Better places than South Georgia certainly exist as holiday resorts, I must say. It is administered by certain Britishers, notably a magistrate, an assistant magistrate, two Customs officers, and one policeman. Every barrel of oil exported from the island has to pay a tax, and this staff is here to see the law is enforced. It must be a lonely, monotonous life enough, I should say. These Britishers live together in a house at the entrance to Gritviken Harbour, and what they do in their leisure moments puzzles me to know.
We had a volunteer for the Quest here in the shape of a nigger, who spoke with a pronounced Yankee accent, and seemed anxious to enrol himself as assistant cook or something of the sort. He paddled alongside in a canvas canoe, and seemed anything but happy—which is not surprising, for South Georgia and black men somehow don’t seem to mix. He had stowed away aboard an outward-bound steamer from St. Vincent, and he must have found the change trying; but as he belonged to a breed that is noteworthy for its loafing propensities he appealed to us in vain for employment. That night the Boss was in excellent spirits, and vowed our Christmas should be kept on the morrow!
CHAPTER IX
The Great Blow Falls
January 5th dawned in nowise different from other days. I kept the anchor watch from 3 to 4 a.m., arousing automatically without being called. Almost at once I felt a suggestion of suspense in the atmosphere; what it was I could not tell. But at 7.30 that morning Mr. Hussey came down to the wardroom with the order that all hands must muster forthwith on the poop. We dressed quietly, asking ourselves what this portended. It was a dismal morning; the South Georgian sky was weeping copiously, and we donned oilskins and waterproofs as a matter of course, and got us to the poop, where we were joined by the rest of the hands from forrard, included amongst them being Mr. Jeffrey, who had been confined to his bunk ever since we left Rio, with a torn muscle in his thigh. When the doctor saw him he was very wroth and ordered him back to his bunk again, saying that no permission had been given for such a mad action; but before this little incident ceased, Mr. Wild came to us, his face drawn and terribly downcast.
“Boys,” he said, “I have terrible news for you all. Sir Ernest Shackleton died early this morning. The expedition will carry on. That’s all.” And then he turned to Dell, our boatswain, and said: “You’ll carry on the same, Dell.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Dell. There was no more to be said. Whole volumes of dramatic rhetoric could not have conveyed the sad, sad truth to our hearts more convincingly. We did not expect this tragedy; when it came, therefore, it was staggering.
Mr. Wild left us, and we slowly dispersed to our quarters, walking quietly, hushing our voices, for we were in the presence of death; a hero had passed on. During the rest of the day we talked of nothing else, recalling his kindnesses, his interest in us all, his genial comradeship, his staunch courage and indomitable determination in the face of the most trying odds. A great man had left us, and the ship was lonely.
He had died suddenly, almost painlessly we were glad to know. To the last he retained his old courage and good cheer; then in the chilly solitudes he went hence, mourned by all as trustworthy leader, loyal shipmate and wise counsellor. After midday he was wrapped up in our silken ensign and reverently lowered into a motor-launch and taken ashore, for Mr. Wild decided that all that was mortal of one of Britain’s heroes should worthily lie in the soil of the land he had served so well. That was the last I saw of the Boss.
So, wrapped in his country’s flag, to which he had brought nothing but honour—the flag he loved with a genuinely passionate devotion that was not merely expressed in words but also in stirring deeds—the great British Antarctic explorer passed from amongst us. His name will live when many others are forgotten; for the men he led, who were his friends, must necessarily pass down to the generations the truth of his greatness.