The Man Who Would Be King

The crossing of the Antarctic continent would be, if it succeeded, the greatest feat of exploration in human history. If it failed, it would be remembered as a monument to overreach, a bridge too far across the ice. By December 1913, Ernest Shackleton had returned to London to build that bridge, and the ledgers on his desk showed only how far he still had to go.

He had announced his intention to the world on the twenty-ninth of that month, grandly titling his venture the “Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition.” The newspapers printed his prospectus, and the Royal Geographical Society noted the claim with the polite skepticism reserved for men who had promised much and delivered something less. Shackleton estimated that he would need £50, 000 to carry out the simplest version of his plan—a sum roughly equivalent to five million pounds in today’s money. He did not believe in appeals to the public. They “cause endless book-keeping worries,” he told his advisers. His chosen method was to solicit contributions from wealthy patrons and institutions, trading on his reputation and the unfinished business of the Antarctic map. He had begun this process early in 1913 with little initial success.

The timing was not propitious. In December 1912, the news had arrived from South Georgia that Wilhelm Filchner’s German expedition had failed. Filchner’s ship, the Deutschland, had been beset in the Weddell Sea, drifting for nine months before escaping with its crew half-starved and its ambitions shattered. The southern shore of that sea—the coast from which Shackleton proposed to launch his crossing—remained largely unknown, a blank space where Vahsel Bay marked the southernmost explored point at 77° 49’ S. The Weddell Sea was a known graveyard of ships, its pack ice thicker and more treacherous than the Ross Sea approach that Scott and Amundsen had used.

Shackleton knew the risks. He had stood closer to the South Pole than any human being had ever stood, and he had made the decision to turn back, saving his own life and those of his three companions. Now he was returning, not to claim the pole—that prize belonged to Amundsen, and perhaps to Scott, if the news from the south ever arrived—but to do something that no one had ever done.

The pole had been conquered by the Norwegian, but the fate of Scott’s expedition was not then known. Shackleton’s mind turned to a project that had been announced, and then abandoned, by the British explorer William Speirs Bruce: a continental crossing via the South Pole, entering from the Weddell Sea and exiting via the Ross Sea. Bruce had failed to raise the money. Shackleton, whose name carried more weight with the public and the societies, believed he could succeed where Bruce had not.

He began to transform himself from explorer to impresario.

The campaign headquarters occupied rooms at 4 New Burlington Street, a modest address that belied the scale of the ambition. From here, Shackleton worked the telephones and the correspondence, chasing subscriptions and arranging lectures. The Royal Geographical Society proved a reluctant ally. The Secretary, John Scott Keltie, had seen too many expeditions depart with promises and return with debt. The Society’s Council debated whether to endorse Shackleton’s plan, some members arguing that the Weddell Sea was a known graveyard of ships, others that the Ross Sea approach offered a more reliable route. Shackleton needed their imprimatur, not least because the Admiralty would look more kindly on a request for naval personnel if the Society had given its blessing.

The Admiralty itself was a harder case. In January 1914, Shackleton wrote to the First Lord, asking for the loan of naval officers and ratings for the expedition. The request passed through the bureaucratic layers, gathering objections. The Navy had its own concerns; tensions in Europe were rising, and the fleet could ill afford to spare trained men for private adventures. After some negotiation, the Admiralty agreed to grant temporary leave to a handful of officers, provided they returned to service upon the expedition’s conclusion. It was a conditional victory, leaving Shackleton dependent on men whose primary loyalty lay elsewhere.

Private benefactors proved more receptive, though their generosity came with strings attached. Sir James Caird, the Dundee jute manufacturer, contributed £24, 000—a staggering sum that covered nearly half the estimated budget. But Caird was old, and his will specified conditions that would later complicate the expedition’s finances.

Other donors gave smaller amounts: Lord Rosebery, who had previously expressed his lack of interest in polar expeditions, gave £50—a token gesture that barely covered the cost of a single sledging ration. In February 1914, The New York Times reported that playwright J.M. Barrie, a close friend of Shackleton, had contributed an undisclosed sum. The newspaper noted that Barrie had been “much interested” in the expedition’s prospects, though the exact amount remained private. With time running out, contributions were eventually secured during the first half of 1914. Dudley Docker of the Birmingham Small Arms Company gave £10, 000, and wealthy tobacco heiress Janet Stancomb-Wills gave a “generous” sum (the amount was not revealed).

The fundraising dragged on through the spring. Each delay compressed the timeline. The original plan had called for departure in mid-1914, to arrive in the Weddell Sea during the brief Antarctic summer. Now it was February, and the money was still short. Shackleton pressed forward regardless, committing to purchases he could not yet afford, gambling on subscriptions that had not yet materialized.

The ship was the most critical acquisition. Shackleton had identified a Norwegian vessel, the Polaris, built at the Framnaes shipyard for the tourist trade to Spitsbergen. She was a three-masted barquentine, designed by the Norwegian shipbuilder Christian Jacobsen to operate in ice. Her hull was constructed of oak and greenheart, with a rounded shape intended to allow ice pressure to lift her rather than crush her. She was, by all accounts, a handsome vessel—strong, seaworthy, and aesthetically suited to the image Shackleton wished to project. The ship, originally named Polaris, was built at Framnæs shipyard and launched in 1912 from Sandefjord in Norway. Shackleton bought her in January 1914 for £11, 600.

He renamed her Endurance, after his family motto: “By endurance we conquer.”

The choice revealed something about Shackleton’s priorities. The Polaris had been designed for light ice conditions, not for the heavy pack of the Weddell Sea. Her hull was strong, but she was not a purpose-built polar vessel like Nansen’s Fram or Scott’s Discovery. She lacked the sheer-sided construction that allowed those ships to resist being nipped by ice floes. Her rounded bottom, which made her attractive to look at, also made her prone to rolling in open water—a characteristic that would torment her crew during the voyage south. Shackleton had inspected her, approved her lines, and bought her for £11, 600, a significant portion of his budget. He had chosen well enough, perhaps, but not perfectly. The margin between success and disaster in the Antarctic was often measured in such compromises.

While Shackleton negotiated for the Endurance, he also had to secure a second vessel for the Ross Sea party. This supporting expedition would land on the opposite side of the continent, at McMurdo Sound, and lay supply depots inland toward the Beardmore Glacier, provisioning the final quarter of the transcontinental journey. Shackleton had initially hoped to purchase a suitable ship in Australia, but the available vessels were either too small or too expensive. Through the intervention of Sir Douglas Mawson, he secured the Aurora, a steam yacht that had served the Australasian Antarctic Expedition. The Aurora was old and worn, her boilers inefficient, her hull scarred by previous seasons in the ice. She would do, but only just.

The Ross Sea party presented its own complications. Shackleton had wanted John King Davis to captain the Aurora. Davis had commanded the ship during Mawson’s expedition and knew Antarctic waters as well as any living seaman. But Davis refused, thinking the enterprise “foredoomed.” The appointment went instead to Aeneas Mackintosh, a former merchant navy officer who had served under Shackleton on the Nimrod expedition. Mackintosh was loyal and brave, but he lacked Davis’s experience. He would have to learn on the job.

The recruitment of personnel for both vessels proceeded in parallel. According to legend, Shackleton posted an advertisement in The Times emphasizing the hardship and danger of the planned voyage. The advertisement has never been found in the newspaper’s archives, and Shackleton’s biographers have questioned its authenticity. But the legend persisted because it captured something essential about the expedition’s appeal. Nearly five thousand men applied, drawn by the promise of hardship and glory.

Shackleton interviewed them personally, assessing temperament as much as technical skill. He wanted men who could endure confinement, who could work together under pressure, who would not crack when things went wrong. The crew he assembled reflected his practical and symbolic needs. There were veteran sailors: Frank Worsley, a New Zealander with a gift for navigation, would captain the Endurance; Thomas Crean, an Irish petty officer who had served with Scott and Shackleton before, brought experience and reliability. There were “scientific gentlemen”: James Wordie, the geologist; Leonard Hussey, the meteorologist; Robert Clark, the biologist. And there were oddities: Reginald James, a physicist who would later help develop radar; Lionel Greenstreet, a merchant navy officer who became first officer; and Thomas Orde-Lees, a former Royal Marine whose qualifications were unclear but whose enthusiasm was boundless.

The scientific staff were essential to the expedition’s stated purpose. Shackleton had pitched the journey not just as an adventure but as a contribution to knowledge. The Royal Geographical Society had insisted on scientific work, and Shackleton had agreed, appointing a team to study geology, meteorology, and biology. But the science was secondary to the crossing. The scientists would have to pull their weight as sailors and sledgers, and their equipment would take second place to the stores needed for survival. This tension—between exploration as science and exploration as spectacle—ran through the entire enterprise.

The Ross Sea party faced its own recruitment challenges. The wireless operator, Lionel Hooke, was an eighteen-year-old electrical apprentice. The photographer, Spencer-Smith, was a clergyman with no polar experience. The party was underfunded and under-equipped, its members often unaware of the difficulties they would face. They gathered in Australia in late 1914, preparing to depart for Hobart and then south. Despite all the difficulties, the Aurora set out from Sydney on 15 December 1914, bound for Hobart, where she arrived on 20 December to take on final stores and fuel. On 24 December, she sailed for the Ross Sea.

The parallel preparations—Weddell Sea and Ross Sea, Endurance and Aurora—stretched Shackleton’s attention and his finances. Money remained the constant constraint. In March 1914, he reported to the Royal Geographical Society that he had raised £30, 000, leaving a shortfall of £20, 000. He applied for a government grant, arguing that the expedition would bring honor to the nation. The Treasury was unmoved. The money had to come from private sources, and Shackleton spent weeks in negotiations, lectures, and personal appeals.

The financial pressure forced compromises. The scientific equipment was reduced. The provisions were calculated to the minimum. The crew’s wages were set low, with the understanding that success would bring other rewards. Shackleton himself took no salary, investing his own limited funds in the venture and borrowing against his future earnings. The expedition’s solvency depended on his ability to keep the money coming, and that ability depended on his maintaining public interest and the confidence of his backers.

By mid-1914, the preparations had reached a frantic pitch. The Endurance was fitted out at the Surrey Commercial Docks, her holds filled with stores, her deck crowded with dogs and sledges. The dogs—sixty-nine of them, mostly Canadian sledge dogs—were housed in kennels on deck, their barking a constant accompaniment to the work. The sledges, tents, and clothing had to be tested, packed, and stowed. The crew had to be trained, or at least acquainted with the tasks they would perform.

Shackleton worked eighteen-hour days, moving between the ship, the office, and the lecture halls. He had to manage not just the logistics but the personalities: the scientists who chafed at the sailors’ authority, the sailors who mocked the scientists’ inexperience, the officers who worried about the inadequate preparations, the donors who demanded updates. His energy seemed inexhaustible, but it was a performance, sustained by will and the fear of failure.

The expedition’s departure was set for August 1914. Shackleton had planned to sail from London, but the Admiralty requested that he delay, hoping to use the Endurance for war service if hostilities broke out. Shackleton refused. He had promised his backers that he would sail, and he feared that any delay would give them time to withdraw their support. The Admiralty relented, granting permission to proceed. On 3 August, the Endurance left the Thames, bound for Plymouth.

The timing was terrible. On 4 August, Britain declared war on Germany. The news reached Shackleton in Plymouth. He immediately offered the expedition’s ships and men to the Admiralty for war service. The response came the next day: “Proceed.” The government had decided that the expedition should continue, a gesture of national confidence in the face of crisis. The crossing of Antarctica would be a statement of British resolve, a demonstration that the Empire’s reach extended even to the ends of the earth.

The Endurance departed from Plymouth on 8 August 1914, carrying Shackleton and twenty-seven men. One crew member had been left behind, dismissed for drunkenness; his place was taken by a stowaway, Percy Blackborow, a young Welshman who had been refused a berth but sneaked aboard anyway. Shackleton, discovering him at sea, put him to work as a steward. The crew was now complete, twenty-eight men in all, bound for the ice.

The ship stopped at Buenos Aires to take on additional stores, then proceeded to South Georgia, the last outpost of civilization before the Weddell Sea. The whaling station at Grytviken offered a final chance to test equipment and adjust plans. Shackleton consulted with the station manager, who warned him that the ice conditions in the Weddell Sea were unusually severe that year. The pack extended farther north than in previous seasons, and the prospects for reaching Vahsel Bay were uncertain. Shackleton listened, thanked him, and proceeded anyway. He had no choice. The money was spent, the commitments made, the timeline fixed.

On 5 December 1914, Shackleton’s expedition traveled via the ship Endurance from South Georgia for the Weddell Sea, on the first stage of the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition. They were making for Vahsel Bay, the southernmost explored point of the Weddell Sea at 77° 49’ S, where Shackleton planned to land his shore party and begin the crossing. The journey south would take them through the pack ice, a maze of shifting floes that could open a path or close it without warning.

The ship moved cautiously, threading through the leads. The ice was thicker than expected, first-year ice that slowed progress and forced constant maneuvering. The crew stood watches, the dogs howled, and the scientific gentlemen tried to look useful. The temperature dropped, the daylight lengthened, and the Antarctic revealed itself in walls of white stretching to every horizon.

Shackleton stood on the bridge, watching the ice ahead. He had sold this expedition to the public, to the societies, to the donors, and to the men around him. He had promised success, and he had bet everything on that promise. The ship, the plan, the timeline—all were products of persuasion as much as preparation. The Endurance was strong, but not strong enough. The provisions were adequate, but not generous. The crew was capable, but untested in the conditions they would face. The crossing demanded flawless execution across two distant, unforgiving fronts, and Shackleton knew, better than anyone, how many things could go wrong.

He had been here before, in a different way. On the Nimrod expedition, he had pushed south with a small party, reaching 88° 23’ S, closer to the Pole than any man had stood, before turning back. He had calculated the rations, the distances, the margins, and he had made the decision that saved his life and the lives of his companions. He knew the ice, and he knew what it could do.

But this was different. The crossing would take months, covering nearly two thousand miles of frozen continent. The Weddell Sea party would have to land, establish a base, and set out across the ice shelf, the mountains, and the plateau, while the Ross Sea party laid depots from the other side. Any failure in timing, weather, or supply would doom the enterprise. The margin for error was nonexistent.

The expedition had been launched on a tide of optimism, but the optimism was purchased at a price. The financial brinkmanship had compressed the timeline, forcing departure before the money was fully secured. The ship had been chosen for her availability and appearance as much as her suitability for heavy ice. The Ross Sea party had been assembled with whatever personnel and equipment could be found, not with the best that could be obtained. The scientific program was a gesture, not a priority. The crew was a mix of veterans and novices, sailors and scientists, united mainly by their willingness to go.

Shackleton’s genius lay in his ability to persuade, to inspire, to make people believe that the impossible was merely difficult. He had talked his way into funding, talked his way into ships, talked his way into permissions and personnel. He had transformed himself from a failed polar explorer—the man who had turned back ninety-seven miles from the Pole—into a national hero, a symbol of British determination. The expedition was his redemption, his chance to prove that the Nimrod’s failure had been a decision, not a defeat.

But the ice did not care about redemption. The Weddell Sea did not care about national honor. The continent did not care about the promises made in London lecture halls or the checks written in Dundee drawing rooms. The ice held its own logic, its own rhythms, its own indifference.

The Endurance pushed south, the ice closing around her. The crew settled into their routines, the scientists began their observations, the dogs adapted to their new environment. Shackleton watched from the bridge, his face showing nothing but confidence. He had brought them this far. He would bring them the rest of the way.

Twenty-eight men were now locked into a fate not yet written, aboard a ship and a plan built on salesmanship over robustness.