Death on the Ice (23 page)

The army, Oates had already noted, did not always look after its own. Not in the case of the men, anyway.

Did I tell you our drum horse died? Been carrying the drum since ’96. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was the heat that took him. The Mounted Infantry are disbanding and I have been chosen to pick the best of their horses. There are Arabs, Barbs and Syrians. I might even find one or two for myself. Plus it is a chance to go out into the desert. It has an extraordinary effect on me. I think I like barren places. Colonel Brooks has appointed me Acting Adjutant as well. Who knows, I may be Captain Oates soon. I shall have to take the examination, but some awful fools are passing now, so why not I?

His mother would like him to have a worthwhile promotion, but he felt he had to prepare the ground for her subsequent disappointment. For the first time in his life—or at least since Edie had come and gone—he felt the bonds with Caroline Oates loosening.

And there are rumours that an India posting will follow Egypt. It sounds all very exciting from afar, no doubt, but it isn’t. India is worse than here by all accounts. I feel the army is moving on without me. I know I have polo and my motorcycle, but it isn’t enough. You know me, the more work I do the better I feel, but the kind of work we have here is not to my liking.

He wondered if that was just his distaste for the floggings talking. But he pressed on.

If I could think of something else to do, I would, but for the moment I am only qualified for horses and cavalry. It is just that I went straight to war when I joined the Inniskillings and in peacetime the routine is so deadly dull. How those who don’t like polo or shooting manage, I will never know. So there, I have said it. I won’t do anything without consulting you, of course. Just to prepare you, though, one day a real adventure opportunity will come along and I intend to take it.

He read the last line and signed off. He had no idea what kind of adventure would appeal, but Lieutenant, soon-to-be Captain, Oates was certain he would know it when it found him.

‘S
HACKLE, GET UP. COME
on. It’s not penguins. It’s men.’

Shackleton, sitting at the rear of the sledges, his role reduced to braking by digging his ski pole into the snow, groaned.

‘I’ll stay here, I think.’

‘Can’t do that, old chap,’ said Scott. ‘How would it look for you to be half asleep on the job?’

‘Come on,’ said Wilson. ‘Or the gilt will be off the gingerbread.’

Scott and Wilson reached down with their ravaged hands and lifted him on to his unsteady feet. Then they dismantled the makeshift sail that had helped propel them for the past weeks. Without a man acting as a tiller, the gusts from the south sometimes sent the sledges careering out of control, so Shackle had been some use. But his pride was rubbed as raw as his face.

‘It’s people,’ repeated Wilson. ‘Someone must have seen us from Observation Hill. It’s a welcoming party.’

‘As I say, best not be lying down for this one. You don’t have to pull.’

Shackleton nodded, understanding that the skipper wanted a more dignified homecoming than two men at the end of their tethers dragging a sick companion reduced to a brakeman. He shuffled over to get into the harness.

There were no dogs now; Jim and Nigger had been the last to go. There had been tears of remorse and anger. The three men had made a vow then. Never again. They would never put themselves, or the animals, through such a degrading ritual. Nansen had claimed dogs were good companions out on the ice. That was true. The problem was you had to murder your new friends, then worse, help the surviving ones indulge in canine cannibalism. On several occasions they had been reduced to hauling a sick and vomiting dog, keeping it alive as fodder for the remaining animals.
Never again.

‘Ready?’ asked Scott. ‘Let’s heave.’ Out of habit he stretched the last word, as if encouraging a pack of phantom dogs.

It was a diamond-clear morning, the land pin-sharp in the light and their snow-blighted eyes could clearly make out the two skiers hurrying towards them. It was nine days since they had seen the familiar plume of Mt Erebus, the eternal beacon, standing straight in the sky like a giant exclamation mark. It told them they were safe, if they could just hold on. Their spirits were buoyed by the extra food and the letters Armitage and Royds had left at Depot A for them.

The ship thrived, it seemed, and much exploration and scientific work had been done. Shackleton had rallied then, but had suffered a relapse overnight, his scratchy cough once again a continuous background noise that had disturbed the others. At one point Wilson was convinced he wouldn’t last the night. But Shackleton had confounded them all, coming back from the brink time and time again. Some days he had been more energetic than his companions, but that day the malaise had struck at his lungs again.

‘Nearly there, Con,’ Wilson said.

Scott realised he had slowed, like a horse tiring with the finish line in sight, and doubled his efforts against the sledging straps, his breath coming hard. Shackleton said nothing, his jaw set in solid determination as he walked alongside, willing his legs to work. They had coped with temperatures of minus 50 and blizzards so malevolent, it felt like a personal assault. At one point they had been down to one good eye between the three of them. It was hardly surprising they were somewhat careworn.

Scott and Wilson hauled for another ten minutes before anyone spoke. It was Shackleton, and the one word he uttered was full of anguish. ‘Skipper.’ He stumbled and Wilson caught him. They lowered him into the snow. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s not a problem. Let’s pitch the tent,’ said Scott. ‘We’ll let them come to us. And we’ll brew up some cocoa.’

It was Skelton, the engineer, and Bunny Bernacchi, the physicist, who had made the effort to greet them. They skied into the hastily erected camp and, quickly undoing their toe straps, embraced each man in turn. If they were shocked by their appearance, they gave no indication, which Scott interpreted as them looking even more dishevelled and starved than he feared. Had they merely been battered, Skelton would have made jokes about them. Their condition was clearly beyond jest.

‘Did you  …?’ Bernacchi began.

‘No,’ Scott admitted, enunciating carefully to preserve his raw lips. ‘We didn’t make the Pole.’

‘Eighty-second, though,’ croaked Shackleton, before Bernacchi could express disappointment.

‘Beyond the eighty-second,’ corrected Wilson. ‘And seventeen minutes.’

‘A new Farthest South. Well done, skipper,’ said Skelton, hiding his disappointment. ‘Well done all of you.’

‘The ship is here,’ Bernacchi said.

‘Which ship?’ Scott asked.

‘Markham’s relief ship.
Morning. Discovery
is still packed in tight. So
Morning
is standing off in open water some miles away. There are fresh supplies, though, that they’ve hauled over the ice. Meat. Vegetables.’

‘And news,’ said Skelton.

‘What news?’ Wilson asked.

They drank the cocoa brewed boiling hot for once, with no regard to the amount of paraffin consumed. Skelton and Bernacchi tripped over themselves as they told them stories from the outside world; that there was a new prime minister, Arthur Balfour, that Cecil Rhodes, the great Empire builder, was dead, of the treaty to end the Boer war, the coronation of Edward VII. They also learned of the events on the ship, including sledging, tobogganing and shooting contests between men and officers and the first-ever Antarctic Athletics Contest. It hadn’t been all fun and games. Royds had returned to Cape Crozier to investigate the Emperor penguins. Skelton had been part of the western party led by Armitage that had ascended to over nine thousand feet, on to the ice cap proper of Victoria Land; they had found a way past the mountains. During the exploration, Petty Officer Macfarlane had suffered what appeared to be a heart attack, although he had recovered well. Plus
Morning
had brought mail from home, both heartbreaking and uplifting. Babies had been born, sons and daughters married, parents died, wives deserted. The three exhausted men wondered what their own postbags held.

After thirty minutes, the stream of conversation slowed to a trickle. The initial euphoria dissipated and Shackleton, who had seemed more animated than of late, fell silent once more. He hunched broodily over the remains of his cocoa.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ Scott said. ‘There is clearly much to tell and discuss. Let’s proceed to
Discovery
.’

Scott and Wilson were taken aback when Shackleton leapt with gazelle-like grace to his feet and began to dismantle the tent. ‘Come on, chaps,’ he announced. ‘Last one back is a soggy biscuit.’

Skelton and Bernacchi were at a loss to understand why Scott and Wilson found their companion’s admirable vigour so amusing that they couldn’t stop laughing through their scabbed lips for the next five minutes.

As they rounded the hump that had obscured it from their view, the party stopped in its tracks when it saw
Discovery
. The men viewed it through a fog of condensed breath. Her rigging was a mass of fluttering pennants, snapping in the wind. It was a cheering sight and Shackleton exclaimed with joy.

‘Every flag is out,’ said Bernacchi. ‘And every man.’

As the group surged forward, they heard a low rumble, almost like the strange tremors they had experienced out on the barrier. It was a while before Scott identified it as the distant roars coming from the crew hanging in the rigging. The ship looked magnificent, a bold testament to the spirit of exploration, and the welcome for the three was almost overwhelming in its intensity.
Discovery
was crammed, its usual company swelled by
Morning
’s crew, including her captain, who had journeyed over the nine miles of still-frozen sea that separated the two vessels to join in the welcome, speculation and gossip.

Although eager to bathe and sleep, the polar trio accepted hot drinks and hearty congratulations. Scott borrowed some tobacco from Tom Crean, prepared a fresh pipe, and pronounced it superior to tea leaves at least.

Within the confines of the galley, mess deck and the scientists’ work station where the two crews gathered, the noise of the company was deafening. The chatter of excited voices boomed along the low wooden ceiling and most had to shout to make themselves heard, adding to the cacophony. As Scott answered the inevitable questions—960 miles covered, 300 further south than anyone else, but still 480 miles from the Pole—he caught sight of a crumpled Shackleton wedged into the corner near the galley, leaning against a stack of wooden packing cases stamped ‘Tomatoes: tinned’. He was talking to Macfarlane, the lad who had suffered a possible heart attack. The pinched face under his bleached hair showed he was flagging and from the way he gasped between words, it was obvious his breathing was painful once more. Scott moved across and politely but firmly sent the petty officer away.

‘Are you all right, Shackle?’

‘It’s a little overwhelming, isn’t it?’ He nodded to the galley area. ‘Have you noticed the smells? How much more intense they are after being on the ice.’

Scott nodded. ‘I would imagine we smell pretty strong to the lads as well. It’s ninety-three days since our last hot wash.’

‘I suppose we must be pretty rank.’

Scott sucked on the pipe, still relishing the sensation of hot tobacco smoke in his mouth. ‘You don’t have to do the dinner, you know.’ Both knew there would be a celebratory feast in the wardroom, with calls for speeches, anecdotes, jokes and plenty of drinking.

Shackleton looked grateful. ‘I’m not up to the mark, really.’

‘Off you go. Come back if you do feel up to it.’

‘Thanks, skipper.’

Once Shackleton had left the mess room, Scott found Wilson, busy describing their expedition and their subsequent condition to Koettlitz, his fellow medical man.

‘And you, captain?’ Koettlitz asked. ‘How are you after your ordeal?’

Scott simply smiled to show he was well, but he could see Koettlitz trying to peer in his mouth at his rough gums as he did so. ‘Ordeal is too strong a word.’

‘Not for Shackle, I hear.’

‘Perhaps not.’ He turned to Wilson. ‘Bill, can you look in on him in a while? Once you have bathed. He’s not going to make dinner.’

‘You think scurvy taint?’ asked Koettlitz. ‘You think it caused the collapse?’

Wilson stroked his beard, fondly anticipating its removal. ‘It’s most likely. But the cough is something else. The blood he brings up is worrying. I’ll pop in, of course.’

‘Thank you,’ said Scott and then put a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. One thing had been bothering him during the last thirty minutes, a nagging sense of emptiness and loss. ‘I wish we had managed to get some of the dogs back.’

‘I know, Con. It mutes the achievement somewhat. Just be grateful we got here ourselves.’

As Wilson moved off, Scott could see his leg dragging. Wilson was so stoical, Scott sometimes forgot how he must have suffered, with his eyes and his leg. The doctor was a different man from the one who had been unable to change his clothes without assistance on his first sledging trip with Shackleton. And Shackle? He was a different man as well, but not in the way Scott had anticipated.

Scott had a delicious bath, shaved and had Hare cut his straggly locks before attending the evening’s main event, the dinner hosted by Colbeck, the
Morning
’s skipper. There was mutton and fresh vegetables in both mess and wardroom. The two meals turned into raucous celebrations of the group’s safe return, with many toasts, not all of them coherent. Scott felt the unfamiliar alcohol fuddle his brain and sipped rather than gulped. Despite a nagging concern about stomach cramp, he found that both he and Wilson far outstripped the others in the consumption of food.

‘Does this always happen with sledging parties?’ Captain Colbeck asked as yet another plate of mutton and potatoes passed Scott’s lips.

Only if you are sledging with the skipper,’ said Armitage.