blocked our view
to the north. The same precipice confronted us. Away to the north-east
there appeared to be a snow-slope that might give a path to the lower
country, and so we retraced our steps down the long slope that had
taken us three hours to climb. We were at the bottom in an hour. We
were now feeling the strain of the unaccustomed marching. We had done
little walking since January and our muscles were out of tune. Skirting
the base of the mountain above us, we came to a gigantic bergschrund, a
mile and a half long and 1000 ft. deep. This tremendous gully, cut in
the snow and ice by the fierce winds blowing round the mountain, was
semicircular in form, and it ended in a gentle incline. We passed
through it, under the towering precipice of ice, and at the far end we
had another meal and a short rest. This was at 12:30 p.m. Half a pot of
steaming Bovril ration warmed us up, and when we marched again
ice-inclines at angles of 45 degrees did not look quite as formidable
as before.
Once more we started for the crest. After another weary climb we
reached the top. The snow lay thinly on blue ice at the ridge, and we
had to cut steps over the last fifty yards. The same precipice lay
below, and my eyes searched vainly for a way down. The hot sun had
loosened the snow, which was now in a treacherous condition, and we had
to pick our way carefully. Looking back, we could see that a fog was
rolling up behind us and meeting in the valleys a fog that was coming
up from the east. The creeping grey clouds were a plain warning that we
must get down to lower levels before becoming enveloped.
The ridge was studded with peaks, which prevented us getting a clear
view either to the right or to the left. The situation in this respect
seemed no better at other points within our reach, and I had to decide
that our course lay back the way we had come. The afternoon was wearing
on and the fog was rolling up ominously from the west. It was of the
utmost importance for us to get down into the next valley before dark.
We were now up 4500 ft. and the night temperature at that elevation
would be very low. We had no tent and no sleeping-bags, and our clothes
had endured much rough usage and had weathered many storms during the
last ten months. In the distance, down the valley below us, we could
see tussock-grass close to the shore, and if we could get down it might
be possible to dig out a hole in one of the lower snow-banks, line it
with dry grass, and make ourselves fairly comfortable for the night.
Back we went, and after a detour we reached the top of another ridge in
the fading light. After a glance over the top I turned to the anxious
faces of the two men behind me and said, “Come on, boys.” Within a
minute they stood beside me on the ice-ridge. The surface fell away at
a sharp incline in front of us, but it merged into a snow-slope. We
could not see the bottom clearly owing to mist and bad light, and the
possibility of the slope ending in a sheer fall occurred to us; but the
fog that was creeping up behind allowed no time for hesitation. We
descended slowly at first, cutting steps in the snow; then the surface
became softer, indicating that the gradient was less severe. There
could be no turning back now, so we unroped and slid in the fashion of
youthful days. When we stopped on a snow-bank at the foot of the slope
we found that we had descended at least 900 ft. in two or three
minutes. We looked back and saw the grey fingers of the fog appearing
on the ridge, as though reaching after the intruders into untrodden
wilds. But we had escaped.
The country to the east was an ascending snow upland dividing the
glaciers of the north coast from the outfalls of the south. We had seen
from the top that our course lay between two huge masses of crevasses,
and we thought that the road ahead lay clear. This belief and the
increasing cold made us abandon the idea of camping. We had another
meal at 6 p.m. A little breeze made cooking difficult in spite of the
shelter provided for the cooker by a hole. Crean was the cook, and
Worsley and I lay on the snow to windward of the lamp so as to break
the wind with our bodies. The meal over, we started up the long, gentle
ascent. Night was upon us, and for an hour we plodded along in almost
complete darkness, watching warily for signs of crevasses. Then about 8
p.m. a glow which we had seen behind the jagged peaks resolved itself
into the full moon, which rose ahead of us and made a silver pathway
for our feet. Along that pathway in the wake of the moon we advanced in
safety, with the shadows cast by the edges of crevasses showing black
on either side of us. Onwards and upwards through soft snow we marched,
resting now and then on hard patches which had revealed themselves by
glittering ahead of us in the white light. By midnight we were again at
an elevation of about 4000 ft. Still we were following the light, for
as the moon swung round towards the north-east, our path curved in that
direction. The friendly moon seemed to pilot our weary feet. We could
have had no better guide. If in bright daylight we had made that march
we would have followed the course that was traced for us that night.
Midnight found us approaching the edge of a great snowfield, pierced by
isolated nunataks which cast long shadows like black rivers across the
white expanse. A gentle slope to the north-east lured our
all-too-willing feet in that direction. We thought that at the base of
the slope lay Stromness Bay. After we had descended about 300 ft. a
thin wind began to attack us. We had now been on the march for over
twenty hours, only halting for our occasional meals. Wisps of cloud
drove over the high peaks to the southward, warning us that wind and
snow were likely to come. After 1 a.m. we cut a pit in the snow, piled
up loose snow around it, and started the Primus again. The hot food
gave us another renewal of energy. Worsley and Crean sang their old
songs when the Primus was going merrily. Laughter was in our hearts,
though not on our parched and cracked lips.
We were up and away again within half an hour, still downward to the
coast. We felt almost sure now that we were above Stromness Bay. A dark
object down at the foot of the slope looked like Mutton Island, which
lies off Husvik. I suppose our desires were giving wings to our
fancies, for we pointed out joyfully various landmarks revealed by the
now vagrant light of the moon, whose friendly face was cloud-swept. Our
high hopes were soon shattered. Crevasses warned us that we were on
another glacier, and soon we looked down almost to the seaward edge of
the great riven ice-mass. I knew there was no glacier in Stromness and
realized that this must be Fortuna Glacier. The disappointment was
severe. Back we turned and tramped up the glacier again, not directly
tracing our steps but working at a tangent to the south-east. We were
very tired.
[Illustration: One of the Glaciers we Crossed]
[Illustration: A Typical View in South Georgia]
At 5 a.m. we were at the foot of the rocky spurs of the range. We were
tired, and the wind that blew down from the heights was chilling us. We
decided to get down under the lee of a rock for a rest. We put our
sticks and the adze on the snow, sat down on them as close to one
another as possible, and put our arms round each other. The wind was
bringing a little drift with it and the white dust lay on our clothes.
I thought that we might be able to keep warm and have half an hour’s
rest this way. Within a minute my two companions were fast asleep. I
realized that it would be disastrous if we all slumbered together, for
sleep under such conditions merges into death. After five minutes I
shook them into consciousness again, told them that they had slept for
half an hour, and gave the word for a fresh start. We were so stiff
that for the first two or three hundred yards we marched with our knees
bent. A jagged line of peaks with a gap like a broken tooth confronted
us. This was the ridge that runs in a southerly direction from Fortuna
Bay, and our course eastward to Stromness lay across it. A very steep
slope led up to the ridge and an icy wind burst through the gap.
We went through the gap at 6 a.m. with anxious hearts as well as weary
bodies. If the farther slope had proved impassable our situation would
have been almost desperate; but the worst was turning to the best for
us. The twisted, wave-like rock formations of Husvik Harbour appeared
right ahead in the opening of dawn. Without a word we shook hands with
one another. To our minds the journey was over, though as a matter of
fact twelve miles of difficult country had still to be traversed. A
gentle snow-slope descended at our feet towards a valley that separated
our ridge from the hills immediately behind Husvik, and as we stood
gazing Worsley said solemnly, “Boss, it looks too good to be true!”
Down we went, to be checked presently by the sight of water 2500 ft.
below. We could see the little wave-ripples on the black beach,
penguins strutting to and fro, and dark objects that looked like seals
lolling lazily on the sand. This was an eastern arm of Fortuna Bay,
separated by the ridge from the arm we had seen below us during the
night. The slope we were traversing appeared to end in a precipice
above this beach. But our revived spirits were not to be damped by
difficulties on the last stage of the journey, and we camped cheerfully
for breakfast. Whilst Worsley and Crean were digging a hole for the
lamp and starting the cooker I climbed a ridge above us, cutting steps
with the adze, in order to secure an extended view of the country
below. At 6.30 a.m. I thought I heard the sound of a steam-whistle. I
dared not be certain, but I knew that the men at the whaling-station
would be called from their beds about that time. Descending to the camp
I told the others, and in intense excitement we watched the chronometer
for seven o’clock, when the whalers would be summoned to work. Right to
the minute the steam-whistle came to us, borne clearly on the wind
across the intervening miles of rock and snow. Never had any one of us
heard sweeter music. It was the first sound created by outside human
agency that had come to our ears since we left Stromness Bay in
December 1914. That whistle told us that men were living near, that
ships were ready, and that within a few hours we should be on our way
back to Elephant Island to the rescue of the men waiting there under
the watch and ward of Wild. It was a moment hard to describe. Pain and
ache, boat journeys, marches, hunger and fatigue seemed to belong to
the limbo of forgotten things, and there remained only the perfect
contentment that comes of work accomplished.
My examination of the country from a higher point had not provided
definite information, and after descending I put the situation before
Worsley and Crean. Our obvious course lay down a snow-slope in the
direction of Husvik. “Boys,” I said, “this snow-slope seems to end in a
precipice, but perhaps there is no precipice. If we don’t go down we
shall have to make a detour of at least five miles before we reach
level going. What shall it be?” They both replied at once, “Try the
slope.” So we started away again downwards. We abandoned the Primus
lamp, now empty, at the breakfast camp and carried with us one ration
and a biscuit each. The deepest snow we had yet encountered clogged our
feet, but we plodded downward, and after descending about 500 ft.,
reducing our altitude to 2000 ft. above sea-level, we thought we saw
the way clear ahead. A steep gradient of blue ice was the next
obstacle. Worsley and Crean got a firm footing in a hole excavated with
the adze and then lowered me as I cut steps until the full 50 ft. of
our alpine rope was out. Then I made a hole big enough for the three of
us, and the other two men came down the steps. My end of the rope was
anchored to the adze and I had settled myself in the hole braced for a
strain in case they slipped. When we all stood in the second hole I
went down again to make more steps, and in this laborious fashion we
spent two hours descending about 500 ft. Halfway down we had to strike
away diagonally to the left, for we noticed that the fragments of ice
loosened by the adze were taking a leap into space at the bottom of the
slope. Eventually we got off the steep ice, very gratefully, at a point
where some rocks protruded, and we could see then that there was a
perilous precipice directly below the point where we had started to cut
steps. A slide down a slippery slope, with the adze and our cooker
going ahead, completed this descent, and incidentally did considerable
damage to our much-tried trousers.
When we picked ourselves up at the bottom we were not more than 1500
ft. above the sea. The slope was comparatively easy. Water was running
beneath the snow, making “pockets” between the rocks that protruded
above the white surface. The shells of snow over these pockets were
traps for our feet; but we scrambled down, and presently came to
patches of tussock. A few minutes later we reached the sandy beach. The
tracks of some animals were to be seen, and we were puzzled until I
remembered that reindeer, brought from Norway, had been placed on the
island and now ranged along the lower land of the eastern coast. We did
not pause to investigate. Our minds were set upon reaching the haunts
of man, and at our best speed we went along the beach to another rising
ridge of tussock. Here we saw the first evidence of the proximity of
man, whose work, as is so often the ease, was one of destruction. A
recently killed seal was lying there, and presently we saw several
other bodies bearing the marks of bullet-wounds. I learned later that
men from the whaling-station at Stromness sometimes go round to Fortuna
Bay by boat to shoot seals.
Noon found us well up the slope on the other side of the bay working
east-south-east, and half an hour later we were on a flat plateau, with
one more ridge to cross before we descended into Husvik. I was leading
the way over this plateau when I suddenly found myself up to my knees
in water and quickly sinking deeper through the snow-crust. I flung
myself down and called to the others to do the same, so as to
distribute our weight on the treacherous surface. We were on top of a
small lake, snow-covered. After lying still for a few moments we got to
our feet and walked delicately, like Agag, for 200 yds., until a rise
in the surface showed us that we were clear of the lake.
At 1.30 p.m. we climbed round a final ridge and saw a little steamer, a
whaling-boat, entering the bay 2500 ft, below. A few moments later, as
we hurried forward, the masts of a sailing-ship lying at a wharf came
in sight. Minute figures moving to and fro about the boats caught our
gaze, and then we saw the sheds and factory of Stromness
whaling-station. We paused and shook hands, a form of mutual
congratulation that had seemed necessary on four other occasions in the
course of the expedition. The first time was when we landed on Elephant
Island, the second when we reached South Georgia, and the third when we
reached the ridge and saw the snow-slope stretching below on the first
day of the overland journey, then when we saw Husvik rocks.
Cautiously we started down the slope that led to warmth and comfort.
The last lap of the journey proved extraordinarily difficult. Vainly we
searched for a safe, or a reasonably safe, way down the steep ice-clad
mountain-side. The sole possible pathway seemed to be a channel cut by
water running from the upland. Down through icy water we followed the
course of this stream. We were wet to the waist, shivering, cold, and
tired. Presently our ears detected an unwelcome sound that might have
been musical under other conditions. It was the splashing of a
waterfall, and we were at the wrong end. When we reached the top of
this fall we peered over cautiously and discovered that there was a
drop of 25 or 30 ft., with impassable ice-cliffs on both sides. To go
up again was scarcely thinkable in our utterly wearied condition. The
way down was through the waterfall itself. We made fast one end of our
rope to a boulder with some difficulty, due to the fact that the rocks
had been worn smooth by the running water. Then Worsley and I lowered
Crean, who was the heaviest man. He disappeared altogether in the
falling water and came out gasping at the bottom. I went next, sliding
down the rope, and Worsley, who was the lightest and most nimble member
of the party, came last. At the bottom of the fall we were able to
stand again on dry land. The rope could not be recovered. We had flung
down the adze from the top of the fall and also the logbook and the
cooker wrapped in one of our blouses. That was all, except our wet
clothes, that we brought out of the Antarctic, which we had entered a
year and a half before with well-found ship, full equipment, and high
hopes. That was all of tangible things; but in memories we were rich.
We had pierced the veneer of outside things. We had “suffered, starved,
and triumphed, grovelled down yet grasped at glory, grown bigger in the
bigness of the whole.” We had seen God in His splendours, heard the
text that Nature renders. We had reached the naked soul of man.
Shivering with cold, yet with hearts light and happy, we set off
towards the whaling-station, now not more than a mile and a half
distant. The difficulties of the journey lay behind us. We tried to
straighten ourselves up a bit, for the thought that there might be
women at the station made us painfully conscious of our uncivilized
appearance. Our beards were long and our hair was matted. We were
unwashed and the garments that we had worn for nearly a year without a
change were tattered and stained. Three more unpleasant-looking
ruffians could hardly have been imagined. Worsley produced several
safety-pins from some corner of his garments and effected some
temporary repairs that really emphasized his general disrepair. Down we
hurried, and when quite close to the station we met two small boys ten
or twelve years of age. I asked these lads where the manager’s house
was situated. They did not answer. They gave us one look—a
comprehensive look that did not need to be repeated. Then they ran from
us as fast as their legs would carry them. We reached the outskirts of
the station and passed through the “digesting-house,” which was dark
inside. Emerging at the other end, we met an old man, who started as if
he had seen the Devil himself and gave us no time to ask any question.
He hurried away. This greeting was not friendly. Then we came to the
wharf, where the man in charge stuck to his station. I asked him if Mr.
Sorlle (the manager) was in the house.
“Yes,” he said as he stared at us.
“We would like to see him,” said I.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“We have lost our ship and come over the island,” I replied.
“You have come over the island?” he said in a tone of entire disbelief.
The man went towards the manager’s house and we followed him. I learned
afterwards that he said to Mr. Sorlle: “There are three funny-looking
men outside, who say they have come over the island and they know you.
I have left them outside.” A very necessary precaution from his point
of view.
Mr. Sorlle came out to the door and said, “Well?”
“Don’t you know me?” I said.
“I know your voice,” he replied doubtfully. “You’re the mate of the
_Daisy_.”
“My name is Shackleton,” I said.
Immediately he put out his hand and said, “Come in. Come in.”
“Tell me, when was the war over?” I asked.
“The war is not over,” he answered. “Millions are being killed. Europe
is mad. The world is mad.”
[Illustration: [Rough Memory Map of Route Across South Georgia]]
Mr. Sorlle’s hospitality had no bounds. He would scarcely let us wait
to remove our freezing boots before he took us into his house and gave
us seats in a warm and comfortable room. We were in no condition to sit
in anybody’s house until we had washed and got into clean clothes, but
the kindness of the station-manager was proof even against the
unpleasantness of being in a room with us. He gave us coffee and cakes
in the Norwegian fashion, and then showed us upstairs to the bathroom,
where we shed our rags and scrubbed ourselves luxuriously.
Mr. Sorlle’s kindness did not end with his personal care for the three
wayfarers who had come to his door. While we were washing he gave
orders for one of the whaling-vessels to be prepared at once in order
that it might leave that night for the other side of the island and
pick up the three men there. The whalers knew King Haakon Bay, though
they never worked on that side of the island. Soon we were clean again.
Then we put on delightful new clothes supplied from the station stores
and got rid of our superfluous hair. Within an hour or two we had
ceased to be savages and had become civilized men again. Then came a
splendid meal, while Mr. Sorlle told us of the arrangements he had made
and we discussed plans for the rescue of the main party on Elephant
Island.
I arranged that Worsley should go with the relief ship to show the
exact spot where the carpenter and his two companions were camped,
while I started to prepare for the relief of the party on Elephant
Island. The whaling-vessel that was going round to King Haakon Bay was
expected back on the Monday morning, and was to call at Grytviken
Harbour, the port from which we had sailed in December 1914, in order
that the magistrate resident there might be informed of the fate of the
_Endurance_. It was possible that letters were awaiting us there.
Worsley went aboard the whaler at ten o’clock that night and turned in.
The next day the relief ship entered King Haakon Bay and he reached
Peggotty Camp in a boat. The three men were delighted beyond measure to
know that we had made the crossing in safety and that their wait under
the upturned _James Caird_ was ended. Curiously enough, they did not
recognize Worsley, who had left them a hairy, dirty ruffian and had
returned his spruce and shaven self. They thought he was one of the
whalers. When one of them asked why no member of the party had come
round with the relief, Worsley said, “What do you mean?” “We thought
the Boss or one of the others would come round,” they explained.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Worsley. Then it suddenly dawned
upon them that they were talking to the man who had been their close
companion for a year and a half. Within a few minutes the whalers had
moved our bits of gear into their boat. They towed off the _James
Caird_ and hoisted her to the deck of their ship. Then they started on
the return voyage. Just at dusk on Monday afternoon they entered
Stromness Bay, where the men of the whaling-station mustered on the
beach to receive the rescued party and to examine with professional
interest the boat we had navigated across 800 miles of the stormy ocean
they knew so well.
[Illustration: Panorama of South Georgia]
When I look back at those days I have no doubt that Providence guided
us, not only across those snowfields, but across the storm-white sea
that separated Elephant Island from our landing-place on South Georgia.
I know that during that long and racking march of thirty-six hours over
the unnamed mountains and glaciers of South Georgia it seemed to me
often that we were four, not three. I said nothing to my companions on
the point, but afterwards Worsley said to me, “Boss, I had a curious
feeling on the march that there was another person with us.” Crean
confessed to the same idea. One feels “the dearth of human words, the
roughness of mortal speech” in trying to describe things intangible,
but a record of our journeys would be incomplete without a reference to
a subject very near to our hearts.