Shackleton realised that the Wills, despite Crean’s experience, was highly vulnerable and might lose touch with the other two craft. Crean had been trained on large steel battleships and although he had some experience of small boats, it was not his natural area of expertise. As a result, Shackleton fixed a line between the Wills and the Caird. It was a lifeline, for the Wills would probably not survive alone in the high rolling seas, shipping water and weighed down with growing layers of ice which now covered the boat.
Concern about the fate of the Wills was shared by the men in the two other boats and Hurley recalled their fears:
‘It seemed from moment to moment that we should have to part the line and leave her to her fate. Sir Ernest, in the stern, strained his eyes into the dark torrent and shouting at intervals words of cheer and inquiry: “She’s gone!” one would say as a hoary billow reared its crest between us.
Then against the white spume a dark shape would appear and through the tumult would come, faint but cheering, Tom Crean’s reassuring hail, “All well, Sir”.’2
The icebergs were a constant threat to all three boats and it was also apparent to the experienced sailors that the vessels were dangerously overloaded in these choppy seas. There was no alternative but to dump something and the only commodity they could jettison was food.
Shackleton slashed their supplies from three to two weeks. Green, the cook who performed wonders in the most trying circumstances, produced the best and largest meal they had eaten in nearly six months before they reluctantly left a pile of food on an ice floe.
They rose next day to find 20° of frost and great rolling seas. The ice floe on which they had spent a relatively contented night was being buffeted and broken by the angry seas. It was breaking up and disintegrating beneath their feet and they were unable to launch their boats because there were no leads of open water. The anxiety was acute.
It was not until late afternoon, with the light already beginning to dim, that they spotted a lead and could launch the boats off the floe and into the uninviting water. Shackleton was unnerved by the experience, fearing that they would become trapped on a disintegrating floe in waters where they could not launch the boats. As a result, he vowed never to spend another night on an ice floe.
Although they soon found some welcome open water, the Wills could not make the same progress as the other boats and once again fell away to the rear of the flotilla. The obvious concern was that the boat would be smashed against the ice so the Docker went back to provide a much appreciated tow to safety.
True to his word, Shackleton did not camp on the floe that night. The boats were tied up against a floe and the men landed while Green prepared a hot meal. The three ‘skippers’, Crean, Worsley and Shackleton, each remained on board their little boats to steady them and prevent collisions with any floe which might pass dangerously close.
But there was a shock awaiting the men when Shackleton asked Worsley, an experienced and highly capable navigator, to calculate how far they had travelled. Without checking he guessed about 30 miles (48 km) and everyone was relieved. But, after working out his observations, Worsley found to his horror that they had travelled 30 miles in the wrong direction!
The little vessels had been carried away from the intended route by the strong-running current pouring out of the Bransfield Straits, the narrow strip of water between the Antarctic Continent and the South Shetland Islands. After three days of unrelenting labour and toil, the party was about 40 miles (64 km) further away from Elephant or Clarence Islands. Joinville Island, which they had left on their northerly drift a few weeks earlier, was now barely 80 miles (130 km) across the horizon.
Shackleton said the result of Worsley’s sighting was a ‘grievous disappointment’ but he kept the information from the bulk of the party. Instead he told them that they had not made as much progress as expected and then changed course for Hope Bay, a desolate spot about 80 miles (130 km) away on the northern extremities of the Graham Land peninsula.
That night the men tried to grab a little sleep as the three boats, now tethered together, bobbed and swayed in the lee of a berg. Snow was falling, the temperature had dropped to 4° below freezing and the men huddled against each other for snatches of warmth. Their frozen clothing thawed where their bodies met and Shackleton recalled that, as the slightest movement exposed the ‘warm spots’ to the biting cold air, the men clung motionless to their nearest comrade.
By 13 April, the fifth day afloat, some of the men were starting to crack. The strain of the drift and now the exposure from the boat journey was taking its toll and their difficulty was increased by the knowledge that hot food and drink was out of the question unless they could land on a stable-looking floe to erect the primus stove. Cold breakfast after a broken night’s sleep in sub-zero temperatures was hardly encouraging for the hungry, tired and freezing men.
Shackleton immediately took the bold decision of abandoning his plan to sail for Hope Bay. He realised that the depleted men needed to find land as quickly as possible. Instead, he announced, they would make a run for Elephant Island, then about 100 miles (160 km) away to the northwest. He had been persuaded by a strong southeasterly wind which had risen that morning. They redistributed the food supplies to ease the pressure on the Wills, hoisted their little sails and set off, praying that the southeasterly wind would carry them to the safety of Elephant Island.
Good progress was made and at around noon, the three boats suddenly burst away from the pack and out into the open seas. The last time they had sailed in open water was December 1914, and now, sixteen months later, the men were free. Shackleton said that for a few hours they enjoyed ‘a sense of the freedom and the magic of the sea’.3
Their joy, however, was short lived because the wind freshened and Wills in particular, began shipping dangerously large amounts of water. In choppy, windswept seas, the fear was that the three boats would become separated and the party had little choice but to hurriedly find a safe haven for the night.
However, there was little safety to be had. It was a dreadful night for the men, with temperatures sinking below zero and the wind penetrating their badly worn clothing as they struggled to grab a few hours’ rest in the cramped, uncomfortable and constantly swaying boats. A further concern was the lack of fresh water because they had escaped the pack so suddenly that there was no time to grab ice blocks to melt for drinking water. Thirst was the last straw for some.
The men were a sorry sight, huddled together for warmth and comfort. For some it was to be the worst night of the expedition and Shackleton admitted that the condition of many of the exhausted men was ‘pitiable’. Some were suicidal and Shackleton later wrote that he doubted if all of them would survive the night.
Blackborrow, the youngest in the party, was in an especially poor condition because of severe frostbite. His feet had ‘gone’ and there was little anyone could do about his plight in an open boat tossing around in the darkness in the Southern Ocean.
Most of the men had been struck by frostbite but Shackleton said it was interesting to note that ‘old timers’ – Crean, Wild, Hurley and himself – were all right. ‘Apparently, we were acclimatised to ordinary Antarctic temperatures,’ he added.4
Dawn on 14 April brought the welcome sight of snow-clad peaks on Clarence Island and a little later the bleak, but welcome mountains of Elephant Island suddenly appeared on the horizon. Worsley’s navigation had been faultless. They were perhaps 30 miles (48 km) away from dry, firm land.
The Caird would have to tow the struggling Wills, a difficult task in the treacherous rolling seas. Shackleton shouted across to Crean that in the event that they became separated, the Wills should make for the nearest land, probably Clarence Island. It was a forlorn hope. If the Wills had drifted off it would have been fatal. To add to the gloom, Crean reported back that Hudson had finally collapsed.
The fervent hope was that they could make landfall by darkness but as dusk rolled in they dared not risk trying to land on a
n unknown beachhead in heavy seas. In the darkness, the Docker had become separated and the men on the Caird and Wills were worried that she had been lost. Perhaps the strong winds and currents had carried the little cutter through the channels and past Elephant Island into the sweeping expanse of the Southern Ocean.
The 28 men on the three boats spent a dreadfully uncomfortable night. Temperatures plunged to 20° below freezing and wind howled as they once again sought warmth from each other’s bodies. The imperturbable Wild freely admitted it was the worst night he had ever known.
Dawn broke on 15 April 1916 to find the three boats reunited but buffeted by a raging gale. Above them towered the steep forbidding black cliffs of Elephant Island. The joy of reaching solid land was tempered by the very real concern that they might be smashed to pieces on the rocks which blocked their path to landfall. The men, many on the brink of collapse, strained their eyes to find a suitable landing place.
Crean in the Wills was ordered to come alongside Shackleton in the Caird and after a brief discussion it was decided to take the smaller, lighter cutter closer to land to investigate likely places to land. Shackleton joined Crean on the Wills and at around 9 a.m. they spotted a narrow rocky beach at the base of some cliffs which offered the hope of a landing.
The entrance they sought was guarded by a reef of threatening rocks which jutted out from the heavy rolling seas. A narrow channel was spotted which offered some hope of slipping through the protruding rocks and they carefully guided the Wills towards the inviting gap. Patiently they waited for the right moment and as the next wave rushed through the channel, the order was given to pull. In an instant, the Wills crossed the reef and the following wave carried the small boat to a grinding halt on the rocky, pebble-strewn beach.
Crean, Shackleton and the others in the Wills had made the first ever landing on Elephant Island. It was the first time they had felt firm ground beneath their feet since they left South Georgia 497 days earlier. They had spent 170 days adrift on an ice floe and 7 days in the open boat.
19
A fragile hold on life
The small pebble beach at Elephant Island provided the 28 men with only a tenuous grip on life. It was little more than 100 ft (30 m) wide and 50 ft (15 m) deep, surrounded on both sides by large rocks and steep cliffs, climbing sharply to over 2,000 ft (600 m) in places. The beach was exposed to the full rage of the Southern Ocean, which battered down incessantly.
Elephant Island is no place to be stranded. It forms part of the chain of South Shetland Islands, which were discovered in 1819 by the English merchant seaman, William Smith, who was blown off course while rounding Cape Horn. Smith did not land on the hostile-looking island, which sits at the northeastern end of the chain of islands and rocky outcrops about 600 miles (1,000 km) from the tip of South America. It is 23 miles (37 km) long and about 13 miles (21 km) across at its widest, a remote, uninhabited and unfriendly world. The island is comprised almost entirely of rocks and mountains that rise steeply out of the sea, offering very little shelter or beaches.
No one knew they were there and they could not expect a chance meeting with a passing ship. It was not on any known shipping route and any rescue mission for the expedition was improbable. By all known information, the men were thought to be at Vahsel Bay, well over 1,000 miles (1,600 km) away on the Antarctic mainland. Without a radio to make contact with the outside world, the castaways would have to effect their own rescue.
These thoughts were far from their minds as the men first stumbled ashore, to feel the firm ground under their feet for the first time in many long months. Some simply sank to their knees while others picked up pebbles and ran them through their grubby hands as if to convince themselves that they had indeed reached land. A few of the men reeled about on unsteady rubbery legs like drunks and others simply sat on the stony ground, shivering uncontrollably. Someone recalled that the men did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
The boat journey from their ice floe had exacted a terrible toll on the men. They had been badly weakened by a combination of exposure to the cold and wet, the heavy work of rowing the boats in stormy seas, a shortage of hot food, severe thirst, a lack of sleep and above all, the enormous mental strain imposed by their captivity. Everyone was affected by the ordeal. Even the indomitable Shackleton, in the words of Macklin, looked ‘gaunt and haggard’.
Many of the men under Crean’s command in the Wills had cracked under the intense strain of six days in the open boat. McNeish wrote that Hudson had ‘gone of [sic] his head’.1 Blackborrow’s feet were so frostbitten that he had to be carried from the boat and Stevenson had to be helped ashore. Many others from the other boats were on the point of collapse and several had developed severe cases of frostbite.
Hurley moaned that many had conducted themselves in a manner ‘unworthy of gentlemen and British sailors’. Some who had expected to be bulwarks had ‘stove in’ and many of the cases of frostbite were, he concluded, the result of negligence. But there was full praise for the stalwarts like Crean and Wild who had been so prominent throughout their trial. Hurley wrote:
‘Amongst those that stand meritorious, Sir E [Shackleton] has mentioned: Wild – a tower of strength who appeared as well as ever after 32 hours at the tiller in frozen clothes, Crean who piloted the Wills, McNeish (carpenter) Vincent (AB) McCarthy (AB) Marston (Dudley Docker) and self.’2
The majority of the men were too exhausted or dejected to care about much. The fitter, stronger ones were immediately deployed to bring the stores and equipment onto the beach. With one last supreme effort, they managed to haul the three little boats onto the pebbles. The soggy sleeping bags were spread out across the beach in the hope they would dry. Green, ever reliable, quietly conjured up some steaming hot milk to toast their arrival and the blubber stove began to cook their first hot meal in days.
The most encouraging feature of the beach, soon called Cape Valentine, was that the many nearby glaciers provided ample supplies of fresh water and there were abundant signs of wildlife like seals and penguins to provide fresh meat. The men ate a hearty meal, which immediately spread some warmth through their chilled bodies for the first time in days. As soon as they had finished, the men settled down for a long, unbroken night’s rest knowing that they had solid ground beneath them. Most were in their sleeping bags by 3 p.m. in the afternoon, desperately anxious to get their first good night’s sleep in a week. Somehow they managed to ignore the roaring winds crashing into their little green tents with monotonous regularity.
But the weary, relieved men were not safe. It was clear from the water marks on the nearby cliffs that the beach would be swamped at high tide and there was the ever-present threat of a northeasterly gale sweeping down on them, sending mountainous waves to engulf their little haven. The men could not remain on the beach, though for many the prospect of another boat journey was almost too much to bear.
Next morning, Shackleton’s two most trusted lieutenants, Wild and Crean, took the Wills around the coastline in search of a safer haven. They returned long after darkness at 8 p.m. with the welcome news that a sandy beach, about 150 yards long and 30 yards wide, had been discovered approximately 7 miles away. It contained a sizeable amount of wildlife and a nearby glacier would yield abundant supplies of fresh drinking water. They would leave the next morning.
The men rose at 5 a.m. and packed their gear. Crean’s task in the Wills was made a little easier by the transfer of Blackborrow and Hudson, his two major invalids, to the other boats. But as they departed, the weather closed in with a vengeance, the wind gathering speed from gale to hurricane force. It was as though the Antarctic was refusing to let them escape. The Wills was swept in to shore by one mountainous swell and came perilously near to being smashed onto the rocks as Crean struggled to retain control.
In the turmoil several of the boats’ oars broke – Crean’s party in the Wills was reduced to only three. The little boat, although now lighter after Blackborrow and Hudson’s departure, began to f
all behind and Worsley in the Docker dropped back to lend a hand. Worsley handed Crean an extra oar – the shortest – from the Docker.
Even in the depth of their current crisis Crean retained his sense of humour and Worsley cheerfully recalled:
‘I dropped back and handed our shortest oar to Crean, who was over six feet tall. [sic] He thanked me emphatically. “Skipper, darlin’,” he added, “what the hell’s the good O’ givin’ me, the longest man, the shortest oar.” Swap it, I shouted, which he did.’3
After two hours of strenuous labour, the three little boats found shelter behind a point of rock and the men hurriedly ate some cold rations. Soon they resumed their slog. Despite the cold and wet, they continued to pull against the strong winds and at about 5 p.m., they arrived off the small sandy beach found by Crean and Wild the previous day.
As before, Crean took the Wills in first and the men gratefully clambered or were helped ashore as soon as the boat ran to ground. As soon as they trod on firm ground, the first engineer, Louis Rickinson, collapsed with a heart attack, another victim of the strain.
The beach offered minimum protection but was safer than Cape Valentine. It was little more than a spit, extending steeply upwards about 100 yards (90 m) by 30 yards (27 m). Shackleton said it was ‘rough, bleak and inhospitable’ and Hurley said the beach was like the ‘courtyard of a prison’. Macklin remembered that a ‘more inhospitable place could scarcely be imagined’.
An Unsung Hero: Tom Crean - Antarctic Survivor Page 25
