Death on the Ice (17 page)

By the time they reached their colleagues, the surface of the ice had transmuted once more. Now they were travelling over wave after wave of sastrugi, sculptured ice waves. The sleds began to slither on them and the dogs found the going harder. But still they pressed on.

The twelve men ahead grew in size till Scott could distinguish them as individuals, and that some were on skis, the long single poles clearly visible, others on foot. Hands were raised in greeting. The advanced party dropped their traces and sat on the sledges or the ice while Scott covered the last few miles.

Scott caught his breath before speaking. ‘Mr Barne.’

‘Skipper.’

‘I didn’t expect to see you quite so soon.’ Scott tried not to make it sound like an admonishment.

‘That storm kept us in the tent.’ It was Stoker Lashly, uncharacteristically glum. ‘And this ice  …’ He kicked at the shiny, uneven surface with the toe of his fur boot. ‘Can’t get a good grip with these furs. But the ski boots, them’s dreadful cold.’

Wilson quietly moved among the advance party, checking faces and hands for frost-nip or worse, but all seemed well. Only spirits had suffered.

Shackleton looked at the dozen already-weary faces. They had been gone three days. He surreptitiously glanced at the sledgemeter. It was horribly accurate, always undercutting their guesswork at how far they might have travelled on the ice. Sometimes a march of what felt like twenty miles turned out to be fewer than ten. By its reckoning Barne and his company had made terrible progress, less than a mile an hour. ‘We should take some weight, perhaps,’ he suggested. ‘The dogs are performing well. They can handle more. It might even make it easier for us to keep up.’

‘That might help,’ agreed Barne. He pointed ruefully at one of the limp pennants. ‘No Dogs Needed’ it said. ‘And maybe we’ll take that down.’

‘Don’t be despondent, Mr Barne,’ said Scott brightly. ‘Let’s have some cocoa while we redistribute the loads.’

Wilson and Shackleton set about the primus stove. Scott walked along the sledge train, whistling badly, identifying equipment and rations for the transfer, mentally calculating the weight savings. ‘I reckon we can lighten you by a hundred and fifty pounds, Mr Barne. How’s that?’

‘Thanks, skipper.’

‘Excellent.’

Lashly sat down on the edge of a sledge and began to roll a cigarette. Barne turned to him and whispered: ‘You know, I’m not sure I don’t prefer the Owner when he’s depressed and liverish.’

After supper, Barne decided on a night march to make up for lost time. While Scott, Wilson and Shackleton pitched camp, piling plenty of snow on the tent’s skirting, they watched the group harness up. The strapping consisted of a webbing belt, supported by leather braces, with an iron ring at the rear, on to which the sledge traces were attached. It was designed to put less strain on the neck and shoulders than the conventional rig.

Lashly struck up a song, the ‘Southern Crosses’. There wasn’t a man who didn’t feel a chill in his bones as the usually powerful baritone was swallowed by the lifeless land surrounding them, save for a tiny echo that hovered around White Island. Like the men, his voice seemed little and insignificant in the vast, impersonal landscape. Barne took up the refrain, followed by Hodgson and the others came in one by one, their voices strengthening till the wilderness had to admit defeat. Still singing the mournful tale of lost ships and giant cetaceans, they tramped off, heading for Mina Bluff, beyond which Depot A lay.

Not wanting to waste time while the other party tried to put some distance between them both, Scott insisted on theodolyte practice. It was clumsier to use than a sextant, but needed no visible horizon. It also had a light-needled compass, far better than the heavier prismatic ones, which were reluctant to move where the earth’s magnetic influence was weak. Shackleton initially protested at having to go over the basics, but quickly demonstrated that, should anything happen to Scott, he would be able to establish their position.

Wilson fed the dogs on the stinking dried stockfish that Nansen had insisted was the best diet for the animals out on the ice. He saw to Nigger first, aware of the snapping and growling that would follow if he didn’t. Nigger sniffed the meal cautiously, clearly disappointed not to have the cod-liver-oil-laced dog biscuits they were used to back at camp. Reluctantly, it seemed, he eventually took it and the others followed suit.

After carefully making sure the tent’s interior was free of loose snow, they prepared supper. The men dined on a reasonably thick hoosh of Bovril pemmican with a slice of thawed seal meat on the side. Scott ensured they put into practice some of the lessons of previous trips. Boots were carefully moulded into the shape of the feet, the apertures left open so that, if they froze, a foot could still be pushed in. Socks were changed and the day pair put close to the body to dry out as best they could. The reindeer-skin sleeping bags—separate, as. opposed to the three-man model—had not been through the cycle of freezing and thawing that would become the daily norm, so for the moment they could be manhandled inside with ease and laid out. As they all knew, this situation wouldn’t last. The bags would get heavier with the accumulation of frozen sweat, and would need to be thawed out by body heat each night.

The temperature began to drop with the sun and a few ice crystals from the cooking steam glistened on the inside of the tent. It was still relatively warm, however. Usually, they would dive for the sleeping bags before the last of the stove’s heat dissipated. This evening, Scott stepped out for a final pipe, using Crean’s tobacco. Wilson snuggled down into his bag. Shackleton did likewise, and then produced a volume of verse. Wilson opened his prayer book. When Scott returned, he had a copy of Darwin’s
Origin of Species
with him.

The three men read to each other for a while, then Scott wrote the day’s events in his small sledging notebook and bade the others goodnight. He couldn’t nod off, however, and couldn’t quite understand why till he examined his feelings. It was a sensation he had almost forgotten. Robert Falcon Scott was too excited to sleep.

That night, for the first time, he noticed Shackleton’s cough.

November the thirteenth was a raw, cold day. Even the blank emptiness ahead of them was mostly hidden by a mist that had enveloped the land like a sea fog. For once, the two groups, Barne’s and Scott’s, were together, having leapfrogged each other all the way to Depot A, where the sledges were repacked. Still the dogs pulled, with hardly a slack trace among them, not even sly Jim. The dogs had managed eleven and a half miles in a day, despite the mist. At every stop the man-hauling party had appeared much later, their faces creased with the pain of their efforts.

Nobody took much notice when Scott, seeing the sun struggle through a break in the gloom, set about taking readings with compass and theodolyte and then did them again as a horizon emerged from the departing fog. He invited Mr Barne over to double-check his calculations, and then he called the other thirteen men into a tight huddle. A cloud of condensation hovered over their collected heads.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘Mr Barne and I are agreed. We might not be able to see much, but we stand within a whisker of the seventy-ninth parallel. The furthest south any human being has ever trod.’

A cheer went up and the seepage of cold caused by inaction was forgotten.

‘And I am pleased you are all here to witness it.’

‘Photograph!’ yelled Shackleton.

‘Splendid idea,’ replied Scott.

Shackleton had experimented with using a thin rope to operate the camera lever and he quickly set up the tripod. He worried at the men like a sheep dog, until the sledges, pennants and the explorers were all perfectly framed. Then he walked back, positioned himself next to Scott, and operated the shutter.

There followed much shaking of hands. ‘Congratulations,’ said Wilson. ‘Every step a new measure for man. Each footfall virgin snow.’ He pointed south, where a wind was agitating the loose surface snow, causing it to flow in wispy sheets, like sand in the desert. The thought of the eternally white waste ahead of them was both invigorating and terrifying. ‘Well done.’

Scott beamed. ‘Indeed. Well done, all. Well done, dogs. I think we can let the support party go back tomorrow.’

‘All of them?’

‘You think that unwise?’

Wilson shrugged. He was aware of how lonely it would feel without knowing the others were either somewhere ahead or bringing up the rear. Three for the Pole suddenly seemed like a very small number and the barrier very large indeed. ‘You could stagger it, Con.’

This seemed over-cautious to Scott, but he knew he mustn’t let his own enthusiasm betray him. ‘Very well. Half tomorrow. Half in a few days’ time once we are sure all is well with the dogs and our skiing. How’s that?’

‘I think that best.’

Wilson heard Shackleton’s bark of a cough. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his aching eyes shut, wondering why they should be so painful after such a short time on the ice.

T
HERE WAS A FALSE
start that left the horses on the line jittery. Mr Daniels, though, resumed his position in the pack without too much fuss, and Oates was pleased to see young Eamonn Dunnet leaning over and whispering in the horse’s ear, patting his neck as he did so. The off, when it came, was impressive; a surge more reminiscent of a cavalry charge than a race as they thundered towards the first.

As they went over, it was clear who were going to be Mr Daniels’s rivals. Pegasus Rising had a strong, fluid stride and was an easy jumper. Cornish Beauty was less graceful, but tough, refusing to be crowded as they came up to the fence. And Mr Daniels? While accepting he was biased, Oates thought he displayed both attributes: courage and elegance. All the runners, though, had a degree of grit and there were still sixteen in contention by the third, with the bulk still bunched together as they took the right hander to the highest point of the course. Given the flatness of the countryside, this was little more than a small incline and gave none of them trouble.

Mr Daniels was fifth, instantly promoted when the leader clipped the top of the next and went down in a splay of limbs. The jockey rolled free and covered his head with his arms as hoofs thumped down around him. The Damsel twisted in mid-air to avoid him and lost pace. Eamonn pulled Mr Daniels right to avoid the confusion. Third now, with Candlemaker in the lead, Pegasus Rising second and the field spreading out. Mr Daniels, though, still had more to give.

Now the main body fell away, leaving four at the front, jumping cleanly: Howth Boy, Mr Daniels, Pegasus Rising and a strong Candlemaker. The whips came into play and the gap closed once more.

Another horse went down behind, causing more confusion in the chasing pack, leaving the quartet as the only contenders.

‘Come on, Danny Boy,’ Oates muttered.

Seventh and eighth fences seemed clean enough, but Candlemaker was still there, with no sign of distress. Pegasus Rising, too, had plenty of wind.

Then, in a sickening collision, Pegasus and Candlemaker were gone. They had jumped for the same space, and the front legs of the animals had crossed. Neither could pull free and they hit the ground together. The jockeys flew through the air as the chimera tumbled to earth. Pegasus was first to his feet, shaking his head. Candlemaker rolled, staggered, and dragged a hind leg as he limped to the rail.

Mr Daniels was clear. There was a roar of expectation from the crowd.

‘Attaboy,’ muttered Oates.

Fence nine was dispatched, which just meant the tricky tenth, and he was home. He took it well, but stumbled on the landing. Howth Boy was behind as they began the last sprint, Eamonn in the stirrups, the whip in his hand but, as instructed, he simply showed it to the horse. Daylight appeared between the two leaders.

And Mr Daniels hesitated, the stride breaking. Then he slowed. It was as if a net had been cast over him. Within three lengths, Howth Boy was past him, while Mr Daniels appeared to be running through molasses.

‘Come on, come on,’ was all Oates could say. The head went down, the front legs splayed, and Eamonn was forced to leap from the saddle. Mr Daniels folded into the ground while the rest of the horses galloped past him towards the finish.

The horse was breathing hard, his mouth flecked with foam. Oates knelt and cradled Mr Daniels’s head, the enormous weight pinning his thighs. Hugh Flynn, the senior course vet, circled, stroking his double chin, his preliminary examination of the fallen animal complete. Eamonn Dunnet stood behind Oates, tears staining his cheeks.

‘Never seen anything like it,’ said Flynn eventually.

‘He’ll be all right,’ replied Oates.

Flynn shook his head but said nothing.

‘Lieutenant Oates, we need to clear the track for the next race.’ It was Parrish, the beak-nosed race secretary.

‘I know. Give us a minute.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. He just went from under me. Nuthin’ I could do.’

Oates looked over his shoulder at the distraught boy. ‘I know that, Eamonn. It was a good ride. You did well. No blame attached, is that clear?’

The boy sniffed and nodded.

‘Lieutenant Oates.’ Parrish sounded impatient now. There was intermittent booing coming from the stands.

‘I just need a moment.’ Oates almost growled the words and Parrish backed off. ‘Come on, fella. We’ve got to get you out of here.’ He laid the horse’s head down on the ground and the breathing became fast and shallow. He took the reins in his hand. ‘Come on, Danny. Hup you come.’

Mr Daniels lifted his head six inches off the ground, teeth bared with effort, and then thumped back once more. A fresh batch of foam flecked the lips, some of the bubbles pinkish, and his flanks were shiny with sweat.

‘What is it, sir?’ Eamonn asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘There’s damage to the ligaments, too,’ said Flynn. ‘His racing days would be over anyways.’

Mr Daniels gave a large shudder and his legs thrashed, as if trying to get purchase. The whinny that came from him was equally pitiful. ‘Lieutenant Oates, we have to clear the track.’