 CHAPTER 11 THE RESCUE Our first night at the wailing station was blissful. Cree and an eye shared a beautiful room in Mr. Sorrell's house, with electric light and two beds, warm and soft. We were so comfortable that we were unable to sleep. Late at night the steward brought us tea, bread, and butter, and cakes, and we lay in bed, reveling in the luxury of it all. Outside a dense snowstorm, which started two hours after our arrival, and lasted until the following day, was swirling and driving about the mountain slopes. We were thankful indeed that we had made a place of safety, for it would have gone hard with us if we had been out on the mountains that night. Deep snow lay everywhere when we got up the following morning. After breakfast Mr. Sorrell took us round to Hasvik in a motel lounge. We were listening avidly to his account of the war, and of all that had happened while we were out of the world of man. We were like men arisen from the dead to world gone mad. Our minds accustomed themselves gradually to the tales of nations in arms, of deathless courage, an unimagined slaughter, of a world conflict that had grown beyond all conceptions, of vast red battlefields in grimaced contrast with the frigid whiteness we'd left behind us. The reader may not realize quite how difficult it was for us to envisage nearly two years of the most stupendous war of history. The locking of the armies in the trenches, the sinking of the Lusitania, the murder of Nour's Caval, the use of poison gas and liquid fire, the submarine warfare, the Gallipoli campaign, the hundred other incidents of the war almost stunned us at first, and then our minds began to compass their train of events and develop a perspective. I suppose our experience was unique. No other civilized man could have been as blankly ignorant of world-shaking happenings as we were when we reached the strongness whaling station. I heard the first rumour of the Aurora's misadventures in the Ross Sea from Mr. Sorrell. Our host could tell me very little. He had been informed that the Aurora had broken away from winter quarters in McMurdo's sound and reached New Zealand after a long drift, and that there was no news of the shore party. This information was indefinite as to details, and I had to wait until I reached the Falkland Islands some time later before getting a definite report concerning the Aurora. The rumour that had reached South Georgia, however, made it more than ever important that I should bring out the rest of the Wettel Sea party quickly so as to free myself for whatever effort was required on the Ross Sea side. When we reached Husvik that Sunday morning we were warmly greeted by the magistrate, Mr. Bernston, whom I knew of old, and the other members of the little community. More than the harbour was one of the largest of the whalers, the southern sky, owned by an English company, but now laid up for the winter. I had no means of getting into communication with the owners without dangerous delay, and on my accepting all responsibility, Mr. Bernston made arrangements for me to take this ship down to Elephant Island. I rode out in agreement with Lloyds for the insurance of the ship. Captain Tom, an old friend of the expedition, happened to be in Husvik with his ship, the Orwell, loading oil for use in Britain's munition works, and he had once volunteered to come with us in any capacity. I asked him to come as captain of the southern sky. There was no difficulty about getting a crew. The whalers were eager to assist in the rescue of men in distress. They started work that Sunday to prepare and stow the ship. Parts of the engines were ashore, but willing hands made light labour. I purchased from the station stalls all the stalls and equipment required, including special comforts for the men we hoped to rescue, and by Tuesday morning the southern sky was ready to sail. I feel it is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to thank here the Norwegian whalers of South Georgia for the sympathetic hands they stretched out to us in our need. Long memories of kindness received in many lands, sundered by the seas, the recollection of the hospitality and help given to me in South Georgia ranks high. There is a brotherhood of the sea. The men who go down to the sea in ships, serving and suffering, fighting their endless battle against the caprice of wind and ocean, bring into their own horizons the perils and troubles of their brother Sailor Mann. The southern sky was ready on Tuesday morning, and at nine o'clock we steamed out of the bay, while the whistles of the whaling station sounded friendly farewell. We had foregathered aboard Captain Tom's ship on the Monday night with several whaling captains who were bringing up their sons to their own profession. They were old-stagers, with faces lined and seen by the storms of half a century, and they were even more interested in the story of our voyage from Elephant Island than the younger generation was. They congratulated us on having accomplished a remarkable boat journey. I do not wish to belittle our success with the pride that apes humanity. Under providence we had overcome great difficulties and dangers, and it was pleasant to tell the tale to a man who knew those sullen and treacherous southern seas. McCarthy, McNeish, and Vincent had been landed on the Monday afternoon. They were already showing some signs of increasing strength under a regime of warm quarters and abundant food. The carpenter looked woefully thin after it emerged from a bath. He must have worn a lot of clothes when he landed from the boat, and I did not realize how he had wasted till I saw him washed and changed. He was a man over fifty years of age, and the strain had told upon him more than upon the rest of us. The rescue came just in time for him. The early part of the voyage down to Elephant Island in the southern sky was uneventful. Last noon on Tuesday, May 23rd, we were at sea and steaming at ten knots on a south-westerly course. We made good progress, but the temperature fell very low, and the signs gave me some cause for anxiety as to the probability of encountering ice. On the third night out the sea seemed to grow silent. I looked over the side and saw a thin film of ice. The sea was freezing around us, and the ice gradually grew thicker, reducing our speed to about five knots. Then lumps of old pack began to appear among the new ice. I realized that an advance through pack ice was out of the question. The southern sky was a steel-built steamer, and our structure, while strong to resist the waves, would not endure the blows of masses of ice. So I took the ship north, and at daylight on Friday we got clear of the pancake ice. We skirted westward, awaiting favorable conditions. The morning of the twenty-eighth was dull and overcast, with little wind. Again the ship's head was turned to the southwest, but at three p.m. a definite line of pack showed up on the horizon. We were about seventy miles from Elephant Island, but there was no possibility of taking the steamer through the ice that barred the way. North-west again we turned. We were directly north of the island on the following day, and I made another move south. Heavy pack formed an impenetrable barrier. To admit failure at this stage was hard, but the facts had to be faced. The southern sky could not enter ice of even mothered thickness. The season was late, and we could not be sure that the ice would open for many months, though my opinion was that the pack would not become fast in that quarter even in the winter, owing to the strong winds and currents. The southern sky could carry coal for ten days only, and we had been out six days. We were five hundred miles from the Falkland Island, and about six hundred miles from South Georgia, so I determined that since we could not wait for an opening I would proceed to the Falklands, get a more suitable vessel either locally or from England, and make a second attempt to reach Elephant Island from that point. We encountered very bad weather on the way up, but in the early afternoon of May 31st we arrived at Port Stanley, where the cable provided a link with the outer world. The harbour master came out to meet us, and after we had dropped anchor I went ashore and met the governor, Mr. Douglas Young. He offered me his assistance at once. He telephoned to Mr. Harding, a manager of the Falkland Islands station, and I learned to my keen regret that no ship of the type required was available at the islands. That evening I cabled to London a message to his Majesty the King, the first account of the loss of the endurance and the subsequent adventures of the expedition. The next day I received the following message from the King. Rejoice to hear of your safe arrival in the Falkland Islands, and trust your comrades on Elephant Island may soon be rescued. George Rex I. The events of the days that followed our arrival at the Falkland Islands I will not attempt to describe in detail. My mind was bent upon the rescue of the party on Elephant Island at the earliest possible moment. Winter was advancing, and I was fully conscious that the lives of some of my comrades might be the price of unnecessary delay. A proposal had been made to send a relief ship from England, but she could not reach the southern seas for many weeks. In the meantime I got into communication with the governments of the South American republics by wireless and cable, and asked if they had any suitable ship I could use for a rescue. I wanted a wooden ship capable of pushing into loose ice, with fair speed and a reasonable coal capacity. Messages of congratulation and goodwill were reaching me from all parts of the world, and the kindness of hundreds of friends in many lands was a very real comfort in a time of anxiety and stress. The British Admiralty informed me that no suitable vessel was available in England and that no relief could be expected before October. I replied that October would be too late. Then the British minister in Montevideo telegraphed me regarding a troiler named Instituto de Pesca, number one, belonging to the Uruguayan government. She was a stout little vessel, and the government had generously offered to equip her with coal, provisions, clothing, etc., and send her across to the Falkland Islands for me to take down to Elephant Island. I accepted this offer gladly, and the troiler was in port Stanley on June 10. We started south at once. The weather was bad, but the troiler made good progress, steaming steadily at about six knots, and in the bright, clear dawn of the third day we sighted the peaks of Elephant Island. Hope ran high, but our ancient enemy, the pack, was lying in wait, and within 20 miles of the island the troiler was stopped by an impenetrable barrier of ice. The pack lay in the form of a crescent, with a horn to the west of the ship, stretching north. Steaming northeast we reached another horn, and saw that the pack, heavy and dense, then trended away to the east. We made an attempt to push into the ice, but it was so heavy that the troiler was held up at once, and began to grind in the small thick flows, so we cautiously backed out. The propeller, going slowly, was not damaged, though any moment I feared we might strip the blades. The island lay on our starboard quarter, but there was no possibility of reproaching it. The Uruguayan engineer reported to me that he had three days' coal left, and I had to give the order to turn back. A screen of fog hit his lower slopes of the island, and the men watching from the camp on the beach could not have seen the ship. Northward we steamed again, with the engines knocking badly, and, after encountering a new gale, made port Stanley with the bunkers nearly empty, and the engines almost broken down. HMS Glasgow was in the port, and the British sailors gave us a hearty welcome as we steamed in. The Uruguayan government offered to send the troiler to Punta Arenas, and have a dry dock there, and made ready for another effort. One of the troubles on the voyage was that according to the estimate, the troiler could do 10 knots on six tons of coal a day, which would have given us a good margin to allow for lying off the ice, but in reality, owing to the fact that she had not been in dock for a year, she only developed a speed of six knots on a consumption of 10 tons a day. Time was precious, and these preparations would have taken too long. I thank the government then for its very generous offer, and I want to say now that the kindness of the Uruguayans at this time earned my warmest gratitude. I ought to mention also the assistance given me by Lieutenant Ryan, a naval reserve officer who navigated the troiler to the Falklands and came south on the attempt at relief. The Instituto de Pesca went off to Montevideo, and I looked around for another ship. A British mailboat, the Orita, called at port Stanley opportunity, and I boarded her with Worsley and Creen and crossed to Punta Arenas in the Magalind Straits. The reception we received there was heartening. The members of the British Association of Magalinds took us to their hearts. Mr. Alan McDonald was especially prominent in his untiring efforts to assist in the rescue of our 22 companions on Elephant Island. He worked day and night, and it was mainly due to him that within three days they had raised the sum of 1,500 pounds amongst themselves, chartered the schooner Emma, and equipped her for our use. She was a 40-year-old oak schooner strong and sea-worthy with an auxiliary oil engine. Out of the compliment of 10 men all told who were manning the ship, there were eight different nationalities, but they were all good fellows and understood perfectly what was wanted. The Chilean government lent us a small steamer, the Yelko, to tow us part of the way. She could not touch ice, though, as she was billed of steel. However, on July 12 we passed her our tow rope and proceeded on our way. In bad weather we anchored next day, and although the wind increased to a gale, I could delay no longer, so we hoeve up anchor in the early morning of the 14th. This strain on the tow rope was too great. With the crack of a gun the rope broke. Next day the gale continued, and I will quote from the log of the Emma, which worstly kept as navigating officer. 9 a.m. Fresh, increasing gale, very rough lumpy sea. 10 a.m. Tow rope parted. 12 noon, similar weather. 1 p.m. Tow rope parted again. Set foresail and foresail and steered southeast by south. 3 p.m. The Yelko hilled us and said that the ship's bilges were full of water, so were our decks, and they were short of coal. So Ernest told them that they could return to harbor. After this the Yelko steamed into San Sebastian Bay. After three days of continuous bad weather, we were left alone to attempt once more to rescue the 22 men on Elephant Island, for whom by this time I entertained very grave fears. At dawn of Friday, July 21st, we were within 100 miles of the island, and we encountered the ice in the half-light. I waited for the full day, and then tried to push through. The little craft was tossing in the heavy swell, and before she had been in the pack for 10 minutes, she came down on a cake of ice and broke the bob's day. Then the water inlet of the motor choked with ice. The schooner was tossing like a quark in the swell, and I saw after a few bumps that she was actually lighter than the fragments of ice around her. Progress and the such conditions was out of the question. I worked the schooner out of the pack and stood to the east. I ran her through a line of pack towards the south that night, but was forced to turn to the northeast, for the ice trended in that direction as far as I could see. We hoped too for the night, which was now 16 hours long. The winter was well advanced, and the weather conditions were thoroughly bad. The ice to the southward was moving north rapidly. The motor engine had broken down, and we were entirely dependent on the sails. We managed to make a little southing during the next day, but noon found this 108 miles from the island. That night we lay off the ice in a gale, hoofed too, and morning found the schooner iced up. The ropes, cased in frozen spray, were as thick as a man's arm, and if the wind had increased much we would have had to cut away the sails, since there was no possibility of lowering them. Some members of the scratch crew were played out by the cold and the violent tossing. The schooner was about 70 feet long, and she responded to the motions of the storm-racked sea in a manner that might have disconcerted the most seasoned sailors. I took the schooner south at every chance, but always the line of ice blocked the way. The engineer, who happened to be an American, did things to the engines occasionally, but he could not keep them running, and the persistent south winds were dead ahead. It was hard to turn back a third time, but I realized we could not reach the island under those conditions, and we must turn north in order to clear the ship of heavy masses of ice. So we set a northerly course, and after a tempestuous passage reached Port Stanley once more. This was the third reverse, but I did not abandon my belief that the ice would not remain fast around Elephant Island during the winter, whatever the armchair experts at home might say. We reached Port Stanley in the schooner on August 8, and I learned there that the ship's discovery was to leave England at once, and would be at the Falkland Islands about the middle of September. My good friend, the Governor, said I could settle down at Port Stanley and take things quietly for a few weeks. The street of that port is about a mile and a half long. It has the slaughterhouse at one end and the graveyard at the other. The chief distraction is to walk from the slaughterhouse at the graveyard. For a change I may walk from the graveyard to the slaughterhouse. Elephant Terrace was born at Port Stanley, a fact not forgotten by the residents, but she has not lived there much since. I could not content myself to wait for six or seven weeks, knowing that six hundred miles away my comrades were in dire need. I asked the Chilean government to send the Yelko, the steamer that had towed us before, to take the schooner across to Punta Arenas, and they consented promptly, as they had done to every other request of mine. So in a northwest gale we went across, narrowly escaping disaster on the way, and reached Punta Arenas on August 14. There was no suitable ship to be obtained. The weather was showing some signs of improvement, and I begged the Chilean government to let me have the Yelko for a last attempt to reach the island. She was a small, steel-built steamer, quite unsuitable for work in the pack, but I promised that I would not touch the ice. The government was willing to give me another chance, and on August 25 I started south on the fourth attempt at relief. This time Providence favoured us. The little steamer made a quick run down in comparatively fine weather, and I found as we neared Elephant Island that the ice was open. A southerly gale had send it northward temporarily, and the Yelko had a chance to slip through. We approached the island in a thick fog. I did not dare to wait for this to clear, and at ten a.m. on August 30 we passed some stranded bergs. Then we saw the sea breaking on a reef, and I knew that we were just outside the island. It was an anxious moment, for we had still to locate the camp, and the pack could not be trusted to allow time for a prolonged search in thick weather. But presently the fog lifted, and revealed the cliffs and glaciers of Elephant Island. I proceeded to the east, and at eleven forty a.m. Wersley's keen eyes detected the camp, almost invisible under its covering of snow. The men ashore saw us at the same time, and we saw tiny black figures hurried to the beach and wave signals to us. We were about a mile and a half away from the camp. I turned the Yelko in, and within half an hour reached the beach with cream and some of the Chilean sailors. I saw a little figure on the surf-beaten rock and recognized wild. As I came nearer I called out, Are you all well? and he answered. We are all well, boss, and then I heard three cheers. As I drew close to the rock I flung packets of cigarettes ashore. They fell on them like hungry tigers, for well I knew that for months tobacco was dreamt of and talked of. Some of the hens were in a rather bad way, but wild had held the party together and kept hope alive in their hearts. There was no time then to exchange news or congratulations. I did not even go up the beach to see the camp, which wild assured me had been much improved. A heavy sea was running and a change of wind might bring the ice back at any time. I heard the party aboard with all possible speed, taking also the records of the expedition and essential portions of the equipment. Everybody was aboard the Yelko within an hour, and we steamed north at the little steamer's best speed. The ice was open still, and nothing worse than expanse of stormy ocean separated us from the South American coast. During the run up to Punta Arenas I heard wild story, and blessed again to cheerfulness and resource that had served the party so well during four and a half months of privation. The twenty-two men on Elephant Island were just at the end of their resources when the Yelko reached them. Wild had husbanded the scanty stock of food as far as possible, and had fought off the devils of despondency and despair on that little sense bit, where the party had a precarious foothold between the grim ice fields and the treacherous ice strewn sea. The pack had opened occasionally, but much of the time the way to the North had been barred. The Yelko had arrived at the right moment. Two days earlier she could not have reached the island, and a few hours later the pack may have been impenetrable again. Wild had reckoned that help would come in August, and every morning he had packed his kit in cheerful anticipation that proved infectious, as I have no doubt it was meant to be. One at the party to whom I had said, well, you all were packed up ready, replied, You see, boss, Wild never gave up hope, and whenever the sea was at all clear of ice, he rolled up his sleeping bag and said to all hands, Roll up your sleeping bags, boys, the boss may come to-day. And so it came to pass that we suddenly came out of the fog, and, from a black outlook, in an hour all were in safety homeward bound. The food was eeked out with seal and penguin meat, limpets and seaweed. Seals had been scarce, but the supply of penguins had held out fairly well during the first three months. The men were down to the last bovril ration, the only form of hot drink they had, and had scarcely four days food in hand at the time of the rescue. The camp was in constant danger of being buried by the snow, which drifted heavily from the hides behind, and the man moved the accumulations with what implements they could provide. There was danger that the camp would become completely invisible from the sea, so that the rescue party might look for it in vain. It had been arranged that a gun should be fired from a relief ship when she got near the islands at Wild. Many times when the glaciers were carving and chunks fell off with a report like a gun, we thought that it was a real thing, and after a time we got to distrust these signals. As a matter of fact, we saw the Yelko before we heard any gun. It was an occasion one will not easily forget. We were just assembling for lunch through the call of Lunch-O, and I was serving out the soup which was particularly good that day, consisting of boiled seals, backbone, limpets and seaweed, when there was another hill from Marson of Ship-O. Some of the men thought it was Lunch-O over again, but when there was another Yel from Marson, lunch had no further attractions. The ship was about a mile and a half away and steaming past us. A smoke signal was the agreed sign from the shore, and catching up somebody's code that was lying about, I struck a pick into a tin of kerosene kept for the purpose, poured it over the code, and set it alight. It flared instead of smoking, but that didn't matter, for you had already recognized the spot where it left us and the Yelko was turning in. We encountered bad weather on the way back to Punta Arenas, and the little Yelko labored heavily, but shed light hearts aboard. We entered the Straits of Macklin on September 3, and reached Rio Seco at 8 a.m. I went ashore, found the telephone, and told the Governor and my friends at Punta Arenas that the men were safe. Two hours later we were at Punta Arenas, where we were given a welcome none of us is likely to forget. The Chilean people were no less enthusiastic than the British residents. The police had been instructed to spread the news that the Yelko was coming with the rescued men, unless the message should fail to reach some people, the fire alarm had been rung. The whole populace appeared to be in the streets. It was a great reception, and with a strain of long, anxious months lifted at last, we were in a mood to enjoy it. The next few weeks were crowded once, but I will not attempt here to record their history in detail. I received congratulations and messages of friendship and good cheer from all over the world, and my heart went out to the good people who had remembered my men and myself in the press of terrible events on the battlefields. The Chilean governments placed the Yelko at my disposal to take the men up to Valpariso and Santiago. We reached Valpariso on September 27. Everything that could swim in the way of a boat was out to meters. The crews of Chilean warships were lined up, and at least 30,000 thronged the streets. I lectured in Santiago on the following evening for the British Red Cross and the Chilean naval charity. The Chilean flag and the Union Jack were draped together. The band played the Chilean national anthem, God Save the King, and the Marseillais, and the Chilean Minister for Foreign Affairs spoke from the platform and pinned an order on my code. I saw the President and thanked him for the help that he had given a British expedition. His government had spent £4,000 on coal alone. In reply, he recalled the part that British sailors had taken in the making of the Chilean navy. The Chilean Railway Department provided a special train to take us across the Andes, and I proceeded to Montevideo in order to thank personally the President and Government of Uruguay for the help they had given generously in the earlier belief voyages. We were entertained royally at various spots en route. We went also to Buenos Aires on a brief call. Then we crossed the Andes again. I had made arrangements by this time for the men and the staff to go to England. All hands were keen to take their places in the empire's fighting forces. My own immediate task was the relief of the marooned Ross Sea party, for news had come to me of the auroras long drifted in the Ross Sea, and of a return in a damaged condition to a New Zealand. Wesley was to come with me. We hurried northwards via Panama, steamship and train companies giving us everywhere the most cordial and generous assistance, and called at San Francisco a steamer that would get us to New Zealand at the end of November. I had been informed that the New Zealand Government was making arrangements for the relief of the Ross Sea party, but my information was incomplete, and I was very anxious to be on the spot myself as quickly as possible. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12, Part 1 of South This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Corey Samuel South The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917 by Sir Ernest Shackleton Chapter 12, Elephant Island, Part 1 The twenty-two men who had been left behind on Elephant Island were under the command of Wilde, in whom I had absolute confidence, and the account of their experiences during the long four-and-a-half-month's wait while I was trying to get help to them, I have secured from their various diaries, supplemented by details which I obtained in conversation on the voyage back to civilization. The first consideration, which was even more important than that of food, was to provide shelter. The semi-starvation during the drift on the ice-flow added to the exposure in the boats, and the inclementies of the weather encountered after our landing on Elephant Island had left its mark on a good many of them. Rickinson, who bore up gamely to the last, collapsed from heart failure. Blackborough and Hudson could not move. All were frost-bitten in varying degrees, and their clothes, which had been worn continuously for six months, were much the worse for wear. The blizzard which sprang up the day that we landed at Cape Wild lasted for a fortnight, often blowing at the rate of seventy to ninety miles an hour, and occasionally reaching even higher figures. The tents which had lasted so well, and endured so much, were torn to ribbons, with the exception of the square-tent occupied by Hurley, James, and Hudson. Sleeping bags and clothes were ringing wet, and the physical discomforts were tending to produce acute mental depression. The two remaining boats had been turned upside down, with one gun-wall resting on the snow, and the other raised about two feet on rocks and cases, and under these the sailors, and some of the scientists, with the two invalids, Rickinson and Blackborough, found head cover at least. Shelter from the weather, and warmth to dry their clothes, was imperative, so Wild hastened the excavation of the Ice Cave in the slope which had been started before I left. The high temperature, however, caused a continuous stream of water to drip from the roof and sides of the Ice Cave, and as with twenty-two men living in it, the temperature would be practically always above freezing, there would have been no hope of dry quarters for them there. Under the direction of Wild, they therefore collected some big flat stones, having in many cases to dig down under the snow which was covering the beach, and with these they erected two substantial walls, four feet high and nineteen feet apart. We are all ridiculously weak, and this part of the work was exceedingly laborious, and took us more than twice as long as it would have done had we been in normal health. Stones that we could easily have lifted at other times, we found quite beyond our capacity, and it needed two or three of us to carry some that would otherwise have been one man's load. Our difficulties were added to by the fact that most of the more suitable stones lay at the farther end of the spit, some one hundred and fifty yards away. Our weakness is best compared with that which one experiences on getting up from a long illness. One feels well, but physically enervated. The site chosen for the hut was the spot where the stove had been originally erected on the night of our arrival. It lay between two large boulders, which, if they would not actually form the walls of the hut, would at least provide a valuable protection from the wind. Further protection was provided to the north by a hill called Pengwing Hill, at the end of the spit. As soon as the walls were completed and squared off the two boats were laid upside down on them side by side. The exact adjustment of the boats took some time, but was of paramount importance if our structure was to be the permanent affair that we hoped it would be. Once in place they were securely chocked up and lashed down to the rocks. The few pieces of wood that we had were laid across from keel to keel, and over this the material of one of the torn tents was spread and secured with guise to the rocks. The walls were ingeniously contrived and fixed up by Marston. First he cut the now useless tents into suitable lengths. Then he cut the legs of a pair of sea-boots into narrow strips. And using these in much the same way that the leather binding is put round the edge of upholstered chairs he nails the tent-cloth all round the insides of the outer gun-walls of the two boats in such a way that it hung down like a valance to the ground, where it was secured with spars and oars. A couple of overlapping blankets made the door, superseded later by a sack-mouth door cut from one of the tents. This consisted of a sort of tube of canvas sewn on to the tent-cloth, through which the men crawled in or out, tying it up as one would the mouth of a sack, as soon as the man had passed through. It is certainly the most convenient and efficient door for these conditions that has ever been invented. Whilst the side-walls of the hut were being fixed, others proceeded to fill the interstices between the stones of the end-walls with snow. As this was very powdery and would not bind well, we eventually had to supplement it with the only spare blanket and an overcoat. All this work was very hard on our frost-bitten fingers, and materials were very limited. At last all was completed, and we were invited to bring in our sodden bags, which had been lying out in the drizzling rain for several hours, for the tents and boats that had previously sheltered them had all been requisitioned to form our new residence. We took our places under wilds direction. There was no squabbling for best places, but it was noticeable that there was something in the nature of a rush for the billets up on the thwarts of the boats. Rickinson, who was still very weak and ill, but very cheery, obtained a place in the boat directly above the stove, and the sailors having lived under the stankham-wills for a few days, while she was upside down on a beach, tacitly claimed it as their own, and flocked up onto its thwarts as one man. There was one up-stair billet left in this boat, which Wilde offered to Hussie and Lees simultaneously, saying that the first man that got his bag up could have the billet. Wilde's to Lees was calculating the pros and cons, Hussie got his bag, and had it up just as Lees had determined that the pros had it. There were now four men up on the thwarts of the Dudley Docker, and the five sailors and Hussie on those of the stankham-wills, the remainder disposing themselves on the floor. The floor was at first covered with snow and ice, frozen in amongst the pebbles. This was cleared out, and the remainder of the tents spread out over the stones. Within a shelter of these cramped, but comparatively palatial quarters, cheerfulness once more rained amongst the party. The blizzard, however, soon discovered the floors in the architecture of their hut, and the fine drift snow forced its way through the crevices between the stones forming the end walls. Jager sleeping bags and coats were spread over the outside of these walls, packed over with snow, and securely frozen up, effectively keeping out this drift. At first all the cooking was done outside, under the lee of some rocks, further protection being provided by a wall of provision cases. There were two blubber stoves made from old oil drums, and, one day, when the blizzard was unusually severe, an attempt was made to cook the meals inside the hut. There being no means of escape for the pungent blubber smoke, the inmates had a rather bad time, some being affected with the form of smoke blindness, similar to snow blindness, very painful and requiring medical attention. A chimney was soon fitted, made by Kerr out of the tin lining of one of the biscuit cases, and passed through a close-fitting tin grommet sewn into the canvas of the roof, just between the keels of the two boats, and the smoke nuisance was soon a thing of the past. Later on another old oil drum was made to surround this chimney, so that two pots could be cooked at once on the one stove. Those whose billets were near the stove suffered from the effects of the local thaw caused by its heat, but they were repaid by being able to warm up portions of steak, and hooshes left over from previous meals, and even to warm up those of the less fortunate ones, for a consideration. This consisted generally of part of the hoosh, or one or two pieces of sugar. The cook and his assistant, which later job was taken by each man in turn, were called about seven a.m., and breakfast was generally ready by about ten a.m. Provision cases were then arranged in a wide circle round the stove, and those who were fortunate enough to be next to it could dry their gear. So that all should benefit equally by this, a sort of general post was carried out, each man occupying his place at mealtimes for one day only, moving up one the succeeding day. In this way, eventually, every man managed to dry his clothes, and life began to assume a much brighter aspect. The great trouble in the hut was the absence of light. The canvas walls were covered with blubber soot, and with the snowdrifts accumulating round the hut, its inhabitants were living in a state of perpetual night. Lamps were fashioned out of sardine tins, with bits of surgical bandage for wicks. But as the oil consisted of seal oil rendered down from the blubber, the remaining fibrous tissue being issued very sparingly at lunch, by the by, and being considered a great delicacy, they were more a means of conserving the scanty store of matches than of serving as illuminants. Wild was the first to overcome this difficulty, by sewing into the canvas wall the glass lid of a chronometer box. Later on three other windows were added, the material in this case being some celluloid panels from a photograph case of mine which I had left behind in a bag. This enabled the occupants of the floor billets, who were near enough, to read and sew, which relieved the monotony of the situation considerably. Our reading material consisted at this time of two books of poetry, one book of Nordenskold's expedition, one or two torn volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and a penny-cookery book, owned by Marston. Our clothes, though never presentable, as they bore the scars of nearly ten months of rough usage, had to be continually patched to keep them together at all. As the floor of the hut had been raised by the addition of loads of clean pebbles, from which most of the snow had been removed, during the cold weather it was kept comparatively dry. When, however, the temperature rose to just above freezing point, as occasionally happened, the hut became the drainage pool of all the surrounding hills. Wilde was the first to notice it, by remarking one morning that his sleeping bag was practically afloat. Other men examined theirs with a like result, so bailing operations commenced forthwith. Stones were removed from the floor and a large hole dug, and in its gloomy depths the water could be seen rapidly rising. Using a saucepan for a bailer, they bailed out over one hundred gallons of dirty water. The next day, one hundred and fifty gallons were removed, the men taking it in turns to bail at intervals during the night. One hundred and sixty more gallons were bailed out during the next twenty-four hours, till one man rather pathetically remarked in his diary, This is what nice, mild, high temperatures mean to us, no wonder we prefer the cold. Eventually, by removing a portion of one wall, a long channel was dug nearly down to the sea, completely solving the problem. Additional precautions were taken by digging away the snow which surrounded the hut after each blizzard, sometimes entirely obscuring it. A huge glacier across the bay behind the hut nearly put an end to the party. Enormous blocks of ice, weighing many tons, would break off and fall into the sea. The disturbance thus caused giving rise to great waves. One day, Marston was outside the hut digging up the frozen seal for lunch with a pick, when a noise like an artillery barrage startled him. Looking up, he saw that one of these tremendous waves, over thirty feet high, was advancing rapidly across the bay, threatening to sweep hut and inhabitants into the sea. A hastily shouted warning brought the men tumbling out, but fortunately the loose ice which filled the bay damped the wave down so much that, though it flowed right under the hut, nothing was carried away. It was a narrow escape though, as had they been washed into the sea, nothing could have saved them. Although they themselves gradually became accustomed to the darkness and the dirt, some entries in their diaries show that occasionally they could realise the conditions under which they were living. The hut grows more grimy every day, everything is a sooty black. We have arrived at the limit, where further increments from the smoking stove, blubber lamps, and cooking gear are unnoticed. It is at least comforting to feel that we can become no filthier. Our shingle floor will scarcely bear examination by strong light, without causing even us to shudder and express our disapprobation at its state. Oil, mixed with reindeer hair, bits of meat, senagrass, and penguin feathers, form a conglomeration which cements the stones together. From time to time we have a spring cleaning, but a fresh supply of flooring material is not always available, as all the shingle is frozen up and buried by deep rifts. Such is our home sweet home. All joints are aching through being compelled to lie on the hard, rubberly floor which forms our bedsteads. Again later on one writes, Now that wild's window allows a shaft of light to enter our hut, one can begin to see things inside. Previously one relied on one sense of touch, assisted by the remarks from those whose faces were inadvertently trodden on, to guide one to the door. Looking down in the semi-darkness to the far end, one observes two very small smoky flares, the dimly illuminate a row of five, endeavouring to make time pass by reading or argument. These are Macklin, Kerr, Wordy, Hudson, and Blackborough, the last two being invalids. The centre of the hut is filled with the cases which do duty for the cook's bed, the meat and the blubber boxes, and a mummified-looking object, which is Leigh's in his sleeping-bag. The near end of the floor-space is taken up with the stove, with Wild and McIlroy on one side, and Hurley and James on the other. Marston occupies a hammock most of the night, and Day, which is slung across the entrance. As he is large, and the entrance very small, he invariably gets bumped by those passing in and out. His vocabulary at such times is interesting. In the attic, formed by the two upturned boats, live ten unkempt and careless lodgers, who drop boots, mitts, and other articles of apparel onto the men below. Reindeer-hares rain down incessantly day and night, with every movement that they make in their molting-bags. These, with penguin-feathers and a little grit from the floor, occasionally savor the hooshes. Thank heaven man is an adaptable brood. If we dwell sufficiently long in this hut, we are likely to alter our method of walking, for our ceiling, which is, but four foot six inches high at its highest part, compels us to walk bent double or on all fours. Our doorway, Cheetham is just calling in now, bringing a shower of snow with him, was originally a tent entrance. When one wishes to go out, one unties the cord securing the door, and crawls or wriggles out, at the same time exclaiming, thank goodness I'm in the open air. This should suffice to describe the atmosphere inside the hut, only pleasant when charged with the overpowering yet appetizing smell of burning penguin stakes. From all parts, their dangles and odd collection of blubbery garments hung up to dry, through which one crawls much as a chicken in an incubator. Our walls of tent canvas admit as much light as might be expected from a closed Venetian blind. It is astonishing how we have grown accustomed to inconveniences, and tolerate, at least, habits which a little time back were regarded with a repugnance. We have no forks, but each man has a sheath-knife and a spoon, the latter in many cases having been fashioned from a piece of box-lid. The knife serves many purposes. With it we kill, skin and cut up, seals and penguins, cut blubber into strips for the fire, very carefully scrape the snow off our hut walls, and then, after a perfunctory rub with an oily penguin skin, use it at meals. We are as regardless of our grime and dirt as is the Eskimo. We have been unable to wash since we left the ship nearly ten months ago. For one thing we have no soap or towels, only bare necessities being brought with us. And again, had we possessed these articles, our supply of fuel would only permit us to melt enough ice for drinking purposes. Had one man washed, half a dozen others would have had to go without a drink all day. One cannot suck ice to relieve the thirst, as at these low temperatures it cracks the lips and blisters the tongue. Still, we are all very cheerful. During the whole of their stay on Elephant Island, the weather was described by wild as simply appalling. Stranded as they were on a narrow sandy beach, surrounded by high mountains, they saw little of the scanty sunshine during the brief intervals of clear sky. On most days the air was full of snowdrift blown from the adjacent heights. Elephant Island being practically on the outside edge of the pack, the winds which passed over the relatively warm ocean before reaching it, clothed it in a constant pawl of fog and snow. On April twenty-fifth, the day after I left for South Georgia, the island was beset by heavy pack ice, with snow and a wet mist. Next day was calmer, but on the twenty-seventh, to quote one of the diaries, they experienced the most wretched weather conceivable, raining all night and day and blowing hard, wet to the skin. The following day brought heavy fog and sleet and a continuance of the blizzard. April ended with a terrific windstorm which nearly destroyed the hut. The one remaining tent had to be dismantled, the pole taken down, and the inhabitants had to lie flat all night under the icy canvas. This lasted well into May, and a typical May day is described as follows. A day of terrific winds, threatening to dislodge our shelter. The wind is a succession of hurricane gusts that sweep down the glacier immediately south-south west of us. Each gust heralds its approach by a low rumbling which increases to a thunderous raw. Snow, stones, and gravel are flying about, and any gear left unweighted by very heavy stones, is carried away to sea. Heavy bales of senagrass and boxes of cooking gear were lifted bodily into the air and carried away out of sight. Once the wind carried off the floorcloth of a tent, which six men were holding on to and shaking the snow off. These gusts often came with alarming suddenness and without any warning. Hussy was outside in the blizzard, digging up the day's meat which had frozen to the ground, when a gust caught him and drove him down the spit toward the sea. Fortunately, when he reached the softer sand and shingle below high watermark, he managed to stick his pick into the ground and hold on with both hands till the squall had passed. Chapter 12 Part 1 Chapter 12 Part 2 of South This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Corey Samuel. South The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition, 1914-1917, by Sir Ernest Shackleton Chapter 12 Elephant Island, Part 2 On one or two rare occasions they had fine, calm, clear days. The glow of the dying sun on the mountains and glaciers filled even the most materialistic of them with wonder and admiration. These days were sometimes succeeded by calm, clear nights, when, but for the cold, they would have stayed out on the sandy beach all night. About the middle of May a terrific blizzard sprang up, blowing from sixty to ninety miles an hour, and wild, entertained grave fears for their hut. One curious feature noted in this blizzard was the fact that the huge ice sheets as big as window panes and about a quarter of an inch thick were being hurled about by the wind, making it as dangerous to walk about outside as if one were in an avalanche of splintered glass. Still, these winds from the south and southwest, though invariably accompanied by snow and low temperatures, were welcome in that they drove the pack ice away from the immediate vicinity of the island, and so gave rise on each occasion to hopes of relief. North-east winds, on the other hand, by filling the bays with ice and bringing thick, misty weather, made it impossible to hope for any ship to approach them. Towards the end of May a period of dead calm set in, with ice closely packed all round the island. This gave place to north-east winds and mist, and at the beginning of tune came another southwest blizzard, with cold driving snow. The blizzard increased to terrific gusts during the night, causing us much anxiety for the safety of our hut, though as little sleep, all being apprehensive of the canvas roof ripping off and the boats being blown out to sea. Thus it continued, alternating between southwest blizzards when they were all confined to the hut, and northeast winds bringing cold, damp, misty weather. On June 25th a severe storm from northwest was recorded, accompanied by strong winds and heavy seas which encroached upon their little sandy beach up to within four yards of their hut. Towards the end of July and the beginning of August they had a few fine, calm, clear days. Occasional glimpses of the sun, with high temperatures, were experienced after southwest winds had blown all the ice away, and their party, their spirits cheered by wilds unfailing optimism, again began to look eagerly for the rescue ship. The first three attempts at their rescue unfortunately coincided with the times when the island was beset with ice, and though on the second occasion we approached close enough to fire a gun in the hope that they would hear the sound and know that we were safe and well, yet so accustomed were they to the noise made by the carving of the adjacent glacier that either they did not hear or the sound passed unnoticed. On August 16th Pack was observed on the horizon and the next day the bay was filled with loose ice which soon consolidated. Soon afterwards huge old flows and many birds drifted in. The pack appears as dense as we have ever seen it, no open water is visible, and ice blink girdles the horizon. The weather is wretched, a stagnant calm of air and ocean alike, the latter obscured by dense pack through which no swell can penetrate, and a wet mist hangs like a pool over land and sea. The silence is oppressive. There is nothing to do but stay in one sleeping bag, or else wander in the soft snow and become thoroughly wet. Fifteen inches of snow fell in the next twenty-four hours, making over two feet between August 18th and 21st. A slight swell next day from the northeast ground up the pack ice, but this soon subsided, and the pack became consolidated once more. On August 27th a strong west-southwest wind sprang up and drove all this ice out of the bay, and except for some stranded bergs, left a clear, ice-free sea through which we finally made our way from Punta Arenas to Elephant Island. As soon as I had left the island to get help for the rest of the expedition, Wilde set all hands to collect as many seals and penguins as possible, in case their stay was longer than was at first anticipated. A sudden rise in temperature caused a whole lot to go bad and become unfit for food, so while a fair reserve was kept in hand, too much was not accumulated. At first the meals, consisting mostly of seal meat, with one hot drink per day, were cooked on a stove in the open. The snow and wind, besides making it very unpleasant for the cook, filled all the cooking pots with sand and grit, so during the winter the cooking was done inside the hut. A little cerebus salt had been saved, and this was issued out at the rate of three-quarters of an ounce per man per week. Some of the packets containing the salt had broken, so that all did not get the full ration. On the other hand one man dropped his week's ration on the floor of the hut, amongst the stones and dirt. It was quickly collected, and he found to his delight that he had enough now to last him for three weeks. Of course it was not all salt. The hot drink consisted at first of milk, made from milk powder, up to about one-quarter its proper strength. This was later on diluted still more, and sometimes replaced by a drink made from a pea soup-like packing from the bovril sledging rations. For midwinter's day celebrations, a mixture of one teaspoonful of methylated spirit in a pint of hot water, flavoured with a little ginger and sugar, served to remind some of cocktails and verve clicot. At breakfast each had a piece of seal or half a penguin breast. Luncheon consisted of one biscuit on three days a week, nut food on Thursdays, bits of blubber from which most of the oil had been extracted for the lamps on two days a week, and nothing on the remaining day. On this day breakfast consisted of a half-strength sledging ration. Supper was almost invariably seal and penguin, cut up very finely and fried with a little seal blubber. There were occasionally very welcome variations from this menu. Some paddies, a little white bird not unlike a pigeon, were snare'd with a loop of string and fried with one water sodden biscuit for lunch. Enough barley and peas for one meal all round of each had been saved, and when this was issued it was a day of great celebration. Sometimes, by general consent, the luncheon biscuit would be saved, and, with the next serving of biscuit, was crushed in a canvas bag into a powder and boiled with a little sugar, making a very satisfying pudding. When blubber was fairly plentiful there was always a saucepan of cold water, made from melting down the pieces of ice which had broken off from the glacier, fallen into the sea, and been washed ashore for them to quench their thirst in. As the experience of arctic explorers tended to show that seawater produced a form of dysentery, wild was rather diffident about using it. Penguing carcasses boiled in one part of seawater to four of fresh were a great success though, and to know ill effects were felt by anybody. The ringed penguins migrated north the day after we landed at Cape Wild, and though every effort was made to secure as large a stock of meat and blubber as possible, by the end of the month the supply was so low that only one hot meal a day could be served. Twice the usual number of penguing steaks were cooked at breakfast, and the ones intended for supper were kept hot in the pots by wrapping up in coats, etc. Clark put our saucepan full in his sleeping bag to-day to keep it hot, and it really was a great success in spite of the extra helping of reindeer hairs that it contained. In this way we can make ten penguing skins due for one day. Some who were fortunate enough to catch penguins with fairly large undigested fish in their gullets used to warm these up in tins hung on bits of fire round the stove. All the meat intended for hushies is cut up inside the hut as it is too cold outside. As the boards which we use for the purpose are also used for cutting up tobacco, when we still have it, a definite flavour is sometimes imparted to the hush, which, if anything, improves it. Their diet was now practically all meat, and not too much of that, and all the diaries bear witness to their craving for carbohydrates, such as flour, oatmeal, etc. One man longingly speaks of the cabbages which grow on Cagulan Island. By June eighteenth there were only nine hundred lumps of sugar left, i.e. just over forty pieces each. Even my readers know what shortage of sugar means at this very date, but from a different cause. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that all their thoughts and conversation should turn to food, past and future banquets, and second helpings that had been once refused. A census was taken, each man being asked to state just what he would like to eat at that moment if he were allowed to have anything that he wanted. All, with but one exception, desired a sweet pudding of some sort, the duff beloved of sailors. Macklin asked for many returns of scrambled eggs on hot-buttered toast. Several voted for a prodigious Devonshire dumpling, while Wilde wished for any old dumpling so long as it was a large one. The craving for carbohydrates, such as flour and sugar, and for fats, was very real. Marston had with him a small penny-cookery-book. From this he would read out one recipe each night, so as to make them last. This would be discussed very seriously, and alterations and improvements suggested, and then they would turn into their bags to dream of wonderful meals that they could never reach. The following conversation was recorded in one diary. Wilde. Do you like doughnuts? McIlroy. Rather. Wilde. Very easily made, too. I like them cold with a little jam. McIlroy. Not bad, but how about a huge omelet? Wilde. Fine. With a deep sigh. Overhead, two of the sailors are discussing some extraordinary mixture of hash, applesauce, beer, and cheese. Marston is in his hammock, reading from his penny-cookery-book. Father down, someone eulogises Scotch shortbread. Several of the sailors are talking of spotted dog, seapie, and lockhearts with great feeling. Someone mentions nut-food, where at the conversation becomes general, and we all decide to buy one pounds worth of it as soon as we get to civilization, and retire to a country house to eat it undisturbed. At present we really mean it, too. Midwinter's Day, the great polar festival, was duly observed. A magnificent breakfast of sledging ration-hooch, full strength and well-boiled to thicken it, with hot milk, was served. Luncheon consisted of a wonderful pudding, invented by Wilde, made of powdered biscuit, boiled with twelve pieces of mouldy nut-food. Supper was a very finely cut seal-hoosh, flavoured with sugar. After supper they had a concert, accompanied by Hussy on his indispensable banjo. This banjo was the last thing to be saved off the ship before she sank, and I took it with us as a mental tonic. It was carried all the way through with us, and landed on Elephant Island practically unharmed, and did much to keep the men cheerful. Nearly every Saturday night such a concert was held, when each one sang a song about some other member of the party. If that one objected to some of the comments, a worse one was written for the next week. The cook, who had carried on so well and for so long, was given a rest on August 9th, and each man took it in turns to be cooked for one week. As the cook and his mate had the privilege of scraping out the saucepins, there was some anxiety to secure the job, especially amongst those with the larger appetites. The last of the methylated spirit was drunk on August 12th, and from then onwards the king's health, the sweethearts and wives, and the boss and crew of the cared, were drunk in hot water and ginger every Saturday night. The peng-wings and seals which had migrated north at the beginning of winter had not yet returned, or else the ice-foot which surrounded the spit to a thickness of six feet prevented them from coming ashore, so that food was getting short. Old seal-bones, that had been used once for a meal and then thrown away, were dug up and stewed down with sea water. Peng-wing carcasses were treated likewise. Limpits were gathered from the pools disclosed between the rocks below high tide, after the pack-ice had been driven away. It was a cold job gathering these little shellfish. As for each one, the whole hand and arm had to be plunged into the icy water, and many score of these small creatures had to be collected to make anything of a meal. Seaweed, boiled in sea water, was used to eke out the rapidly diminishing stock of seal and peng-wing meat. This did not agree with some of the party. Though it was acknowledged to be very tasty, it only served to increase their appetite, a serious thing when there was nothing dissatisfied with. One man remarked in his diary, we had a sumptuous meal today, nearly five ounces of solid food each. It is largely due to wild, and to his energy, initiative, and resource, that the whole party kept cheerful all along, and indeed came out alive and so well. Assisted by the two surgeons, Drs. McIlroy and Macklin, he had ever a watchful eye for the health of each one. His cheery optimism never failed, even when food was very short, and the prospect of relief seemed remote. Each one in his diary speaks with admiration of him. I think, without doubt, that all the party who were stranded on Elephant Island owe their lives to him. The demons of depression could find no foothold when he was around, and not content with merely telling he was doing as much as, and very often more than, the rest. He showed wonderful capabilities of leadership, and more than justified the absolute confidence that I placed in him. Hussey, with his cheeriness and his banjo, was another vital factor in chasing away any tendency to down-heartedness. Once they were settled in their hut, the health of the party was quite good. Of course they were all a bit weak, some were light-headed, all were frost-bitten, and others, later, had attacks of heart failure. Blackborough, whose toes were so badly frost-bitten in the boats, had to have all five amputated while on the island. With insufficient instruments, and no proper means of sterilizing them, the operation, carried out as it was in a dark, grimy hut, with only a blubber stove to keep up the temperature, and with an outside temperature well below freezing, speaks volumes for the skill and initiative of the surgeons. I am glad to be able to say that the operation was very successful, and after a little treatment ashore, very kindly given by the Chilean doctors at Punta Arenas, he has now completely recovered, and walks with only a slight limp. Hudson, who developed bronchitis and hip disease, was practically well again when the party was rescued. All trace of the severe frostbites suffered in the boat journey had disappeared, though traces of recent superficial ones remained on some. All were naturally weak when rescued, owing to having been on such scanty rations for so long, but all were alive and very cheerful thanks to Frank Wilde. August 30th, 1916, is described in their diaries as a day of wonders. Food was very short, only two days sealed and penguin meat being left, and no prospect of any more arriving. The whole party had been collecting limpets and seaweed to eat with the stewed seal-bones. Lunch was being served by Wilde, Hurley and Marston waiting outside to take a last long look at the direction from which they expected the ship to arrive. From a fortnight after I had left, Wilde would roll up his sleeping bag each day with a remark, Get your things ready, boys, the boss may come to-day. And sure enough, one day the mist opened and revealed the ship for which they had been waiting and longing and hoping for over four months. Marston was the first to notice it and immediately yelled out, Ship-o! The inmates of the hut mistook it for call of lunch-show, so took no notice at first. Soon, however, we heard him pattering along the snow as fast as he could run, and in a gasping, anxious voice, hoarse with excitement, he shouted, Wilde, there's a ship! Hadn't we better light a flare? We all made one dive for our narrow door. Those who could not get through tore down the canvas walls in their hurry and excitement. The hushpot, with our precious limpets and seaweed, was kicked over in the rush. There, just rounding the island which had previously hidden her from our sight, we saw a little ship flying the Chilean flag. We tried to cheer, but excitement had gripped our vocal cords. Macklin had made a rush for the flag-staff, previously placed in a most conspicuous position on the ice-slope. The running gear would not work, and the flag was frozen into a solid, compact mass, so he tied his jersey to the top of the pole for a signal. Wilde put a pick through our last remaining tin of petrol, and soaking coats, mits and socks with it, carried them to the top of Penguin Hill at the end of our spit, and soon they were ablaze. Meanwhile, most of us had gathered on the foreshore, watching with anxious eyes for any signs that the ship had seen us, or for any answering signals. As we stood and gazed, she seemed to turn away as if she had not seen us. Again and again we cheered, though our feeble cries could certainly not have carried so far. Suddenly she stopped, a boat was lowered, and we could recognize Sir Ernest's figure as he climbed down the ladder. Simultaneously we burst into a cheer, and then one said to the other, Thank God the boss is safe! For I think that his safety was of more concern to us than was our own. Soon the boat approached near enough for the boss, who was standing up in the bows, to shout to Wilde, Are you all well? To which he replied, All safe, all well! And we could see a smile light up the boss's face, as he said, Thank God. Before he could land he threw a shore hands full of cigarettes and tobacco, and these the smokers, who for two months had been trying to find solace in such substitutes as seaweed, finely chopped pipe bowls, seal meat, and senagrass, grasped greedily. Blackborough, who could not walk, had been carried to a high rock and propped up in his sleeping bag, so that he could view the wonderful scene. Soon we were tumbling into the boat, and the Chilean sailors laughing up at us seemed as pleased at our rescue as we were. Twice more the boat returned, and within an hour of our first having sighted the boat, we were heading northwards to the outer world from which we had had no news, since October 1914, over twenty-two months before. We are like men awakened from a long sleep. We are trying to acquire suddenly the perspective which the rest of the world has acquired gradually through two years of war. There are many events which have happened of which we shall never know. Our first meal owing to our weakness and the atrophied state of our stomachs proved disastrous to a good many. They soon recovered, though. Our beds were just shakedowns on cushions and settees, though the officer on watch very generously gave up his bunk to two of us. I think we got very little sleep that night. It was just heavenly to lie and listen to the throb of the engines, instead of to the crack of the breaking flow, the beat of the surf on the ice-strewn shore, or the howling of the blizzard. We intend to keep August 30th as a festival for the rest of our lives. You readers can imagine my feelings as I stood in the little cabin, watching my rescued comrades feeding. I now turn to the fortunes and misfortunes of the Ross Sea Party and the Aurora. In spite of extraordinary difficulties occasioned by the breaking out of the Aurora from her winter quarters before sufficient stores and equipment had been landed, Captain Ineas McIntosh and the party under his command achieved the object of this side of the expedition. For the depot that was the main object of the expedition was laid in the spot that I had indicated, and if the transcontinental party had been fortunate enough to have crossed, they would have found the assistance in the shape of stores that would have been vital to the success of their undertaking. Owing to the dearth of stores, clothing, and slaging equipment, the depot party was forced to travel more slowly and with greater difficulty than would have otherwise been the case. The result was that in making this journey the greatest qualities of endurance, self-sacrifice, and patience were called for, and the call was not in vain, as you reading the following pages will realise. It is more than regrettable that after having gone through those many months of hardship and toil, McIntosh and Hayward should have been lost. Spencer Smith during those long days, dragged by his comrades on the sledge, suffering but never complaining, became an example to all men. McIntosh and Hayward owe their lives on that journey to the unremitting care and strenuous endeavours of Joyce, Wilde, and Richards, who also scurvy stricken but fitter than their comrades, dragged them through the deep snow and blizzards on the sledges. I think that no more remarkable story of human endeavour has been revealed than the tale of that long march which I have collated from various diaries. Unfortunately, the diary of the leader of this side of the expedition was lost with him. The outstanding feature of the Ross Sea side was the journey made by these six men. The earlier journeys for the first year did not produce any signs of the qualities of leadership amongst the others. McIntosh was fortunate for the long journey in that he had these three men with him, Ernest Wilde, Richards, and Joyce. Before proceeding with the adventures of this party, I want to make clear in these pages how much I appreciate the assistance I receive both in Australia and New Zealand, especially in the latter dominion. And amongst the many friends there it is not invidious on my part to lay special stress on the name of Leonard Trip, who has been my mentor, counsellor, and friend for many years, and who, when the expedition was in precarious and difficult circumstances, devoted his energy, thought, and gave his whole time and advice to the best interests of our cause. I also must thank Edward Saunders, who for the second time has greatly helped me in preparing an expedition record for publication. To the dominion government, I tend to my warmest thanks. To the people of New Zealand, and especially to those many friends, too numerous to mention here, who helped us when our fortunes were at a low ebb, I wish to say that their kindness is an evergreen memory to me. If ever a man had cause to be grateful for assistance in dark days, I am he. The Aurora, under the command of Captain Ineos McIntosh, sailed from Hobart for the Ross Sea on December 24, 1914. The ship had refitted in Sydney, where the state and federal governments had given generous assistance, and would be able, if necessary, to spend two years in the Antarctic. My instructions to Captain McIntosh, in brief, were to proceed to the Ross Sea, make a base at some convenient point, in or near McMurdo Sound, landstores and equipment, and lay depots on the Great Ice Barrier in the direction of the Beardmoor Glacier, for the use of the party that I expected to bring over land from the Waddell Sea Coast. This program would involve some heavy sledging, but the ground to be covered was familiar, and I had not anticipated that the work would present any great difficulties. The Aurora carried materials for a hut, equipment for landing and sledging parties, stores and clothing of all the kinds required, and an ample supply of sledges. There were also dog teams and one of the motor tractors. I had told Captain McIntosh that it was possible the transcontinental journey would be attempted in the 1914 to 15 season, in the event of the landing on the Waddell Sea Coast, proving unexpectedly easy, and it would be his duty, therefore, to lay out depots to the south immediately after his arrival at the base. I had directed him to place a depot of food and fuel oil at latitude 80 degrees south, in 1914 to 15, with cans and flags as guides to a sledging party approaching from the direction of the pole. He would place depots farther south in the 1915 to 16 season. The Aurora had an uneventful voyage southwards. She anchored off the ceiling huts at Macquarie Island on Christmas Day, December 25th. The wireless station erected by Sir Douglas Mawson's Australian Antarctic Expedition could be seen on a hill to the northwest, with the expedition's hut at the base of the hill. This hut was still occupied by a meteorological staff, and later in the day the meteorologist, Mr Tullock, came off to the ship and had dinner aboard. The Aurora had some stores for the Macquarie Island party, and these were sent ashore during succeeding days in the boats. The landing-place was a rough kelp-guarded beach, where lay the remains of the New Zealand Bark Clyde. Macquarie Island anchorages are treacherous, and several ships engaged in the ceiling and wailing trade have left their bones on the rocky shores, where bask great herds of seals and sea elephants. The Aurora sailed from the island on December 31st, and three days later they sighted the first iceberg, a tabular bug, rising 250 feet above the sea. This was in latitude 62 degrees 44 minutes south, longitude 169 degrees 58 minutes east. The next day, in latitude 64 degrees 27 minutes 38 seconds south, the Aurora passed through the first belt of pack ice. At 9am on January 7th, Mount Sabine, a mighty peak of the Admiralty Range, South Victoria land, was sighted 75 miles distant. It had been proposed that a party of three men should travel to Cape Crozier from winter quarters during the winter months in order to secure Emperor Penguin's eggs. The ship was to call it Cape Crozier land provisions and direct a small hut of fibro-concrete sheets for the use of this party. The ship was off the Cape on the afternoon of January 9th, and the boat put off with Stenhouse, Cope, Joyce, Ninnies, Morgue and Aitken to search for a landing place. We steered in towards the barrier, wrote Stenhouse, and found an opening leading into a large bite, which jutted back to eastward into the barrier. We endeavoured without success to scale the steep ice foot under the cliffs, and then proceeded up the bay. Pulling along the edge of perpendicular ice, we turned into a bay in the ice cliff and came to a cul-de-sac, at the head of which was a grotto. At the head of the grotto and on the ledge of snow were perched some Adelie penguins. The beautiful green and blue tints in the ice colouring made a picture as unreal as a stage setting. Coming back along the edge of the bite towards the land, we caught and killed one penguin, much to the surprise of another, which ducked into a niche in the ice, and after much squawking was extracted with a boat-hook and captured. We returned to our original landing, and were fortunate in our time, for no sooner had we cleared the ledge where Ninnies had been hanging in his endeavour to catch the penguin than the barrier carved, and a piece weighing hundreds of tonnes toppled over into the sea. Since we left the ship, a mist had blown up from the south, and when we arrived back at the entrance to the bay, the ship could be but dimly seen. We found a slope on the ice foot, and Joyce and I managed, by cutting steps, to climb up to a ledge of debris between the cliffs and the ice, which we thought might lead to the vicinity of the Emperor Penguin Rookery. I sent the boat back to the ship to tell the captain of our failure to find a spot where we could depot the hut and stores, and then, with Joyce, set out to walk along the narrow land between the cliffs and the ice to the south wood, in hopes of finding the Rookery. We walked for about a mile along the foot of the cliffs, over undulating paths, sometimes crawling carefully down a gully, and then over rocks and debris which had fallen from the steep cliffs which towered above us, but we saw no sign of a Rookery or any place where a Rookery could be. Close to the cliffs and separated from them by the path on which we travelled, the barrier in its movement towards the sea had broken and showed signs of pressure. Seeing a turn in the cliffs ahead, which we thought might lead to better prospects, we trudged on and were rewarded by a sight which Joyce admitted as being the grandest he had ever witnessed. The barrier had come into contact with the cliffs, and, from where we viewed it, it looked as if icebergs had fallen into a tremendous cavern and laid jumbled together in wild disorder. Looking down into that wonderful picture, one realised a little the eternalness of things. We had not longed to wait, and, much as we wished to go ahead, had to turn back. I went into a small crevasse, no damage. Arriving back at the place where we had left the boat, we found it had not returned, so sat down under an overhang and smoked and enjoyed the sense of loneliness. Soon the boat appeared out of the mist, and the crew had much news for us. After we left the ship, the captain manoeuvred her in order to get close to the barrier, but, unfortunately, the engines were loathed to be reversed when required to go astern, and the ship hit the barrier end on. The barrier here is about twenty feet high, and her jib boom took the weight and snapped at the cap. When I returned, Thompson was busy getting the broken boom and gear aboard. Luckily the cap was not broken, and no damage was done aloft, but it was rather a bad introduction to the Antarctic. There is no place to land the Cape Crozier hut and stores, so we must build a hut in the winter here, which will mean so much extra sledging from winter quarters. Bad start, good finish. Joyce and I went aloft to the crow's nest, but could see no opening in the barrier to eastward, where a ship might enter and get farther south. Mackintosh proceeded into McMurdo's sound. Heavy pack delayed the ship for three days, and it was not until January 16th that she reached a point off Cape Evans, where he landed ten tons of coal and ninety-eight cases of oil. During succeeding days, Captain Mackintosh worked the Aurora southward, and by January 24th he was within nine miles of hut point. There he made the ship fast to see ice, then breaking up rapidly, and proceeded to arrange sledging parties. It was his intention to direct the laying of the depots himself, and to leave his first officer, Lieutenant J. R. Stenhouse, in command of the Aurora, with instructions to select a base and land a party. The first objective was hut point, where stands the hut erected by the Discovery Expedition in 1902, an advanced party consisting of Joyce in charge, Jack and Gaze, with dogs and fully loaded sledges, left the ship on January 24th. Mackintosh, with Wild and Smith, followed the next day, and a supporting party consisting of Cope, in charge, Stevens, Ninis, Haywood, Hook, and Richards, left the ship on January 30th. The first two parties had dog teams. The third party took with it the motor tractor, which does not appear to have given the good service I had hoped to get from it. These parties had a strenuous time during the weeks that followed. The men, fresh from shipboard, were not in the best of training, and the same was true of the dogs. It was unfortunate that the dogs had to be worked so early after their arrival in the Antarctic. They were in poor condition, and they had not learned to work together as teams. The result was the loss of many of the dogs, and this proved a serious matter in the following season. Captain Mackintosh's record of the sledging in the early months of 1915 is fairly full. It will not be necessary here to follow the fortunes of the various parties in detail, for although the men were facing difficulties and dangers, they were on well-travelled ground, which has been made familiar to most readers by the histories of earlier expeditions. Captain Mackintosh and his party left the Aurora on the evening of January 25th. They had nine dogs and one heavily loaded sledge, and started off briskly to the accompaniment of a cheer from their shipmates. The dogs were so eager for exercise after their prolonged confinement aboard the ship that they dashed forward at their best speed, and it was necessary for one man to sit upon the sledge in order to moderate the pace. Mackintosh had hoped to get to Hutt Point that night, but luck was against him. The weather broke after he had travelled about five miles, and snow, which completely obscured all landmarks, sent him into camp on the sea ice. The weather was still thick on the following morning, and the party, making a start after breakfast, missed its way. We shaped the course where imagined Hutt Point to be, wrote Captain Mackintosh and his diary, but when the sledge meter showed thirteen miles fifty yards, which is four miles in excess of the distance from the slip to Hutt Point, I decided to halt again. The surface was changing considerably, and the land was still obscured. We have been travelling over a thick snow surface, in which we sink deeply, and the dogs are not too cheerful about it. They started again at noon on January 27, when the weather had cleared sufficiently to reveal the land, and reached Hutt Point at four p.m. The sledge meter showed that the total distance travelled had been over seventeen miles. Mackintosh found in the hut a note from Joyce, who had been there on the twenty-fifth, and who reported that one of his dogs had been killed in a fight with its companions. The hut contained some stalls left there by earlier expeditions. The party stayed there for the night. Mackintosh left a note for Stenhouse, directing him to place provisions in the hut, in case the sledging parties did not return in time to be taken off by the ship. Early next morning, Joyce reached the hut. He had encountered bad ice, and had come back to consult with Mackintosh regarding the route to be followed. Mackintosh directed him to steer out towards Black Island, in crossing the head of the sand beyond Hutt Point. Mackintosh left Hutt Point on January 28. He had taken some additional stalls, and he mentions that the sledge now weighed one thousand two hundred pounds. This was a heavy load, but the dogs were pulling well, and he thought it practicable. He encountered difficulty almost at once after descending the slope from the point to the sea ice. For the sledge stuck in soft snow, and the party had to lighten the load, and relay until they reached a better surface. They were having trouble with the dogs, which did not pull cheerfully, and the total distance covered in the day was under four miles. The weather was warm, and the snow consequently was soft. Mackintosh had decided that it would be best to travel at night. A fall of snow held up the party throughout the following day, and they did not get away from their camp until shortly before midnight. The surface was abominably soft, wrote Mackintosh. We harnessed ourselves onto the sledge, and with the dogs made a start. But we had a struggle to get off. We had not gone very far when in deeper snow we stopped dead. Try as we would, no movement could be produced. Reluctantly we unloaded and began the tedious task of relaying. The work, in spite of the lighter load on the sledge, proved terrific for ourselves and for the dogs. We struggled for four hours, and then set camp to await the evening when the sun would not be so fierce, and the surface might be better. I must say I feel somewhat despondent, as we are not getting on as well as I expected, nor do we find it as easy as one would gather from reading. The two parties met again that day. Joyce also had been compelled to relay his load, and all hands laboured strenuously and advanced slowly. They reached the edge of the barrier on the night of January 30th, and climbed an easy slope to the barrier surface, about 30 feet above the sea ice. The dogs were showing signs of fatigue, and when Mackintosh camped at 6.30 am on January 31st, he reckoned that the distance covered in 12.5 hours had been about 2.5 miles. The man had killed a seal at the edge of the sea ice, and placed the meat in a can for future use. One dog, having refused to pull, had been left behind with a good feed of meat, and Mackintosh hoped the animal would follow. The experiences of the party during the days that followed can be indicated by some extracts from Mackintosh's diary. Sunday January 31st, started off this afternoon at 3 pm, surfaced too dreadful for words. We sink into snow at times up to our knees, the dogs struggling out of it, panting and making great efforts. I think the soft snow must be accounted for by a phenomenally fine summer, without much wind. After proceeding about 1,000 yards, I spotted some poles on our starboard side. We shaped course for these, and found Captain Scott's safety camp. We unloaded a relay here, and went back with empty sledge for the second relay. It took us four hours to do just this short distance. It is exasperating. After we had got the second load up, we had lunch. Then we dug round the poles, white snow fell, and after getting down about 3 feet, we came across, first, a bag of oats. Lowered down two cases of dog biscuit, one with a complete week's Russian, the other with seal meat. A good find. About 40 paces away, we found a venestal lid sticking out of the snow. A smith scraped round this with his ice axe, and presently discovered one of the motor sledges Captain Scott used. Everything was just as it had been left, the petrol tank partly filled, and apparently undeteriorated. We marked the spot with a pole. The snow clearing, we proceeded with a relay. We got only half a mile, still struggling in deep snow, and then went back for the second load. We can still see the can erected at the barrier edge, and a black spot which we take to be the dog. February 1st. We turned out at 7.30pm, and after a meal broke a camp. We made a relay of two and a half miles. This ledge meter stopped during this relay. Perhaps that is the cause of our mileage not showing. We covered seven and a half miles in order to bring the load two and a half miles. After lunch we decided, as the surface was getting better, to make a shot at travelling with a whole load. It was a back breaking job. Wild led the team, while Smith and I pulled in harness. The great trouble is to get this ledge started after many unavoidable stops. We managed to cover one mile. This even is better than relaying. We then camped, the dogs being entirely done up, poor brutes. February 2nd. We were awakened this afternoon while in our bags, by hearing Joyce's dogs barking. They have done well and have caught us up. Joyce's voice was heard presently, asking us the time. He is managing the full load. We issued a challenge to race him to the bluff, which he accepted. When we turned out at 6.30pm, his camp was seen about three miles ahead. About 8pm after our hoosh, we made a start and reached Joyce's camp at 1am. The dogs had been pulling well, seeing the camp ahead, but when we arrived off it, they were not inclined to go on. After a little persuasion and struggle we got off, but not for long. This starting business is terrible work. We have to shake the sledge and its big load while we shout to the dogs to start. If they do not pull together it is useless. When we get the sledge going, we are on tenterhooks lest it stop again on the next soft slope, and this often occurs. Sledging is real hard work, but we are getting along. End of Chapter 13, Part 1. Recorded by Gesine in September 2007.