Endurance Page 16

  Looking at the horizon I can see movement in the ice. Floes push into each other till one buckles and lifts upwards. Great Stonehenge boulders of ice appear overnight, projected at perilous angles till they crash back down. One morning I emerge to find the landscape around Endurance transformed. Pressure ridges have risen upwards, rafting blocks of ice higher than the gunwales of the ship and threatening to topple on board. The dogloos are pitched at hysterical angles. Arrangements are made so we can bring the dogs on board at short notice. Chains for the dogs are fitted on deck. The boss directs all sledging stores, tents, paraffin and sledging equipment be stowed on deck, readily accessible in the event Endurance were to be crushed. Unnecessary excursions are put on hold. The boss directs an hourly watch be maintained at night. We sleep with our woollen helmets on and our finnesko boots and Burberry jackets alongside our bunks, ready for a quick departure.

  On 26 July a long-lost friend, ‘Old Jamaica’, peaks over the horizon, sending shafts of light into collision with showers of condensation crystals falling around us. Endurance is brilliantly lit but in less than a minute the sun is gone and we are in the afterglow. Tomorrow I will be ready with my camera.

  Sunday 1 August is a nervous day for us. Without warning the floes advance on us and tongues of solid ice push up along the port side of Endurance and threaten to roll her over to starboard. Endurance cries out at the grinding lateral forces and wrenching strain on her rig, but she holds together. She rides the pressure wave and eventually the shifting ice heels her over to port. Outside the ship is chaos. The dogloos are rolled over and crushed by a wave of ice. The dogs are brought on board and gangways raised. At the same time we make ready the lifeboats, such is the uncertainty of our predicament.

  Then, as stealthily as the pressure wave had hit, the pressure recedes and all is quiet. An inspection of the hull reveals damage at the very stern. The cast-iron gudgeons into which the rudder pintles are fitted to enable rotation have been twisted up, and the pintles are now kinked. The rudder has been forced hard to starboard and the after part of the rudder has been shorn off.

  Life as we know it returns almost to normal. Scientists return to work with their observations. Meanwhile, Worsley reports that Endurance has drifted north to latitude seventy-two and longitude forty-seven degrees, and inexplicably the ocean depth, within the space of a day, has gone from four hundred fathoms to twelve hundred fathoms. Over several days it deepens to nineteen hundred fathoms, over a mile deep, which is disconcerting for no good reason.

  I explore our new hinterland of raised hummocks and ice pinnacles. Through the camera viewfinder, the uninhabited icefloes are a meaningless jumbled landscape without perspective. Worsley obliges by stepping into the frame, a stark black silhouetted figure, sometimes on all fours, clambering amid the reflected glare from the blue and white frozen outcrops of rough-hewn ice. I capture Endurance on a full glass plate. Photographed over a foreground of ice ridges and boulders, she is stoic in a turbulent sea of troubles. She represents everything that is dear to our fragile community. In the absence of penguins, and having now photographed all the dog teams, it is Endurance herself that becomes the focus of my craft. From what Worsley has said, I gather she may not be with us much longer.

  Having come through such a long winter without seeing the sun for three months it is a moonlight image of Endurance I want most to capture. Many sledging trips, I was guided home by the rime-encrusted masts rising in a black starry sky above the floes. Night-time photography is by necessity hit-and-miss, and only in the darkroom do I ever find out what, if anything, is on a negative. With Worsley’s help I set up several pans of magnesium flash powder. I place one each on either side of the bow and down the port side of Endurance, and a few more on the ice hummocks between the camera and the ship. We dig small recesses in the ice so the flash will be out of sight to the lens and reflecting up onto the hull. Under Sir Ernest’s supervision I place flash powder in pans on deck to illuminate the rigging. A number of crew stand by with buckets of snow lest the explosions start a fire on board. I then run electrical wire to each flash pan. Care has to be taken to stop the explosive from freezing. From thirty yards away I frame the shot. I open the shutter and flick the switch. Muffled explosions rip through the air and night briefly turns to day. Endurance seems to leap into the sky and a great cheer goes up from those patient souls waiting on board. I stumble backwards as Endurance disappears from my sight along with my camera and tripod. I lose my balance and, totally blinded, I stagger, then trip and plunge face first into the ice.

  Later, in the darkroom, the boss is happy with the results. He knows the difficulties of developing glass plates and film in these conditions. He has observed my struggle to keep enough water above freezing point to wash the glass plates so they do not turn into giant ice blocks. He is particularly impressed by the darkroom table I have fashioned from a flat metal box with constantly circulating warm water to keep the dishes of chemicals at a workable temperature. So limited is the supply of water that I resort to attaching strips of exposed film to racks which I dangle overboard in the sea before doing a final rinse in fresh water. The ends of my fingers split from the cold.

  September sees the arrival of warmer weather. The others play hockey and football alongside Endurance. I record in my diary a snow petrel heading north, the first bird for months. Opportunities for sledging are starting to look more promising. However the last day of September gives us a scare. Around Endurance pressure cracks have formed in the ice running south-sou’-east to north-nor’-west. In the afternoon these cracks start to grind and push sideways and there is an enormous squeeze on the forward section of the ship. I watch, expecting the hull will collapse inwards. The lower cabin areas and flooring are buckled and beams start to bend. Tongue-and-groove joints in the deck planking start to spring apart. Endurance is literally shivering with the strain. There is then a gut-wrenching crack and the ship shifts; the floe cradling Endurance has split in two and the pressure dissipates.

  The tension of being stuck in the ice spreads to all on board and causes odd behaviour all around, from which I am not exempt. Orde-Lees has no interest in the dogs but has the nerve to ask me to get their water and as a result I swear profusely at him. The next day he interrupts me cleaning my cameras.

  ‘The boss is pleased with your flashlight shots.’

  ‘Well, he ought to be—they’re perfect. I used enough flash powder to sink the bloody ship.’

  ‘Listen here, Hurley, you called me an unseemly name a day ago.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, I take it you didn’t like my asking you to bring ice on board for the dogs.’

  ‘So is there something else you want?’

  ‘Well, look, it’s just that there’s not much room on this boat for spats. I’ve no grudge against you. We should try to get on.’

  ‘What are you after, Lees?’

  ‘Just trying to keep the peace, Hurley.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine, keep out of my business, that’ll keep the peace.’

  He is, I decide, a very odd bastard. He has no good reason to butter me up that I can see.

  October sees greater numbers of seals and penguins close to Endurance, and we quickly slaughter them to replenish the larder. The weather grows warmer still, and woollen helmets and gloves are no longer necessary. It is startling after many months to see again the haggard, grimy faces of my companions, and I suspect my appearance is no better. On the fourteenth there is movement in the ice around Endurance. We are just finishing dinner when there is an enormous crash outside. Emerging on deck we see that, for the first time in nine months, Endurance is free of ice and floating in a newly formed lead of inky-black water. This is the cause of much excitement. It is our first chance to inspect the hull around the waterline. The helm has been damaged, but nothing looks irreparable. The mood lifts and Wild, in his deep baritone voice, leads the sailors in a sea shanty. Very privately I thank God that He has saved us. I go to my bunk
that night much lighter of heart.

  The next day is a propitious one. I let a few souls know it is my birthday and tell them I am twenty-eight (I am not yet ready for twenty-nine). While mostly I prefer my own company, I do not want to miss out being toasted by my fellow expeditioners.

  Endurance remains in an open lead. A small spanker sail is hoisted and she actually sails a hundred yards or so. A whale surfaces and blows, the first I have seen in several months.

  Two days later is Sunday. In the absence of clergy there is no observance of church practices on Endurance like Mawson’s services on the AAE—though, for the most part, we all put our trust in the Almighty. Certainly we know our Maker is close at hand. The officers and scientists are quite religious at least in their observance of our Sunday evening gramophone concerts in the Ritz. The sailors are not invited to these occasions. After the meal is cleared away, out come the pipes and tobacco, and favourite recordings are played. As we listen we are each transported to our lives back home. This Sunday, as the gramophone needle descends, the whispery sound of its journey to the first song is overwhelmed by a scratching noise outside that increases until it becomes a roar. The lead has closed in on both sides of Endurance. The vibrations of the hull drown out the sound of the gramophone as the ship has the breath squeezed out of her. Then upwards she rises, stern first, and we too rise from our seats and rush outside to observe her drive shaft and propeller lifted clean above the ice.

  Overnight Endurance subsides and we have a fitful rest. The following evening, just before dinner, the compressive power of the ice is renewed and in a matter of a few seconds it is as if the hand of God has lifted Endurance from the ice and laid her on her side like a child’s plaything. True to my calling, I set up the tripod outside and take photographs of the once-elegant Endurance now pitched over at an angle greater than from any gale.

  The boss introduces sea watches again, but we are all on watch all the time. We know not when to sleep. Individual days are blurred by our descent into chaos. Two killer whales take up residence in the lead alongside Endurance. They cruise back and forth, and snort and lift themselves up onto the ice. Their malevolent faces seem to enjoy the wild hysteria they create in the dogs. The killers make us wary whenever we step near the edge of the floe.

  Endurance is taking water through unseen apertures. The boss orders what little coal reserves we have to raise steam to run the engine-room pump. The pump now runs clickety-click, clickety-click throughout the short nights and long days. The widest girth of Endurance’s hull has now sunk into the floe and I do not see how she will lift herself out at the next assault.

  Antarctic ice is no neutral power. It opposes the very existence of Endurance. She is the epicentre of surge upon surge of pressure waves determined to remove her. The ship groans as her cast-iron floor plates in the engine room detach, as her stern post is wrenched sideways and as her deck timbers buckle and spring apart. The dogs are intuitively aware of the impending crisis and maintain a chorus of unnerving howls.

  On 26 October, at latitude sixty-nine degrees and longitude fifty-one degrees, the three lifeboats are lowered onto the floe and manhauled a hundred yards from Endurance. The boss announces his plan is to construct sledges for the boats, to load them with bare essentials and sledge towards Paulet Island some three hundred and fifty miles away. I am directed by Shackleton to pack just my albums of expedition photographs, and no cameras other than a compact box brownie.

  The next day the battle for Endurance is lost. Chips the carpenter reports the water is gaining on the pumps. The dogs, the main stores and essential equipment are moved onto the floe. In the galley a last supper is prepared and the order given that we abandon ship. We are dumbstruck. The timber panelling in the wardroom still exudes a comforting ‘don’t leave’ feeling. The ship’s clock is tick-tocking away on the wall, accurate as ever. Downstairs in the Ritz, water is well above the floor. My glass plate negatives in the inundated darkroom are bound for the deep.

  At one o’clock in the morning of 28 October, it is forty-seven degrees below freezing. We have set up tents on the ice and have had to move them twice already due to the floe splitting underneath them. No one dares sleep.

  Hoosh and hot tea are served from a makeshift stove at breakfast. The boss gathers all hands and announces, ‘Endurance won’t be sailing any further. She is beyond saving. We will not be making a trans-Antarctic crossing. Tomorrow we will turn around and go home.’ He does not say how.

  That Endurance is lost was already known to all. But the crew needed to hear it from the boss. It is a relief to hear Shackleton say there will be no crossing. It means my own chances of survival are improved. There is, of course, no way of getting word to the Ross Sea party that they need not risk their lives to establish food depots. Shackleton now distributes garments that had been intended for members of our polar party. Unfortunately there is not enough of the best outdoor clothing for everyone. Wild draws lots for the reindeer-fur sleeping bags, which mysteriously all go to the non-officer sailing crew. The boss then gives a talk about what each man is allowed to bring. Sir Ernest sets the example by starting a pile of personal possessions he is tossing out. Soon there is a heap of oddments that have made it off the ship but must now be left behind on the ice: spare clothing, hats, dress suits, cufflinks, coins, mirrors, combs, hair oil, brushes, Bibles, books, chess sets, cigarette boxes, portmanteaus and many other things of personal value, but now entirely useless. That evening, sailors who have not accepted their predicament scavenge through the pile. Unfortunately the weight of my cine camera and plate glass camera requires they be abandoned. Gone is the prospect of filming history-making events; it is now a matter of returning home any way we can. Hussey is asked to bring his banjo, however. The boss knows morale is more important than cameras. Shortly afterwards, Mr Chippy and four recently born pups are shot.

  Next afternoon, we are underway, heading north across the ice like a caravan of gypsies, leaving behind what has become known as Dump Camp. A working party leads off early to clear a trail and remove the worst hummocks. Then follow seven sledges, pulled by seven dogs each, with several hundred pounds of gear. Eighteen men have the job of manhauling the main lifeboat, which Shackleton has named James Caird in honour of an expedition benefactor. A dubious honour it seems to me. James Caird is a twenty-three-foot-long wooden whaleboat. With supplies on board she weighs a good tonne. The sledge on which she sits soon cracks with the strain as she rises up and over sharp ridges of ice. In between the ridges men sink to their waists in moist soft snow. Each of the dog teams has to double back to haul up more gear in the smaller lifeboat, Dudley Docker, also named after a benefactor.

  After two days of adverse weather and poor visibility, we have only shifted a mile and a half across the ice. Most of the men have had no experience sledging heavy loads in these conditions. Loud, uncouth remarks are made by sailors about the futility of going on, and equally loud and aggressive rejoinders are heard about who is not pulling their weight and the dire consequences that will befall them. The boss asks me to accompany him, Wild and Worsley for a scout ahead. I am pleased Shackleton has at least acknowledged my sledging experience. Together we conclude the route is impossible. There is no flat, hard surface, it is instead a labyrinth of hummocks and ridges. The decision is made to set up a semi-permanent camp on the thickest piece of ice floe we can find and await the thaw and break-up of the ice pack.

  The expedition does not actually have the equipment needed for an outdoor camp for twenty-eight men. There is, however, an opportunity now to salvage whatever else from Endurance will provide shelter and comfort. Sections of decking are removed so that the remaining boxes of food and supplies can be fished out with boathooks from the icy water in the hold. Sails and spars are taken to be used in construction of a central mess and cooking area in our new encampment. The whole timber wheelhouse is lifted off Endurance to be converted by Orde-Lees to a storeroom. A lookout platform is constructed so seals and wildlif
e can be easily spotted. Shackleton accepts my suggestion that deck timber be stripped from Endurance for use as floorboards beneath our tents, so we can sit without contracting piles.

  Our predicament means my metalwork and handyman skills come to the fore. Trawling through Endurance I can see that the brass case for the ship’s compass and its Flinders bar can be fashioned into a workable bilge pump, which Worsley has said is desperately needed for the lifeboats. The cooking stove being used is a nightmare to operate outside, but I am able to convert an empty fuel drum into a specialised cooker that burns seal blubber, of which we have an indefinite supply. Over a few more days I construct a galley cooking range from a steel chimney chute stripped off Endurance. I also teach the men how to make workable crampons from scrap metal.

  While I have lost my darkroom, I am able to retrieve my glass plate camera and continue taking photographs a little longer. I also rescue playing cards, my own collection of books and several volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica from Sir Ernest’s cabin.

  My mind moves from survival to having the photographs to tell the story.

  All my glass plate negatives are lying underwater in the Endurance darkroom. I am determined to retrieve them. They are in canisters which are zinc-lined and soldered shut. Orde-Lees offers to help. We harness up my dog team and sledge across to Endurance. Clambering through the wreck is a disconcerting experience. If she rolls and sinks there will be no time to exit. We chop through the darkroom wall with an axe and rake through the icy slush with a boathook, but are unable to see the canisters. The boathook yields nothing and we become more and more anxious to decamp. There is nothing else for it; I strip to the waist, plunge into the water and shove my arms where I believe the film cases should be. I am desperate to find them before I lose sensation in my hands. My arms seize what must be the cases and, as I stand up, Orde-Lees grabs the tins and pulls me up out of the water. As I scramble to pull on dry clothing, Endurance shudders and ominous sounds chase us from the hull. Our adventure is not quite over, though, as on the way back a killer whale breaks through the ice directly in the path of our dog team. Shakespeare reacts instinctively, pulling the team to safety but almost spilling Orde-Lees and me into the open water.