Death on the Ice (28 page)

The ‘my’ made him bristle, and he had said so, but he did rejoice, wrestling a flabbergasted Lieutenant Humphries to the floor. Kathleen was pregnant. A child was due in the autumn.

‘Skipper.’

It was Petty Officer Tom Crean, his coxswain for the past two years, kit bag over his shoulder. ‘Crean, my goodness. Are you up to London too?’

‘No, skip. It was you I was looking for. See if you’d seen the news?’

‘From
The Times
?’ There had been recent criticisms of the worth of
Discovery
’s scientific measurements. Some of it was justified, as there had been a few basic meteorological errors that had proved embarrassing. But much of it came from the dual snakepits of the RGS and RS, and were designed to embarrass Sir Clements and, by default, Scott. ‘We can’t worry about that, Tom. We must move forward.’

A crackling announcement told them the London train was due in ten minutes.

Tom Crean put down his bag and took out a newspaper from the top of it. ‘Not
The Times
. You’d best see this, skipper.’

He handed over that day’s
Daily Mail
. ‘I didn’t have you as one for reading this sort of thing, Tom.’

It was the
Daily Mail
that had promulgated the lie that Scott had unfairly maligned Shackleton over his collapse on their Furthest South. He had boycotted it ever since.

‘I couldn’t miss it, sir. You didn’t see the hoardings on the way up?’

‘No.’ He had been daydreaming about Kathleen and her pregnancy. Now, as he looked at the front page, Scott felt a huge jolt at the main headline.
Shackleton Fails To Make Pole.
‘I’ll be damned,’ he muttered, his voice cracked and full of contrary emotions. ‘But he’s safe. Stopped short, it says.’

‘Just. He used McMurdo,’ said Crean. ‘And our old hut, as a forward base.’

‘I know. That takes the bun, doesn’t it? So much for paper promises,’ Scott said distractedly. He was still trying to absorb the gist of the story, cobbled together as it was from telegrams sent from New Zealand. ‘He found a new route up on to the plateau. They have the Magnetic Pole as well. Old Armitage will be sick about that. And they climbed Erebus.’ Despite himself, he felt a flush of admiration. ‘My word, he was busy.’

Then he found the part he wanted. ‘Ninety-seven miles short. Kathleen was right.’

‘Skipper?’

‘Nothing, Tom. Well, it’s a remarkable achievement, if true. A new Furthest South.’ He scanned the account once again. ‘It doesn’t say whether statute or nautical miles. This is all
Daily Mail
geography. Still, it must have been a difficult decision, to turn back.’

Scott felt his spirits lift. It was hard to enjoy another man’s failure, but the confusion and ennui of the past few months fell away. He now realised what he had been doing all those weeks. Simply biding time, paralysed by the thought of what Shackle might achieve. Well, the Irishman had done magnificently, but he hadn’t got the Pole. And he had only got as far as he had by using Scott’s peninsula and his old hut.

Ninety Degrees South was still there for the taking. And Kathleen, she had her baby. She had achieved what she wanted most from their union and she would love him for it, he was certain. It was the most propitious timing. He was already rehearsing his announcement to the RGS:
My Lords, ladies and gentlemen. The object of this expedition is to reach the South Pole and secure for the British Empire the honour of that achievement.

And he knew where he should make his proclamation. There was bound to be a gala dinner for the returning hero. He would announce his own plans there, before Shackle had time to catch his breath and consider returning to finish the job. And damn whatever Sir Clements thought about the wisdom of the undertaking or his suitability for the task.

The train appeared, wreathed in a collar of steam, chuffing its way into the station, fat sparks flying from the funnel, hissing into the rain. He handed the paper back to Crean.

‘Well, skipper?’

‘Well, Tom,’ he said softly, his words almost drowned out by the impatient shushing of the locomotive. ‘If you are agreed. The Pole still awaits the arrival of an Englishman. I think we’d better have a crack at it next.’

L
AWRENCE OATES WAS SCRUBBING
down the wooden deck of
Saunterer
, prior to a sanding and a fresh application of varnish, when he felt the boat rock as someone came aboard. ‘Billings? Is that you? You should be doing-this, you lazy good for nothing—’ He knelt up to deliver his final tirade to his hapless crew face-to-face then halted.

‘Hello, Laurie. Need a hand?’

‘Not from the likes of you.’ Oates threw the bristled brush into the bucket, leapt to his feet and wiped his hands on his tatty jumper. He held out his hand to his brother. ‘Hello, Bryan.’

‘Sorry I couldn’t make the trip. How was it?’

Oates had taken
Saunterer
to France and across to northern Spain. ‘Quite hairy, some of it. But great fun and
Saunterer
’s come through it well. Ignore what I said about Billings, he’s a good chap. Come below, we have coffee. Or tea?’

‘Tea please, Laurie.’

Oates hesitated, thrown by his brother’s unusually diffident manner. The bouncy enthusiasm seemed to have been drained from him. ‘What is it, Bryan? Is it Mother?’

‘After a fashion.’

‘She’s not unwell?’

‘No. I have some news.’

‘Very well,’ said Oates. ‘But I warn you. So have I.’

They settled in the galley below, each with a wide-bottomed porcelain mug of tea, with
Saunterer
’s name on the side. They had been a birthday present from Bryan, bought at a chandler’s in Dover Street, London. The flared base made them more stable in rough seas.

Bryan picked up a thick volume from one of the berths. ‘You’ve taken to reading?’

‘A Life of Napoleon,’ said Oates. ‘My new hero.’

‘Why would you have a Frenchman as a hero?’

Oates shrugged. ‘He was a great commander.’

‘As was Wellington.’

‘Wellington is too obvious. And he didn’t like the cavalry,’ said Oates. ‘Come on. You go first. Your news.’

Bryan sipped his tea. ‘Very well. I am in love.’

Oates choked on his drink. ‘With a girl?’

‘No,’ said Bryan sarcastically. ‘A horse.’

‘Now you are making sense,’ laughed Oates. ‘Does Mother know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hence the long face.’ Oates could guess that Caroline would only approve of a princess or above for Bryan. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘It’s Alma Kirby.’

‘The vicar’s daughter?’

‘Yes.’

Oates slapped his thigh. ‘But that’s grand. She’s a good catch. Handsome. And her father in the clergy. Why, even Mother can’t object to her.’

‘No. It isn’t her she objects to. It’s me.’

‘You?’

‘She says I must have a career. A real one, before marriage. You recall how scathing she was about Ranalow?’ Frederick Ranalow had married their sister Lillian despite objections from Carrie that, as a professional singer, he couldn’t afford even to keep her daughter in hats. ‘Well, she says it would be hypocritical of her not to consider my financial security. So I must find a position before we can announce an engagement.’

‘I see. You’ve no thoughts?’

‘The Thought Vault is empty, Laurie.’

Oates considered for a moment. ‘My friend Hugh Kingsland left the Dragoons last year. I hear he is doing well at his father’s bank  …’

Bryan was ahead of him. ‘Would you mind, Laurie? Having a word before you go back to India?’

‘Don’t remind me.’ He had been home four months and the thought of a return to drudgery in India depressed him. ‘But I shall be up in town in the next few days.’ The boat moved again and he shouted up through the open hatch. ‘Billings, can you finish preparing the deck?’

There was no reply but a few moments later came the enthusiastic scrape of bristle on decking.

‘So consider it done. And congratulations. She’s a fine girl.’

‘What about you?’ asked Bryan.

‘I don’t think I’ll be announcing my engagment just yet.’

‘No, you fool. You said you had news.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Oates drank the last of his tea. ‘You know I haven’t been too happy with the army.’

‘I think you mentioned it once or a hundred times.’

‘I have decided on something new. I haven’t told Mother yet.’

‘Don’t worry I’ll be tight lipped. Told her what?’

‘I have applied to join Scott.’

‘Which Scott’s?’ Bryan asked, thinking it must be another merchant bank.

‘The British Antarctic Expedition. Captain Scott.’

Bryan’s eyes bulged with amazement. ‘That Scott? You? Laurie, are you serious? It’s all sailors and sledges and ice and goodness knows what else.’

Oates spread his arms out to indicate
Saunterer.
‘And this is what? A horse and carriage? I know boats. I’m a sailor.’

That explained the summer jaunt to France and Spain. Oates had wanted to get his sea legs back. ‘Mother will be—’

‘Yes, yes.’ He was well aware of what Carrie’s reaction would be. ‘And I know dogs.’

‘Do they fox hunt in Antarctica? I don’t think they use beagles, do they? And you’ve just bought a new pack to ship out,’ Bryan reminded him.

‘And there are plenty of officers in India who will buy a good pack of hounds if I am accepted.’

‘But Mother?’

‘Bryan, it’s time Mother took a step backwards. It has been for years. You know I looked for Edie? Or at least her whereabouts, what is it? Fourteen years ago? Fifteen, goodness.’

Bryan sounded as if he was frightened to ask the next question. ‘You found her?’

He shook his head.

‘Well, thank the Lord for that.’ His brother glared at him with uncharacteristic spite and Bryan decided to change an awkward subject. ‘I read thousands have applied to join. Scott, I mean.’

‘Eight or ten thousand, so they say.’

‘Then why should they choose you? A cavalry officer?’

‘I told you, I know boats, dogs, horses. I have given them good references.’

‘Who?’

‘Algernon Rayner-Wood at Eton.’

‘But he’s our cousin.’

‘They won’t know that. And he won’t lie. We’ve already agreed what he will say, and it’s pretty much the truth. Energetic, reliable, that sort of thing.’ Oates looked down at his mug.

‘And? There’s something else?’

Oates nodded and looked a little shamefaced. ‘I have offered them a thousand pounds if they’ll take me.’

Bryan’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. ‘How much? Do you have one thous—You’ll ask Carrie? Oh, please remind me to be somewhere else that day.’

‘I’ll need about one thousand five hundred. I said I wouldn’t draw a salary. They are very short of money. Scott is off fundraising and coming back with meagre purses.’

‘Better and better. South with a pauper. And you think Carrie will  …?’

‘I won’t ask if I can help it. I’ll sell my horses. And those damned pistols. I can raise it, if you’ll help put some things up while I am away.’

‘Of course. Will the army grant you leave?’

‘If I am shrewd enough. My CO won’t like it, but I can use our friends at the War Office.’

‘Mother’s friends, you mean. If she’ll let you.’ He thought for a second. ‘But she will, in the end. She loves you, you see.’

Oates grunted. He had no doubt of that. It was the way it manifested itself that was gnawing at him.

‘Of all of us, you remind her most of Father. You understand that, don’t you? It’s why she keeps you close. And the only way she knows how is by money.’

‘Since when did you get so perceptive?’ He considered Bryan’s thought for a moment. ‘It might be true, but I’ve volunteered now and I have to follow through.’

‘What on earth possessed you?’ asked Bryan. ‘It’s bloody chilly down there, isn’t it?’

‘I hear they get the odd cold snap. After India, it will be a blessed relief. It’s a healthy climate.’ Oates thumped his chest. ‘Good for a man.’

Bryan shuddered at the thought. He didn’t much care for Essex winters, let alone those of polar climes. ‘I think you are completely crazed. You’ll try for the Pole itself? Is that the idea?’

‘Is there any other point to going? They gave Shackleton a knighthood and he was a hundred miles away. Sir Ernest. I hear Scott was pretty banged up about that. Still, imagine what they will do to those who actually stand on it.’

‘Is that the idea? Is that why people do it? Glory?’

‘Independence.’

‘Be serious for a minute. What about your leg?’

Oates gave the old war wound a tap. ‘Fine and dandy.’

‘Not first thing in the morning. I’ve seen you limping.’

‘Then I shall get out of bed later in the day.’

Bryan laughed and shook his head, knowing there would be no dissuading his brother. Already there was a fire in his eyes, and, no doubt, in his belly. ‘There is only one saving grace.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You’ll never get in.’

Captain Lawrence Oates was back in Mhow, India, when the long-anticipated telegram finally arrived, indicating that the few remaining obstacles to him joining Scott— such as paying his passage home and that of his replacement out—had finally been overcome. His argument that the Navy were taking all the glory of the Pole when it was, strictly speaking, a land-based affair, had swung the day. As he suspected, the army, would like one of its men to stand at ninety degrees South. The cable was sent from the War Office, which had been liaising with his CO, the C-in-C India and Teddy Evans, Scott’s new number one on the Terra Nova. It was about as terse as it could be, but it was the best thirtieth birthday present he could have hoped for.

OATES ACCEPTED. PROCEED AT ONCE.

‘I have learned that something called friendship really exists and I have come to know men willing to sacrifice themselves for their country and for their convictions’

Fra Tjuagut til Sydpolarferer

(From
Boy to South Polar Explorer
, Tryggve Gran)

T
HE AFTERNOON STOPPING SERVICE
to Christiana wheezed to a standstill, one halt short of its final destination, to take on water and discharge passengers. It was January, and despite the plunging temperatures and the sleeting north wind blowing through the small station, there was a sizeable crowd on the platform, all pressing against the windows, trying to peer inside the carriages.