CHAPTER 8. PART 2. ESCAPE FROM THE ICE The morning of April 11th was overcast and misty. There was a haze on the horizon, and daylight showed that the pack had closed round our burg, making it impossible in the heavy swell to launch the boats. We could see no sign of the water. Numerous whales and killers were blown between the flows, and cape pigeons, petrels, and fulmars were circling round our burg. The scene from our camp as the daylight brightened was magnificent beyond description, though I must admit that we viewed it with anxiety. Heaving hills of pack and flow were sweeping towards us in long undulations, later to be broken here and there by the dark lines that indicated open water. As each swell lifted around our rapidly dissolving burg, it drove floweyes onto the ice-foot, shearing off more of the top snow covering and reducing the size of our camp. When the flows retreated to attack again, the waters swelled over the ice-foot, which was rapidly increasing in width. The launching of such boats under such conditions would be difficult. Time after time, so often that a track was formed, warsly wild an eye climbed to the highest point of the burg, and stared out to the horizon in search of a break in the pack. After long hours had dragged past, far away in the lift of the swell, there appeared a dark break in the tossing field of ice. Eon seemed to pass, so slowly it approached. I noticed enviously the calm peaceful attitude of two seals, which lulled lazily on a rocking flow. They were at home and had to no reason for worry or cause for fear. If they had thought at all, I suppose they counted an ideal day for a joyous journey on the tumbling ice. To us it was a day that seemed likely to lead to no more days. I do not think I had ever before felt the anxiety that belongs to leadership quite so keenly. When I looked down at the camp, to rest my eyes from the strain of watching the wide white expanse broken by that one black ribbon of open water, I could see that my companions were waiting, with more than ordinary interest, to learn what I thought about it all. After one particularly heavy collision, someone shouted sharply, she has a crack in the middle. I jumped off the lookout station and ran to the place the men were examining. There was a crack, but investigation showed it to be a mere surface break in the snow, with no indication of a split in the burg itself. The carpenter mentioned calmly that earlier in the day he had actually gone adrift on a fragment of ice. He was standing near the edge of our camping ground, when the ice under his feet parted from the parent mass. A quick jump over the widening gap saved him. The hours dragged on. One of the anxieties in my mind was the possibility that we would be driven by the current through the ATML gap between Clarence Island and Prince George Island into the open Atlantic, but slowly the open water came nearer, and at noon it had almost reached us. A long lane, narrow but navigable, stretched out to the southwest horizon. Our chance came a little later. We rushed our boats over the edge of the reeling burg, and swung them clear of the foeties as it rose beneath them. The James Caird was nearly capsized by a blow from below as the burg rolled away, but she got into deep water. We flung stalls and gear aboard, and within a few minutes were away. The James Caird and Dudley Docker had good sails, and with a favourable breeze, could make progress along the lane, with the rolling fields of ice on either side. The swell was heavy, and spray was breaking over the ice-flows. An attempt to set a little rag of sail on the stack on wheels resulted in serious delay. The area of sail was too small to be of much assistance, and while men were engaged in this work, the boat drifted down towards the ice-flow, where her position was likely to be perilous. Seeing her plight, I sent the Dudley Docker back for her, and tied the James Caird up to a piece of ice. The Dudley Docker had to tow the stack on wheels, and the delay cost us two hours of valuable daylight. When I had the three boats together again, we continued down the lane, and soon saw a wider stretch of water to the west. It appeared to offer us relief from the grip of its pack. At the head of an ice-tongue that nearly closed the gap, through which we might enter the open space, was a wave-worn berg shaped like some curious anti-diluvian monster, an icy, severous guard in the way. It had head and eyes, and rolled so heavily that it almost overturned. Its sides dipped in the sea, and as it rose again the water seemed to be streaming from its eyes, as though it were weeping at our escape from the clutch of its flows. This may seem fanciful to the reader, but the impression was real to us at the time. People living under civilised conditions, surrounded by nature's varied forms of life, and by all the familiar work of their own hands, may scarcely realise how quickly the mind, influenced by the eyes, responds to the unusual, and weaves about it curious imaginings, like the fire-light fancies of our childhood days. We had lived long amid the ice, and we half unconsciously strived to see resemblances to human faces and living forms in the fantastic contours and massively uncouth shapes of bergen flow. At dusk we made fast to a heavy flow, each boat having its pain to fasten to a separate hummock in order to avoid collisions in the swell. We landed the blubber stove, boiled some water in order to provide hot milk, and served cold rations. I also landed the dome tents, and stripped the coverings from the hoops. Our experience of the previous day in the open sea had shown us that the tents must be packed tightly. The spray had dashed over the bows, and turned to ice on the cloth. We had soon grown dangerously heavy. Other articles of our scanty equipment had to go that night. We were carrying only the things that had seemed essential, but we stripped now to the barest limit of safety. We had hoped for a quiet night, but presently we were forced to cast off, since pieces of loose ice began to work round the flow. Drift ice is always attracted to the lee side of a heavy flow. Weight bumps and presses under the influence of the current. I had determined not to risk a repetition of the last night's experience, and so had not pulled the boats up. We spent the hours of darkness keeping an offering from the main line of pack under the lee of the smaller pieces. Constant rain and snow-scores blotted out the stars, and soaked us through. And at times it was only by shouting to each other that we managed to keep the boats together. There was no sleep for anybody owing to the severe cold, and we dare not pull fast enough to keep ourselves warm, since we were unable to see more than a few yards ahead. Occasionally the ghostly shadows of silver, snow, and Fulmar petrols flashed close to us. And all around we could hear the killers blowing, their short, sharp hisses, sounding like sudden escapes of steam. The killers were a source of anxiety. For a boat could easily have been capsized by one of them coming up to blow. They would throw aside in a nonchalant fashion pieces of ice much bigger than our boats when they rose to the surface, and we had an uneasy feeling that the white bottoms of the boats would look like ice from below. Shipwrecked mariners drifting in the Antarctic seas would be things not dreamed of in the killer's philosophy, and might appear on closer examination to be a tasty substitute for seal and penguin. We certainly regarded the killers with misgivings. Early in the morning of April 12th the weather improved and the wind dropped. Dawn came with a clear sky, cold and fearless. I looked around at the faces of my companions and the James Caird, and saw pinched and drawn features. The strain was beginning to tell. Wild sat at the rudder with the same calm, confident expression that he would have worn under happier conditions. His steel blue eyes looked out to the day ahead. All the people, though evidently suffering, were doing their best to be cheerful, and the prospect of a hot breakfast was inspiring. I told all the boats that immediately we could find a suitable flow, the cooker would be started, and hot male convauville would soon fix everybody up. Away we rode to the westward through open pack, flows of all shape and sizes on every side of us, and every man not engaged in pulling, looking eagerly for a suitable camping place. I could gauge the desire for food of the different members, by the eagerness they displayed in pointing out to me the flows they considered exactly suited to our purpose. The temperature was about ten degrees Fahrenheit, and the burberry suits of the rowers cracked as the men bent to the oars. I noticed little fragments of ice and frost falling from arms and bodies. At eight o'clock a decent flow appeared ahead, and we pulled up to it. The galley was landed, and soon the welcome steam rose from the cooking food, as the blob of stove flared and smoked. Never did a cook work under more anxious scrutiny. Warsley, Kreen and I stayed in our respective boats to keep them steady and prevent collisions with the flow, since the swell was still running strong. But the other men were able to stretch their cramped limbs and run to and fro in the kitchen as somebody put it. The sun was now rising gloriously, the burberry suits were drying, and the ice was melting off our beards. The steaming food gave us new vigor, and within three quarters of an hour we were off again to the west with all sail set. We had given an additional sail to the stankham-wills, and she was able to keep up pretty well. We could see that we were on the true package, with the blue rolling sea, just outside the fringe of ice to the north. White-capped waves vied with the glittering flows in the setting of blue water, and countless seals bathed and rolled in every piece of ice, big enough to form a raft. We had been making westward with oars and sails since April night, and fair easterly winds had prevailed, hopes were running high as to the noon observation for position. The optimists thought that we had done sixty miles towards our goal, and the most cautious guess gave us at least thirty miles. The bright sunshine and the brilliant scene around us may have influenced our anticipations. As noon approached, I saw Wasley, as navigating officer, balancing himself on the gun-well of the Dudley docker, with his arm around the mast, ready to snap the sun. He got his observation, and we waited eagerly while he worked out the sight. Then the Dudley docker ranged up alongside the James Cayet, and I jumped into Wasley's boat in order to see the result. It was a grievous disappointment. Instead of making a good run to the westward, we had made a big drift to the southeast. We were actually thirty miles to the east of the position we had occupied, when we had left the flow on the ninth. It had been noted by sealers operating in this area that there are often heavy sets to the east, and the bulgy estrates. And no doubt it was one of these sets that we had experienced. The originating cause would be a northwesterly gale of Cape Horn, producing the swell that had already caused us so much trouble. After a whispered consultation with Wasley and Wild, I announced that we had not made as much progress as we had expected, but I did not inform the hands of our retrograde movement. The question of our course now demanded further consideration. Deception Islands seemed to be beyond our reach. The wind was foul for Elephant Island, and as the sea was clear to the southwest, I discussed with Wasley and Wild the advisability of proceeding to Hope Bay, on the mainland of the Antarctic continent, now only eighty miles distant. Elephant Island was the nearest land, but it lay outside the main body of pack, and even if the wind had been fair, we would have hesitated at the particular time to face the high sea that was running in the open. We laid a course roughly for Hope Bay, and the boats moved on again. I gave Wasley a line for a burger head and told him, if possible, to make fast before darkness set in. This was about three o'clock in the afternoon. We had set sail, and as the stank and wheels could not heap up with the other two boats, I took her in tow, not being anxious to repeat the experience of the day we left the reeling berg. The Dudley docker went ahead, but came beating down towards us at dusk. Wasley had been close to the berg, and he reported that it was unapproachable.  The news was bad. In the failing light we turned towards a line of pack, and found it so tossed and churned by the sea, the no fragment remained big enough to give us anchorage and shelter. Two miles away we could see a larger piece of ice, and to it we managed, after some trouble, to secure the boats. I brought my boat bow onto the flow, whilst Hal, with the painter in his hand, stood ready to jump. Standing up to watch our chance, while the oars were held ready to back the moment Hal made his leap, I could see that there would be no possibility of getting the galley ashore that night. Hal just managed to get a footing on the edge of the flow, and then made the painter fast to a hummock. The other two boats were fastened alongside the James Kayard. They could not lie astern of us in a line, since cakes of ice came drifting round the flow and gathered under its lee. As it was, we spent the next two hours polling off the drifting ice that surged towards us. The blubber stove could not be used, so we started the primus lamps. There was a rough and choppy sea, and the dudley dog could not get her primus under way, something being adrift. The men in that boat had to wait until the cook on the James Kayard had boiled up the first pot of milk. The boats were bumping so heavily that they had to slack away the painter of the staccom wheels and put her astern. Much ice was coming round the flow and had to be polled off. Then the dudley docker, being the heavier boat, began to damage the James Kayard, and I slack the dudley docker away. The James Kayard remained moored to the ice, with the dudley docker and the staccom wheels in line behind her. The darkness had become complete, and we strained our eye to see the fragments of ice that threatened us. Presently we thought we saw a great burg bearing down upon us. Its form outlined against the sky. But this startling spectacle resolved itself into a low-lying cloud in front of the rising moon. The moon appeared in a clear sky. The wind shifted to the southeast as the light improved, and drove the boat's broad side on towards the jagged edge of the flow. We had to cut the painter off the James Kayard and pull her off, thus losing much valuable rope. There was no time to cast off. Then we pushed away from the flow, and all night long we lay in the open freezing sea. The dudley docker now ahead, the James Kayard astern of her, and the staccom wheels third in the line. The boats were attached to one another by their painters. Most of the time the dudley docker kept to the James Kayard and the staccom wheels up to the swell, and the men who were rowing were in better press than those in the other boats, waiting inactive for the dawn. The temperature was down to four degrees below zero, and a film of ice formed on the surface of the sea. When we were not on watch, we lay in each other's arms for warmth. Our frozen suits thawed where our bodies met, and as the slightest movement exposed these comparatively warm spots to the biting air, we clung motionless, whispering each to his companions our hopes and thoughts. Occasionally, from an almost clear sky came snow showers, falling silently on the sea, and laying a thin shroud of white over our bodies and our boats. The dawn of April 13th came clear and bright, with occasional passing clouds. Most of the men were now looking seriously worn and strained. Their lips were cracked, and their eyes and eyelids showed red in their salt-encrusted faces. The beards of even the younger men might have been those of patriarch, for the frost and salt spray had made them white. I called the dudley docker alongside, and found the condition of the people there was no better than in the James Kayard. Obviously we must make land quickly, and I decided to run for Elephant Island. The wind had shifted fair for that rocky isle, then about one hundred miles away, and the pack that separated us from Hope Bay had closed up during the night from the south. At six p.m. we made a distribution of stores among the three boats, in view of the possibility of there being separated. The preparation of a hot breakfast was out of the question. The breeze was strong, and the sea was running high in the loose pack around us. We had a cold meal, and I gave orders at all hands might eat as much as they pleased. This concession being due partly to a realization that we would have to jettison some of our stores when we reached the open sea in order to lighten the boats. I hoped, moreover, that a full meal of cold rations would compensate to some extent for the lack of warm food and shelter. Unfortunately, some of the men were unable to take advantage of the extra food owing to seasickness. Poor fellows! It was bad enough to be huddled in the deeply laden, spray-spoked boats, frost-bitten and half-frozen, without having the pangs of seasickness added to their list of woes. But some smiles were caused even then by the plight of one man, who had a habit of accumulating bits of food against the day of starvation that he always seemed to think was at hand, and who was condemned now to watch impotently, while hungry comrades with undisturbed stomachs made biscuits, rations, and sugar disappear with extraordinary rapidity. We ran before the wind through the loose pack, a man in the bow of each boat trying to pull off with a broken oar, the lumps of ice that could not be avoided. I regarded speed as essential. Sometimes collisions were not averted. The James Cade was in the lead, where she bore the brunt of the encounter with lurking fragments, and she was hulled above the waterline by a sharp spur of ice. But this mishap did not stay us. Later the wind became stronger, and we had to reef sales, so as not to strike the ice too heavily. The Dudley Docker came next to the James Cade, and the Stankham Whales followed. I had given orders that the boat should keep thirty or forty yards apart, so as to reduce the danger of a collision if one boat was checked by the ice. The pack was thinning, and we came to occasional open areas where thin ice had formed during the night. When we encountered this new ice, we had to shake the reef out of the sails, in order to force a way through. Outside of the pack the wind must have been of hurricane force. Thousands of small dead fish were to be seen, killed probably by a cold current and the heavy weather. They floated in the water and lay on the ice, where they had been cast by the waves. The petrels and scargles were swooping down and picking them up like sardines of toast. We made our way through the lanes till at noon, we were suddenly spewed out of the pack into the open ocean. Dark blue and sapphire green ran the seas. Our sails were soon up, and with a fair wind we moved over the waves, like three Viking ships, on the quest of a lost Atlantis. With the sheet well out and the sun shining bright above, we enjoyed for a few hours a sense of the freedom and magic of the sea, compensating us for pain and trouble in the days that had passed. At last we were free from the ice, in water that our boats could navigate. Thoughts of home, stifled by the deadening weight of anxious days and nights, came to berth once more, and the difficulties had had still to be overcome, dwindled and fancy almost nothing. During the afternoon we had to take a second reef in the sails, for the wind freshened, and the deeply laden boats were shipping much water and steering badly in the rising sea. I had laid the course for Elephant Island, and we were making good progress. The Dudley docker ran down to me at dusk, and Wasley suggested that we should stand on all night. Bert already the stank on wheels was barely discernible among the rollers in the gathering dusk, and I decided that it would be safer to heave to and wait for the daylight. It would never have done for the boats to have become separated from one another during the night. The party must be kept together, and, moreover, I thought it possible, that we might ever run our goal in the darkness, and not be able to return. So we made a sea anchor of oars and hove, too. The Dudley docker in the lead, since she had the longest painter. The James Cairds swung a stern of the Dudley docker, and the stank on wheels again had the third place. We ate a cold meal, and did what little we could to make things comfortable for the hours of darkness. Rest was not for us. During the greater part of the night the sprays broke over the boats and froze in masses of ice, especially at the stern and bowels. This ice had to be broken away in order to prevent the boats growing too heavy. The temperature was below zero, and the wind penetrated our clothes and chilled us almost unbearably. I doubted if all the men would survive that night. One of our troubles was lack of water. We had emerged so suddenly from the pack into the open sea, that we had not had time to take aboard ice for melting in the cookers, and without ice we could not have hot food. The Dudley docker had one lump of ice weighing about ten pounds, and this was shared out among all hands. We sucked small pieces, and got a little relief from thirst engendered by the salt spray, but at the same time we reduced our bodily heat. The condition of most of the men was pitiable. All of us had swan and mouths, and we could hardly touch the food. I longed intensely for the dawn. I called out to the other boats at intervals during the night, asking how things were with them. The men always managed to reply cheerfully. One of the people in the stack on will shouted, We are doing all right, but I would like some dry mitts. The jest brought a smile to cracked lips. He might as well have asked for the moon. The only dry things aboard the boats were swan and mouths, and burning tongues. First is one of the troubles that confront the traveller in polar regions. Ice may be plentiful in every hand, but it does not become drinkable until it is melted, and the amount that may be dissolved in the mouth is limited. We had been thirsty during the heavy days of pulling in the pack, and our condition was aggravated quickly by the salt spray. Our sleeping bags would have given us some warmth, but they were not within our reach. They were packed under the tents in the bows, where a male light coating of ice enclosed them, and we were so cramped that we could not pull them out. End of Chapter 8 Part 2 Chapter 8 Part 3 of South This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lizzie Driver South, the story of Shackleton's last expedition, 1914 to 1917, by Sir Ernest Shackleton. Chapter 8 Part 3 Escape from the Ice At last day light came, and with the dorm the weather cleared, and the wind fell to a gentle south-westerly breeze. A magnificent sunrise heralded in what we hoped would be our last day in the boats. Rose pink in the glowing light, the lofty peak of Clarence Island told of the coming glory of the sun. The sky grew blue above us, and the crests of the waves sparkle cheerfully. As soon as it was light enough we chipped and scraped the ice of the bows and sterns. The rudders had been unshipped during the night in order to avoid the painters catching them. We cast off our ice anchor and pulled the oars aboard. They had grown during the night the thickness of telegraph poles, while rising and falling in the freezing seas, and had to be chipped clear before they could be brought in board. We were dreadfully thirsty now. We found that we could get momentary relief by chewing pieces of raw seal-meat and swallowing the blood, but thirst came back with a redoubled force owing to the saltiness of the flesh. I gave orders, therefore, that meat was to be served out only at stated intervals during the day, or when thirst seemed to threaten the reason of any particular individual. In the full daylight a leavened island showed cold and severe to the north-northwest. The island was on the bearings that worsely had laid down, and I congratulated him on the accuracy of his navigation under difficult circumstances, with two days dead reckoning while following a devious course through the pack-ice, and after drifting two nights at the mercy of the wind and waves. The stacon-wheels came up, and McIlroy reported that black borough's feet were very badly frost-bitten. This was unfortunate, but nothing could be done. Most of the people were frost-bitten to some extent, and it was interesting to notice that the old-timers—wild, green, hurly and eye—were all right. Apparently we were acclimatized to ordinary Antarctic temperature, though we learned later that we were not immune. All day, with a gentle breeze on our port bow, we sailed and pulled through a clear sea. We would have given all the tea and china for a lump of ice to melt into water, but no ice was within our reach. Three bergs were in sight, and we pulled towards them, hoping that a trail of brash would be floating on the sea to leeward. But they were hard and blue, devoid of any sign of cleavage, and the swell that surged around them as they rose and fell made it impossible for us to approach closely. The wind was gradually hauling ahead, and as the day wore on, the rays of the sun beat fiercely down from a cloudless sky on pain-racked men. Progress was slow, but gradually Elephant Island came nearer. Always, while I attended to the other boats signalling and ordering, Wild sat at the tiller of the James Cayard. He seemed unmoved by fatigue and unshaken by probation. About four o'clock in the afternoon a stiff breeze came up ahead, and, blowing against the current, soon produced a choppy sea. During the next hour of hard pulling, we seemed to make no progress at all. The James Cayard and the Dudley Docker had been towing the Stackham Whills in turn. But my boat now took the Stackham Whills and towed permanently, as the James Cayard could carry more sail than the Dudley Docker in the freshening wind. We were making up for the southeast side of Elephant Island, the wind being between northwest and west. The boats, held as close to the wind as possible, moved slowly, and when darkness set in our goal was still some miles away. A heavy sea was running, we soon lost sight of the Stackham Whills, a stern of the James Cayard at the length of the painter. But occasionally the white gleam of broken water revealed her presence. When the darkness was complete I sat in the stern with my hand on the painter, so that I might know if the other boat broke away, and I kept that position during the night. The rope grew heavy with the ice as the unseen seas surged past us, and our little craft tossed to the motion of the waters. Just at dusk I had told the men of the Stackham Whills that if their boat broke away during the night, and they were unable to pull against the wind, they could run for the east side of Clarence Island and await our coming there. Even though we could not land on Elephant Island, it would not do to have the third boat adrift. It was a stern night. The men, except the watch, crouched and huddled in the bottom of the boat, getting what little warmth they could from the soaking sleeping bags, and each other's bodies. Harder and harder blew the wind, and fiercer and fiercer grew the sea. The boat plunged heavily through the squalls, and came up to the wind, the sail shaking in the stiffest gusts. Every now and then, as the night wore on, the moon would shine down through a rift in the driving clouds, and in the momentary light I could see the ghostly faces of men, sitting up to trim the boat, as she healed over to the wind. When the moon was hidden, its presence was revealed still by the light reflecting on the streaming glaciers of the island. The temperature had fallen very low, and it seemed that the general discomfort of our situation could scarcely have been increased. But the land looming ahead was a beacon of safety, and I think we were all buoyed up by the hope that the coming day would see the end of our immediate troubles. At least we would get firm land under our feet. While the painter of the staccom wheels tightened and dropped under my hand, my thoughts were busy with plans for the future. Towards midnight the wind shifted to the southwest, and this change enabled us to bear up closer to the island. A little later the Dudley Docker ran down to the James Caird, and Warsley shouted a suggestion that he should go ahead and search for a landing place. His boat had the heels of the James Caird with the staccom wheels in tow. I told him he could try, but he must not lose sight of the James Caird. Just as he left me a heavy snow squall came down, and in the darkness the boats parted. I could see the Dudley Docker no more. This separation caused me some anxiety during the remaining hours of the night. A cross-sea was running, and I could not feel sure that all was well with the missing boat. The waves could not be seen in the darkness, though the direction and forces of the wind could be felt. And, under such conditions, in an open boat, disaster might overtake the most experienced navigator. I flashed our compass lamp on the sail, in the hopes that the signal would be visible on board the Dudley Docker, but could see no reply. We strained our eyes to windward in the darkness, in the hope of catching a return signal, and repeated our flashes at intervals. My anxiety, as a matter of fact, was groundless. I will quote Warsley's own account of what happened to the Dudley Docker. About midnight we lost sight of the James Caird with the staccom wheels in tow, but not long after saw the light of the James Caird's compass lamp, which the earnest was flashing on their sail as a guide to us. We answered by lightening our candle under the tent, and letting the light shine through. At the same time we got the direction of the wind, and how we were hauling from my little pocket compass, the boat's compass being smashed. With this candle our poor fellows lit their pipes, their only solace, as our raging thirst prevented us from eating anything. By this time we had got into a bad tide-rip, which, combined with the heavy lumpy sea, made it almost impossible to keep the Dudley Docker from swamping. As it was we shipped several bad seas over the stern, as well as a beam and over the bowels, although we were on the wind. Lees, who owned himself to be a rotten oarsman, made good here by strenuous bailing, in which he was well seconded by Cheetham. Green Street, a splendid fellow, relieved me at the tiller, and helped generally. He and Macklin were my right and left bowers, as stroke oars throughout. McLeod and Cheetham were two good sailors and oars. The former a typical old deep-sea salt and growler, the latter a pirate to the fingertips. In the height of the girl that night, Cheetham was buying matches from me for bottles of champagne, one bottle per match. Too cheap, I should have charged him two bottles. The champagne is to be paid when he opens a pub in Hull, and I am able to call that way. We had now 108 hours of toil, tumbling, freezing, and soaking, with little or no sleep. I think Sir Ernest, wild, Green Street and I, could say that we had no sleep at all. Although it was sixteen months since we had been in a rough sea, only four men were actually seasick, but several others were of colour. The temperature was twenty degrees below freezing point. Fortunately, we were spared the bitterly low temperature of the previous night. Green Street's right foot got badly frostbitten, but Lees restored it by holding it in his sweater against his stomach. Other men and mine of frostbites, due principally to the fact that their clothes were soaked through with salt water. We were close to the landing as the morning approached, but could see nothing of it through the snow and spin drift. My eyes began to fail me. Constant peering to Inwood, watching for seas to strike us, appeared to have given me a cold in the eyes. I could not see or just distance properly, and found myself falling asleep momentarily at the tiller. At three a.m. Green Street relieved me there. I was so crowned for long hours, cold and wet in the constrained position one was forced to assume, on top of the gear and stores at the tiller, that the other men had to pull me in mid-ships and straighten me out like a jackknife, rubbing my thighs, groin and stomach. Had daylight we found ourselves close alongside the land, but the weather was so thick that we could not see where to make for landing. Having taken the tiller again after an hour's rest under the shelter, save the mark of the dripping tent, I ran the Dudley docker off before the gale, following the coast around to the north. This course for the first hour was fairly risky, the heavy sea before which we were running, threatening to swamp the boat, but by eight a.m. we had obtained a sight to leave from the land. There I was able to keep a very close in, along a glacial front, with the object of picking up lumps of freshwater ice as we sailed through them. Our thirst was intense. We soon had some ice aboard, and for the next hour and a half we sucked and chewed fragments of ice with greedy relish. All this time we were coasting along beneath towering rocky cliffs and sheer glacier faces, which offered not the slightest possibility of landing anywhere. At 9.30 a.m. we spied a narrow rocky beach at the base of some very high crags and cliff, and made for it. To our joy we sighted the James Caird and the Stankham Whills sailing into the same haven just ahead of us. We were so delighted that we gave three cheers, which were not heard aboard the other boats owing to the roar of the surf. However we soon joined them, and were able to exchange experiences on the beach. Our experiences on the James Caird had been similar, although we had not been able to keep up to Winwood, as well as the Dudley Docker had done. This was fortunate as events proved, for the James Caird and Stankham Whills went to Leeward, of the big bite the Dudley Docker entered, and from which she had to turn out with the sea astern. We thus avoided the risk of having the Stankham Whills swamped in the following sea. The weather was very thick in the morning. Indeed at 7.00 a.m. we were right under the cliffs, which plunged sheer into the sea before we saw them. We followed the coast towards the north, and ever the precipitous cliffs and glacier faces presented themselves to our searching eyes. The sea broke heavily against these walls, and a landing would have been impossible under any conditions.  At 9.00 a.m. at the northwest end of the island we saw a narrow beach at the foot of the cliffs. Outside lay a fringe of rocks heavily beaten by the surf, but with a narrow channel showing as a break in the foaming water. I decided that we must face the hazards of this unattractive landing-place. Two days and nights without drink or hot food had played havoc with most of the men, and we cannot assume that any safer haven lay within our reach. The stankham-wills were the lighter and handier boat, and I called her alongside with the intention of taking her through the gap first, and ascertaining the possibilities of a landing, before the James K. had made the venture. I was just climbing into the stankham-wills, when I saw the Dudley Dock were coming up a stern under sail. The sight took a great load off my mind. Rowing carefully and avoid in the blind rollers, which showed where sunken rocks lay, we brought the stankham-wills towards the opening in the reef. Then, with a few strong strokes, we shot through on the top of a swell, and round the boat onto a stony beach. The next swell lifted her a little farther. This was the first landing ever made on Elephant Island, and a thought came to me that the honour should belong to the youngest member of the expedition. So I told Blackborough to jump over. He seemed to be in a state almost of coma, and in order to avoid delay I helped him, perhaps a little roughly, over the side of the boat. He promptly sat down in the surf and did not move. Then I suddenly realised what I had forgotten, that both his feet were frost-bitten badly. Some of us jumped over and pulled him into a dry place. It was a rather rough experience for Blackborough, but, anyhow, he is now able to say that he was the first man to sit on Elephant Island. Possibly at the time he would have been willing to forego any distinction of the kind. We landed the cook with his blover-stove, a supply of fuel, and some packets of dried milk, and also several of the men. Then the rest of us pulled out again to pilot the other boat through the channel. The James kid was too heavy to be beached directly, so, after landing most of the men from the Dudley Docker and the Stankham Wills, I superintended the transshipment of the James Caird's gear outside the reef. Then we all made the passage, and within a few minutes the three boats were aground. A curious spectacle met my eyes when I landed the second time. Some of the men were reeling about the beach, as if they had found an unlimited supply of alcohol to cure, on the desolate shore. They were laughing uproariously, picking up stones, and letting handfuls of pebbles trickle between their fingers, like misers gloating over hoarded gold. Which caused cracked lips to bleed afresh, and the gleeful examinations at the sight of two life seals on the beach, made me think for a moment of that glittering hour of childhood, when the door was open at last, and the Christmas tree in all its wonder burst upon the vision. I remember that Wilde, who always rose superior to fortune, bad and good, came ashore as I was looking at the men, and stood beside me as easy and unconcerned as if he had stepped out of his car for a stroll in the park. Soon half a dozen of us had the stores ashore. Our strength was nearly exhausted, and it was heavy work carrying our goods over the rough pebbles and rocks to the foot of the cliff. But we dare not leave anything within reach of the tide. We had to wade knee-deep in the icy water in order to lift the gear from the boats. When the work was done we pulled the three boats a little higher on the beach, and turned gratefully to enjoy the hot drink the cook had prepared. Those of us who were comparatively fit had to wait until the weaker members of the party had been supplied. But every man had his panicking of hot milk in the end, and never did anything taste better. A seal steak and blubber followed, for the seals that had been careless enough to await our arrival on the beach had already given up their lives. There was no rest for the cook. The blubber stow flared and spluttered fiercely as he cooked, not one meal but many meals, which merged into a day-long bout of eating. We drank water and ate seal meat, until every man had reached the limit of his capacity. The tents were pitched with oars for supports, and by three p.m. our camp was in order. The original framework of the tents had been cast adrift on one of the flows in order to save weight. Most of the men turned in early for a safe and glorious sleep, to be broken only by the call to take a turn on watch. The chief duty of the watchman was to keep the blubber stover light, and each man on duty appeared to find it necessary to cook himself a meal during his watch, and a supper before he turned in again. Wild, warsly, and hurly accompanied me on an inspection of our beach before getting into the tents. I almost wished then that I had postponed the examination until after sleep. But the sense of caution that the uncertainties of polar travel implement in one's mind had made me uneasy. The outlook we found to be anything but cheering. Obvious signs showed that at spring tides the little beach would be covered by the water right up to the foot of the cliffs. In a strong northeasterly gale, such as we might expect to experience it any time, the waves would pound over the scant-barry of the reef, and break against the sheer sides of the rocky wall behind us. Well-marked terraces showed the effect of other girls, and right at the back of the beach was a small bit of wreckage, not more than three feet long, rounded by the constant chafing at it endured. Obviously we must find some better resting place. I decided not to share with the men the knowledge of the uncertainties of our situation, until they had enjoyed the full sweetness of rest, untroubled by the thought that at any minute they might be called to face peril again. The threat of the sea had been our portion during many, many days, and a respite meant much to weary bodies and jaded minds. The accompanying plan will indicate our exact position more clearly than I can describe it. The cliffs at the back of the beach were inaccessible except at two points, where there were steep snow slopes. We were not worried now about food. For, apart from our own rations, there were seals on the beach, and we could see others in the water outside the reef. Every now and then one of the animals would rise in the shallows, and crawl up on the beach, which evidently was a recognized place of resort for its kind. A small rocky island which protected us to some extent from the northwestern wind, carried a ring penguin rookery. But in the meantime they were well within our reach. These attractions, however, were overridden by the fact that the beach was open to the attack of wind and sea from the north-east and east. Easterly gales are more prevalent than western in that area of the Antarctic during the winter. Before turning in that night, I studied the whole position and weighed every chance of getting the boats and our stores into a place of safety out of reach of the winter. We ourselves might have climbed a little way up the snow slopes, but we could not have taken the boats with us. The interior of the island was quite inaccessible. We climbed up one of the slopes and found ourselves stopped soon by overhanging cliffs. The rocks behind the camp were much weathered, and we noticed the sharp unworn boulders that had fallen from above. Clearly there was a danger from overhead, if we camped at the back of the beach. We must move on. With that thought in mind, I reached my tent and fell asleep on the rubbly ground, which gave a comforting sense of stability. The fairy princess, who would not rest on her seven downy mattresses because a pea lay underneath the pile, might not have understood the pleasure we all derived from the irregularities of the stones, which could not possibly break beneath us or drift away. The very searching lumps was sweet reminders of our safety. Recording by Lizzie Driver South The Story of Shackleton's Last Expedition 1914–1917 By Sir Ernest Shackleton Chapter 8 Part 4 Escape from the Ice Early next morning, April 15th, all hands were a stir. The sun soon shone brightly, and we spread out our wet gear to dry. Till the beach looked like a particularly disruptible gypsy camp. The boots and clothing had suffered considerably during our travels. I had decided to send Wild along the coast in the Stankham Wells to look for a new camping ground, and he and I discussed the details of the journey while eating our breakfast of hot seal steak and blubber. The camp I wished to find was one where the party could live for weeks or even months in safety, without danger from sea or wind in the heaviest winter gale. Wild was to proceed westward along the coast, and was to take with him four of the fittest men Marston, Creen, Vincent and McCarthy. If he did not return before dark, we were to light a flare which would serve him as a guide to the entrance of the channel. The Stankham Wells pushed off at eleven a.m., and quickly passed out a site around the island. Then Hurley and I walked along the beach towards the west, climbing through a gap between the cliff and a great detached pile of basalt. The narrow strip of beach was cumbered, with masses of rock that had fallen from the cliffs. We struggled along for two miles or more, in search for a place where we could get the boats ashore, and make a permanent camp in the event of Wild's search proving fruitless. But after three hours vain toil we had to turn back. We had found on the far side of the pillar of basalt, a crevice in the rocks beyond the reach of all but the heaviest gales. Rounded pebbles showed that the sea reached the spot on occasions. Here I decided to deport ten cases of bobberel sledging ration, in case of our having to move away quickly. We could come back for the food to delay to date, if opportunity offered. Return into the camp we found the men resting or attending to their gear. Clark had tried angling in the shallows off the rocks, and had secured one or two small fish. The day passed quietly. Rusty needles were rubbed bright on the rocks, and cloths were mended and darned. A feeling of tiredness, due I suppose to reaction after the strain of the preceding days, overtook us. But the rising tide, coming farther up the beach than it had done on the day before, forced us to labor at the boats, which we hauled slowly to a higher ledge. We found it necessary to move our makeshift camp nearer the cliff. I portioned out the available ground for the tents, the galley, and other purposes, as every foot was of value. When night arrived the stankham-wills were still away, so I had to blob a flare-lit at the head of the channel. About eight p.m. we heard a hail in the distance. We could see nothing, but soon, like a pale ghost out of the darkness, came the boat, the faces of the men showing white in the glare of the fire. Wild ran around the beach with the swell, and within a couple of minutes we had dragged her to a place of safety. I was waiting wild's report with keen anxiety, and my relief was great when he told me that he had discovered a sandy spit seven miles to the west, about two hundred yards long, running out at right angles to the coast, and terminating at the seaward end in a massive rock. A long snow slope joined the spit at the shore end, and it seemed possible that a dugout could be made in the snow. The spit in any case would be a great improvement on our narrow beach. Wild added that the place he described was the only possible camping ground he had seen. Beyond to the west and southwest lay a frowning line of cliffs and glaciers, sheer to the water's edge. He thought that in very heavy gales, either from the southwest or east, the spit would be spray-blown, but that the seas would not actually break over it. The boats could be run up on a shelving beach. After hearing this good news I was eager to get away from the beach camp. The wind was blowing was favourable for the run along the coast. The weather had been fine for two days, and a change might come at any hour. I told all hands that we would make a start on the following morning.  The morning of April 17th came fine and clear. The sea was smooth, but in the offing we could see a line of pack which seemed to be approaching. We had noticed already pack and bergs being driven by the current to the east, and then sometimes coming back with a rush to the west. The current ran as fast as five miles an hour, and it was a set of this kind that had delayed wild on his return from the spit. The rise and fall of the tide was only about five feet at this time, but the moon was making for full, and the tides were increasing. The appearance of ice emphasised the importance of getting away promptly. It would be a serious matter to be present on the beach by the pack. The boats were soon afloat in the shallows, and after a hurried breakfast all hands worked hard to getting our gear and stores aboard. A mishap fell us when we were launching the boats. We were using oars as rollers, and three of these were broken, leaving us short for the journey that had still to be undertaken. The preparations took longer than I had expected. Indeed, there seemed to be some reluctance on the part of several men, to leave the barren safety of the little beach and venture once more on the ocean. But the move was imperative, and by eleven a.m. we were away, the James Cade leading. Just as we rounded the small island occupied by the ringed penguins, the willower swooped down from the two thousand foot cliffs behind us, a herald of the southerly girl that was a spring up within half an hour. Soon we were straining at the oars with the gale on our bowels. Never had we found a more severe task. The wind shifted from the south to the southwest, and the shortage of oars became a serious matter. The James Cade, being the heaviest boat, had to keep a full complement of rowers, while the Dudley Docker and the Stankham Whales went short, and took turns using the odd oar. A big swell was thundering against the cliffs, and at times were almost driven onto the rocks by swirling green waters. We had to keep close in shore, in order to avoid being embroiled in the raging sea, which was lashed snow-white, and quickened by the furious squalls into a living mass of sprays. After two hours of strenuous labour we were almost exhausted, but we were fortunate enough to find comparative shelter behind a point of rock. Overhead towered the sheer cliffs for hundreds of feet. The seabirds had flooded from the crannies of the rock, to wharfed by the height. The boats rose and fell in the big swell, but the sea was not breaking in our little haven, and we rested there while we ate our cold rations. Some of the men had to stand by the oars in order to pull the boats off the cliff-face. After half an hour's pause I gave the order to start again. The Dudley Docker was pulling with three oars, as the Stinkham Whills had the odd one, and she fell away to Leewood in a particularly heavy school. I anxiously watched her battling up against wind and sea. It would have been useless to take the James Kayard back to the assistance of the Dudley Docker, since we were hard-pressed to make any progress ourselves in the heavier boat. The only thing was to go ahead and hope for the best. All hands wet to the skin, and many men were feeling the cold severely. We forged on slowly and passed inside a great pillar of rock, standing out to sea, and towering to a height of about two thousand four hundred foot. A line of reefs stretched between the shore and this pillar, and I thought, as we approached, that we would have to face the raging sea outside. But a breaking white surf revealed a gap in the reef, and we laboured through. With the wind driving clouds a spray on our port beam. The Stinkham Whills followed safely. In the stinging spray I lost sight of the Dudley Docker altogether. It was obvious she would have to go outside the pillar, as she was making so much leeway. But I could not see what happened to her, and I dared not pause. It was a bad time. At last, about five p.m., the James Caird and the Stinkham Whills reached comparatively calm water, and we saw Wilds Beach just ahead of us. I looked back vainly for the Dudley Docker. Rocks studied the shallow water around the spit, and the sea surged amongst them. I ordered the Stinkham Whills to be run onto the beach at the place that looked smoothest, and in a few moments the first boat was ashore. The men jumping out and holding her against the receding wave. Immediately I saw she was safe. I ran the James Caird in. Some of us scrambled up the beach through the fringe of the surf, and slipped the paint around a rock, so as to hold the boat against the backwash. Then we began to get the stores and gear out, working like men possessed, for the boats could not be pulled up till they had been emptied. The blob of stove was quickly alight, and the cook began to prepare a hot drink. We were laboring at the boats, when I noticed Rickinson turn white and stagger in the surf. I pulled him out of reach of the water, and sent him up to the stove, which had been placed in the shelter of some rocks. McKeelroy went to him, and found that his heart had been temporarily unequal to the strain placed upon it. He was in a bad way, and needed prompt medical attention. There are some men who will do more than their share of work, and who will attempt more than they are physically able to accomplish. Rickinson was one of these eager souls. He was suffering, like many other members of the expedition, from bad saltwater boils, or wrists, arms, and the legs were attacked. Apparently this inflection was due to constant soaking with seawater, the chafing of wet clothes, and exposure. I was very anxious about the Dudley Docker, and my eyes as well as my thoughts were turned eastward, as we carried the stores ashore. But within half an hour the missing boat appeared, laboring through the spewing white sea, and presently she reached the comparative calm of the bay. We watched her coming with that sense of relief that the mariner feels when he crosses the harbour bar. The tide was going out rapidly, and warsly lightened the Dudley Docker by placing some cases on an outer rock, where they were retrieved subsequently. Then he beached his boat, and with many hands at work we soon had our belongings ashore, and our three craft above high watermark. The spit was by no means an ideal camping-ground. It was rough, bleak, and inhospitable. Just an acre or two of rock and shingle, with the sea firming round it, except with a snow-slope running up to a glacier, formed the landward boundary. But some of the larger rocks provided a measure of shelter from the wind, and as we were clustered round the blubber-stove, with the acrid smoke blowing into our faces, we were quite a cheerful company. After all, another stage of the homeward journey had been accomplished, and we could afford to forget for an hour the problems of the future. Life was not so bad. We ate our evening meal while the snow drifted down from the surface of the glacier, and our chilled bodies grew warm. Then we dried a little tobacco at the stove, and enjoyed our pipes before we crawled into our tents. The snow had made it impossible for us to find the tide-line, and we were uncertain how far the sea was going to enroach upon our beach. I pitched my tent on the seaward side of the camp, so that I might have early warning of danger. And sure enough, about two a.m., a little way forced its way under the tent-cloth. This was a practical demonstration that we had not gone far enough back from the sea. But in the semi-darkness it was difficult to see where we could find safety. Perhaps it was fortunate that experience had enured us to the unpleasantness of sudden force changes of camp. We took down the tents and repitched them close against the high rocks at the seaward end of the spit, where large boulders made an uncomfortable resting place. Snow was falling heavily. Then all hands had to assist in pulling the boats farther up the beach, and at this task we suffered a serious misfortune. Two of our four bags of clothing had been placed under the bilge of the James Kaid. And before we realised the danger, a wave had lifted the boat, and carried the two bags back into the surf. We had no chance of recovering them. This accident did not complete the tale of the night's misfortunes. The big eight-man tent was blown to pieces in the early morning. Some of the men who had occupied it took refuge in other tents. But several remained in their sleeping bags under the fragments of cloth, until it was time to turn out. A southerly gale was blowing on the morning of April 18th, and the drifting snow was covering everything. The outlook was cheerless indeed, and we could not yet yield to the desire to remain in the sleeping bags. Some sea elephants were lying about the beach above High Watermark, and we killed several of the younger ones for their meat and blubber. The big tent could not be replaced, and in order to provide shelter for the men, we turned the Dudley Docker upside down, and weighed up the weatherside with boulders. We also lashed the painter and stern-rope round the heaviest rocks we could find, so as to guard against the danger of the boat being moved by the wind. The two bags of clothing were bobbing about amid the brash and glacier ice to the windward side of the spit, and it did not seem possible to reach them. The gale continued all day, and the fine drift from the surface of the glacier was added to the big flakes of snow falling from the sky. I made a careful examination of the spit, with the object of ascertaining its possibilities as a camping-ground. Apparently some of the beach lay above High Watermark, and the rocks that stood above the shingle gave a measure of shelter. It would be possible to mount the snow-slope towards the glacier in fine weather, but I did not push my exploration in that direction during the gale. At the seaward end of the spit was the mass of rock already mentioned. A few thousand ringed penguins, with some gentus, were on these rocks, and we had noted this fact with a great deal of satisfaction at the time of our landing. The ringed penguin is by no means the best of the penguins from the point of view of the hungry traveller, but it represents food. At eight a.m. that morning, I noticed the ringed penguins mustering in orderly fashion close to the water's edge, and thought that they were preparing for the daily fishing excursion, but presently became apparent that some important move was on foot. They were going to migrate, and with their departure much valuable food would pass beyond our reach. Hurriedly we armed ourselves with pieces of sledgerunner and other improvised clubs, and started towards the rookery. We were too late. The leaders gave their squawk of command, and the columns took to the sea in unbroken ranks. Following their leaders, the penguins dived through the surf, and reappeared in the heaving water beyond. A very few of the weaker birds took fright, and made their way back to the beach, where they fell victims later to our needs. But the main army went northwards, and we saw them no more. We feared that the Gentoo penguins might follow the habits of their ringed cousins, but they stayed with us. Apparently they had not the migratory habit. They were comparatively few in number, but from time to time they would come in from the sea, and walk up our beach. The Gentoo is the most strongly marked of all the smaller varieties of penguins, as far as colouring is concerned. And if far surpasses the Adili, in weight of legs and breast, the points that particularly appeal to us. The deserted rookery was sure to be above High Watermark at all times, and we mounted the rocky ledge in search of place to pitch our tents. The penguins knew better than to rest where the sea could reach them, even when the highest tide was supported by the strongest scale. The disadvantages of a camp on the rookery were obvious. The smell was strong to put it mildly, and was not likely to grow less pronounced when the warmth of our bodies thawed the surface. But our choice of places were not wide, and that afternoon we dug out a site for two tents in the debris of the rookery, levelling it off with snow and rocks. My tent, number one, was pitched close under the cliff, and there during my stay on Elephant Island I lived. Creen's tent was close by, and the other three tents, which had fairly clean snow under them, were some yards away. The fifth tent was a ramshackle affair. The material of the Tornate Man tent had been drawn over a rough framework of oars, and shelter of a kind provided for the men who occupied it. The arrangement of our camp, the checking of our gear, the killing and skinning of seals and sea elephants occupied us during the day, and we took to our sleeping bags early. I and my companions in number one tent were not destined to spend a pleasant night. The heat of our bodies soon melted the snow and refuse beneath us, and the floor of the tent became an evil-smelling yellow mud. The snow drifting from the cliff above us weighted the sides of the tent, and during the night a particularly stormy gust brought our little home down on top of us. We stayed underneath the snow-laden cloth till the morning, for it seemed a hopeless business to set about repitching the tent amid the storm that was raging in the darkness of the night. The weather was still bad on the morning of April 19th. Some of the men were showing signs of demoralisation. They were disinclined to lead the tents when the hour came for turning out, and it was apparent that they were thinking more of the discomforts of the moment, than of the good fortune that it brought us to sound ground and comparative safety. The condition of the gloves and headgear, shown me by some discouraged men, illustrated the proverbial carelessness of the sailor. The articles had frozen stiff during the night, and the owners considered, it appeared, that this state of affairs provided them with a grievance, or at any rate gave them the right to grumble. They said that they wanted dry clothes, and that their health would not omit if they were doing any work. Only by rather drastic methods were they induced to turn to. Frozen gloves and helmets undoubtedly are very uncomfortable, and the proper thing is to keep these articles thawed, by placing them inside one's shirt during the night. The southerly gale, bringing with it much snow, was so severe that as I went along the beach to kill a seal, I was blown down by a gust. The cooking pots from Number 210 took a flying run into the sea at the same moment. A case of provisions, which had been placed on them to keep them safe, had been capsized by a squall. These pots fortunately were not essential, since nearly all our cooking was done over the blubber stove. The galley was set up by the rocks close to my tent, in a hole we had dug through the debris of the penguin-rookery. Cases of stores gave some shelter from the wind, and a spread sail kept some of the snow off the cook when he was at work. He had not much idle time. The amount of seal and sea-elephant steak and blubber consumed by a hungry party was almost incredible. He did not lack assistance. The neighbourhood of the blubber stove had attractions for every member of the party. But he earned everybody's gratitude by his unflagging energy in preparing meals, that to us at least was savoury and satisfying. Frankly, we needed all the comfort that the hot food could give us. The icy fingers of the gale surged every cranny of our beach, and pushed relentlessly through our worn garments and tattered tents. The snow, drifting from the glacier and falling from the skies, swathed us and our gear, and set traps for our stumbling feet. The rising sea beat against the rocks, and shingled and tossed fragments of flow ice within a few feet of our boat. Once, during the morning, the sun shone through the racing clouds, and we had a glimpse of blue sky. But the promise of fair weather was not redeemed. The consoling feature of the situation was that our camp was safe. We could endure the discomforts, and I felt that all hands would benefit by the opportunity for rest and recuperation. End of Chapter 8 Part 4 The Boat Journey Part 1 The increasing sea made it necessary for us to drag the boats farther up the beach. This was a task for all hands, and after much labour we got the boats into safe positions among the rocks, and made fast the painters to big boulders. Then I discussed with wild and worstly the chances of reaching South Georgia before the winter locked the seas against us. Some effort had to be made to secure relief. Privation and exposure had left their mark on the party, and the health and mental condition of several men were causing me serious anxiety. Black borough's feet, which had been frostbitten during the boat journey, were in a bad way, and the two doctors feared that an operation would be necessary. They told me that the toes would have to be amputated unless animation could be restored within a short period. Then the food supply was a vital consideration. We had left ten cases of provisions in the crevice of the rocks at our first camping place on the island. An examination of our stores showed that we had full rations for the whole party for a period of five weeks. The rations could be spread over three months on a reduced allowance, and probably would be supplemented by seals and sea elephants to some extent. I did not dare to count with full confidence on supplies of meat and blubber, for the animals seemed to have deserted the beach and the winter was near. Our stocks included three seals and two-and-a-half skins with blubber attached. We were mainly dependent on the blubber for fuel, and, after making a preliminary survey of the situation, I decided that the party must be limited to one hot meal a day. A boat journey in search of relief was necessary and must not be delayed. That conclusion was forced upon me. The nearest port where assistance could certainly be secured was Port Stanley, in the Falkland Islands, five hundred and forty miles away. But we could scarcely hope to beat up against the prevailing northwesterly wind in a frail and weakened boat with a small sail area. South Georgia was over eight hundred miles away, but lay in the area of the west winds, and I could count upon finding whalers at any of the whaling stations on the east coast. A boat party might make the voyage and be back with relief within a month, provided that the sea was clear of ice and the boat survived the great seeds. It was not difficult to decide that South Georgia must be the objective, and I proceeded to plan ways and means. The hazards of a boat journey across eight hundred miles of stormy, sub-antarctic ocean were obvious, but I calculated that, at worst, the venture would add nothing to the risks of the men left on the island. There would be fewer mouths to feed during the winter, and the boat would not require to take more than one month's provision for six men, for if we did not make South Georgia in that time we were sure to go under. A consideration that had weight with me was that there was no chance at all of any search being made for us on Elephant Island. The case required to be argued in some detail, since all hands knew that the perils of the proposed journey were extreme. The risk was justified solely by our urgent need of assistance. The ocean south of Cape Horn in the middle of May is known to be the most tempestuous, storm-swept area of water in the world. The weather then is unsettled, the skies are dull and overcast, and the gales are almost unceasing. We had to face these conditions in a small and weather-beaten boat, already strained by the work of the months that had passed. Worsley and Wilde realized that the attempt must be made, and they both asked to be allowed to accompany me on the voyage. I told Wilde at once that he would have to stay behind. I relied upon him to hold the party together while I was away, and to make the best of his way to Deception Island with the men in the spring in the event of our failure to bring help. Worsley I would take with me, for I had a very high opinion of his accuracy and quickness as a navigator, and especially in the snapping and working out of positions in difficult circumstances—an opinion that was only enhanced during the actual journey. Four other men would be required, and I decided to call for volunteers, although as a matter of fact I pretty well knew which of the people I would select. Korean I proposed to leave on the island as a right-hand man for Wilde, but he begged so hard to be allowed to come in the boat that, after consultation with Wilde, I promised to take him. I called the men together, explained my plan, and asked for volunteers. Many came forward at once. Some were not fit enough for the work that would have to be done, and others would not have been much use in the boat since they were not seasoned sailors, though the experiences of recent months entitled them to some consideration as seafaring men. McGillroy and Macklin were both anxious to go, but realized that their duty lay on the island with the sick men. They suggested that I should take Blackborough in order that he might have shelter and warmth as quickly as possible, but I had to veto this idea. It would be hard enough for fit men to live in the boat. Indeed, I did not see how a sick man lying helpless in the bottom of the boat could possibly survive in the heavy weather we were sure to encounter. I finally selected McNeish, McCarthy, and Vincent, in addition to Worsley and Crean. The crew seemed a strong one, and, as I looked at the men, I felt confidence increasing. The decision made I walked through the blizzard with Worsley and Wilde to examine the James Caired. The twenty-foot boat had never looked big. She appeared to have shrunk in some mysterious way when I viewed her in the light of our new undertaking. She was an ordinary ship's whaler, fairly strong, but showing signs of the strain she had endured since the crushing of the endurance. Where she was holed in leaving the pack was, fortunately, about the waterline, and easily patched. Standing beside her, we glanced at the fringe of the storm-swept, tumultuous sea that formed our path. Clearly our voyage would be a big adventure. I called the carpenter and asked him if he could do anything to make the boat more seaworthy. He first inquired if he was to go with me, and seemed quite pleased when I said yes. He was over fifty years of age, and not altogether fit, but he had a good knowledge of sailing boats and was very quick. McCarthy said that he could contrive some sort of covering for the James Caired, if he might use the lids of the cases and the four sludge runners, that we had lashed inside the boat for use in the event of a landing on Graham Land at Wilhelmina Bay. This bay, at one time the goal of our desire, had been left behind in the course of our drift, but we had retained the runners. The carpenter proposed to complete the covering with some of our canvas, and he set about making his plans at once. Noon had passed and the gale was more severe than ever. We could not proceed with our preparations that day. The tents were suffering in the wind and the sea was rising. We made our way to the snow slope at the shoreward end of the split, with the intention of digging a hole in the snow large enough to provide shelter for the party. I had an idea that Wilde and his men might camp there during my absence, since it seemed impossible that the tents should hold together for many more days against the attacks of the wind. But an examination of the spot indicated that any hole we could dig probably would be filled in quickly by the drift. At dark, about five p.m., we all turned in, after a supper consisting of a panicin of hot milk, one of our precious biscuits, and a cold penguin leg each. The gale was stronger than ever on the following morning, April twentieth. No work could be done. Blizzard and snow, snow and blizzard, sudden lulls and fierce returns. During the lulls we could see on the far horizon to the northeast, bergs of all shapes and sizes, driving along before the gale, and the sinister appearance of the swift moving masses made us thankful indeed that, instead of battling with the storm amid the ice, we were required only to face the drift from the glaciers and the inland heights. The gusts might throw us off our feet, but at least we fell on solid ground and not on the rocking flows. Two seals came up on the beach that day, one of them within ten yards of my tent. So urgent was our need of food and blubber that I called all hands and organized a line of beaters, instead of simply walking up to the seal and hitting it on the nose. We were prepared to fall upon this seal en masse if it attempted to escape. The kill was made with a pick handle, and in a few minutes five days food and six days fuel were stowed in a place of safety among the boulders above Highwater Mark. During this day the cook, who had worked well on the flow and throughout the boat journey, suddenly collapsed. I happened to be at the galley at the moment and saw him fall. I pulled him down the slope to his tent and pushed him into its shelter with orders to his tentmates to keep him in his sleeping bag until I allowed him to come out or the doctor said he was fit enough. Then I took out to replace the cook, one of the men who had expressed a desire to lie down and die. The task of keeping the galley fire alight was both difficult and strenuous, and it took his thoughts away from the chances of immediate dissolution. In fact, I found him a little later gravely concerned over the drying of a naturally not overclean pair of socks, which were hung up in close proximity to our evening milk. Occupation had brought his thoughts back to the ordinary cares of life. There was a lull in the bad weather on April twenty-one, and the carpenter started to collect material for the decking of the James card. He fitted the mast of the Stancom Will's fore and aft inside the James card as a hog-back, and thus strengthened the keel with the object of preventing our boat hogging—that is, buckling in heavy seas. He had not sufficient wood to provide a deck, but by using the sledge-runners and box lids he made a framework extending from the forecastle aft to a well. It was a patched-up affair, but it provided a base for a canvas covering. We had a bolt of canvas frozen stiff, and this material had to be cut and then thawed out over the blubber stove, foot by foot, in order that it might be sewn into the form of a cover. When it had been nailed and screwed into position it certainly gave an appearance of safety to the boat, though I had an uneasy feeling that it bore a strong likeness to stage scenery, which may look like a granite wall and is in fact nothing better than canvas and lath. As events proved the covering served its purpose well. We certainly could not have lived through the voyage without it. Another fierce gale was blowing on April twenty-two, interfering with our preparations for the voyage. The cooker from number five-tent came adrift in August, and although it was chased to the water's edge it disappeared for good. Blackborough's feet were giving him much pain, and McIlroy and Macklin thought it would be necessary for them to operate soon. They were under the impression then that they had no chloroform, but they found some subsequently in the medicine chest after we had left. Some cases of stores left on a rock off the spit on the day of our arrival were retrieved during this day. We were setting aside stores for the boat journey, and choosing the essential equipment from the scanty stock at our disposal. Two ten-gallon casks had to be filled with water melted down from ice collected at the foot of the glacier. This was a rather slow business. The blubber stove was kept going all night, and the watchman emptied the water into the casks from the pot in which the ice was melted. A working party started to dig a hole in the snow slope about forty feet above sea level, with the object of providing a site for a camp. They made fairly good progress at first, but the snow drifted down unceasingly from the inland ice, and in the end the party had to give up the project. The weather was fine on April 23, and we hurried forward our preparations. It was on this day I decided finally that the crew for the James card should consist of Worsley, Crean, McNeish, McCarthy, Vincent, and myself. A storm came on about noon with driving snow and heavy squalls. Occasionally the air would clear for a few minutes, and we could see a line of pack ice, five miles out, driving across from west to east. This site increased my anxiety to get away quickly. Winter was advancing, and soon the pack might close completely round the island and stay our departure for days or even for weeks. I did not think that ice would remain around Elephant Island continuously during the winter, since the strong winds and fast currents would keep it in motion. We had noticed ice and bergs going past at the rate of four or five knots. A certain amount of ice was held up at the end of our spit, but the sea was clear where the boat would have to be launched. Worsley, Wilde, and I climbed the summit of the Seaward Rocks and examined the ice from a better vantage point than the beach offered. The belt of pack outside appeared to be sufficiently broken for our purposes, and I decided that, unless the conditions forbade it, we would make a start in the James card on the following morning. Obviously the pack might close at any time. This decision made I spent the rest of the day looking over the boat, gear, and stores, and discussing plans with Worsley and Wilde. Our last night on the solid ground of Elephant Island was cold and uncomfortable. We turned out at dawn and had breakfast. Then we launched the stonkham wills and loaded her with stores, gear, and ballast, which would be transferred to the James card when the heavier boat had been launched. The ballast consisted of bags made from blankets and filled with sand, making a total weight of about one thousand pounds. In addition, we had gathered a number of round boulders and about two hundred and fifty pounds of ice, which would supplement our two casks of water. The stores taken in the James card, which would last six men for one month, were as follows. Thirty boxes of matches, six and a half gallons of paraffin, one tin of methylated spirit, ten boxes of flamers, one box of blue lights, two primus stoves with spare parts and prickers, one Nansen aluminum cooker, six sleeping bags, a few spare socks, a few candles, and some blubber oil in an oil bag. Food. Three cases sludging rations equals 300 rations. Two cases nut food equals 200 rations. Two cases biscuits equals 600 biscuits. One case lump sugar, 30 packets of true milk, one tin of bovril cubes, one tin of syrup of salt, 36 gallons of water, 250 pounds of ice, instruments, sextant, sea anchor, binoculars, charts, prismatic compass, aneroid. The swell was slight when the stand come wheels was launched and the boat got under way without any difficulty. But half an hour later, when we were pulling down the James card, the swell increased suddenly. Apparently the movement of the ice outside had made an opening and allowed the sea to run in without being blanketed by the line of pack. When the James card was afloat in the surf, she nearly capsized among the rocks before we could get her clear, and Vincent and the carpenter, who were on the deck, were thrown into the water. This was really bad luck, for the two men would have small chance of drying their clothes after we had got under way. Hurley, who had the eye of the professional photographer for incidents, secured a picture of the upset, and I firmly believed that he would have liked the two unfortunate men to remain in the water until he could get a snap at close quarters. But we hauled them out immediately, regardless of his feelings. The James card was soon clear of the breakers. We used all the available ropes as a long painter to prevent her drifting away to the northeast, and then the stand come wheels came alongside, transferred her load, and went back to the shore for more. As she was being beached this time, the sea took her stern and half filled her with water. She had to be turned over and emptied before the return journey could be made. Every member of the crew of the stand come wheels was wet to the skin. The water casks were towed behind the stand come wheels on the second journey, and the swell, which was increasing rapidly, drove the boat onto the rocks, where one of the casks was slightly stowed in. This incident proved later to be a serious one, since some seawater had entered the cask and the contents were now brackish. By midday the James card was ready for the voyage. Vincent and the carpenter had secured some dry clothes by exchange with members of the shore party. I heard afterward that it was a full fortnight before the soaked garments were finally dried, and the boat's crew was standing by waiting for the order to cast off. A moderate westerly breeze was blowing. I went to shore in the stand come wheels and had a last word with Wilde, who was remaining in full command with directions as to his course of action in the event of our failure to bring relief. But I practically left the whole situation in scope of action and decision to his own judgment, secure in the knowledge that he would act wisely. I told him that I trusted the party to him and said good-bye to the men. Then we pushed off for the last time, and within a few minutes I was aboard the James card. The crew of the stand come wheels shook hands with us as the boats bumped together and offered us the last good wishes. Then, setting our jib, we cut the painter and moved away to the northeast. The men who were staying behind made a pathetic little group on the beach, with the grim heights of the island behind them and the sea seething at their feet. But they waved to us and gave three hearty cheers. There was hope in their hearts, and they trusted us to bring the help that they needed. I had all the sails set, and the James card quickly dipped the beach and his line of dark figures. The westerly wind took us rapidly to the line of pack, and as we entered it, I stood up with my arm around the mast, directing the steering so as to avoid the great lumps of ice that were flung about in the heave of the sea. The pack thickened, and we were forced to turn almost due east, running before the wind towards a gap I had seen in the morning from the high ground. I could not see the gap now, but we had come out on its bearing, and I was prepared to find that it had been influenced by the easterly drift. At four o'clock in the afternoon we found the channel much narrower that it had seemed in the morning, but still navigable. Dropping sail we rode through without touching the ice anywhere, and by five-thirty p.m. we were clear of the pack with open water before us. We passed one more piece of ice in the darkness an hour later, but the pack lay behind, and with a fair wind swelling the sails we steered our little craft through the night, our hopes centered on our distant goal. The swell was very heavy now, and when the time came for our first evening meal we found great difficulty in keeping the primus lamp alight and preventing the hoosh splashing out of the pot. Three men were needed to attend to the cooking, one man holding the lamp, and two men guarding the aluminum cooking pot, which had to be lifted clear of the primus whenever the movement of the boat threatened to cause a disaster. Then the lamp had to be protected from water, for sprays were coming over the boughs, and our flimsy decking was by no means watertight. All these operations were conducted in the confined space under the decking, where the men lay or knelt and adjusted themselves as best they could to the angles of our cases in ballast. It was uncomfortable, but we found consolation in the reflection that, without the decking, we could not have used the cooker at all.