Lashly went across first but was so concerned about the ‘bridge’ collapsing that he dared not walk upright. He sat astride it, moving gingerly across while Crean and Evans played him out on the end of an alpine rope. The snow bridge was an inverted ‘V’ so that the 400-lb (180-kg) sledge had to be balanced on its apex and guided across, inch by inch with Crean and Evans each holding one side to prevent it toppling into the inky depths below. Evans recalled:
‘Neither of us spoke, except for the launching signal but each looked steadfastly into the other’s eyes – nor did we two look down. As in other cases of peril, the tense quiet of the moment left its mark on the memories of our party for ever.’10
After a while, Crean and Evans had joined Lashly on a small slope on the other side and they began to pull up the 400-lb sledge. The strenuous exertion with the sledge was a timely reminder that the men were getting weaker and even this effort stretched them to the limits of their endurance.
They were on the point of physical exhaustion and badly needed rest and a hot drink. But, in the broken maze of crevasse fields, there was simply not enough room to pitch the tent safely. Evans would later remember looking into the ‘hollow-eyed and gaunt’ faces of his two exhausted comrades as they gasped for air and contemplated their next move.
Evans, once again, defied convention and took a big risk by setting off on his own to find a pathway out of the tangled mess of crevasses and ice ridges. Crean and Lashly tried to dissuade him, knowing that a fall through a crevasse would be fatal or that, simply, he could get lost in the maze. But in reality, there was little alternative.
It was another desperate act by desperate men and Evans felt a huge responsibility for the two men who sat and watched as he disappeared behind the ice ridges in search of a route out of the maze. In South With Scott, he declared;
‘I felt a tremendous love for those two men that day. They had trusted me so implicitly and believed in my ability to win through.’11
To his everlasting relief, Evans soon discovered that they were virtually at the end of the broken, crevasse-ridden ice fields and that ahead lay a smoother journey. They were close to the Mid Glacier Depot, well over halfway down the Beardmore and edging nearer to the Barrier where travelling would be far easier and depots easier to locate.
A mood of optimism swept over the small weary party at the thought that they had survived the worst part of their journey and they marched on to the next depot. But Evans had paid a terrible price for his mission to find a way out of the crevasses and was struck by a most severe attack of snowblindness, which lasted for almost four days.
Late on 21 January, the tired but relieved men stumbled into the Lower Glacier Depot and a day later they caught the first sight of the Barrier, bringing uninhibited whoops of joy from the embattled trio. Lashly recalled:
‘Crean let go one huge yell enough to frighten the ponies out of their graves of snow …’12
But the relief at entering the most straightforward part of their journey was shattered by a grim discovery. Evans, who had man-hauled for about 1,100 miles (1,770 km), was now displaying clear signs of scurvy.
Evans had reported stiffness at the back of the knees and ‘looseness of the bowels’ and a few days later Lashly, who had spent the same time man-hauling, came over ‘giddy and faint’ while they were pitching the tent. Crean, too, began to suffer with a touch of diarrhoea and the constant interruptions were slowing their progress. It was still approximately 400 miles (640 km) to Cape Evans and the men were getting no fitter.
The men had been out on the ice for almost three months, existing on a diet very low in the vitamins which provide the necessary safeguards against scurvy, notably vitamin C. With all the classic signs of scurvy emerging, Lashly, who had assumed the role of doctor, stopped Evans’ pemmican. In addition, he prescribed a mixture of opium pills and chalk. His legs had become swollen, bruised-looking and olive-green in colour, while his teeth were now loose and gums ulcerated. The diarrhoea continued and then, disturbingly, Evans began to haemorrhage. He later recalled:
‘Crean and Lashly were dreadfully concerned on my behalf and how they nursed me and helped me along no words of mine can properly describe. What men they were.’13
On 25 January 1912, as the men were beginning the haul across the flat, featureless Barrier, Amundsen arrived back at his Framheim base and casually asked if the coffee was on the stove. The journey to the Pole and back, some 1,860 miles (3,000 km), had taken 99 days.
By 30 January Evans and Lashly had been out in the icy wilderness for over 100 days and the normally buoyant Evans was getting uncharacteristically gloomy and pessimistic, at a time when keeping up morale was never more important if the men retained any chance of pulling through. He wrote that the disappointment of not being included in the polar party had ‘not helped me much’ and he believed that the prospects of getting back to safety were diminishing every day. Four days later he broke down.
Lashly, who was increasingly worried about Evans, wrote on 3 February:
‘This morning we were forced to put Mr Evans on his ski and strap him on, as he could not lift his legs. They are rapidly getting worse, things are looking very serious on his part.’14
But Lashly was also suffering. Apart from the physical exhaustion, he also reported that he was ‘a bit depressed’15 as they struggled to the depot at Mount Hooper. The deterioration of Evans was bad enough, but Crean would have been alarmed to learn Lashly, a calm and redoubtable figure throughout his Polar career, was also struggling. Crean thought very highly of his fellow seaman and once said that ‘whatever he did was first class’. Now, in the face of their growing ordeal, a run-down and dejected Lashly was unthinkable.
It was 180 miles (290 km) to the safety of Hut Point and they were now straining their eyes for the first sight of land, probably the peaks of either Mount Erebus or Mount Discovery, which would signal that they were close to safety. Or at least it would offer hope.
Crean, though, remained indomitable and nowhere in the diaries of Evans or Lashly is there any indication that the Irishman showed any sign of weakening, either physically or mentally. Or, more importantly, that he had succumbed to the effects of scurvy, even though his diet for the past three months was precisely the same as Evans and Lashly.
He was also optimistically on the lookout for Scott’s party, who he assumed, with five fit men in the harness, would be travelling faster than the slow-moving and weakening trio. He continually looked back over his shoulder in hopeful anticipation of catching a glimpse of an approaching black speck on the distant horizon. However, the little speck never materialised.
But Crean and Lashly had more pressing problems. By now Evans was going rapidly downhill, passing a great deal of blood and prompting Lashly to report that he had to ‘do nearly everything for him’. He plodded on wearily on his skis, unable to help with the pulling.
The two seamen were desperately worried at the consequences of Evans breaking down, which meant them having to do the work of three men in the man-hauling harness. It also meant weakening men hauling extra weight. Another fear was the loss of Evans’ navigational ability before they reached some easily recognisable landmark which would guide them home.
It was clear that the strength of Crean and Lashly was also ebbing away, partly because they were not eating enough to compensate for the draining daily rigours of dragging the sledge. For the two tired, hungry men the extra burden of carrying their sickening lieutenant was something they dreaded. However, there was no question of abandoning Evans and Lashly grimly summed up the worsening position on 7 February:
‘No better luck with our patient, he gets along without a murmur. He is determined to go to the last, which he knows is not far off, as it is difficult for him to stand … but shall have to drag him on the sledge when he can’t go any further.’16
Their ordeal eased a little when they reached One Ton Depot on 9 February and enjoyed a feed of oatmeal, a welcome change of diet from endless mugf
uls of pemmican. They took nine days’ food from the depot and set out for Hut Point, over 140 gruelling miles (190 km) away across the flat Barrier landscape. It would be touch-and-go, with Evans a passenger and two tired men doing the back-breaking pulling of three.
The only encouraging feature of the slog was that both Crean and Lashly were showing no major signs of scurvy, which was remarkable after so long without an intake of vitamin C from fresh meat and fruit. But the fatigue of man-hauling was beginning to tell and something had to be done to cut down the weight. On 11 February they ‘depoted’ all the gear they could manage without in the hope of making the pulling a little easier.
Two days later their worst fears materialised when Evans could not stand and they had to strap him on the sledge, a passenger in every sense of the word. They were about 100 miles (160 km) from the safety of Hut Point and slowly but surely losing the race for life.
Evans was deteriorating fast and one morning he suddenly fainted. They thought he was dead and Crean openly wept. Crean, Evans recalled, was very upset at his condition and he wrote:
‘His hot tears fell on my face and as I came to I gave him a weak kind of laugh.’17
Crean and Lashly had each covered 1,500 miles (2,400 km) in three and a half months with 44-year-old Lashly man-hauling without a break for almost the entire trek. On a cosmetic level, the three men had not washed, shaved, cleaned their teeth or cut their hair for about 15 weeks.
However, such thoughts were easily dismissed as they began to realise that they were fighting a losing battle. Once again, they dropped off any remaining items of surplus gear, leaving them with the barest essentials for survival – a tent, sleeping bags, cooker and what little food and oil that remained. Even the skis were left behind in the snow. They had little left to abandon but their lives.
The weary marches, dragging the heavy sledge and the dying Evans, became a desperate race against time and the elements, with food running out and temperatures steadily dropping as the season began to close in.
But they were still managing an astonishing 10 miles a day at about 1 mile per arduous hour, wearily and silently plodding through the snow for over ten hours with their minds fixed solely on pitching the tent and getting some hot food inside themselves. Evans would later recall Crean and Lashly’s ‘wild and roaming eyes as they gasped with exhaustion at the end of the day’.18
But, despite the intense daily effort and the endurance of Crean and Lashly, they were not travelling fast enough and all three were keenly aware that, barring a miracle, they faced certain death. A tortuous march of ten hours a day was the limit of their capacity, but not enough to bring them to safety.
Evans knew the position was hopeless and courageously asked his companions to leave him behind in the snow and save themselves. Crean and Lashly flatly rejected the suggestion. Evans would later recall that it was the only occasion in his long and distinguished naval career that an order of his was openly disobeyed.
They were 83 miles (134 km) from Hut Point and Crean and Lashly now feared that Evans was close to death. Lashly said they were now almost too afraid to sleep at night. Just as disturbing, the food position was now critical and on 16 February they took the drastic decision to cut their ration by half, the last thing that ravenously hungry men needed.
The small, bedraggled party was now about 40 miles (65 km) from Hut Point, but only four days’ food remained and in their weakening state, that would hardly be enough. Pulling the sledge and Evans for 10 miles (16 km) a day was now beyond the two exhausted men but cutting the ration might buy them a precious extra day or two travelling. However, reducing the food would make the already weakened men even weaker. It was a terrible risk, either way.
Their faltering hopes were briefly raised when suddenly and unexpectedly they ran across one of the motor tractors, which had been abandoned in the snow on the outward journey months earlier. They quickly searched for any bits of food which may have also been left behind and were pleased when they uncovered a few stale biscuits. Every scrap was welcome in their condition.
They were now fairly close to Corner Camp, the point where the Polar parties turn away from the base camp area and head due south to the Pole. It was about 35 miles (56 km) from Hut Point – tantalisingly close to food and warmth.
But both Crean and Lashly could barely muster the strength to carry on dragging their dying companion, exhausted by the draining marches of the past months. Temperatures were dropping as the season closed in and snow was falling incessantly as they camped. Time was running out and Lashly forlornly recorded:
‘I don’t think we have got the go in us we had, but we must try and push on.’19
They camped for the night on 17 February, hoping for a miracle, or even more remotely, that the dog teams might happen to pass by. It was a forlorn hope.
On the same day, some 400 miles (640 km) away to the South and near the foot of the Beardmore Glacier, Crean’s friend Taff Evans collapsed and died, the first of Scott’s party to perish on the return from the Pole.
Crean and Lashly rose wearily from their sleeping bags on the morning of 18 February 1912. It was cold, their ‘breakfast’ left the men still hungry and they knew the fight was as good as over. The mathematics were brutally simple. In their weak condition, it would take four or five days, or even longer, to travel the 35 miles (56 km) to the safety of Hut Point, even if they could summon the strength to make the journey. But all that remained was enough food for three meals, sufficient perhaps for one and a half or two days. Their reserves of strength had been drained.
As they lifted the stricken Evans onto the sledge, once again he collapsed. Both men thought he was dead. Crean was again moved to tears and only jolted from his sorrowful mourning by a sharp rebuke from Lashly, which had the desired effect. In his diary, Lashly recorded the tense scene:
‘Crean was very upset and almost cried, but I told him it was no good to create a scene but put up a bold front and try to assist.’20
They poured the last remaining drop of brandy into Evans in an attempt to revive the critically ill man and tenderly placed him back on the sledge to make him as comfortable as possible. They knew that, for Evans at least, it was probably to be the last march. But they had no intention of leaving him behind.
Crean and Lashly began to drag and pull the sledge and Evans movingly described the grim scene as they took their increasingly weary steps in the snow:
‘I could see them from the sledge by raising my head – how slowly their legs seemed to move, wearily but nobly they fought on … Their strength was spent, and great though their hearts were, they now had to give up. In vain they tried to move the sledge with my wasted weight upon it – it was hopeless.’21
In biting wind and sub-zero temperatures, the two exhausted men stopped in their tracks, unable to move any further. They had courageously carried their colleague 100 miles (160 km) across some of the most hostile terrain on earth. But their strength had all but ebbed away and their struggle was virtually at an end.
With heavy hearts, they pitched the tent and carried their dying comrade inside. Evans himself thought the end was near and recalled being dragged by ‘two hungry exhausted and hollow-eyed companions to a deserted camp on the Great Ice Barrier under the shadow of Mount Erebus’.22 He remembered them placing him on Crean’s sleeping bag and recorded:
‘I thought I was being put into my grave.’23
Outside Crean and Lashly held a brief two-man council of war. Evans overheard what he described as ‘low notes of sadness, but with a certain thread of determination running through what they said’.24
It was clear that the men were spent, unable to drag Evans any further and with food supplies down to virtually nothing. Leaving Evans alone would be signing the lieutenant’s death warrant, even if it meant saving their own lives. Nor could they expect any relief, either from the dogs or man-hauling teams.
In the grim circumstances, there was only one option. One of the men would remain behin
d with Evans and the other should proceed on foot to Hut Point, 35 miles (56 km) away where he might expect to find help. It was another desperate act by two desperate men and, as before, there was no reasonable alternative.
Crean now took the bravest decision of his life and volunteered to make the solo walk to Hut Point, leaving Lashly to nurse Evans. He had taken a similarly brave decision a year earlier when, as the only experienced member of the party, he went single-handedly to find help for Bowers and Cherry-Garrard adrift on the ice floes with the ponies. But then he was fit, rested and fully fed. Today, as he contemplated his epic march, Crean was bitterly cold, thirsty, starving hungry and physically drained after months of walking and man-hauling for over 1,500 miles (2,420 km).
Even a man like Crean, who was always confident in his own ability, must have doubted his chances of survival.
Lashly recalled the conversation when Crean offered to make the hazardous attempt to reach Hut Point and recorded in his own words:
An Unsung Hero: Tom Crean - Antarctic Survivor Page 15
