Death on the Ice (19 page)

‘Really?’ asked Wilson. ‘We feed them to each other?’ They had discussed it, theoretically, on
Discovery
because Nansen had insisted it was a viable method of travel. They had both agreed it was an abomination.

‘I am being pragmatic,’ he said.

‘Or dogmatic,’ suggested Shackleton.

For once, Scott didn’t give even a polite laugh at the attempt to bring humour to a grim situation. ‘Although I’m not sure I have the heart for it.’

Scott had no lack of heart; without him, they would already have turned back. His energy in relaying was remarkable. It was killing that turned his stomach. Wilson couldn’t blame him for his squeamishness. He put him out of his misery. ‘Don’t worry, Con. If it comes to it, I’ll kill the dogs.’

The next morning they awoke to find that Spud had chewed through his traces and gorged on a week’s supply of seal meat he had filched from the sledges.

A
DISHEVELLED OATES FOUND
Colonel and Mrs Sterling just as they were leaving the enclosure, arm in arm.

‘Sir,’ he yelled. ‘A moment.’

His commanding officer stopped and turned, propelling his wife around as he did so.

‘Oh, you poor man,’ said Felicity Sterling. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Quite. A terrible business,’ agreed the colonel. He took in the wild-eyed figure before him. ‘Are you all right?’

‘In the circumstances, sir. About our bet—’

‘In the circumstances, Oates, I won’t hold you to any wager.’

‘What on earth was it?’ asked Mrs Sterling. ‘That could take him like that? One minute running so well, the next … what could it be?’

Oates had mulled over nothing but that question since Mr Daniels’s collapse. He could only conclude it was a prior condition of his heart or liver or kidney. He would arrange for a post-mortem, just to be certain. He ran a hand through his already straggly hair. She saw blood on his fingers, but realised it wasn’t human but equine. ‘I have some ideas but I don’t know. Neither did that horse-butcher of a vet.’ He addressed the colonel again. ‘And I want you to hold me to it, sir. The wager.’

‘Well, if you insist.’

‘Cavalry school. Musketry.’

‘Yes, yes. We can talk about it at barracks. Come and see me tomorrow morning.’

‘No!’ Oates stepped closer and Mrs Sterling gripped her husband’s arm in surprise.

‘Steady on, lieutenant,’ he warned.

‘Sorry. Bit excitable. I’ll go to any school you deem fit to send me to, sir. But first I want a veterinarian’s certificate.’

Sterling had no idea what he was blabbing on about and wondered if the death of his horse had unhinged him. ‘A what?’

‘There is a cavalry officers’ vet’s course. I’ve heard about them.’

Sterling had seen Oates’s logs, accounts and diaries. They were a mess, illogical and often illegible. He couldn’t spell for toffee and his arithmetic was wayward. He tried to be as gentle as possible. ‘You are a good horseman, Oates. One of the best, I’d venture. But the horse vet’s examination? That’s not an easy option, Oates. Not for anyone.’

‘Nor is shooting your own horse,’ he replied. ‘We both know I’m not much for writing. Or reading. But then, neither are the horses. There must be a practical course, one without too much bookwork.’

Colonel Sterling considered for a moment. There were half a dozen centres that could issue the cavalry veterinarian’s certificate, and no uniform method of examination. It was bound to vary in the division of practice and theory. ‘Perhaps. I’ll make enquiries, Oates.’

‘Thank you, sir. Then I will attend your cavalry and musketry schools. A wager is a wager. Good day.’ He tipped his hat to Mrs Sterling once more.

‘Perhaps I can have a word about your man as well,’ she said, ignoring her husband’s filthy look. ‘McConnell, was it? It seems a shame for him to suffer.’

He thanked her politely and hurried away, plunging into the crowd, elbowing his way through. He wasn’t thinking about McConnell’s extra cash. He was thinking of his powerlessness, of cradling Mr Daniels’s head as he killed him. All Lieutenant Lawrence Oates wanted to do was make sure he would never again be in a position of such ignorance or at the mercy of lesser men.

T
HE DOGS FELL SILENT
as the three gaunt, hungry men approached, six aching legs shuffling over the ice. Behind them lay thirty-one days of relentless relaying; a living nightmare, as Wilson had described it. None took issue with him. Their bodies were sad, ragged things now. Every sinew, tendon, muscle and joint was overworked or overstretched. At night the pain played over them like shooting stars across the sky, stabbing brightly from one quadrant to the next, finding new ways of making them groan or exclaim in their fitful sleep.

Even Scott had admitted one more day of fetching and carrying the same load would have been beyond him. ‘It makes Sisyphus’s job seem preferable,’ Shackleton had said.

Not many miles to the West now stood the great peaks of the real
terra incognita
, which Wilson had sketched and Shackleton photographed assiduously. At their rear, cached at Depot B, was the rotten stockfish and three weeks’ supply of food and fuel for the humans, buried opposite a distinctive bluff. This was part of the seemingly impenetrable mountain chain they were now tracking alongside each day, wary of encountering the blue-lined chasms and giant ice-blocks that were a defining feature of such terrain, where the floating barrier butted up against the rocks of the continent proper.

As the trio reached the pack, Nigger gave a whimper, followed by a defiant growl and Jim barked, but the remaining animals just stared balefully, as if they knew what was coming and, somehow, accepted it.

‘Jim?’ asked Scott.

Shackleton coughed. He had kept them all awake the previous two nights with his rasping and hacking. All knew their nerves were frayed, so Shackleton didn’t discuss it, apart from a sheepish apology over the breakfast fry-up. Wilson’s cheer kept relations cordial, muting Scott’s tendency to irritation and Shackleton’s tired lashing out in response.

‘Brownie?’ he finally said. ‘She’s been vomiting.’

‘No, pulling well, pulling well,’ said Scott.

Snatcher had died of natural causes. Butchered by Wilson, he had lasted his companions three days and reversed some of the decline; three miles a day had become seven or eight. The last of Snatcher was gone now; this was to be the first cull.

‘Grannie is weak,’ Wilson said.

‘Wolf,’ said Scott and they all nodded. It had to be Wolf. Lazy yet aggressive, he had done little to redeem himself over the days of relaying. They had covered 109 miles south; to do that, they had walked well over 300. If it had been linear progress, thought Wilson, they might have made the Pole. But he could see no alternative to the back-and-forth; their own resources were seriously depleted, and hunger a constant companion. They could spare nothing for the dogs. But one thing was for certain, he didn’t want the animals to the in vain. They owed them that. It was why Wilson always voted to continue on, despite the nagging cramps in his stomach.

‘Come on, boy,’ he said gently as he undid the traces. Wolf’s eyes seemed more saucer-like than usual, and instead of the habitual nip, he gave Wilson’s mitten a lick.

The doctor walked him over, past the tent, out to the last sledge, which he had detached from the others, dragging it well away from the animals. Gripping a handful of mane, he steered Wolf around the far side of the tent, out of sight to all, and sat himself down.

He took off his gloves and laid them behind him. Wolf placed his front paws on Wilson’s thighs as the zoologist ruffled the top of his head. The ears went up and the tail swished through the air. It was the gentlest the doctor had ever seen him.

‘Good dog. Shame it should come to this, eh? Maybe it’s best to go, first, eh?’

The dog leaned forward to nuzzle him and Wilson put an arm around him and jabbed the scalpel under the ribs. The animal gave a squeal, a jerk and began to twist, but he pushed home into the heart with all his strength. He felt two strong pulses of warm blood, heard them splatter on to his boots and across the ice and then Wolf was still.

He swallowed hard, slightly sickened by the smell rising with the steam from the ground. He could taste the iron in his mouth. Wilson pushed Wolf away and let him drop down on to the snow, watching the patch under the belly darken and melt as the hot liquid flowed out of the dead dog.

He stood, put on his gloves, wiped his boots in a snowdrift, and went back to tell the others it was done.

They awoke the next morning to find they had all had food dreams, with Shackleton’s being the most vivid. As Wilson cooked breakfast, he explained that there had been pies of every description flying through the air, steak-and-kidney puddings, three-cornered meat, pasties, hundreds of them, whirling past him like leaves on an autumn day. Try as he might, he couldn’t catch one. Even if he got a grip, the pastry somehow wriggled from his fingers.

‘I was in a steak and porter shop,’ said Wilson, pulling reindeer hair from his beard. ‘But I had ordered venison. A great haunch of it and a bottle of best claret. As the meat was delivered, the waiter stumbled and the whole plate went skidding over the floor. At that moment, poor Wolf dashed from the kitchen and ate the lot.’

‘Wolfed it down?’ asked Shackleton, his laugh turning to a cough. ‘I think I’d better help you with the next dog.’

Wilson nodded his appreciation. He didn’t want the sole responsibility again. ‘And then when I seek solace in the wine, the glass neck is solid, with no cork. It cannot be poured. There is no hole at all.’

‘Did you see if the women were the same?’ asked Shackleton, but Wilson ignored his bawdiness.

‘I have worse than that,’ said Scott, as he took his tea and the mixture of pemmican and biscuit.

‘Worse?’ the others asked.

‘Yes, I sit down at a feast, a banquet and there is beef, lamb, swans, geese, all manner of delicacies. I gorge myself for hours.’

‘You lucky man,’ said Shackleton.

‘But when I awake, I am as hungry as when I sat down. Every night I eat at this table of plenty, but still I am hungry.’

Shackleton’s face took on a wistful look. He would clearly trade his own flying pies for Scott’s imaginary repast. ‘When we get back I want duck, crisp fried bread with salt and pepper, thick bread soaked in golden syrup, Porter House steak and onions with plenty of gravy. Huge salad of fruit. And also green stuff. Sirloin of beef with brown, crisp fat. Soaked bread in the gravy. Three-cornered tarts, fresh, hot, crisp. Jam hot inside. A pile of them with a bowl of cream. Jam sandwich, crisp but heavy pastry and jam between. The end of a porridge pot, providing there is plenty of milk.’

‘You’ll explode,’ warned Wilson, ‘if you try that in one sitting.’

Scott handed them a square each of seal meat. ‘Put that in your breast pocket, let it thaw. It’ll have to be your duck for today.’

After getting out of their night-gear, they changed into sledding clothes. Clean socks were put on and extra sennegras, the fine Norwegian hay, stuffed inside the fur boots as insulation. Once they had fitted helmets, inner gloves, mittens and goggles, they fed the remaining dogs some cuts of Wolf and set off with Shackleton steering. Scott and Wilson were in the harnesses, their stomachs barely satisfied and the food cravings made worse by the conversation.

‘I don’t think we should talk about food again, Bill,’ said Scott to Wilson between clenched teeth. ‘It doesn’t help.’

To the right and ahead of them stretched the barrier of snow-covered mountains, marching off to the distant blue. It was still unseasonably warm, with strange variations in the snow surface that either aided or hindered them. Sometimes the wooden skis would work perfectly, other times they couldn’t keep up with a man walking.

‘No, perhaps not. It’ll be Christmas soon, though. How do we keep our thoughts from that?’

They heard the whip snap behind them, felt the extra help from the dogs as they responded. ‘Perhaps Shackle has smuggled a goose with us.’

Wilson laughed. ‘The primus takes thirty minutes to make a hoosh and cocoa. How long for a goose?’ He adjusted his goggles and pointed south-west. ‘Look at that, the mountain. The twin peaks. So symmetrical. I will sketch that at lunch.’

The very word ‘lunch’ provoked a contraction in Scott’s stomach. ‘I made a new discovery last night.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘You can’t smoke tea leaves.’

Wilson looked at him. ‘Tobacco gone?’

‘Mine and Tom Crean’s. I look at my spare mittens and wish I’d brought tobacco instead.’

‘The hunger will get worse.’ Neither Shackleton nor Wilson smoked, but all of them knew that a good pipe of cigarette could ameliorate the pangs of an empty stomach.

‘I think I am moving on to ravenous already. It’s all I can do to leave my lunch alone.’

The pair trudged on, occasionally turning to shout at the dogs.

‘I, too,’ said Wilson, ‘have found something new.’

There was a note of worry in the voice, so Scott said, ‘What is it, Bill?’

‘Your ankles.’

‘A fine pair indeed. Have we been out on the ice so long you’ve forgotten Ory’s?’

‘You know what I mean, Con. I saw you massaging them to get them into your boots this morning.’

‘That’s nothing. Bit of swelling.’

‘And when I was examining Shackleton about that cough, I looked at his gums.’

‘You only do that Sundays.’ It was part of their weekly ritual. Sunday prayers and health check.

Wilson didn’t reply at once; he conserved his energy for a few minutes, concentrating on the hauling. ‘Your ankles worried me. I think they might be the start of it. But Shackle’s gums  …’ He shook his head in dismay. ‘Inflamed and swollen.’

Scott spat out the next word as if he had a gobbet of rancid fat in his mouth. ‘Scurvy. Just say it, man.’

‘It’s a long time since we had a decent amount of fresh food.’

‘And you think it’s that?’

Wilson shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine what else.’