Finding Endurance E-Book

Darrel Bristow-Bovey

• Herausgeber: Icon Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

'Engaging, absorbing and crammed with marvellous stories, Finding Endurance is a tale about exploring the cold, told with much warmth.' MICK HERRON 'Beautiful, thrilling, heroic and kind, a ripping yarn' CLAIRE ROBERTSON, AUTHOR OF THE SPIRAL HOUSE 'Tender, heartfelt and lyrical' PETINA GAPPAH, AUTHOR OF OUT OF DARKNESS, SHINING LIGHT 'An exhilarating read' HENRIETTA ROSE-INNES, AUTHOR OF GREEN LION Since the discovery of the wreck of Ernest Shackleton's ship Endurance on the bed of the Antarctic ocean, the world has been enthralled anew by one of the greatest stories of all time. Acclaimed South African writer Darrel Bristow-Bovey, himself a Shackleton aficionado, revisits this dramatic event, which managed to sweep the tide of anger and rancour off the timelines and front pages of the world. He asks how so many ordinary people, who don't know a nunatak from a barquentine, were so moved at the finding of a small wooden ship once sailed by a half-forgotten Irishman? In re-examining the story and its players, he presents new details and a new understanding of the courage and hardship of the Endurance voyage, and reminds us of how extraordinary humans can be. Not all is lost, and what has been lost can be regained: the ocean has given us something back. What's more, we are reminded that miracles still happen: human miracles, performed by flawed people in helpless situations.

Leseprobe

Published in the UK and USA in 2023 by

Icon Books Ltd, Omnibus Business Centre,

39–41 North Road, London N7 9DP

email: [email protected]

www.iconbooks.com

Hardback ISBN: 978-191556-302-6

Export ISBN: 978-183773-106-0

eBook ISBN: 978-191556-301-9

Text copyright © 2023 Darrel Bristow-Bovey

The right of Darrel Bristow-Bovey to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by SJmagic DESIGN SERVICES, India

Printed and bound in the UK.

CONTENTS

Map: Endurance Expedition

Prologue

PART 1LOSS

1 White Warfare

2 Small Hands

3 Angles of Light

4 Small Hands II

5 Angles of Light II

6 Small Hands III

7 Playing the Game

8 Polar Night

9 A Digression About Bears

10 Polar Night II

PART 2 HOPE

11 Three Conversations About Nature

12 The Martingale

13 Aunty Molly

14 A Brief Digression About Heat

15 Ocean Camp

16 A Very Brief Digression About Albatrosses

17 The Optimist

18 Mutiny

19 The Pessimist

20 The End of the World

21 Patience Camp

PART 3 ENDURANCE

22 Captain Bengu

23 What is Large

24 In the Boats

25 Mom

26 In the Boats II

27 Elephant Island

28 The Infinite Game

29 To South Georgia

30 An Extremely Brief Digression About a Midge

31 The Hero with a Thousand Faces

32 The Men Left Behind

33 Aftermath

Epilogue

Appendix 1: Things Coming Back

Appendix 2: Later Years

Sources Used

Chapter Notes

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Darrel Bristow-Bovey is a prize-winning screenwriter and travel writer and a newspaper and magazine columnist. He’s the author of six books which have been translated into seven languages, including Spanish, Estonian and Portuguese. He was born in South Africa, studied under J.M. Coetzee and André Brink, and currently divides his time between Cape Town, the UK and a hillside on the Greek Peloponnese. His fascination with the Endurance expedition began as a small boy, when his father first told him that he had been south with Shackleton. He still believes him.

DEDICATION

Without Jeremy Boraine, and especially without Michele Magwood’s conviction, passion and gift to encourage, this book wouldn’t exist. It is at least half hers.

It is dedicated to Joanna Simon, who has read every word of it more often and more generously than I have, and whose love keeps me going like a fat gold watch.

PROLOGUE

Twenty-seven men stand on ice, squinting into the glare. The ice is very wide and very long, but no one mistakes it for land. A metre under their feet is the sea, and the sea moves, even when it’s still. They know they’re standing on the sea, and the sea is very deep.

They stare up at a figure on a wooden tower. He’s not tall but he’s solid. His shoulders bulk and hunch, like a bull with a scholarly stoop. He stands with legs braced, chin forward, peering through binoculars. Five minutes ago, trying not too obviously to rush, he climbed a three-runged wooden ladder to a square wooden platform, raised off the ice on low wooden stilts, and then a four-runged ladder to a smaller platform on top of a wooden column.

The tower isn’t high but on ice any height gives advantage, and the man has a line of sight south-east over snow hummocks and white ridges and sastrugi. On a clear day, if the tower were tall enough, he might see all the way over ice shelves and mountain ridges and snow planes to the South Pole, but for perhaps the first time in his life he isn’t looking to the horizon, he is looking just three kilometres to a black ship. The men on the ice watch the man on the platform as he watches.

The lines of the ship’s stern are still clean but most of her is underwater. There’s disorder on her decks – ropes, spars, tools, someone’s thigh boot – and she’s lost her masts. She lists to the left, as some of the men would say, or to port, as the others would. It’s a little after 5pm and the southern summer sun bobs several fingers’ width above the horizon so it’s warm on the ice, perhaps as hot as 0°C. Some men have been working and as they stop to watch the watcher on the tower, sweat runs down their spines and chests, then freezes. There’s a light breeze from the south, but the term ‘wind chill’ won’t be invented for another 25 years.

The man is very still as he watches. It’s a very still scene: still men watching a still man who watches a ship frozen in mid-roll. Then, on invisible wires, her stern rises. She holds like that, stern high and black above the ice, then the whiteness seems to part and the black ship slides into it, and disappears.

The men are silent and the man on the tower can feel the weight of their watching. He knows the next words he says will matter. He looks again through the binoculars, but already the ice has closed. It’s his job now to offer the story of what this moment means, and so determine what will happen next. His own heart is pulling silently apart but there isn’t time for that. This is one of the moments of life when what is solid suddenly cracks and splits and opens, and it matters very much which way he jumps.

He has been preparing. He spent last night in his cramped tent reading the poems of Robert Browning for inspiration, although just half an hour ago he was reading Eothen by Alexander Kinglake, that great breezy Victorian tale of exploration in the dusty Levant. Tennyson might be fit to the moment, or maybe his favourite Browning, but perhaps Kinglake – serious but not self-serious, optimistic and funny, more interested in a good story than fact – is closer to his character.

(‘A story may be false as a fact,’ said Kinglake, ‘but perfectly true as an illustration.’)

The watching men know he has a habit of reciting dramatic lines at every opportunity, whether there’s an opportunity or not. Usually it’s annoying but now they’re ready. They’re as far away from the world as any human will be again until humans go into space. They are in space, adrift in space, alone and facing extinction in the cold, expanding, measureless reaches of a great and terrifying blankness, and there is no one to rescue them. They are human beings, alone in the universe, infinitely weak and immeasurably strong, and they need to be led.

Shackleton lowers the binoculars and makes himself meet the gaze of the upturned faces. He says: ‘Well, boys, she’s gone.’

And then: ‘So now we’ll go home.’

*

Freddie Ligthelm has the bridge of SA Agulhas II, as he does for six hours twice a day, every six hours while the other ice pilot tries to sleep. It’s difficult to sleep in six-on, six-off shifts, which is what he and Knowledge Bengu have been doing since they entered the ice. Freddie Ligthelm and Knowledge Bengu: these are two very good names for your ice pilots.

Six hours off isn’t long enough to sleep, not with the welfare of 100 people and a ship on your mind. Sometimes an ice pilot will lie in his bunk and see high-definition satellite photos taking shape on the ceiling, and wonder if that gale will keep coming in, or what the current will do with the pack ice. He’ll think about the bergs that calved from the Larsen ice shelf last season and now circle clockwise on the vortex, clumsy and graceless as adolescents, and he’ll squint up at that grey shadow in the north-west corner and wonder whether it’s new ice or old.

But now Freddie Ligthelm has the bridge and he’s fully engaged in his work but in a different shadow in the corner are his wife and daughters, who aren’t really in the corner, they’re back home in Cape Town. His kids are teenagers now. You always find strangers in your house when you come home from sea, and for a while you’re a stranger yourself, but these are fast-growing strangers at a difficult age, who in their strangeness more than ever need their strange father around. Freddie and the ship have been down in the south longer than projected. They didn’t find what they were looking for in the time they had, so they stayed a little longer. Freddie is thinking that maybe this time when he comes home from the sea he shouldn’t leave so soon. After this trip he might never be on this bridge again.

The bridge of SA Agulhas II is one of the great rooms of the world. It looks the way you want the bridge of a spaceship to look, how a ten-year-old in 1981 would draw it: like the bridge of the starship Enterprise. The colour scheme is dirty-gull grey, but never mind that: it has 270 elevated degrees of view, and comfort­able leather seats arranged on either side of the wheel. There are monitors and instrument panels and magnetic compasses and gyro compasses and things that flash and go beep. There are rolls of paper with needles ready to make marks, like old-fashioned seismographs. There are glowing buttons to launch photon torpedoes. There are radars and depth sounders and console lights on moveable goose-necks like the lantern antenna on deep-water angler fish. There’s a coffee machine.

One of the screens should show the visual feed from the helicopter, but the helicopters have only flown once – onto the ship – and then they haven’t flown again. (That’s not actually true: they have taken test flights and noodled around but for the most part they’ve been grounded by cold and low visibility, and the other members of the expedition like to rib the helicopter gang about how the choppers will only fly twice, once onto the ship and once back off again. Simplifying the truth makes for a better joke.)

Since the helicopters aren’t flying, that screen has been re-jigged to show the position of something three kilometres down. It’s an autonomous underwater vehicle (AUV), sled-shaped and about the length and width of a ‘fortwo’ Smart Car, and it’s moving in a small square right on the far edge of a search block that’s nearly 200 kilometres square. Freddie is preoccupied and the AUV is none of his concern, but still: he notices the AUV has gone off on a tangent. Uh-oh.

In 2019, the last time the ship was in this location (the second time any ship was ever in this location), one of the AUVs went silent and awry under a floe and they broke their way through 114 football pitches of ice but still couldn’t find it. (That is the standard unit of measurement for sea-ice: football pitches. For larger areas of ice, the unit becomes Luxembourgs, or sometimes Isles of Wight.) Then the weather came in and they had to leave it behind. People don’t like to talk about how much the AUV cost, but an AUV costs a lot more than a Smart car. To lose one AUV in the Weddell Sea might be considered misfortune, but two AUVs … Freddie Ligthelm frowns over the screen. There’s an emotional burst of French chatter over the comms. Freddie Ligthelm can read the water and the ice and the skies and the screens but he doesn’t understand French.

Freddie calls Nico Vincent, who spends his days hunched over monitors in the cold of a shipping container on the poop deck. It’s not just cold in the shipping container; it’s very cold. The temperatures can drop to -35°C and Nico is in there four hours at a time, sometimes eight. Nico is in frequent danger of frostbite, but he is in charge of the subsea operations. ‘Subsea operations’ means the AUV. Nico is French. Nico tells Freddie that he can’t say anything over the comms. He’ll come up in person.

Nico walks into the bridge, with a camera crew in tow. In 1914 Ernest Shackleton pre-sold the publicity rights to the Endurance expedition to raise money for the trip, and went south with film cameras and an artist with sketch pencils and oil paints and a stills photographer lugging heavy glass photographic plates to make sure he had something to bring back and sell; in 108 years, some things haven’t changed.

Nico takes Freddie aside and speaks in a low voice. The leaders of the expedition, John Shears and Mensun Bound, are on the ice, walking to a trapped iceberg nearly two kilometres to starboard, and haven’t been informed yet, so Nico can’t say anything officially. Freddie glances around. All eyes are watching him. The cameras are watching him. This is what it means to have command.

They do not say anything, but there is footage from the cameras of the expressions on the faces of the crew on the bridge as Nico Vincent and Freddie Ligthelm ceremonially shake hands.

*

It’s March 2022 and I’m in an apartment in Greece. In January a cold front swept in snow from the east, turning the white Parthenon a whiter white and trapping Athenians in their homes. For two months they’ve been talking about it: ‘Remember when it snowed and we couldn’t go to work?! Po po po! Look, I have a picture of the snow on my car!’ Now in March the snow has returned. Athenians have spent a lot of time trapped in their homes in recent times; we all have.

Snow in a place that’s usually hot is like a magic trick: the world is transformed, it’s made uncanny. I’m considering heroically trudging into the white silence in search of a breakfast bougatsa, leaving a note on the fridge saying ‘I am just going out, and may be some time’, when I start receiving messages from friends around the world. They all contain a photograph, and different exclamations: ‘Have you seen this??!’ ‘Can you believe it?!!’ ‘I saw this and thought of you!!!’

I have two thoughts. One: it’s gratifying to be remembered by friends. Two: my friends use too many exclamation marks. And then I look at the picture, and there she is, Endurance, the grain of her wood, her painted black boards, the bronze lettering proud and catching the light, the Polaris star bright and shining and pointing south, east, west and home. There she is, the way she was. She isn’t gone, she’s there, and also, she’s here. She’s on my phone, she’s in the room with me, she’s back in the world. I draw in air while gasping out loud, like an ‘Oh!’ in reverse. I want to show someone. My heart is racing. I want to use exclamation marks. There she is: the ice claimed her but it didn’t keep her – it kept her safe. I feel joy, I feel envy that I am not there, a part of it. And I feel something bigger, something nameless. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I’m welling up. I haven’t cried in years, but there she is: Endurance. So much has been taken from us and now, incredibly, like a gift, like a whispered half-remembered promise fulfilled and renewed, something has been given back. And I am part of it: we all are.

Then I receive another message. It’s from an old school mate. We aren’t close. I don’t even know how he has my number. It says:

‘Wasn’t your father on the Endurance?’

*

I was astonished at the outpouring of delight around the world at the discovery of Endurance. I knew how much it meant to me, and to fellow polar nuts and Shackleheads and frosted weirdos, but in this world that – well, you don’t need me to tell you what the world is like – how did this picture and this story manage to elbow anger and rancour off the timelines and front pages for as long as it did? How were so many ordinary people who don’t know a nunatak from a barquentine so moved by the discovery of a small wooden ship once commanded by a half-forgotten Irishman?

When I first announced, aged ten in Miss Kincaid’s English class, that my father had sailed with Shackleton, those kids hadn’t been much impressed. Who was Shackleton? He never made it to the South Pole. He never crossed Antarctica. He didn’t die tragically in his sleeping bag, pen in pale fingers and lashes frosted to his cheek while the snow piled up against his tent. He really didn’t do anything except come back alive, and what’s the big deal about that?

Kids don’t understand death. No one does really, although we start getting an inkling around the time we turn 40. Kids understand being the best, or the first, or the last, but just surviving doesn’t feel like much of an achievement. Shackleton wasn’t the best or the first or even the last. He wasn’t anything. He was, by most standards, a failure.

I suppose my father was too. He had once been many things: a nightclub bouncer, a travelling sales representative purveying lubricating motor oil, a policeman, a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman, a thirteen-year-old high-school drop-out, a middle-man for illicit booze, a diamond prospector, a professional wrestler, an elderly soldier, some sort of undefined handyman on a film set where he once met Roger Moore, a surf lifesaver, a railway worker, the prospective manager of a floating casino, a barman, the self-appointed leader of the St Margaret’s Presbyterian church choir, a welder, a typewriter repairman, the manager and promoter of a rock band, a fraudulent night-school teacher, a con man, a hustler, a paid escort, a husband, a husband again, a husband a third time, quite possibly a husband a fourth time in between the second and third times although no one has yet produced any definitive proof, a bricklayer, a dad. And, once, a polar explorer.

But so what? He was a large man once but not any more; he was 30 or 40 years older than the other kids’ dads; his wavy hair was grey. He sat all day in his comfortable faux-La-Z-Boy leatherette recliner (which looked, it strikes me now, a lot like the chairs on the bridge of the SA Agulhas II, except in the Durban humidity the leatherette would get sweaty and squelch if you sat in it without a shirt), reading cowboy books and telling me stories about his life. He was a failure – all he’d done was survive, and by the end of the year that I was ten, he hadn’t even done that.

At some point since then it occurred to me that my father did not in fact sail on Endurance. At some point when I started reading about the expedition, thinking about it, literally at night dreaming about it, I must have registered that his name wasn’t on the crew list and that even though he was unfathomably old, he wasn’t that old. But still, it’s possible for human beings to believe two opposite things at the same time; I think it’s necessary. ‘A great truth,’ said Niels Bohr, ‘is a truth whose opposite is also a great truth.’ When the message came in from the old schoolmate, I very nearly replied: ‘Yes he did!’

There are certainly questions to be answered: he knew a surprising amount about the ship and his shipmates who sailed with her – small details that I’ve subsequently read only in unpublished sources that weren’t available in 1982, or certainly weren’t available to him. Beyond that, my father was generously given to exaggeration and the embellished tale – he wasn’t Irish, as Shackleton was, but had a distinctly Irish faith in the primacy of the true story over the accurate one – but why was he so persistent with Shackleton? Why did it mean so much to him?

He said to me once, ‘Failure’s not the end of the world. Shackleton was a failure. We should all be such failures.’

I don’t know that my father thought himself a failure, but for a long time, I did. And I think that, marooned in a seaside town on the hot coast of South Africa, in sight of the sea, an aging man prematurely weak, an idle king by a quiet hearth, he thought about success and failure, and what makes a life and how best to live it, alone and together.

Endurance meant something to the world when she sank, and something else to my dad, and she means something new to us again. The meanings of things change because the stories we tell ourselves about them change. The Antarctic meant something once, and something else now. The ice summoned from nature’s heart by humanity’s hubris has changed its meaning too. ‘Nature’ means something different to what it meant in 1915; so does ‘humanity’.

The story of Endurance and Shackleton is still one of the greatest stories in the world, and it has old things and new things to tell us, because in 2022 Endurance came back to us, but not the same as when she went down.

PART 1

LOSS

1. WHITE WARFARE

When they reached the whaling station on South Georgia Island the old Norwegian whalers warned them there was trouble down south. It was a bad year for sea ice: no one had ever seen so much of it so far north, so early in the season. The weather was being strange. Wait a year, they suggested. Next summer will be better.

It’s not that Shackleton didn’t listen. There’s a long, exasperating tradition of English polar explorers ignoring good Norwegian expertise, and Shackleton was as prone to it as anyone, but this wasn’t one of those times. Shackleton liked these grizzled old salts, these hard-bitten misfitting oddballs and outsiders making a community far from home, down here at the southern end of the world, and he respected them, so he waited a while in the blood-washed waters and the rot-stench and death-reek of the whaling station, hoping the ice would clear. He waited as long as he could, but he couldn’t wait a year, and he couldn’t turn back. From the moment Endurance left England, they were never going to turn back.

Shackleton had raised money for the expedition – and still owed it – based on a promise: that his Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition would be the first to cross the mainland continent of Antarctica. Endurance would sail from England to Buenos Aires, and from Buenos Aires to South Georgia Island, and from South Georgia south-east across the Antarctic Circle to land at an unsurveyed rocky indentation on the coast of Antarctica named – for the sake of naming things, since no one had ever actually set foot there before – Vahsel Bay.

At Vahsel Bay they would get their ice legs and maybe learn to ski, and then he would lead a group of six men and 70 dogs to the South Pole. They wouldn’t be the first ones there – Roald Amundsen first reached the pole four years earlier, and then Robert Falcon Scott reached it one month after him – but they would be the first to reach it from the west, from the Weddell Sea, across geography unseen by another human being. Having reached it, instead of turning back, they would be the first to keep walking forward.

They would cross the continent from west to east, nearly 2,500 kilometres past the pole and across the high polar plateau until they reached the Beardmore Glacier that Shackleton himself had first discovered, six years before.

Then they would keep going beyond that, to the crystal minefield of the Great Ice Barrier, then down to McMurdo Sound and the frozen Ross Sea where a support ship would be waiting. They had budgeted enough food for 100 days, so as long as they covered nearly 25 kilometres every single day for three months and ten days, and didn’t run into any of the Antarctic weather that had confined every other polar party to their tents for at least part of the time in every single expedition that had ever been launched, they would be fine. One thing was for sure: they were not turning back.

(It may be worth mentioning that after Shackleton’s expedition, no one tried this particular journey again for 43 years, until the southern summer of 1957–58 when Dr Vivian Fuchs and his Commonwealth Trans-Antarctic Expedition, using mechanical vehicles equipped with heaters and radios, managed it in nearly four months.)

There had already been some close calls for the expedition. While Endurance was preparing to leave England, the world was preparing to go to war with itself. A month before departure, in June 1914, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary was shot and killed in his famously tight-fitting tunic in front of Schiller’s delicatessen in Sarajevo. A month later, on the day the Endurance left the East India Dock in London, where Canary Wharf is today, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. Endurance was lying at anchor in the mouth of the Thames when Germany declared war on France. On the same day that King George V came aboard and his mother, Dowager Queen Alexandra, presented the ship with a hand-dedicated Bible, Britain declared war on Germany.

Suddenly everything changed. Shackleton had sold his expedition on demonstrating that the men of Edwardian England were still as strong in spine and will as their Victorian forefathers, and most especially stronger than their rising German rivals. ‘War in the old days made men,’ he said. ‘We have not those same stirring times to live in, and must look for other outlets for our energy.’

The whiskered old men agreed that what young chaps needed was a damn good war, but failing that a polar triumph would do. But now they had their war. Did they still need Antarctica?

At the declaration of war some members of the party disembarked to go and fight. All remaining eyes turned to The Boss, watching which way he would jump.

Shackleton was not a navy man. Nearly 40, stocky, under-exercised, chain-smoking, nursing a nagging cough and hiding a time bomb of a heart condition, he wouldn’t pass any military medicals. But still, he solemnly and – who knows? – perhaps sincerely wrote to the Admiralty, placing Endurance and her crew at the disposal of the war effort. If England wanted him to turn back, then never mind the loss of national prestige and his personal financial ruin: he would turn back.

‘Financial ruin’ is no exaggeration. Money was always a problem with Antarctic expeditions, especially the privately funded ones of the Heroic Age. Part of the problem was that there was no good reason to go to the Antarctic. There are no gems or gold to be found, no – so far as they had reason to believe – seams of coal or reservoirs of gas. There are no spices or timber or steppes of waving grain, or any of the other things that cause private capital to twitch its whiskers with interest. There was nothing to be found in the Antarctic but symbols; nothing to be extracted but stories. Stories are not nothing – the stories we tell ourselves shape who we are; a father’s stories shape his son – but investors prefer them more as a means to an end than an end in themselves.

In the absence of wealth, polar expeditions usually promised science: they would bring back maps and measurements, knowledge and the prestige that knowledge confers. Some, like Scott, seemed more or less sincere about this. Others, like Shackleton, not at all. Either way, knowledge doesn’t drum up nearly so much money as minerals.

Even after returning as a celebrity from his previous expedition, and being knighted by King Edward VII, Shackleton had financial problems. He had sailed off on that previous voyage leaving a cloud of unpaid bills, and returned to a consolidated debt of £25,000, nearly £3 million in today’s money. It took years of slogging on the lecture circuit (travelling – he calculated airily – some 20,000 miles by train and sea) and flogging his book, In the Heart of the Antarctic, just to pay off the back salaries of his crew.

Shackleton was energetic and charismatic, but even his admirers didn’t mistake him for a prudent financial investment. Charles Dornan, a wealthy solicitor, personally liked him but refused him permission to marry his daughter Emily until Ernest had proven himself as a provider. Dornan’s death while Shackleton was away in the Antarctic cleared the way for Ernest and Emily to marry, but you couldn’t accuse him of having misread his man.

Shackleton had promised Emily that he wouldn’t go adventuring again, that he would use his fame to make money in other ways, but on land he was a better dreamer than a doer. He broke his heart on endless schemes: starting a fleet of taxicabs, manufacturing cigarettes, mining coal in Norway, logging the forests of Mexico, selling first-edition postage stamps from Antarctica, revitalising abandoned gold mines in Hungary, running for parliament, providing troop transport for Russian soldiers, getting in on the ground floor of a new truth-telling international news agency, searching for buried treasure.

His business reputation wasn’t helped by his disreputable brother Frank, who was imprisoned for financial misdeeds and strongly suspected of stealing the Irish crown jewels from Dublin Castle, where his lover, Sir Arthur Vicars, was Ulster King of Arms. Shackleton at one point drew up plans to hunt for Captain Kidd’s buried treasure in the Caribbean, but he might more profitably have started closer to home. The Irish crown jewels have never been recovered.

(The theft of the jewels was the inspiration for the Sherlock Holmes story, ‘The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans’. Conan Doyle was friendly with Arthur Vicars, and the villain of his story, Valentine Walters, has some delicate similarities to Frank Shackleton. Frank was never convicted of the crime – largely perhaps because an investigation threatened to expose the private lives of a number of fashionable gentlemen close to the crown – but Arthur Vicars himself was so sure that Frank did it, he included the allegation in his will.)

Ernest Shackleton did not thrive in civilisation. He finally accepted he had to return to the frozen wild. ‘I have my own ideals,’ he mused, ‘and far away in my own White South, I open my arms to the romance of it all.’

Funding was even more difficult this time round. The race for the South Pole was over and England had lost, so Shackleton cooked up the idea of making the first transcontinental crossing as a way of scraping back some prestige. It would be much harder than simply going to the Pole and back: there would be much suffering involved, and English patriotic pride was best wooed by the promise of plenty of noble suffering. But still doors closed in his face; former backers stopped answering messages.

Shackleton wore out his shoe leather on the sidewalks and doorsteps of the City. He begged from rich contacts, borrowed from friends, accepted donations from well-wishers. One of these, assiduously courted, was the wealthy, elderly, unmarried Janet Stancomb-Wills, the adopted daughter of a tobacco tycoon. Tobacco was quietly taking away from Shackleton, but here at least he had the chance to get something back.

Ms Stancomb-Wills had led a very proper late-Victorian life, shaded from the rays of passion, before she met Shackleton in the golden Edwardian sunshine. It would be improper to suggest that her personal feelings may have outweighed her scientific zeal for polar knowledge, but here are the opening lines from a poem she wrote to him in violet ink with an ivory-handled fountain pen from her boudoir dressing table:

Into my life you flashed, like a meteor out of the dark

Flooding its peaceful dullness with a splendour of glowing light.

Little by little, Shackleton raised the minimum needed to outfit the expedition. He bought a strong wooden ship, part steam-powered, part sail-, and painted her black and called her Endurance. He equipped her; he hired a team. But the longer he spent trudging the corridors of influence, the more he sagged as a person.

Shackleton was an emperor penguin, built to nobly withstand any degree of icy hardship, so long as it never sets foot on land. Someone who had met him before his first expedition and met him again now was shocked at the change. His skin was grey and his hair seemed thin. He had a haunted look, a pale shadow peering from a dusty window. One of my favourite descriptions of Shackleton, one that always made me love him, was that he was unable to suppress laughter, especially in serious matters, but now he never laughed, and barely smiled unless he was talking, and then always with visible effort. Most strikingly of all: he seemed to have developed an aversion to shaking hands.

Much of the money Shackleton raised was contingent on completion: he pre-sold the rights to the book, to the photographs, to the motion picture. He was counting on the proceeds from the lecture tour, and the serialised rights already sold to the Daily Chronicle. Without the expedition, he had no way even of covering what he had spent. If he turned back now, he was finished.

But Shackleton sent the cable to the Admiralty. If England wanted him to turn back, he would.

He paced the deck, waiting for a reply.

Shackleton was a great pacer. In Frank Hurley’s film footage from the ice he is often pacing or just post-pacing, staring at the camera, prow-faced and thoughtful. Often when he paced he recited poetry. The Russian poet Osip Mandelstam once wrote about Dante that his poetry – especially the Inferno and Purgatory – had the rhythm of pacing: linked to the breath, saturated with thought. Dante’s inner ring of hell was frozen in ice; he climbed Mount Purgatory to try to get out. Shackleton paced his purgatory, trying to get in.

It’s unclear whether the Admiralty knew about it, but there was a thrilling story in the making. In the previous months, an Austrian explorer named Felix König had announced he would launch his own Antarctic expedition, also using Vahsel Bay as his starting point. The two teams might land there at the same time. König and Shackleton had exchanged tetchy letters and there’d been a skirmish of words in the press, and that before the real war had been declared. It still stung the English that they had lost the last polar race to the Norwegians; could the King really afford to lose this race to the Kaiser? König’s ship was named Deutschland.

Shackleton waited, and he paced.

At anchor in Trieste, Felix König kicked his heels fretfully on the Deutschland for word from his admiralty.

And then a cable arrived, quite possibly from the First Lord of the Admiralty himself, Winston Churchill. It said: ‘Proceed’.

No less than Churchill, Shackleton knew the value of a phrase. Solemnly, he declared he would venture forth to wage ‘white warfare in the south’.

(It’s one of the great missed opportunities that there was no Churchill in the Austro-Hungarian war department. König was denied permission to go south. He was sent to war and Deutschland was conscripted into the navy. It was torpedoed and sank in the Adriatic. König fought in Galicia, was captured and imprisoned in Siberia and daringly escaped, but he never went to Antarctica.)

Endurance left Plymouth for the South Atlantic. The voyage took nearly two months. Shackleton stayed behind to wrangle some lingering finances and to patch up a last-minute quarrel with Emily. He caught up with them in Argentina, but then came the second close call.

In Buenos Aires, Shackleton was pale and unwell and spent long hours locked in his cabin. His second-in-command Frank Wild was startled by his appearance and covertly alerted Alexander Macklin, the ship’s physician, who suspected a heart complaint.

Shackleton declined to be examined.

Two tales of death foretold cling to Shackleton. One: when he was a child, an Irish nanny with second sight told him he would not live to be an old man. Two: a fortune teller he encountered on a lecture tour said he would die before 50.

On Shackleton’s first Antarctic expedition, with Scott on Discovery, Scott had selected him to trek southward toward the pole with him, along with Scott’s friend Edward Wilson. Shackleton had been chosen for his strength and vigour, but on the march he collapsed and the others had to help him back hundreds of kilometres, occasionally pulling him on a sled. It was demanding on Scott and Wilson, humiliating for Shackleton.

He refused to be examined by the expedition doctor and was invalided home. For the rest of his life, he never submitted to a genuine medical examination. In particular, he never let anyone listen to his heart.

Now, in Buenos Aires, Doctor Macklin was concerned. If Shackleton had a heart complaint, he had to turn back. But Shackleton wouldn’t be examined, and Shackleton was The Boss.

Once Endurance left Buenos Aires, he was a changed man. At sea he stood taller, and he laughed again. He looked men in the eye and joked with them, he slapped them on the shoulder. But still, Macklin was worried and Wild was watching fearfully.

A few days later came the first big test.

In Buenos Aires two sailors, William Bakewell and Perce Blackborow, had applied to be taken on as crew. Their previous ship had sunk in the mouth of the River Plate, leaving them without a berth. Bakewell was American but fearing prejudice from the English, shrewdly pretended to be Canadian. He was accepted. Blackborow was Welsh but he was eighteen years old. He was rejected for being too young.

Now, half-starved and seasick, Blackborow allowed himself to be discovered in the lower decks, a stowaway. They were too far from port to take him back. He was brought before Shackleton. A hush fell. Bakewell and another seaman named Walter How watched with particular interest, since they were the ones who smuggled Blackborow aboard, but in fact everyone was watching to see how Shackleton would react. So far he had been firm but easy-going, but character is only revealed by the unexpected, and when you’re sailing towards the blank spaces of the map, you want to know who is leading you. No one watched Shackleton more closely than Frank Wild.

As the boy Blackborow slumped on deck, too weak to stand, Shackleton leant over him, bellowing what he thought of sneaks and stowaways, and itemising how he intended to punish him. He seemed incandescent with rage, trembling on the edge of violence.

Frank Wild was shocked. Wild had been with Shackleton in the Antarctic twice before, once on the Scott expedition, once on Shackleton’s first voyage as leader. He had saved Shackleton’s life and had been saved by him. He was the one who had first named him The Boss, but Frank Wild didn’t recognise the man shouting at the stowaway. Shackleton had disapproved of Scott’s temper and military style of discipline. Once Scott had ordered his cook tied to the mast for hours on an icy deck for refusing to cook seal meat, and Shackleton had trembled with fury. That was the Shackleton that Wild revered, but maybe The Boss really had changed in those last bad years on land. Maybe he was wearing out, a fraying knot. Maybe it was time for Frank to rethink his faith.

Shackleton was building to a crescendo: ‘Furthermore,’ he thundered at the hapless Blackborow, ‘if we run out of food and anyone has to be eaten, you’ll be first!’

The boy managed to lift his head and make a final appeal to logic. He eyed Shackleton’s hefty frame. ‘They’d get more food off you, sir,’ he said.