CHAPTER VIII
We Run into Ice
On the night following the easing up of the storm I got a fine sleep, and all the troubles we’d experienced seemed to fade into insignificance. Sleep is a great healer of wounds and it soothes many a problem. But in the morning there was a pretty big sea running and the wind was high, whilst, as the feverish pitching of the hull caused the propeller to race so disconcertingly that it appeared determined to twist itself off and sink down to rest on the ocean floor, the engines were stopped and the ship proceeded under sail alone. I had the wheel on this morning; but I’d got the knack of handling her by now, and found it none so irksome. The wind kept on freshening all the time—not to the same proportions as those of our recent blow, but some of the black squalls were heavy enough to set the rigging harping with the real storm-note, which is an inspiring sound—and we shipped quite a lot of water over the bows. So, as the conditions seemed to be worsening rather than improving, we hove-to again after lunch, with the mizen and staysail set; and the clank of the pumps recommenced.
Down below everything was soaked, even Sir Ernest’s cabin and Mr. Wild’s had suffered with the rest. The Boss’s bunk was so completely saturated that he had a bed made up on the wardroom settee; though he used this makeshift berth only a little, for during the bad weather he was almost constantly on the bridge, though his officers, sensing that all was not well with him, repeatedly urged him to go below and rest. But instead of resting he actually stood another officer’s watch in addition to his own in order that his subordinate might secure what he considered to be much-needed rest. That, of course, was Shackleton all over, one of the qualities that made him a leader.
But certain of the officers were growing uneasy; they thought the Boss was doing far too much, taking more out of himself than he should have done; and yet, despite their protests, Sir Ernest said: “You fellows are tired and must get rest; leave the ship to me.” And from that he would not be shifted, although he must have known in his own heart that the strain was telling more unbearably every day.
Throughout the day the wild conditions continued; but, abating somewhat towards three in the morning, way was once more got on the ship and the voyage proceeded. Some idea of the havoc wrought by the pouring seas was conveyed to my mind when I baled out Sir Ernest’s cabin, which was literally awash with dirty water, everything floating about at hazard, the whole presenting anything but an inviting spectacle. But a bit of conscientious swabbing restored things, and in a while, with a light breeze and a calming sea, it was almost impossible to believe that we had weathered such a snorter as had befallen us.
1. South Georgian Whaling Station: At Work on Blue Whales.
2. Some Finny Spoil from St. Paul’s Rocks.
3. Launching the Kite for Aerial Observation.
4. Sir Ernest’s Cabin on the Quest.
5. Penguins at Home.
6. Dead Whales in Prince Olaf Harbour.
7. View from above a South Georgia Glacier.