CHAPTER IV
DEATH OF SIR ERNEST SHACKLETON
On Thursday, January 5th, I was awakened about 3.0 a.m. to find both of the doctors in my cabin—Macklin was lighting my oil lamp. McIlroy said:
“We want you to wake up thoroughly, for we have some bad news to give you—the worst possible.”
I sat up, saying:
“Go on with it, let me have it straight out!”
He replied: “The Boss is dead!”
It was a staggering blow.
Roused thus in the middle of the night to receive this news, it was some minutes before I felt its full significance. I remember saying mechanically:
“The Boss dead! Dead, do you mean? He can’t be dead!”