Death on the Ice (31 page)

‘Shame,’ said Campbell.

Evans shook his head. ‘He’s a bit of glue ‘tween wardroom and mess deck. Pity to lose him. Meares knows horses, surely?’

‘Dogs,’ Scott said, thinking aloud. ‘But he speaks Russian and Chinese, so he could negotiate for the beasts.’

‘I’d hate to lose Titus,’ said Campbell, extracting his pipe pouch from his jacket. ‘All for him standing there in some godforsaken part of Siberia listening to a lot of jabber he don’t understand.’

‘Please don’t smoke around Peter,’ said Kathleen to Campbell. ‘Makes him cough. He’s a strong boy, but it’s his one weakness. Even Con has to smoke outside now.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ He put the pipe down on the desk, his craving heightened by the sudden denial.

‘Thank you. You know, Con, Wilf would go to help bring the animals to New Zealand,’ said Kathleen sweetly. ‘He’s good with horses.’

Wilfred Bruce was Kathleen’s brother, a naval officer. Scott liked him, knew he was capable, but had resisted her blandishments to use him, as he was very conscious of any charges of nepotism. Eight thousand applicants and you choose your brother-in-law? It hardly looked impartial.

‘What do you think, Bill?’ Scott asked, aware that the company would creep up to sixty-five; an extra berth would have to be found for Wilf Bruce.

Wilson felt Kathleen’s unnervingly even gaze on him. He tried , to ignore it and give a balanced view. There was no way on earth he would have allowed Ory to sit in on such a meeting. But then Ory wasn’t Kathleen. Something Wilson was very grateful for. ‘It’s not a bad idea to use Lieutenant Bruce. We’ll need decent officers on the ship for her return to New Zealand during winter. This way we could leave Oates where he is. He’ll be good company for us on the way down.’

Scott shook his head and dropped his bombshell. ‘I’m not coming with you. Sorry to spring this upon you, Teddy. And you, Bill. Change of plan.’

The four men looked at each other and across at Kathleen, as if this revelation were somehow her fault. She smiled back at them as the boy Peter gurgled loudly.

‘Not coming? Why is that?’ asked Wilson.

‘We still have money to raise and contracts for newspaper syndication and cinematography to sign. Ponting has driven a hard bargain.’ The renowned Herbert Ponting would take photographs and moving pictures of the expedition. Scott hoped that a travelling show would later generate profits to help defray the expedition’s rapidly accumulating debts. ‘Between you and me, we can’t match the wage bill at the moment. Thank the Lord there are men travelling for free. I had to borrow to find funds for the dogs and horses Meares will purchase. We are reduced to appealing to school fundraisers and that takes meetings and speeches.’ The thought left him looking exhausted. ‘The British public have not been generous. Apart from the Welsh, for some reason. Which is why
Terra Nova
will leave from Cardiff.’

Teddy Evans laughed, suspecting a joke. His smile faded when the Owner failed to participate.

‘That’s hardly on the way,’ said the first mate.

‘Cardiff is giving us coal, Mr Campbell. For free. And has raised a thousand pounds. I shall see you off there. You’ll manage, Teddy?’

‘Be sure of it,’ Evans replied confidently.

‘Harry?’

‘Of course.’

‘While you all whip the crew into shape, we’ll catch a fast mail boat and join you in Cape Town,’ Scott said.

‘We?’ asked Wilson, thinking Scott intended to keep him back.

‘He means me,’ said Kathleen Scott, holding her baby aloft, making him giggle as she tickled his ribs. ‘I’m coming with you.’

I
T WAS THE CRUELEST
day of Fridtjof Nansen’s life. He was standing on a venerable, much-repaired watchtower that soared above a rocky promontory. The lookout point traditionally protected the entrance to the fjord by warning of approaching ships. But Nansen was here to watch a departure, not an arrival. It was midnight, and the sun was ready to dip below the horizon for the long summer twilight.

Below him, moving slowly out to sea, was the
Fram
, the ship on which he had proved polar drift was possible and achieved Furthest North. Nansen had been observing the shore below Amundsen’s home through a spyglass for several hours. He had watched them load timber and supplies and what looked like a hut for living quarters—a strange thing to take to the North, where you would be erecting it on unstable floating ice—before
Fram
had finally cast off.

Her sails were furled, the slow clank of the overhauled diesel engine pushing her forward clearly audible. There were men on the spars and in the rigging, though, ready to deploy the canvas once
Fram
was clear of the headland. There, she would turn south, for testing and calibration, before Amundsen took her around the Horn and north to the Bering Strait and Arctic waters. It was typical of the man to put everything, from sledge to ship, through exhaustive trials before he pronounced himself satisfied. Amundsen had been singularly obsessed these past months, even refusing as ‘a distraction’ a meeting with Scott, despite the latter donating equipment so that they could run comparative measurements at opposite poles.

Fram
looked strong and clean after her refit, proudly displaying the cross of St Olav, her national flag. Gone were the days when she had to skulk away under a Swedish ensign before the blue-and-white cross on a red background could be displayed. Despite his sadness, he felt a surge of pride in his small country. It was Independence Day, after all, a fortuitous choice for the sailing.

As the ship drew level with the Polhøgda tower, there came the sharp squeal of a steam whistle, which echoed around the mountains like a Viking blowing horn. From across the water, Nansen heard a ragged cheer, muffled by the wind and water, and he raised his arms above his head, his eyes moist. They were saluting him. A flare arced out over the water with a hiss, staining it red for a few seconds as it hung in the air. It was joined by a blue and then a white one. The three hotspots burnt into his retina before they fell into the sea, leaving only fading smoke trails. Norwegian colours.

All across the world, it seemed, men were heading for the ice. Robert Scott and Teddy Evans from London—although they had now combined forces—had their eyes on the Pole. Mawson was planning a foray out of Australia. Flichner was raising money in Germany. From Japan, the formidable Nobu Shirase was making rumblings about another expedition. Nansen believed he should have been among them. He had allowed himself to believe that he was too old, that the polar regions were best reserved for young men. He had announced his retirement at a low spot, just after his wife died. He should never have said that, never given up the
Fram
. Although, he supposed, it was for the best that a Norwegian had picked up his baton.

What a strange assortment the men of the ice were. Amundsen was what the British called a ‘Pole bagger’, not interested in dressing up his expedition as anything other than a desire to stand on the Farthest North, to make a claim on the Pole that could not, like Peary’s or Cook’s, be open to dispute. Science was secondary to him. He was focused and shrewd, endlessly improvising and improving. As with most of them, money was a problem, but there again Roald wouldn’t let a shortage of cash deter him. He had borrowed heavily and had even taken a charge on his home to fond this trip.

Shackleton he liked. A blarney-spouting buccaneer, he was like a latter-day Drake, a privateer. He was a restless spirit, the sort of man who would never be able to resist the pull of the unknown. He’d be back on the ice, Nansen would wager. Actually, he wouldn’t wager. He’d have nothing to do with Shackleton and money. The man just didn’t understand it. With debts to pay and some of the
Nimrod
crew still not reimbursed, he had given most of the money from his Norwegian speaking tour to a children’s charity in Christiana. The gesture had increased his status immensely, of course, but popularity never fed a hungry crew.

And Scott? He respected the man well enough, although Sir Ernest was better company, not being constrained by naval etiquette. Scott had a real curiosity, a striving for knowledge and progress. The motor sledges showed that, as did the number and scope of scientists he recruited. Scott, too, had been infected by the unseen bacterium that lived in the cold regions, a micro-organism that infiltrated the body and brain and would never let a man rest till he brought it home again. It was as dangerous as scurvy.

Captain Scott was certainly courageous and, although he wouldn’t admit it, highly competitive. His stamina was impressive. Nansen had seen him out on the lake, pushing himself to his limits, working on the temperamental machines till he blistered his fingers on the freezing metal. And he had Kathleen. With her behind him, who knew what he might achieve? He still recalled her whispered words: ‘
You are a magnificent specimen.
’
 
That night, at dinner, she had explained she had meant as a subject for a bronze bust. He was flattered, although he would have been equally happy with his first interpretation. She was like no other English woman he had ever met, unrestrained and forthright, solid yet sensuous.

‘
You are a magnificent specimen.
’

The memory of that voice caused a strange sinking sensation in his stomach, as if he was falling from a high building. For a second, he felt a touch of vertigo as he looked down into the darkening waters of the fjord, riffled from his old ship’s passage.

Nansen stayed on his cliff top till
Fram
dwindled away, swallowed by the deep blues of the summer twilight, his orphan, cast among others. As he wearily descended the lookout tower, he realised he had learned two things during his farewell vigil: he still wanted to explore, still possessed that relentless fire in his ageing belly, and he was in love with Kathleen Scott.

T
RYGGVE GRAN FOUND OATES
in the smoke-drenched Carpenter’s Arms, the fifth public house near the docks he had tried. Titus was sipping from a pint of bitter and Gran was amazed how easily he fitted in with his down-at-heel surroundings. He had on a worn tweed suit, his battered bowler, hobnail boots, and an undershaved chin. Dark streaks remained on his face from the choking, despicable task of coaling they had all helped with. Nobody would take Oates for an officer or a gentleman and, looking around at the rough-house clientele, Gran supposed that was the idea.

Oates had chosen the pub well. All the others had photographs or banners wishing
Terra Nova
and her crew well. Any man associated with the ship would never have to put his hand in his pocket. But he also became public property, forced to acknowledge how the City of Cardiff had helped and no doubt answer questions about the rumoured leaks plaguing the vessel.

‘Titus,’ he said. ‘Skipper sent me. We need to get back to the ship.’

Oates waved a hand at the barman. ‘Have a drink.’

‘Why?’

He nodded at his pint. ‘It’ll save me having to talk to you while I finish this.’

Ignoring the insult, Gran ordered a gin, having to repeat the order twice.

‘Make it a large one,’ Oates instructed the surly server.

‘It’s all over, Titus,’ said Gran. Oates had shied off the mayor’s banquet for the crew at the Royal Hotel. ‘Safe to come back now.’

‘Good. Bunch of bloody socialists, the lot of them.’ It was the standard jibe from army types who didn’t trust the social changes occurring around them. ‘Let me buy,’ he insisted as the gin arrived, slopped on to the bar. ‘More money than I know what to do with.’

‘Generous socialists they were,’ Gran reminded him. He sipped his drink. ‘Do you think they’ll have ice here?’

Oates wrinkled his nose at the strange request. ‘I doubt it. They probably put coal in their drinks. It gets everywhere else.’ Coaling was a filthy business; nobody blamed the captain for finding some official lunch or other while it took place. ‘Hold on a few weeks, though, there’ll be plenty.’ He took a gulp of his bitter. ‘The only gentleman I have met here so far has been the man who laid the telephone on the ship. Other than that we get mayors and counsellors and their bloody wives. Women, eh? Empty your mind and fill it with ribbons and feathers. Mark my words.’

‘I hope you make an exception for Mrs Scott.’ Gran had rather taken a shine to her in Norway, especially for the way she enthusiastically pursued his case in Fefor for coming South with the expedition. She had looked bored at the banquet and then succumbed to a fit of the giggles when Taff Evans had trouble with the giant dragon flag he had been given, spilling it across the table.

Oates narrowed his eyes. ‘I do. She’s a different kettle. She’s even more frightening.’

‘Why is that?’

Oates wagged a finger. ‘A woman who thinks like a man? More powerful than those Dreadnoughts we sailed past.’

Terra Nova
had cautiously steamed through the line of the fleet in the Solent, a staggering display of naval might that had awed them all. The new battleships were like the monsters of the deep, dredged up, armour plated and given sixteen-inch guns.

‘Taff gave a good speech at the banquet. Said there were very few men he would follow South again. But Scott was one of them. Said he loved him. Had them cheering. Then he drank enough for the entire table and it needed six men to carry him out to the ship.’

‘He should watch it. Teddy Evans has it in for him. He’ll find any excuse to get rid of him.’ Taff had found a mistake in Teddy’s inventory of skiing equipment. Instead of quietly telling the other Evans about the error, Taff had taken a drink or two and announced it to the whole crew. Scott had then given Taff some of Teddy’s responsibilities. Oates had no axe to grind with Teddy Evans, he thought him a splendid fellow in the wardroom, full of tall stories, but from his behaviour on deck, something told him he knew how to bear a grudge.

‘It’ll be hard to leave Taff behind after that speech. The Owner reckons it might have added three or four hundred to the pot. Anyway, we are wanted back at the ship. We leave tomorrow, remember.’