Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage

by Alfred Lansing

Every man on board stiffened, as if he himself had been touched. Several raced up the ladders onto deck. In the next instant, the deck seemed to slide away from beneath their feet as the ship rolled suddenly over to port. A second’s pause—then everything movable let go with a rush—wood, kennels, ropes, sledges, stores, dogs, and men cascaded across the deck. James was caught under two boxes of winter clothing onto which a pile-up of dogs descended in whining, howling confusion. Clouds of steam rose from the galley and the wardroom where pots of water were upset onto the fires. In the space of five seconds, the Endurance was heeled over 20 degrees to port—and she continued to fall off.

Nevertheless, there was a remarkable absence of discouragement. All the men were in a state of dazed fatigue, and nobody paused to reflect on the terrible consequences of losing their ship. Nor were they upset by the fact that they were now camped on a piece of ice perhaps 6 feet thick. It was a haven compared with the nightmare of labor and uncertainty of the last few days on the Endurance. It was quite enough to be alive—and they were merely doing what they had to do to stay that way. There was even a trace of mild exhilaration in their attitude. At least, they had a clear-cut task ahead of them. The nine months of indecision, of speculation about what might happen, of aimless drifting with the pack were over. Now they simply had to get themselves out, however appallingly difficult that might be.

Indomitability

Then he laid the Bible in the snow and walked away. It was a dramatic gesture, but that was the way Shackleton wanted it. From studying the outcome of past expeditions, he believed that those that burdened themselves with equipment to meet every contingency had fared much worse than those that had sacrificed total preparedness for speed.

Since there wasn’t another suitable camping place within sight, Shackleton decided they would spend the night where they were. Almost as fast as the tents were pitched, they were soaked inside. It was impossible to crawl into them without bringing in quantities of wet, clinging snow. Macklin commented: “I cannot help feeling sorry for Worsley at the mouth of our tent, for he gets the wet brought in by everybody.” Worsley, however, was far from distressed. He wrote in his diary that same night: “The rapidity with which one can completely change one’s ideas . . . and accommodate ourselves to a state of barbarism is wonderful.” Shackleton was pleased by the general cheeriness of the men.

Though he was virtually fearless in the physical sense, he suffered an almost pathological dread of losing control of the situation. In part, this attitude grew out of a consuming sense of responsibility. He felt he had gotten them into their situation, and it was his responsibility to get them out. As a consequence, he was intensely watchful for potential troublemakers who might nibble away at the unity of the group.

The days now were considerably longer than the nights, with the sun setting about 9 P.M., and rising again near three o’clock in the morning. In the evenings there was plenty of light for reading or playing cards. Frequently Hussey took his banjo around to the galley tent where the flicker of flame in the blubber stove warmed his fingers enough to play, and there was always a good turnout of singers.

Clark and his seven listeners lay snuggling together for warmth, arranged in a circle around the tent with their feet thrust under a pile of sleeping bags to generate a little collective heat.

“I must confess I find his reading an excellent soporific.”

Underlying the optimism and good spirits of the party was a deep-seated confidence that their situation was only temporary. Things were certain to improve before very long. Summer was coming. They were positive that the drift of the pack, which had been at a creeping pace, would pick up speed. Even if it didn’t, the summer weather would loosen the ice, and they could take to the boats.

Yet for all the abuse his crewmates heaped on him, Orde-Lees was never provoked into a fight. He would usually reply in a hurt tone of voice, “Now, really, you shouldn’t say things like that.” Still he was anything but a coward. In fact he was almost foolhardy in the risks he took. Out seal hunting, he would dash across leads of open water, leaping from one chunk of ice to the next while killer whales cruised around. Once during the darkest part of the winter when the Endurance had been beset, he found a bicycle in the hold of the ship and went out for a ride across the frozen floes. He was gone two hours in the perilous cold, and a searching party had to go out to find him.

when the night watchman drew off a tablespoon of gasoline from a drum in the galley and poured it into a small iron saucer in the bottom of the stove. He then lighted the gasoline and it, in turn, ignited strips of blubber draped on grates above the saucer.

The heavy sleepers who were not up by 7:45 were awakened by the night watchman, who went among the tents shouting, “Lash up and stow.”

Heavy sleepers who were not up by 7:45 were awakened by the night watchman, who went among the tents shouting, “Lash up and stow.”

In the beginning a few of the men, particularly little Louis Rickenson, the chief engineer, were squeamish about this seemingly cold-blooded method of hunting. But not for long. The will to survive soon dispelled any hesitancy to obtain food by any means.

The subject of sex was rarely brought up—not because of any post-Victorian prudishness, but simply because the topic was almost completely alien to the conditions of cold, wet, and hunger which occupied everyone’s thoughts almost continually. Whenever women were discussed, it was in a nostalgic, sentimental way—of a longing to see a wife, a mother, or a sweetheart at home.

“Really, this sort of life has its attractions,” Macklin wrote. “I read somewhere that all a man needs to be happy is a full stomach and warmth, and I begin to think it is nearly true. No worries, no trains, no letters to answer, no collars to wear—but I wonder which of us would not jump at the chance to change it all tomorrow!”

After spending four hours sewing an elaborate patch on the seat of his only pair of trousers, Macklin wrote one day, “What an ingrate I have been for such jobs when done for me at home.” Greenstreet felt much the same way after he had devoted several days to scraping and curing a piece of sealskin to resole his boots. He paused in the midst of his task to write in his diary: “One of the finest days we have ever had . . . a pleasure to be alive.”

In some ways they had come to know themselves better. In this lonely world of ice and emptiness, they had achieved at least a limited kind of contentment. They had been tested and found not wanting.

They thought of home, naturally, but there was no burning desire to be in civilization for its own sake. Worsley recorded: “Waking on a fine morning I feel a great longing for the smell of dewy wet grass and flowers of a Spring morning in New Zealand or England. One has very few other longings for civilization—good bread and butter, Munich beer, Coromandel ...

In the midst of it, Greenstreet upset his powdered milk. He whirled on Clark, cursing him for causing the accident because Clark had called his attention for a moment. Clark tried to protest, but Greenstreet shouted him down. Then Greenstreet paused to get his breath, and in that instant his anger was spent and he suddenly fell silent. Everyone else in the tent became quiet, too, and looked at Greenstreet, shaggy-haired, bearded, and filthy with blubber soot, holding his empty mug in his hand and looking helplessly down into the snow that had thirstily soaked up his precious milk. The loss was so tragic he seemed almost on the point of weeping. Without speaking, Clark reached out and poured some of his milk into Greenstreet’s mug. Then Worsley, then Macklin, and Rickenson and Kerr, Orde-Lees, and finally Blackboro. They finished in silence.

great quantities of pack had drifted down on them. Now it extended unbroken to the horizon in every direction. Berg fragments and shattered floes in ten-thousand different shapes obliterated the surface of the water. And out of the northwest, rollers 30 feet high, stretching from horizon to horizon, swept down through the pack in long, implacable lines a half mile apart. At their summits the floe-berg was lifted to what seemed like dizzying heights, then dropped into valleys from which the horizon was obscured. The air was filled with a dull, muddled roar—the low shriek of the wind, and the seas breaking hoarsely amongst the pack, along with the incessant booming grind of the ice.

The whole scene had a kind of horrifying fascination. The men stood by, tense and altogether aware that in the next instant they might be flung into the sea to be crushed or drowned, or to flounder in the icy water until the spark of life was chilled from their bodies. And yet the grandeur of the spectacle before them was undeniable.

But there was to be no camping this night—nor ever again, so far as Shackleton was concerned. They had learned their lesson twice over, and they were through with the ice for good. The only man to debark now was Green, who carried his blubber stove and supplies onto the floe. He brewed up some seal hoosh and warmed some milk. The men ate sitting in the boats.

Throughout the night, the sudden eruption of water nearby and a sound like a steam valve popping under pressure told of whales blowing close at hand. They became the primary worry during that long, black night. Whales had been seen on hundreds of occasions tossing aside vast chunks of floes as they surfaced to breathe. And the ability of a whale to discriminate between the underside of a floe and the white bottoms of the boats was open to serious question.

But there was little sympathy for him. He had done less than the others ever since they had taken to the boats. Often when it came his turn to row, he pleaded with Worsley to let him off, claiming that he was sick or that he didn’t know how to row well enough. As usual, Worsley found it difficult to be stern, and since there were always plenty of volunteer oarsmen wanting to get warm, Orde-Lees was frequently allowed to skip his turn. On the rare occasions when he was ordered or shamed into taking up an oar, he managed to exhibit an ineptitude which won him a speedy relief. Several times when he was rowing ahead of Kerr, he kept just enough out of rhythm so that when he leaned back after every stroke he smashed into Kerr’s fingers behind him. Curses, threats—nothing had any effect on him. He seemed not even to hear. Finally Kerr would ask Worsley to replace Orde-Lees.

The seas that came on board ran down into the bottom of the boat, and since most of the men were wearing felt boots, their feet were soaked all night in the icy water. They did what they could to keep the boats bailed dry, but the water sometimes rose ankle-deep. To keep their feet from freezing, they worked their toes constantly inside their boots. They could only hope that the pain in their feet would continue, because comfort, much as they yearned for it, would mean that they were freezing. After a time, it took extreme concentration for them to keep wiggling their toes—it would have been so terribly easy just to stop.

Most of all they cursed Orde-Lees, who had got hold of the only set of oilskins and refused to give them up. He maneuvered himself into the most comfortable position in the boat by shoving Marston out, and he would not move.

It was more than just a sunrise. It seemed to flood into their souls, rekindling the life within them. They watched the growing light quenching the wild, dark misery of the night that now, at last, was over.

The light of dawn revealed the results of the night. Many faces were marked by the ugly white rings of frostbite, and almost everyone was afflicted with salt-water boils that gave off a gray, curdlike discharge when they broke. McIlroy called to Shackleton from the Wills that Blackboro’s feet apparently were gone because he had been unable to restore circulation in them. And Shackleton himself looked haggard. His voice, which was usually strong and clear, had grown hoarse with exhaustion. Both the Docker and the Wills were severely iced up, inside and out. It took more than an hour to chip away enough to make them fit for sailing. When it came time to haul in the sea anchor, Cheetham and Holness leaned over the bow of the Docker trying to untie the icy knot in the rope with fingers so stiff they would hardly move. While they worked, the Docker rose to a sea, then pitched downward. Holness failed to pull his head away, and two of his teeth were knocked out on the sea anchor. Tears welled in his eyes, rolled down into his beard, and froze there.

the men’s thirst was now so intense that few of them could eat it. Shackleton suggested that they try chewing seal meat raw in order to swallow the blood. Pieces of the frozen meat were quickly handed out, and after several minutes of chewing and sucking, the men obtained enough of the bloody juice so they could at least swallow. But they went at it so voraciously that Shackleton realized the supply would soon be exhausted, so he ordered that the seal meat be given out only when thirst seemed to be threatening the reason of any individual.

Macklin and Greenstreet took off their boots and found their feet frostbitten, Greenstreet’s much worse than Macklin’s. Surprisingly, Orde-Lees offered to massage Greenstreet’s feet. He worked over them for a long time; then he opened up his shirt and placed Greenstreet’s half-frozen feet against the warmth of his bare chest. After a while, Greenstreet began to feel pain as the blood flowed back into the constricted vessels.

They had had no sleep for almost eighty hours, and their bodies had been drained by exposure

Worsley ordered Orde-Lees to take up an oar, but Orde-Lees begged to be let off, claiming that he was not a fit rower for such a perilous time, and that it was too wet for him. The two men screamed at one another in the darkness, and from every corner of the boat men cursed Orde-Lees. But it was no use, and finally Worsley disgustedly waved him forward. Orde-Lees immediately crawled into the bottom and refused to move, even though his weight unbalanced the boat.

Orde-Lees, who had been lying in the bottom, sat upright. He seemed suddenly to realize that the boat was sinking, and he grabbed a pot and began to bail.

It was now about three o’clock, and Worsley himself began to fail. He had faced the wind so long that his eyes refused to function properly, and he found it impossible to judge distance. Try as he might, he could no longer stay awake. They had been in the boats now for five and a half days, and during that time almost everyone had come to look upon Worsley in a new light. In the past he had been thought of as excitable and wild—even irresponsible. But all that was changed now. During these past days he had exhibited an almost phenomenal ability, both as a navigator and in the demanding skill of handling a small boat. There wasn’t another man in the party even comparable with him, and he had assumed an entirely new stature because of it.

Now, seated at the tiller, his head began to nod. Macklin saw him going and offered to take over. Worsley agreed, but when he tried to go forward he found he could not straighten out his body. He had sat for almost six days in the same position. McLeod and Marston came aft and pulled him out of the stern, dragging him over the seats and cases of stores. Then they laid him down in the bottom of the boat and rubbed his thighs and stomach until his muscles began to loosen. But by then he was asleep.

Pieces of ice floated amongst the waves, and the men leaned over the sides as the boat drove past and scooped them up with their hands. A moment later they were chewing and sucking greedily, and the delicious water was running down their throats.

Blackboro’s feet were long since beyond the point of hurting. He never complained, though he knew that it was only a matter of time until gangrene set in. Even if he lived, it seemed unlikely that this youngster who had stowed away a year and a half before would ever walk again. Once during the night, Shackleton called to him in an attempt to raise his spirits. “Blackboro,” he shouted in the darkness. “Here, sir,” Blackboro replied. “We shall be on Elephant Island tomorrow,” Shackleton yelled. “No one has ever landed there before, and you will be the first ashore.”

With the next wave, her bow ground against the shore. Shackleton, remembering his promise, urged Blackboro to jump ashore, but the lad failed to move. He seemed not to comprehend what Shackleton was saying. Impatiently, Shackleton took hold of him and lifted him over the side. Blackboro dropped to his hands and knees, then rolled over and sat down with the surf surging around him. “Get up,” Shackleton ordered. Blackboro looked up. “I can’t, sir,” he replied. Shackleton suddenly remembered Blackboro’s feet. In the excitement of the landing he had forgotten, and he felt ashamed.

A meager grip on a savage coast, exposed to the full fury of the sub-Antarctic Ocean. But no matter—they were on land. For the first time in 497 days they were on land. Solid, unsinkable, immovable, blessed land.

Finally the food was ready, and they ate. It was neither breakfast nor lunch nor dinner. It was one long intermittent meal. As soon as they had finished the first round of steaks, Green put more on the fire. When these were ready the men stopped whatever they were doing and ate again. It wasn’t until nearly 3 P.M. that they had eaten all they could hold.

Then it was time to sleep. They unrolled their soaked sleeping bags and wrung out what water they could; the dampness that remained made little difference. James wrote: “Turned in and slept, as we had never slept before, absolute dead dreamless sleep, oblivious of wet sleeping bags, lulled by the croaking of the penguins.” It was the same for all of them. “How delicious,” wrote Hurley, “to wake in one’s sleep and listen to the chanting of the penguins mingling with the music of the sea. To fall asleep and awaken again and feel this is real. We have reached the land!!” Most of the men were awakened once during that glorious night to stand an hour’s watch, and even this was almost pleasure. The night was calm, and the sky was clear. The moon shone on the little pebbled beach, washed by the waves, a scene of utter tranquility. Furthermore, wrote Worsley, the watchmen, during their 1-hour tour of duty, “feed themselves, keep the blubber fire going, feed themselves, dry their clothes, feed themselves, and then feed themselves again before turning in.”

SEALs, post “Hell week” gorge, recovery weekend

They became conscious of it, strangely, by a mounting awareness of a long-forgotten feeling. It was something they knew now they had not really experienced since abandoning the Endurance. It was security. The knowledge that, comparatively at least, there was nothing to fear. There was still danger, of course, but it was different from the imminent threat of disaster which had stalked them for so long. In a very literal way, it seemed to release a portion of their minds which hitherto had been obsessed with the need to remain ceaselessly alert.

I bequeath the big binoculars to Frank Hurley.

For the most part, the men stood around joking. McCarthy was admonished by the other forecastle hands not to get his feet wet during the voyage. Worsley was cautioned against overeating when he reached civilization, and Crean was forced to promise that he would leave some girls for the rest of the party after they were rescued. But the tension in the air was unmistakable. Both groups knew they might never see one another again.

“Good luck, Boss,” the shore party called

Then came the crawl through the hut entrance and out into weather which often approached blizzard conditions. Frequently a man could scarcely keep his feet outside. Pieces of rock and bits of ice flew unseen through the blackness. Rather than face such a prospect, the men came to practice bladder control to the limits of bodily endurance.

Fairbanks sub -40° outhouse visits- bladder control, peeing off the deck

Shackleton stood beside him, alternately peering ahead at the approaching ice, and turning again to look at the men he was leaving behind.

Shackleton turned and looked astern. It was just possible to make out Elephant Island as a hulking, shadowy mass. For several minutes he stared without speaking.

Unlike the land, where courage and the simple will to endure can often see a man through, the struggle against the sea is an act of physical combat, and there is no escape. It is a battle against a tireless enemy in which man never actually wins; the most that he can hope for is not to be defeated. It gave Shackleton a feeling of uneasiness. He now faced an adversary so formidable that his own strength was nothing in comparison, and he did not enjoy being in a position where boldness and determination count for almost nothing, and in which victory is measured only in survival.

Shortly after noon, as if from nowhere, a magnificent wandering albatross appeared overhead. In contrast to the Caird, it soared with an ease and grace that was poetic, riding the gale on wings that never moved, sometimes dropping to within 10 feet of the boat, then rising almost vertically on the wind, a hundred, two hundred feet, only to plunge downward again in a beautifully effortless sweep. It was perhaps one of nature’s ironies. Here was her largest and most incomparable creature capable of flight, whose wingspread exceeded 11 feet from tip to tip, and to whom the most violent storm was meaningless, sent to accompany the Caird, as if in mockery of her painful struggles.