Death on the Ice (25 page)

He recalled Soldier saying that women filled your brain with flummery and distracted you. Captain Oates had been right. Lady Scott had taken him out of the moment.

Grant pulled the stick back and took the Sopwith up towards the cloud cover, aware that more rounds were puncturing his plane. He waited till the propeller was spinning through the first tendrils of mist and then pushed forward, taking it down into a dive to the right.

Now he could see the dogfight laid out below him, with the bleak, treeless countryside as backdrop. One of the reconnaissance planes was in trouble, trailing a thin stream of oil. The other was frantically circling, trying to allow the rear gunner a clear shot at the two little planes harrying it. Fokker Triplanes. About as easy to hit as gnats.

A third hostile was heading straight for Grant, its Spandaus winking. He yanked the scout to the right with all the force he could muster, feeling his face distort as gravity and wind tugged at it.

The wounded FE2b lost a top wing. Grant watched it tear free of the struts, flap wildly when a couple of stubborn wires refused to give and then spin away, tumbling end over end, as the eyelets ripped out. The plane flew on for a few seconds, wobbled, turned upside down, and began a slow, terrifying arc down to the ground.

He knew the Fokker would have turned after him, but he concentrated on trying to save the vulnerable second photographic plane, firing a burst as one of the acrobatic little Huns sped by in a blur of red-and-blue livery.

Pull left, gain height, he thought.

Another Sopwith flashed in front, guns blazing. It was Cyril Meadows, he registered, good flyer, but Grant’s Fokker—or another one—was close behind him. Grant felt the airframe twist as he pulled around and latched on to the pursuing Triplane. He let the guns chatter for a second, just to let the German know he was there.

Another burst from behind him pinged through his airframe. It was like a train now, four planes shackled together by invisible links: friendly, hostile, friendly, hostile, with him at number three. It was time to break the chain.

He cut the ignition and pushed the nose down, waiting for the airspeed to drop. The scarlet Fokker skimmed over his head, the undercarriage missing his rising propeller by inches, but exposing its compact belly. He refired the engine, raised his snout and fired. He watched as a puff of canvas and wood burst from it.

For a few moments, Grant thought his Vickers had had no effect, but the hostile faltered and yawed to the left. The engine continued to turn and there was no sign of smoke, but it fell almost elegantly away from the formation, before entering a spin that looked to be fatal. He’d hit the pilot.

There was no time to think about that or the victory he would be due. A flaming onion exploded to his left, buffeting him, the orange fingers of fire clawing at his wings. He had to make height again.

Below him the second of the photographic planes had ploughed into the earth, and the Fokkers were regrouping. There was no sign of another Sopwith. Any second now the Triplanes would be coming for him. As he raced for the safety of the clouds, hot oil from a puncture peppering his face, he fought to stay focused. It was only when the gloomy half-light had engulfed him and Grant turned the faltering Sopwith towards what he hoped was home, that he allowed the question that had been nagging him to surface.

Why was Lady Scott lying to him?

T
HE NOVELIST WITH THE
strange accent, part strangled American, part clipped English, leaned forward as he asked his question. Everyone around the lunch table had been allowed one of the explorer, so as not to hog him. Scott was well used to this. In a roomful of artists and authors, it was the adventurer who drew the interest. ‘Well, Captain Scott, let me see,’ Henry James drawled, stroking his beard. ‘What was the worst moment of the expedition?’

All swivelled to hear his answer. He was at one of Mabel Beardsley’s luncheon parties. She was on his right. His great supporter and advocate J.M. Barrie was at the far end, between an unknown woman and me rather smug and dandyish Max Beerbohm. Two foppish poets, Carling and Thripple, a trio of minor illustrators who called themselves the Hoffman Set and James, the American writer, completed the group.

Scott had toured and lectured about
Discovery
for almost three years and he was certain there wasn’t a question he hadn’t been asked on the subject. His answers were now well rehearsed and sometimes well worn.

‘It must have been the crevasse,’ said Barry. ‘That’s my favourite.’ The
Daily Mail
had run a lengthy piece on Taff Evans and Scott plunging into a massive ice ravine during the second season. The image of them dangling over the blue abyss, held only by leather traces had been a powerful one. But Scott had never thought he was going to die, not with ever-reliable Lashly hanging on to them.

‘That had its moments. But it wasn’t till the final scene that the worst time came. After
Morning
and
Terra Nova
had arrived.’

‘The rescue ships?’ interrupted James.

‘The relief party, yes,’ Scott replied, trying not to sound too prickly. The RGS and the Admiralty had sent two ships the following winter, ordering him to abandon
Discovery
if it couldn’t be freed from the ice that had imprisoned the ship for the best part of two years. A combination of explosives and a providential sea swell had eventually broken her from the prison and saved Scott from the ignominy of returning shipless. ‘After the ice dispersed, a freak storm drove us on to rocks, beneath the cliffs. Our engines were not fully up to steam when we were swamped by a wave that blocked the inlets. It was a race between getting the boilers working again and being smashed on the ice by the gale.
Discovery
grounded and looked to be dashed to pieces. Fortunately, we managed to slide off just in the nick of time. But that, of all my moments, was the lowest.’

Beerbohm said, ‘Which is saying something, captain.’

‘And Captain Scott, if I may. Will you be going back? To try for the Pole again?’ asked Carling.

Scott shook his head. ‘I have said categorically no.’

‘But we read about sledge trials in France, do we not?’ It was Henry James again, smiling at having caught the explorer out.

Scott shook his head. ‘The Navy are, of course, interested in motor sledges as a way of crossing ice. And as I have some experience of cold conditions—’

‘Oh, come on, Con.’ It was Barrie. ‘I hear tell that every man who returns from the ice swears for six months he will never, ever go back. After that, he feels the pull. Do you not feel it? The pull of the South?’

‘There are things one misses. The silence, the beauty of the mountains, the changing play of light on the ice, the companionship.’ He stopped himself before he began to sound too wistful. Despite his new stellar acquaintances, he sometimes found himself longing for the robust humour and good common sense of men like Bill Lashly, PO Taff Evans and Tom Crean. He had got to know them well during the last, very successful sledging season, especially Lashly and Evans. There was nothing like hanging over oblivion to form bonds between men. And Barne and Royds had both come good, contributing excellent work in the final summer of exploration. He hadn’t, though, tried for the Pole again; he wouldn’t be bullied by Shackleton’s threats to beat him. ‘But I have a command now and a naval career to resume.’

‘And besides, your Mr Shackleton is en route down there as we speak,’ said James. Ernie Shackleton had put together his own polar exploration party—the British Imperial Antarctic Expedition—and had departed for the ice in August of that year, aboard a tiny converted whaler called
Nimrod
, to try to make good on his promise.

‘So he is and I wish him well.’

‘Do you not feel he is treading in your footsteps?’

‘Mr James, really. One question each was agreed,’ protested Mabel, but she was ignored.

‘He has promised me he will not use the landing site at McMurdo Sound or huts from my expedition—’

‘And why not, if you have no need of them?’ asked Barrie, enjoying himself. He wanted to trap his friend into confessing he had unfinished business down there. Barrie’s imaginary Antarctica was like an ice-bound version of Neverland, and he inhabited it vicariously through Scott. The explorer sometimes thought they should swap places and have done with it. The thought of living by writing had its attractions. ‘Why not just give them up?’

‘Because it is a convention in exploration’, said Scott, ‘that one does not trespass on another’s chosen territory. Even the foreign expeditions accept that the Ross Sea is English and that McMurdo Sound is reserved, for the time being, for any sequel to the
Discovery
voyage. The same applies to our winter quarters. Shackleton has given me a written undertaking he will stay well clear of our bases.’ Only after an intervention by Bill Wilson. Shackleton had subsequently begged Wilson to come with him. The man had a bottomless supply of hard cheek.

‘And if he makes the Pole?’ James asked. ‘Shackleton? How would you feel then?’

‘He won’t.’

The new voice shocked everyone into silence. It came from the woman sitting next to Barrie and Beerbohm. For the first time Scott noticed how deeply tanned she was; at first he had assumed it was a dark powder, but now he examined her properly, he could see she had been in a hot climate.

‘Shackleton won’t make the Pole.’ She said it with absolute conviction. ‘Don’t you agree, captain?’

The table waited for his reply. He thought for a moment. ‘I couldn’t possibly say. He is a resourceful man. Not a great one for the detail, but he has imagination. And he inspires, let us not underestimate that. As I said, I wish him every success, and always have. We are friends and colleagues.’

This was no longer quite true. Relations had started off cordial enough once
Discovery
had returned, but Shackleton felt Scott’s account of their Farthest South maligned him. Scott considered that this imagined slight—he never intended to suggest permanent weakness—as much as polar or scientific ambition had fuelled Shackleton’s
Nimrod
expedition. Such was his drive, Scott wasn’t convinced that the Irishman would keep his undertaking not to use Hut Point, especially if no easy alternative presented itself.

‘But why, Captain Scott?’ James asked. ‘Why do you people do it? Put yourself through that hell? I couldn’t countenance it, even if I wasn’t bedevilled by my back. If I were twenty-five and fit you couldn’t tempt me. What drives you down there?’

‘It is important that the British Empire—’

‘No, no,’ interrupted James, knowing very well the imperialistic urge that drove the British to claim any uncharted part of the world. ‘I don’t mean the grander motives. I am wondering what you personally find down there that is so irresistible.’

Scott fiddled with his glass of dessert wine. It was the one question that he always found tricky to answer. ‘Apart from the beauty and the majesty? Yes, it can be hell, but it can heaven, too. You will see sights that no man has ever seen.’

‘That must be true of other places.’

‘Perhaps. Not like Antarctica, though. But there are other reasons.’ He took a sip of the Sauternes. ‘There is the science. Of finding out how the planet works, of its geology. Many secrets are held under the ice. Then there is the biology. We discovered hundreds of new species, on land, in the air and in the sea. And geography. I don’t think there should be blank spaces on our maps. I don’t think nature should scare us or hold us back. I think it is one of our greatest assets, as a species, that we are able to test ourselves, to find our limits. That’s what happens down there. You have to confront your own limits and those of others. I think you feel more alive in those situations.’

‘Here, here,’ said Barrie.

James, clearly dissatisfied, made to speak again but Mabel Beardsley clapped her hands together like a schoolmistress bringing art unruly class to order. ‘Now, I think that is enough questions of Captain Scott.’

As the table split into smaller hubs of conversation, Scott leaned over and thanked Mabel. Then he nodded towards the woman next to Barrie. ‘Who is she again?’

‘Kathleen Bruce.’ She looked at his face and saw the shine in his eyes. ‘Oh, no. She’s not for you, captain. My goodness, the choice of women you have.’ Since his return, he had certainly been to more dinner parties and soirees than he would have dreamed possible, including ones at Balmoral and within J. M. Barrie’s illustrious circle. Antarctic exploration gave you as much an entree, it seemed, as penning such successes as
Quality Street
, the
Admirable Crichton
and
Peter Pan
. And, there was no doubt, Scott’s exploits seemed to fascinate many women, something that had helped breach his usual reserve around them. Shackleton had been right: the men of the ice did very well for themselves upon their return, in all spheres.

‘Who is she?’

‘She calls herself a sculptor. Actually that’s unfair, she’s really rather good. Friend of Max’s. Greek descent, I hear, which accounts for her wild streak. Lives alone in a flat in Cheyne Walk, if you can believe it.’

‘Then we are near-neighbours.’ He had found a house for himself and his mother in Oakley Street, Chelsea, although paying for it, as well as helping his sisters, was a constant struggle.

‘She studied under Rodin in Paris. And I do mean under.’

Scott knew that Mabel was a great one for spicing up her sexual gossip. ‘Is that true, Mabel, or are you being wicked?’ He glanced over at Miss Bruce and she smiled back, a fleeting, dazzling burst of white teeth. She knew they were talking about her and seemed not to mind.

Mabel gave a small shrug. ‘He’s famous for it.’

‘But is she?’

‘She is a friend and intimate confidante of Isadora Duncan. You know—

‘I know who she is.’ The past few months had accelerated his knowledge of the arts, even stretching to include a working knowledge of infamous, scantily clad dancers of a bohemian bent. ‘Quite captivating. So I am told.’