Courage Beyond

Amidst the howling wind, the Endurance slices through the black, unforgiving waters, her prow pointing towards the stretch of pale blue horizon that gets nearer and bigger every day. With the land behind, sea beneath, and the unknown ahead, what more could a sailor ask for?

Ever since I, Jasper Wolfe the Second, laid eyes on this ship, I knew it was my destiny to go sailing the seas with Ernest Shackleton. And so here I am, leaning against the bow railings of the Endurance, eyes set towards the adventure that lies beyond, the salty wind whipping my brownish-black hair wildly around my head and blowing white spray off the top of the waves. Oh, the feeling of the boat rocking beneath me! I can’t contain my joy, yet at the same time, I’m almost too thrilled to be able to do anything except watch as the Endurance chugs on.

“Happy, eh?” Ernest appears beside me, his face set with that wonder and excitement that only a sailor can have, but still toughened by the weeks of weathering. “Well, my boy, 48 days in and we’re makin’ good progress.” Ernest always calls me ‘my boy’ and says I’m his favourite. Of course, I don’t tell the others this. But I revel in the knowledge that our great leader is my best friend.

Suddenly, there’s a shout from the starboard side, and Ernest groans. “Welp, better go sort that out, ain’t I?” He ruffles my hair and jogs to where some men have knocked over a barrel of wine, which is now spilling all over the deck. I don’t go and help, partially because I know I won’t be of much use, but mainly because Henry McNish (whom I christen the Nisher) is there, cursing and bellowing at everyone who happens to be in range. The Nisher, the oldest sailor onboard, has a terrible temper and often argues outright with Ernest. And he hates me. Whenever he sees me, he yells at me and finds something to blame me for. So, I try to stay out of his way.

I look back out towards the strip of ice in the horizon. Ah, Antarctica. The very word sends shivers down my body. I close my eyes and listen to the waves splashing against the Endurance’s prow.

“McNish? What’s going on here?” I hear Ernest’s calm, certain voice behind me.

“These land-blubberers ‘ave gone and spilt half our supply of wine!” the Nisher roars. I can imagine his face turning red like a ripe tomato, his left eye twitching into spasms.

“It’s alright, Henry,” Ernest says. “We’re less than a day away from Vahsel Bay. I think the weeks at sea have gotten to some of us.”

I open my eyes and instantly see that something is wrong. Just in front of the strip of Antarctica is a thinner, but no less dense, band of ice. I let out a shout, and Ernest comes rushing over. He spots it too.

“Pack ice,” I growl.

“Pack ice,” he repeats. “Alright boys,” he says to the crew. “Enough of this nonsense. We’ve got trouble up ahead.” He turns to me. “Go, boy. Go get Frank.”

Frank is the captain and navigator. He’s nice to me, and often shows his annoyance with the Nisher, which I like. I run to where Frank is at the wheel. He knows that there’s trouble: his brow is furrowed, and he’s scanning the horizon.

“Ello, Jas,” he says. Everyone on board except Ernest and the Nisher call me Jas. The Nisher calls me Jasper, when he really needs to use my name.

“Pack ice up ahead,” I say, pulling his arm towards where a crowd has gathered at the bow. “Ernest wants you.”

“Oy, Hudson, come take over for a jiffy, will ya? Jas needs sumthin’.” Frank calls to a tall, well-built man who comes over and takes the wheel, while me and Frank go to the bow. “Ah, I see, pack ice. Nasty,” he says as we get near enough to see the band of ice, increasing in size by the minute.

Ernest pulls him aside and they discuss the best course of action. Frank tells us that it looks as though there’s a break in the ice a few kilometres westward, where we can slip through. No one argues with this plan, not even the Nisher. Frank’s a skilled navigator. He’s gotten us out of many a jam before, and we all trust he can do it again.

Frank goes back to the wheel and steers us west. Soon, we’re gliding through the gap, which is just big enough to fit the Endurance. Everyone is praising Frank, who stands tranquilly at the wheel, guiding the ship to safety.

I am back at the bow, watching the waters in front of the ship. I see a sleek, black and white figure dart across the gap. A penguin. Yum. Mr Hudson is a great penguin catcher, and he always gives me a big share. I’m quite a favourite on board. Except, of course, with the Nisher.

As I stare into the endless blueish-black sea, it almost looks like the gap between the ice is getting… smaller. Oh no! Before I can call out to warn Frank, there is a horrible scraping noise, then an almighty crash!

For a moment, there is silence. Then chaos breaks out amongst the crew members.

“What happened?”

“Are ya blind? We just swerved an’ hit the ice!”

“No, we didn’t hit it. The gap was too narrow an’ we got stuck!”

“Rubbish! T’was plenty wide.”

The voice of Ernest hollers over the others. “Order! Order, I say!” Everyone stops. “The tunnel through the pack ice ‘as became too tight for the Endurance, and we’re trapped.”

The crew gasps. “Trapped?” the Nisher cries. “Why, don’t mean she’s stuck ‘ere?”

“Aye, that is what ‘e means by trapped,” Frank says drily from the wheel.

“And why didn’t ya see that the opening wasn’t wide enough, eh?” the Nisher snaps back.

“Peace, Henry,” Ernest says before Frank can reply. “We will do what we can, but circumstances ain’t looking too good.”

“Ain’t that obvious,” the Nisher mutters as he goes down into his cabin, most likely to sulk. The others sort out supplies into boxes and bundles, just in case we have to evacuate. Frank and Ernest are talking again, debating whether the ice is thin enough to break through.

I don’t know what to do, so I sit down on the port side on a coil of rope, my nose jutting over the edge of the ship. I can smell seals, and they reek. I am well-known on board the Endurance for my sense of smell. Ernest always says, “He’s a better sniffer than any of ‘em dogs.”

The 68 dogs on the Endurance have ropes around their necks to keep them from escaping. I’m in charge of them, but they’re a rowdy bunch. Some of them love the sea like me, but others just cower at the bottom of the boat. I don’t care much for anyone, man or beast, who can’t stand the water.

Suddenly, there’s a loud bang! and crunch as an ice floe slams into the stern. I quiver and hear muffled curses from the men, and the frantic howling of the dogs.

Ernest comes to address the company. I hope he’ll say that the Endurance can break through. We’re so close to Antarctica. Ernest clears his throat. “Attention everyone. Frank has told me that the ice is too thick to get through, and she’ll likely sink within the day.” There are groans and mutterings from the crew. Even I sigh with frustration and disappointment. “We will have to evacuate the ship.”

“Yay,” someone says gruffly.

“Oh, be quiet and listen to the Commander,” I snap, but he ignores me.

The crew empties the supplies out of the ship, along with the dogs. They also take three life boats and drag them onto the ice. I stay up on deck with Ernest, watching the Endurance strain against the ice. “Well, my boy,” Ernest says. “Looks like this old gal’s time is up. She’s gotten us this far.”

We squint in the light reflected off the ice, drinking in the rays of setting sun and the memories that the ship holds. We listen to the creaks and groans of her body, and the faint splashes of the water below. Then we walk down off the Endurance for the last time.

Most of the men have long faces, angry, confused and unsure of what comes next. All except Ernest. I expected the Nisher to be fuming, ranting at Frank for steering them wrong, but he’s not. In fact, I can’t see him or smell him at all! He stinks of tobacco and sweat, so he’s easy to pick out.

Ernest seems to notice his absence too and questions the men. But it’s obvious that he’s not here. He’s still in the Endurance. Despite being infamous on board, no one wants to lose a crew member. Ernest starts to devise a rescue party when the Endurance gives a moan and sinks a few inches further.

“Ernest,” Frank says. “That ship is bound to sink, along with anyone inside ‘er. I’ll bet the first thing someone sets foot on ‘er, she’ll go.” Ernest seems determined to rescue the Nisher, but he too realizes the risk. A heavy cloud of guilt settles over the crew. No one can enter the Endurance. I see Ernest’s crestfallen face. I know how much he values his crew and how he hates to see even a minor injury amongst them. Despite this, the crew knows that it’s better to lose one man than many. But surely, thinks I, it’s better to lose a few men to the possibility of saving the first, than letting a man die without hope.

Without realizing what I’m doing, I shout, “I’ll get him!” And I run towards the abandoned ship.

Ernest and Frank call out urgently, “Jas! What are you doing?” I ignore them. “Stop, Jas! Come back!”

I dash up the gang plank, skidding across the slick wooden floor. The ship creaks and drops a good half metre. I hear the desperate cries from Ernest and the crew and the wild barking of the dogs and know that I am risking my life. Just to save the Nisher. Although somehow, the fact that he is the Nisher doesn’t seem to deter me. I burst into the cabins, down the stairs, and gallop through the hallway until I get to the second last door. The Nisher’s room. I bang against the door. It’s locked, as usual.

“Quick! Come out!” I howl. “The ship’s sinking!”

There’s no reply, and I can’t hear anything behind the door. Why hasn’t he come out? Doesn’t he realise that there’s danger?

“Hurry!” When he doesn’t appear, I turn a corner and into the boiler room, where the door swings open on its hinges. It must have broken when we crashed. The main lights have broken and give no more light than a dim flicker. There’s a blinking red light near the door. Danger, it screams, urging me to turn back. Water floods the ground, slowly creeping, higher and higher. I’m running out of time.

“McNish! Are you there?” I’m about to check the other cabins when I hear a faint cry.

I run deeper into the boiler room and see a figure slumped against the wall. “McNish!”

“Jasper?” the Nisher says. “What are you doing here?”

“Quick, quick! The ship’s going down!” I drag him to his feet and tug on his arm, leading him to the door. The water swirls around our feet, threatening to swallow us.

“I’m hurt, Jasper.”

I notice that the Nisher’s limping, and one of his pant legs are torn. There’s a small blood patch on his arm, staining his sleeve a dark red. I don’t know what happened to him, but all that matters now is getting him out. I stand on his wounded side and let him lean on me for support. In this fashion we creep towards the door. Halfway through the hallway of cabins, there is a thunderous boom and the whole ship shudders as if in pain as yet another floe smashes into the ship like a battering ram against the raised drawbridge of a mighty castle.

“Oh, Jasper,” the Nisher moans.

“It’s alright. We’re so close.”

We get to the end of the passage and climb up the steps with difficulty. There isn’t enough space for us to walk side by side, so I go in front of the Nisher, and he holds on to me from behind. Finally, we reach the top. The crew lets out a roaring cheer when they see us.

The Nisher and I inch towards the gangplank, but just a few metres away from safety, he collapses.

“I can’t, Jasper,” he whispers. “I can’t.” The cheers diminish.

“Quick, get up!” I howl over the wind and screeching of the ship as it sinks even further. We don’t have much time. I wriggle underneath the Nisher and heave him up. He’s so heavy. My back feels like it’s breaking, and my legs are on fire. I grit my teeth. “Come on, McNish.” Then my back gives way and he tumbles to the side.

“Leave me here. Go.” His voice is weak, but his face seems almost… serene.

“No!” I say. “Come on, we gotta get outta here.”

The ship groans another warning, telling us to get a move on. I imagine what it would be like at the bottom of the ocean, a frozen statue, never moving again, my only company the fish that gape as they swim past the strange sight of a shipwreck and its victims. I blink away the thought.

“McNish! We have to go! Get up!”

“Jasper, go! Leave me!”

“No! I won’t!”

“Go!”

The Endurance gives a final thunk and trembles, then she plunges towards the sea. The ship keels towards port, and I am flung on my side. The Nisher slides towards the opposite end, which is already underwater.

“No!” I howl.

“Jas!” Ernest calls to me desperately. “Come here! Now!”

I look at him, then at the Nisher. He’s begging me to go, not with words, but with his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” I whimper, tears welling in my eyes. Then I jump.

I go skidding across the ice, then curl up at Ernest’s feet. I block out the profound sploosh as the Endurance descends into the cold, black sea. I try not to think about the Nisher and his watery grave.

“Oh, Jas.” I feel a warm hand on my back. “You’re a good boy,” Ernest says, stroking my hair. “You did all you could.” Behind us, I hear quiet sobs from the crew. All their disdain towards the Nisher has vanished along with him.

The sea around the spot the Endurance sunk has already been covered over by drifting chunks of ice. The sun is setting low into the sky, turning it gold and red and the fluffy clouds pink. I look back at the crew, even the toughest with a hankie to their eyes, all of them connected by their love of the sea and each other, no matter their differences. The loss of the Nisher hangs heavy over us, and I will miss even his harshest words. But he will soar above us, watching over us as we continue this journey, no matter what comes next.

We sleep through the night, the Southern Star burning brightly above us. It’s cold and dark, like any other night, but this time it’s different. This time, the Nisher isn’t there. He’s not complaining about “this blasted weather” or how we “need a new cook, eh, otherwise we’ll all die of food poisonin’” or that “those land-blubberers ‘ave gone and forgotten to stoke the boiler”. We wake before dawn. No one can sleep peacefully in the knowledge that we’ve failed to bring one man home. I’ve failed.

“Yer a brave one,” Ernest says to me, and even in the dark I can see the mist of his breath and his hunched, shadowed figure. “The finest, noblest dog I’ve met.” We sit in a deafening silence for a long time until the velvety black sky turns to a hazy grey, then a deep pink.

The first sliver of sun illuminates the weary faces before me, and we gather what remains of our supplies and pack up camp. As we weep for the Nisher, and as light shines on a new day and a new beginning, my drooping tail starts to wag. Slowly, at first, but surely.