Endurance Page 13

  The warehouses lining the Buenos Aires waterfront were grimy and monotonous. Behind lay a smoke-stained sky with low cloud. I had been expecting something more colourful. There were however bustling crowds and a diverse assortment of vessels and not far away the masts of Endurance, were pointed out to me, just visible behind a row of dilapidated cargo ships.

  Endurance was a barquentine-rigged three-masted wooden ship, like Aurora, but smaller. She looked a dainty ship to be heading into Antarctic seas. Her hull was jet black and slender, but her nice lines were spoiled by a miscellany of unstowed cargo and a superstructure of dog kennels built along both sides of the upper deck. She was strewn with crates, hessian sacks, drums of fuel and water, and had snow sledges strapped to the gunnels and side stays.

  My dockside reconnoitring ended abruptly when I was grabbed from behind in a wrestling hold. ‘Hoyle, we’ve been bloody wondering if you would make it!’ It was Frank Wild, who had sailed out from England on board Endurance. He was small but strong as an ox and his warmth and easy confidence was a tonic to me.

  ‘And where is Bickerton?’ I asked.

  ‘Bick enlisted. He was on board until just before we sailed out of West India Dock in London. Once war was declared there were soldiers everywhere. I think he fancied himself in uniform. Truth is, we were all a bit torn. I wasn’t sure if coming away was the right thing to do. But we’re here now.’

  I was surprised. ‘So Bick chose soldiering over exploring?’

  ‘Well, the pay is more reliable,’ Wild joked.

  ‘If he’s not here, who’s looking after the motorised snow tractors?’

  ‘The boss recruited a colonel in the Royal Marines, Orde-Lees. Loves all the latest inventions. He’s a bit of a toff, but he’s fit and he can ski. He’s an odd bod, though; insisted on bringing his bicycle.’

  Wild showed me on board and took me to Shackleton’s cabin to meet the great man, who had arrived in port and boarded Endurance only two days before me. I had learned from Wild that he had already cut two troublesome sailors from the crew. To all on board he was simply known as ‘the boss’.

  The meeting was brief. Shackleton was seated at a small writing desk. He made no effort to get up but eyed me closely and shook my hand with the firm grip expected of an explorer of his ilk. He was swarthy, and stocky like a boxer, with a broad brow and a square chin. Despite the cold day, he had a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘Settle in, Mr Hurley, and we’ll talk later.’ He was certainly a change from the professorial Mawson.

  As we left, I noticed he had a large tattered poster of Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If—’ on the back of his cabin door.

  If you can keep your head when all about you

  Are losing theirs and blame it on you,

  If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

  But make allowance for their doubting too . . .

  He could, I would discover, recite the whole poem at the drop of a hat, and many more poems besides. I could readily believe that ‘If—’ was his personal manifesto, and it would prove quite prophetic as things turned out:

  If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

  And treat those two imposters just the same . . .

  And I confess the poem found resonance with me:

  If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

  If all men count with you, but none too much . . .

  I had lost contact with my colleagues from the AAE; I was not a letter writer nor one for social chitchat. Not being much of a drinker, I found myself bored if dragged to the pub. I enjoyed my work and I yearned to travel. Ma said I was a rolling stone that gathered no moss. But only one person can look through a viewfinder.

  I was very much the newcomer on the expedition and so it was a relief to have Frank Wild, who was second-in-command, to introduce me to the men I would be in close quarters with for over a year. They were almost uniformly young, with English or Scottish accents, and consisted of a good number of scientific types, educated at famous universities like Oxford and Cambridge. I was expecting them to be snobbish and some of them were, but they were quiet rather than rude. They had heard of me and were curious about the AAE. They were mostly smaller than me and didn’t look too used to working on board ships or doing physical work at all. At least three of them—Wordie, James and Macklin—needed spectacles even for outside work. ‘You’ll be in trouble in a blizzard,’ I said, and they looked most unhappy.

  Wordie was a geologist and James a magnetician, like my friend Azzi. Macklin and another fellow, McIlroy, were doctors. I met a quiet Scottish biologist, Clark; a smallish fellow, Hussey, who was a meteorologist, though quite a contrast to the serious Madigan of the AAE; and the ‘odd bod’ Orde-Lees, whom Wild had mentioned was the motor expert. A young man called Marston joked shyly that as expedition artist he hoped I did not make him redundant. The captain of Endurance was a New Zealander, Worsley, whose manner was far less daunting than that of Gloomy Davis. One of the ship’s officers was a big chap, Crean, who had been on Scott’s second expedition and looked a handy fellow to have in a scrape. As we shook hands, I realised Crean had been in the party that found the bodies of Scott and his companions. In fact Crean, Wild, the boss and I were the only expedition members with polar experience. I was not introduced to the sailing crew, but from what I could see they looked an unlikely, uninspiring lot for Shackleton to have handpicked.

  I had equipment to stow and sadly did not get to explore Buenos Aires. The Argentine women were very attractive and groups of young women were interested in Endurance but kept their distance. Shackleton hosted local dignitaries on board Endurance and occasionally disappeared to civic functions. After several days in port, there was a small but enthusiastic send-off. Our last mailbag included a letter to Elsa. Endurance slipped away from the dock and was escorted by the Buenos Aires tugboat fleet out into the Río de la Plata.

  ●

  A freshening nor’-easterly breeze has us well out to sea. I am working with Crean, lashing cargo on the forward deck, when our attention is drawn to an unexpected movement and I see first one boot and then another behind a pile of loose boxes and stores. Fearing the worst, I lean over to see who it could be. A voice cries, ‘I’m coming out, I’m coming out,’ and the boots are followed by a boy of slight build whom I’ve never seen before, and he in turn is followed out of his cubbyhole by a black and ginger cat. There is quite a commotion as a barrel falls over and with the roll of the ship gets away from Crean and me. Order is restored and all eyes are looking back to the bridge, where Shackleton stands motionless, having watched the scene unfold. Crean leads the boy aft and I follow. This young stowaway has done what I would like to have done when I was his age, but not on this boat, not on this voyage. Could he have any idea about our destination? Shackleton is looking very stern as the boy mounts the steps onto the bridge. Worsley and Wild arrive as Shackleton questions the stowaway.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Perce Blackborow, sir,’ he replied respectfully with his head down.

  ‘And how old are you, Mr Blackborow?’

  ‘Eighteen, sir.’

  ‘You are friends with some of my crew?’

  ‘I know some of the men what joined in Buenos Aires, sir.’

  ‘And are they the only ones who knew you were on board, Mr Blackborow?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir. I snuck on, sir.’

  ‘I see . . . And do you know where we are bound, Mr Blackborow?’

  ‘Antarctica, sir.’

  ‘And do you know, Mr Blackborow, that in those parts it is not uncommon to be marooned and run out of food, and that the first to be eaten is any stowaway?’ The boy raised his eyes from Shackleton’s boots to his solid-looking waist.

  ‘They won’t get much from me, sir.’

  At this Wild and Worsley smile, but not the boss.

  Much to my surprise, the boy is not put off at the first opportunity, but is engaged by Shackleton as
ship’s steward. This, I come to realise, is not untypical of how the boss has selected the sailing crew and scientists. We are now twenty-nine men and a ship’s cat, Mr Chippy. Mr Chippy will be the first cat in Antarctica.

  Within several days we are receiving a battering as the wind changes direction and the overladen Endurance makes her way through the southerly squalls and wild seas of the Roaring Forties. My new scientist friends turn various shades of green. I am blessed for a voyaging life and do not suffer seasickness. Nor do heights worry me. I hope Shackleton is impressed when I happily climb up into the crow’s nest to film. After ten days of sailing, a range of mountain peaks rises up through the clouds ahead of us. This is South Georgia Island, but as we draw closer its coast is shrouded in fog and no safe passage can be seen. Worsley directs regular siren blasts into the fog, and shortly we hear a horn replying in the distance. A small tug, Sitka, emerges and comes alongside to inspect what manner of humankind we are on board. We have been expected, and within a short time Sitka has led us safely into King Edward Cove, a large sheltered harbour on the northeast coast of South Georgia.

  The seas flatten as we enter, and there is an eerie silence as the wind in the rigging, which has been so constant, is now but a whisper. One hears instead the creak of deck timber and sighs of shipmates as the prospect of land approaches. The mist swirls and lifts, and I borrow Worsley’s binoculars as civilisation comes into view. Through the glass I spy a pleasant prospect. Boats are moored on the water’s edge, near a large wooden building with a high A-framed roof designed to withstand heavy winter snowfalls; a series of chimneys signify this building is industrial in use. Beyond and ranging up the hillside are small wooden houses, and above these I can make out against the snowline a white-painted church and steeple. This settlement is the whaling station Grytviken. South Georgia is an English territory, but it is the Norwegians who have established whaling operations along its coast.

  Grytviken nestles at the very end of King Edward Cove. To the south lies a valley, at the head of which a powerful glacier can be seen discharging snow and ice from mountains that rise up to nine thousand feet and run the length of South Georgia. Despite the grey day, the entrance into Grytviken is truly spectacular. The settlement is reflected in the still waters at the end of the cove against a stunning backdrop of alpine peaks. Along its northern shore rises Duce Fell, a peak of a mere four thousand feet.

  It is only as Endurance draws closer that we observe the penance Grytviken pays for its occupation by man. The reflections off the waters of the bay are enhanced by a surface layer of oil and blood and gore. The small bow wave of Endurance turns red. From her stern she trails hundreds of yards of intestines which have wrapped around the rudder. By now, all on board have begun to choke at the stench of rotting whale corpses—and there is to be no respite. Not far from where we drop anchor are several moorings; each has tied to it long lines of whale carcasses which have been pumped full of air and towed into port to await processing. The large building I saw through the binoculars is the main processing plant. Between it and the water is a broad flat landing, across which a number of whales have been winched for flensing. In both directions, the entire shoreline is a graveyard of skeletal remains. I count over one hundred skulls. The shallows along the edge are red with blood and awash with intestines and offal.

  I busy myself with getting the dogs ashore. There are seventy sledge dogs and they prove hard to control, so excited are they at being on land strewn with whale offal.

  Word soon spreads that our Norwegian hosts are saying it is one of the worst-ever seasons for ice. Pack ice fills the whole Weddell Sea. Shackleton’s trans-Antarctic crossing depends on establishing a base on the southernmost shore of the Weddell Sea. To reach the starting point will involve sailing through a thousand miles of pack ice. No one can do this, say the whalers. Shackleton is cautioned to wait till next summer.

  Next day the word is we will stay here in Grytviken for some weeks. Wild says no way Shackleton will wait longer than that. Thank God for Wild. Relations between Shackleton and I have been cool after I refused his offer of wages only and insisted on a share of film rights. He said he would have to sort this out with the expedition backers, but after all it is my reputation that makes their film rights more valuable.

  In the meantime, I get to work recording scenes of South Georgia. I would like to get panorama shots of Endurance from the surrounding peaks, but I doubt if any of the scientists are up to helping to carry my equipment on the climb. Worsley, however, has a hardy constitution and has time on his hands in port. He is good company and I am glad when he offers to join me, along with his first officer, Greenstreet. We plan to find a route to the very top of Duce Fell.

  We set out early next morning. It is hard going above the snow line. The final sections are quite sheer and ropes are needed. It is bitterly cold, but the day stays clear and I get some exposures which make Endurance seem tiny against the mountains. The energetic figures of Worsley and Greenstreet are overwhelmed by the grandeur of the South Georgia landscape. I am very excited about getting the plates into a darkroom.

  When I do, the negatives from Duce Fell are perfect. When Shackleton sees the plates he is impressed and I know I have earned his respect, even if all is not yet forgiven. Endurance was built with a darkroom and I soon have plenty of developing work to do. If I am not out exploring, then it is in the darkroom I am happiest. With the door shut and red lamp on, I could be anywhere. I have my negatives and do not notice the passage of time.

  Mail arrives and there is a letter from Elsa written the day after my departure from Sydney.

  Dearest Frank,

  This is the first of many letters I promised I would write you. I will try to write as often as I can, though I still can’t think of things that you will find of interest compared to your adventures. I am sure wherever you are there will be news of the war. But that is all people here talk about. I am so very proud of you and what you are doing.

  Your ma has invited me to tea at your sister’s house. I am afraid they will think me very shy, but I do want to meet your family. I am just a little nervous, that’s all . . .

  The letter was signed ‘Your loving Elsa’. Reading and rereading the letter evokes the strangest of feelings. I am embarrassed by her confession of feelings for me. It is, I think, a feminine trait. I doubt men would have these feelings and I am unsure how to reply. There is nothing from Ma.

  During our stay at Grytviken, Shackleton, the scientists, the ship’s officers and I are invited by the station manager, Fridjhof Jacobsen, to a special dinner at his home in honour of our expedition. I have developing work to do, including some prints intended as gifts for our Norwegian hosts, and I am not in the mood for drinking. I ask Shackleton to excuse me until later in the evening.

  When I emerge from my darkroom it is as dark without as within. The dinner will have started. On deck, all is still. I hear drunken cries and laughter coming from shore. The main entertainment in Grytviken is imbibed, and there are few women to curb the worst excesses. Norwegians, I am told, are big drinkers. They work hard by day but once it is dark they have little else they want to do and expect us to be the same. I am surprised Sir Ernest wants to carouse with Jacobsen, but the boss is a big Irish fellow and I daresay handles it as well if not better than the whalers. If nothing else he is a businessman based on the amount of credit Jacobsen has given him.

  There’s no one else on the deck of Endurance, but in the fo’c’sle I find Blackborow, who agrees to row me in. We climb down the side with a hurricane lantern. The yellow light illuminates concentric oily ripples as I step into the dinghy. The smell of offal at water level is even more offensive. The boat strains as it moves in a sea thick with entrails and blood. Rowing requires restraint to avoid oars being tangled in tentacles of whale gut.

  We bump against the shore and I plant my feet firmly before letting go the dinghy, which quickly disappears. Without my coat it is cold and the ground is slippery as I hea
d off in the direction of the station manager’s house. I figure if I walk towards the light with the glistening black harbour on my left I will get past the flensing plant and onto a pathway. Shortly, however, the light from Jacobsen’s house disappears inexplicably. I realise a large object looms in front of me. My path is blocked by a fresh catch, a large blue whale, hauled up onto its back in the flensing yard for a grisly dissection on the morrow.

  Unimaginable that the blasted Norwegians should choose to sail to the opposite end of the world to slaughter such extraordinary creatures and to do so in such a barbarous fashion. They have turned this pristine harbour into a bloodbath. It is not their country and there are no civic requirements on the conduct of their butchery. They have no concern at living in the squalour of their own abattoir. Great strips of blubber are guillotined and thrown into huge steamers to extract the precious oil. Here at Grytviken they take only the oil. The waste is sickening; it is like slaughtering herds of cows for jugs of milk.

  I make my way down the flensing yard to the head and beak of this spectacular creature, but the incoming tide makes this route impassable. Walking back to the tail I realise this giant must be ninety feet long, and even as it lies prostrate it is more than double my height.

  The tail lies in a pile of guts and offal extending from the flensing shed, which I am disinclined to explore. Spying a timber ladder alongside the carcass, I am reminded of my misspent youth evading nightwatchmen in the factories and warehouses around Glebe. I brace the ladder and ascend the girth of the leviathan. But as I am retrieving the ladder for the descent, my feet go from under me and I realise this mammal has already been sawed open along its gut. I plunge backwards into an abyss.