Death on the Ice (15 page)

‘Major-General Parsons is entitled to his opinion. For my part I think it pure sophistry. And I would suggest the Cavalry School at Netherton would do you just as well as any hunt.’

‘But for six months, sir. I’ll have missed the Military Cup, the Punchestown meet and the bulk of the hunting. And the King will be at Dundalk.’ Oates risked a barefaced lie. ‘He has an eye for Sorry Kate.’

Colonel Sterling muttered something about the King having an eye for most fillies. It was at the Curragh that the then Prince of Wales—Bertie—had discovered his taste for actresses, in a dalliance with Nellie Clifden. Edward often came across for the Irish races with the Queen or, occasionally, one of his mistresses, and the Duke of Gloucester.

‘And BP is happy enough for me to represent the cavalry at the races.’ This was a low blow, because Baden-Powell, the hero of Mafeking, was now Inspector-General of the cavalry. Everyone knew he often cited ‘No Surrender’ Oates as an example of British fortitude under fire. Both men appreciated that Oates could appeal to Baden-Powell directly and that the IG would overrule the colonel.

Sterling, sensing a rout, returned to his seat. ‘And who will be riding this Sorry Kate?’

‘I will be.’

Although a fine horseman, Oates had gathered quite a stable and didn’t always ride his own mounts. ‘I thought you had a trainer and jockeys?’

‘Sacked them. BFs, the lot of them. They don’t encourage. If a horse wants to run, they’ll let it. And take the glory. But they don’t motivate a ride that is holding back. I know more about how to get the best from a horse than they do.’

The colonel sighed. He didn’t doubt it. While his fellow officers went to the dances and dinners that were always on offer from the local gentry, Oates preferred his hunting, polo and racing. Quite a number of his contemporaries had bagged—or been snared by—local beauties, with several engagements announced in the past month alone, something that was unlikely to happen to Titus. Still, Oates was but a lieutenant, too young and too junior to marry; perhaps he was better off with four-legged fillies, after all. And his equine activities were certainly preferable to dalliances with the Bushside Betties, the dubious women who camped around the barracks, or loafing about on the town.

‘Very well, Oates, I shall postpone the Cavalry School. And the Musketry School too?’

‘Where is that to be held?’

‘Six weeks at Hythe.’

‘In Kent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh Lord. If you don’t mind.’

‘I do mind.’ The colonel scribbled on a piece of paper. Oates could hear his teeth grinding as he did so. ‘Dismissed.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Oates, resisting the urge to grin, stood, replaced his cap, saluted, and turned on his heel.

‘Oh, and Oates?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do let me know when it is convenient to send you, won’t you?’

Oates nodded solemnly. ‘Of course I will, sir.’

Once out of the office, Oates sighed with relief. He couldn’t tell the colonel the real reason why he wanted to stay in Ireland. He would no more understand than Caroline Oates would. The thought of Carrie’s wrath at his actions made his stomach contract and he was still mumbling to himself when McConnell fell in beside him.

‘Sorry, Boots, didn’t get a chance to ask about going on the rolls.’ This would make his Boots an official member of the regiment, rather than a supernumerary whose future depended on his employer. ‘Wasn’t quite the right moment.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘I will get you on.’

‘I have no doubt of that. But it was something else, sir.’

‘What is it?’

‘There’s a message, sir.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘By telephone. But don’t worry, I took it. Well, I got it from McCleary, who is a good lad.’

‘What message?’

‘Well, here’s the thing. The Mother Superior of The Immaculate Heart of the Virgin Mary says she can see you next week. As requested. Is everything … you know?’

Oates sighed. The steward clearly knew what St Mary’s was. ‘Oh, don’t worry, McConnell. I’m just thinking of converting, that’s all.’

‘Converting—’ McConnell stopped in his tracks and watched the young lieutenant stride on. ‘Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘I just hope you know what you are doing.’

I
T WAS A MARVELLOUS
sight, enough to bring a lump to every observer’s throat. A dozen men and their five fully loaded eleven-foot ash sledges on the ice. Each of the wooden contraptions bristled with pennants, standing proud in the icy breeze. Some of the flags were personal crests, like Barne’s, and others decidedly homemade, with mottoes such as ‘Who Needs Dogs?’ and ‘Back In a Jiffy’ painted on them. Largest of all was the Union Jack, presented to the expedition by Sir Clements himself. It was a clear day, and, away from the wind, reasonably warm. Most of the crew who had come out to see off the support party wore only their sweaters and woollen waistcoats, jackets and sledging britches being unnecessary.

Led by Barne, the support party’s job was to carry extra food for the main group—Shackleton, Wilson and Scott—who would follow a day or so later. Scott intended to use dogs; Barne was relying on human muscle. Once the polar party had caught up, Barne was to offer support till Scott felt able to continue on with just his two companions. Barne would then return to the ship, rest, then set off to explore and test the fringes of the ice barrier that ran to the island—if it was an island—of Victoria Land to the West.

Meanwhile, Scott, Wilson and Shackleton would make the run to the Pole.

‘October the thirtieth,’ said Wilson, as if Scott wasn’t only too aware of the date. ‘Nearly November. The illness cost us dear.’

‘It always does,’ said Scott. ‘But we beat it. Thanks to you and Armitage.’

‘Oh, give Armitage the full due, please. He worked like a demon.’

Scurvy had sent the ships into paroxysms of activity. Although many complained about the four a.m. starts, the cleaning and painting and washing, few disputed the intentions behind the fully re-instigated RN regime. Scurvy had devastated many polar parties, and none on board wanted to be tainted with failure because of bleeding gums, swollen ankles and the terrible fatigue it brought. The ship was scrubbed from bowsprit to stern.

Bert Armitage, driven by guilt that his sledging party had succumbed first, used his resulting anger to good effect. He upbraided the cook and insisted on lightly cooked fresh meat every day. He set about slaughtering seals as if they were personally responsible for the outbreak and roped in skua and penguin as accomplices. Tinned food was used only as a supplement to the newly slaughtered creatures. The scurvy retreated before the onslaught.

‘Could we still do it? The Pole?’

Scott squinted up at the high-circling sun and the cirrus clouds that speared it. ‘Perhaps.’ The Pole lay 740 nautical miles over an unknown landscape. The progress would have to be exceptional. However, they would be travelling in the best possible conditions with, if all went well, thirteen weeks’ worth of food, pulled by what he hoped would become eager dogs. ‘But if not, we can give it a good fright.’

He watched Shackleton talking to Barne and Lashly, the ever-reliable stoker, and their raucous laughter boomed over the ice. Shackleton seemed back to his old, easy, popular self. ‘How is Shackle?’

If Scott noticed the hesitation, he didn’t let on. ‘He’ll be fine. It’s me I’m worried about.’

They joined in the three cheers for Barne and his party and it was a few moments before Scott could say, ‘You? Are you not well?’

‘Fit as Mr Hodgson’s blasted fiddle. No, it’s the thought of the ice out there.’ He nodded to the South. ‘Nothing to sketch; no beasts, no trees, no rocks, perhaps. Blizzards, crevasses, perhaps even open water. I  …’

‘Go on,’ Scott prompted.

‘There are occasions  …’ The doctor sounded ashamed and his eyes went to the churned slush at his feet. He cleared his throat. ‘I wake up in the night sometimes, suffocating at the thought of it.’

Scott slapped the forlorn doctor on the back. ‘So do I, so do I.’

‘You?’

‘Yes, me. All of us, truth be told. Look at Royds.’ The lieutenant had conquered his fear of the blizzards and returned to Cape Crozier, this time succeeding in leaving a message with their position for Markham’s relief ship. The party had also located an Emperor penguin rookery, which had set Wilson all a-twitter. The fact that the doughty animals chose to overwinter, like
Discovery
, had created a bond between man and bird. ‘He won’t mind me telling you this, Bill. The night before he left for Crozier, he was sick as a dog. He came to see me, pale and drawn. To worry about soiling your britches and still to go. I think that’s what we call courage, doctor, and I know you have plenty of that.’

‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

‘I know already. You have written your letters?’

‘To poor Ory, yes.’ This was Wilson’s young wife. They had enjoyed but three weeks of married life together and Scott wasn’t surprised by the trace of yearning he detected. Bill hadn’t been able to stomach seeing Gilbert dressed as a pretty young girl. ‘And Shackle has written to his fiancée Emily. He showed me. Rather maudlin, I thought. About meeting in another world should he not come back. And he mentions God a lot. Strange how He reappears at such moments such as these. You’ve written?’

‘To my mother, and I have almost completed my instructions to Mr Armitage in case of  …’ Scott shook his head and smiled, bemused by his superstitions. He could face up to the possibility of failure and even death on paper; he simply didn’t like to vocalise it.

‘And you’ve made your peace with God?’ Wilson asked.

Scott laughed. He knew Wilson didn’t mean to sound pompous, but he sometimes couldn’t help it, as if there was an elderly pastor trapped inside his young body. And Scott had no idea how you reached a settlement with God. His relationship with the deity was one of constant turmoil. Now and then he envied Wilson his uncompromising, and uncompromised, faith. ‘God and I have reached an understanding. He says he won’t mind if I go and take a look at his wondrous works down there. And I promised him you would take your prayer book and give due thanks. Come, let us wish Mr Barne luck.’

He crunched over the ice and shook hands with Barne, telling him he would see him at Depot A, if not before. The lieutenant declared himself ready to depart. Willing hands assisted with jerking the sledges forward, overcoming the initial inertia. The helpers set off with the party, running over the ice, till Scott thought half
Discovery
’s crew might go along too. These camp followers halted a mile away from the ship and stood, waving. Barne and the others pulled south, heads down, not looking back.

There was champagne in the wardroom that night, toasting the imminent departure of the trio who would strike for the Pole. Shackleton, for once, was very subdued and excused himself. He donned his outdoor gear and went out into the dark, where the sun had dipped low in the sky. He made sure he was well away from the ship’s long shadows before he let the cough wrack his body, straining his lungs as he turned red in the face. It was nothing, he told himself. Nothing at all.

As he trudged back, feeling spent, the wind picked up and moaned through the riggings. The dogs joined in, a discordant and dreadful noise. Shackleton hacked once more and spat. Flecks of red glistened on the ice. He kicked over the marks, leaving a few faint pink streaks. A gust hit him in the face, making him grimace. A mist had veiled the sun, blurring it, and angry clouds had obscured Mt Erebus. In the far distance, yellow snow devils danced as local winds plucked at the ground. He could imagine the gales building, picking up their tiny pellets of ice, ready to dash at any man foolish enough to be in their tempestuous path.

A storm was coming.

O
ATES LOVED A RACETRACK
, especially an Irish one. For, unlike some of the genteel English races that liked to dress things up in social ritual, here racing was but war in another guise. A battle not only between horses and their riders, but also between owners and trainers, bookmakers and punters, rumour and truth. It was at once noble and squalid. And there was talk, reams of it, enough to paper over the Irish Sea, expressed in accents that ranged from the high-falutin’ of the grandee landowners in the club to the almost unintelligible brogue of the crowd in the park.

He had arrived by jaunting car, pulled by Sorry Kate. She had won at Dundalk, given him a third at the Curragh’s own track, another win at Dundalk, then a credible second at Leopardstown. At Fairyhouse, though, she had pulled up, and he detected a slight problem with the troublesome thoroughpin. It swelled slightly the next day. He had rested her; he might even retire her from the track, but, in the meantime, he gave her an outing with the car.

His horse entered to race in the two-thirty at Punchestown that day had been prepared by Ernest Jefferies, his new trainer, who had the good sense to consult Oates before he took any major decisions. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he never forgot who was the owner and who paid for all the livery he was charging. The horse was Mr Daniels, a four year old he had bought at a selling race in Roscommon, cash down before the off; three weeks later Oates had ridden him to a third at Leopardstown. He had an odd, disconcerting habit of shaking on the line, as if he was cold, but once the flag had dropped he pulled well, with a long, loose stride.

The jockey was a local lad called Eamonn Dunnet, who despite two missing fingers—from a farmyard accident—was an up and coming name. The race was the Quinns of Dublin Steeplechase for the St Patrick’s Plate. As always, Oates wished for the saddle himself, but with nine horses, he couldn’t ride them all to every meet. Nor, given his above-average height, could he compete with the diminutive jockeys the Irish seemed able to produce for such races. He had decided to keep himself for events such as the various military and regimental cups, where he would be competing against fellow officers, not leprechauns.