“We’ll be back together soon enough when we reach Elephant Island,” Samson reassured him.
“However long that will be,” Bummer muttered. His stomach lurched at the thought of being back on the water, but he wasn’t filled with fear as he had been when they’d first set out on the Endurance. Since then he had been through worse things than a little bit of seasickness. He would survive this just as he had survived the trip all those months ago.
Although he’d rather have been with his friends, Wolf and Hercules had been kinder since Amundsen died; Bummer knew he was just as good as they were, and he didn’t care what the others thought any longer.
“It will be over before you know it,” Samson said. “Try not to think of how you feel while you’re on the boat, but rather how you will feel when you get off it and step onto solid land.”
It was good advice, Bummer thought, but he had little control over his stomach. There was also the matter of the pack ice that lay ahead. Once in the boats, they would have to find their way through the maze of water passages until they found one that would lead them out onto the open ocean.
“Are you ready to go?” Sally asked, coming over to say her farewells to Bummer and Judge.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Bummer said, licking the pups on the head in turn to say goodbye.
“We’ll miss you,” Nelson said as they headed to their boat.
“You’ll see me again soon,” Bummer reassured him.
Samson turned to follow Sally, but Bummer called him back.
“Samson,” he started, searching for the right words to say to the best friend he’d ever had. A way to say goodbye if they didn’t make it to Elephant Island. Bummer knew their chances were slim, but at least there was a chance.
“Good luck,” he said finally.
Samson smiled and nudged his head against Bummer’s. “You too,” he said.
Bummer laughed and gave Samson a small nudge in return; then Samson was gone, directing the other dogs to their boats and giving words of encouragement to those like Bummer who didn’t relish the idea of going out onto the water.
Bummer headed over to the Stancomb Wills and jumped on board, joining the dogs in the middle of the boat and trying to take up as little room as possible so that the men could do what they needed to do to keep the boat afloat. He found himself wedged between a large crate filled with something sweet-smelling and a rolled-up canvas, which he laid his head on, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see what surrounded them.
He didn’t need to see in order to feel, though. As they floated on through the leads, the water became choppier, the boat rising up and over each oncoming wave. The waves seemed to be pushing them back toward the ice, telling them it was a bad idea to even attempt to cross the sea. But the men were determined, and so they resisted, even when the waves grew higher, crashing onto the deck and soaking men and dogs until they were so wet and cold that they might as well have just swum.
Another large wave crashed over them. The men bailed out water with whatever they could lay their hands on, but the raging sea wasn’t their only obstacle. They were still surrounded by pack ice and floes, the smaller pieces smashed up by the churning ocean as they were pulled this way and that. The chunks of ice broke off, floating atop the waves. Each time the sea rose to assault the boat, it threw blocks of ice at them, some as big as Bummer’s head, as though they were under attack from the sea itself, threatening to capsize the boats before they had barely started.
“How are you holding up, lad?” Judge asked, ducking to avoid being beheaded by another missile of ice.
Bummer could only groan in response, glad for once that he didn’t have a bellyful of food, as it wouldn’t have lasted long.
“Chin up,” Judge said. “I have a feeling it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”
They continued on—day after day without any release or respite from the assault of the wild sea. Bummer’s eyes felt swollen and sore, stinging from the salt constantly being thrown in his face along with the icy water. His mouth was the only part of him that was dry, since he’d had only the smallest sips of water from the barrel when the men had time to stop wrestling with the ocean. His fur was matted. In the rare patches where it wasn’t soaked through, the salt had dried, coating it with a thin layer of white powder that he was unable to clean off.
Bummer had never felt so miserable in his entire life. Part of him wished they would be capsized just so that the ordeal would be over. But that would mean he’d never see Samson and Sally again, and the thought of his friends helped him to endure. He thought of Amundsen and how he would act if he were on the boat with them. He wouldn’t moan or groan or feel sorry for himself, no matter how cold or hungry or wet he was. Bummer made a promise that he would try to be more like Amundsen.
A greater threat than thirst and hunger lurked nearby, however, getting ever closer. For the past few days they had been followed by killer whales. At first the whales kept their distance, the sound of air being blown out through their blowholes the only clue that the gigantic mammals were there at all. But as they sailed on, the whales seemed to get more curious, moving closer to the boats, their tall, curled fins rising out of the water, until the men became afraid that they might attack and drag the boats down into the depths below.
That night, Bummer looked out over the edge of the boat as the dark shapes rose out of the water, only yards away. Their strange song echoed all around. Bummer barked to get the men’s attention, but no one came. The men were either too tired or too focused on getting to land.
A large black-and-white head emerged from the water, two big black eyes staring right at Bummer as he tried to catch his breath.
“H-hello there,” Bummer said to the whale.
The whale watched him for a while, then opened its gigantic jaws to reveal a set of sharp teeth. Bummer backed away from the edge of the boat, but the whale didn’t attack. The sides of its mouth pulled up into a smile.
Bummer stepped forward on shaky legs and gave a little smile back.
“Would it be possible for you and your friends to keep your distance?” Bummer asked, figuring he had nothing to lose. “It’s not that we aren’t happy to see you, but we’re afraid you might sink our small boat. We’re trying to get to Elephant Island,” he explained.
The whale seemed to laugh at this, letting out a series of clicking sounds.
“I know it seems like an impossible mission.” Bummer sighed. “But we’ve been lost for so long, and we’re trying to find our way home.”
The whale considered this for a moment, then disappeared silently beneath the water. Bummer watched and waited to see if the whale would return, then was startled by the sound of more whales breaching the surface. The whale appeared again behind them. The boat suddenly jolted as the whale pushed the boat forward, steering them off to the left while its friends did the same with the other lifeboats.
The men started to yell, at first out of pure terror at seeing the gigantic beasts at the stern, but then in amazement as it became clear that the whales were trying to help them. After only a few minutes, they’d traveled almost as far as they had all day. The whales disappeared again, gliding away from the boats.
A large head appeared once more, turning to look back at Bummer.
“Thank you!” Bummer barked.
The whale let out a high-pitched cry, then was gone, its huge fin rising out of the water as it dived beneath the waves to follow its pod.
CHAPTER 18
SAMSON
April 1916
After four days at sea with little to eat and drink and even less sleep, the boats passed alongside an ice floe big enough that the boss decided they should camp off the boats for the night. Samson finally understood how Bummer felt when he got seasick. The moment he set foot on the solid ice, the world around him spun. His legs wobbled as he tried to adjust to stillness rather than being thrown perpetually back and forth, up and down. He slowly lay down and
closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for his brain to catch up with his body and stop swaying from side to side.
“You look as bad as I feel,” a voice said with a laugh.
Samson opened one eye and grinned at Bummer, glad to see that his friend was well.
“You don’t look so bad,” Samson said, his tail wagging as he slowly… very slowly… sat up. “In fact,” he said, “you look positively well compared to the rest of us.”
“I just kept in mind what you told me,” Bummer said. “And focused on being back on solid land rather than on the boat.”
“And that worked?” Samson asked, surprised. He’d only told Bummer that to make him feel better, but if it had worked for Bummer—the most seasick dog he’d ever known—then maybe he’d try it when they were back on the boat.
Samson groaned out loud at the thought of having to go back out on the relentless ocean. “Do you think we could just stay here instead?” he asked Bummer, looking around at the ice floe. It wasn’t very big—Samson could see its edges—but it wasn’t moving. Maybe he should just stay there? Live out the rest of his life on the floe, catching fish for food and building an igloo for shelter.
“But what about the honor,” Bummer teased, “and the recognition? You’d get none of that if you gave up now. No one would even remember your name five years from now.”
Samson frowned. “I’d hope that you would,” he said indignantly.
Bummer grinned at him and Samson sighed. Bummer was right. He could no more stay here when they were so close to reaching land than the boss could. He would keep going for as long as he was able and for as long as it took until they were safe.
The men had tethered the boats securely to the floe and set up tents on top of the ice. Sally and the pups were curled up together fast asleep, and soon Samson and Bummer were the only ones still awake, the rest of the expedition having given in to their exhaustion.
“I’m going to try to get some much-needed rest,” Bummer said with a yawn. “Are you coming?”
Samson shook his head. “In a while. I want to make the most of being able to stretch my legs.”
He trotted off in the opposite direction, lurching sideways a few times as his body adjusted to the solid ground. His legs soon caught up and he raced across the ice, howling as the air filled his lungs and he felt freer than he had in a long time. He stopped to catch his breath and gazed around him. The Weddell Sea was treacherous, but the landscape was beautiful. Samson had never really stopped to look—really look—at the beauty that surrounded them. All around, icebergs rose up out of the water, twisted and molded into a myriad of shapes like sculptures created by nature itself. The ice sparkled as though it were coated with stardust, and Samson doubted that anyone had ever seen anything like it.
He trotted toward the tents, weariness finally getting the better of him, and headed over to where the dogs lay together in a cozy huddle. As he settled down beside Bummer, there was a terrible cracking sound. Samson whirled around, searching for the source of the noise. A fissure snaked through the ice, weaving this way and that, sneaking closer and closer to one of the tents at the edge of the camp. As it moved, it grew, splitting the floe apart to reveal the black water beneath.
Samson barked as loudly as he could as the fissure disappeared beneath the tent. There was a loud splash and a yell as one of the men inside fell into the glacial water below. Samson tore his way into the tent, searching the water desperately for the man. He caught sight of a patch of dark fabric and grabbed it in his jaws, pulling as hard as he could. The man Samson recognized as able seaman Holness emerged, thrashing about in the water, gasping air. Samson realized that he was trapped inside his fur sleeping bag, which was dragging him down. Samson held on as tight as he could, unable to move any farther. The weight of Holness and his sodden sleeping bag was just too much, even for him. But he wouldn’t let go. No matter what happened, he would not lose one of the men now.
Other men and dogs arrived, and together they hauled the shaking, shivering man from the water, pulling him far away from the fissure to safety and wrapping him with their own sleeping bags as the color slowly returned to his cheeks. He nodded at Samson in thanks as he drank some cocoa warmed by the tiny stove.
“Well done, old boy!” Shackleton said, ruffling Samson’s fur. “That was some quick thinking.”
Samson beamed up at the boss with pride.
“Time to move on!” Shackleton shouted. “It’s not safe on the floe.”
“You heard the boss!” Samson barked as men and dogs reluctantly made their way back into the boats.
Honor and recognition, he repeated to himself as he stepped back on board. Honor and recognition.
The men took turns rowing while the others tried their best to stay warm. Samson felt more helpless than ever. On land he could do something, be useful in some way, but out on the open water, there was little he could do but feel sympathy for the men as they strained against the oars, and lie on their feet to help warm them as water and ice lashed at their faces. The temperatures were so low that each time the men swapped places, their thick gloves had to be chipped away from the wooden oars.
Instead, Samson focused on the dogs with him in the boat, making sure that the pups were as warm and as dry as they could be, and that the weaker dogs were eating and drinking what they could, when they could.
The boats were tethered together as Bummer’s boat—the Stancomb Wills—was having trouble keeping up, seeming to be the least sturdy. Whenever Samson glanced Bummer’s way, the men on the boat seemed to be constantly bailing out water. He hoped Bummer was all right. They were surely going to reach land soon?
The men called out to one another to change shifts, but Captain Worsley remained frozen in place. Samson watched as the men lifted him from the bench in a sitting position, his arms and legs rigid. Samson made room as the men laid him on the bottom of the boat, gently easing his legs down until the blood began flowing through them enough that the poor fellow could move again.
The boss decided they all needed a short break, so he boiled up some water on the stove and handed out their daily rations—one biscuit. It was all they could spare. Without a proper stove to mix up the pemmican for the dogs, there was little alternative. Samson took a small nibble at the edge of his biscuit, trying to make it last as long as possible. Then he saw Nelson gazing at him, a forlorn look on his face. Nelson was by far the biggest pup and had already gobbled his biscuit down in one gulp.
“Do you want some of mine?” Samson asked.
Nelson nodded. “I’m so hungry,” he said. “My stomach won’t stop growling.”
Samson bit off a piece for himself, then slid the other half to Nelson, despite the protests from his own growling stomach.
“We’ll reach land soon enough,” Samson said. “Then there will be plenty of food. I’m sure of it.”
The wind picked up, and Shackleton called out for the men to continue onward as a blizzard swept in. Soon the boat and everyone in it were covered in a blanket of white. Half the men on board rowed, trying to find their way through the swirling blizzard engulfing them, while the other half bailed out water. But it seemed that for every bucket of water they threw out, two bucketsful were thrown back in from the sea. The men were fighting an impossible, never-ending battle as they blindly continued on, while Samson could do little more than watch and hope.
CHAPTER 19
BUMMER
April 16, 1916
Bummer was so exhausted, hungry, and thirsty when they finally reached Elephant Island that at first he thought he must be hallucinating.
Seven days.
It had taken them seven grueling days, traveling over the most treacherous of seas, fighting against everything nature had to throw at them—waves several feet high, blocks of ice being hurled at them from all directions, the constant threat of being sunk, gales, blizzards. They had made it through it all and had come out the other side alive. Very much the worse for wear, but alive.
>
At times, when it had all become too much to bear on the boat and Bummer had felt he might lose his mind, he had heard a small voice in his head, a presence beside him that seemed to be urging him to hold on. He didn’t know where it had come from, but he clung to it with all his might, repeating over and over in his head: just a little farther, just a little farther.
And now here they were. Elephant Island wasn’t what Bummer had been expecting, although after being away from land for so long he only had hazy memories of what land was supposed to look like. He had been expecting more color, though. After spending months surrounded by nothing but dazzling white or complete darkness, he had been looking forward to seeing something… else. But Elephant Island was small, barren, and gray, looking both uninviting and inhospitable. The island was surrounded by threatening, craggy cliffs. The beach they landed on was barely more than a sliver. It was coated with rock and stone and shingle that made it impossible to move faster than a slight trot as the grit stuck uncomfortably between Bummer’s toes.
The men quickly set up the tents and stove as far away from the shore as they could, and Bummer hurried over to the sweet scent of pemmican being prepared. A few weeks ago he would have given anything to eat something other than the dried meat concoction, but now it smelled as heavenly as a roasted turkey. Bummer impatiently waited his turn, sniffing at the other dogs’ meals as they dug in, his mouth watering so much that he had to lap at the drool pooling at the edges of his jaws. Eventually, he got his meal. He began gulping it down, even though it was too hot and burned his tongue. Then he slowed, taking his time to savor each mouthful as though it were the last meal he would ever have. Finally, satisfied, he joined the other dogs and fell into a deep slumber, feeling more content than he had in a very long time.
April 17, 1916
Survival Tails: Endurance in Antarctica Page 9
