Death on the Ice (32 page)

‘I know. My mother is here for the occasion.’

‘To wave you off?’

‘Not publicly. We’ve said our goodbyes.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘She gave me  …’ Carrie had given him money, hundreds of pounds, but he told her there would be nowhere to spend it. She didn’t believe him and had pressed it on him. Then she had cried, pleading with him to change his mind. It had taken all his resolve not to agree. She had promised to come and view from the dockside at a discreet distance, to save him any further tearful displays of motherly concern. ‘Why am I telling you this?’

Gran finally realised Oates was a little tipsy. Although he inevitably joined in the fun and games with the crew, and the port, Gran had never seen him the worse for wear. He could only imagine it had been something to do with his mother being there. It seemed to Gran that Englishmen had very complicated relationships with their mothers. Still, he reckoned it might be a good time to raise something that had been nagging at him. ‘Titus, why don’t you like me?’

‘Who says I don’t?’

Gran sipped some more warm gin. ‘You refused to shake my hand the first time we met. You don’t think I’m worth talking to.’

‘Nothing personal.’

Gran laughed so hard that the darts and domino players paused to look at the strange pair at the bar. ‘How am I meant to take it?’

‘You can’t help being foreign.’

‘Just like you can’t help being English.’

Oates smirked. ‘How do you know I didn’t choose it? Eeny-meeny-miney-mo?’

‘I don’t think God consults. It’s the luck of the draw.’

Oates brooded for a while. ‘I suppose it is. I just believed that the expedition should be all-British. You aren’t a bad sort, Trigger.’

‘Just foreign.’

‘As you say. Just foreign. The thing is, if a war came, tomorrow. Who would you fight for?’

‘Between Norway and England?’ He finished off the gin and shuddered.

‘No. England and, I don’t know. France. No, Germany. War with Germany. Your neighbours.’ He almost spat the final word.

‘I think you are thinking of Denmark.’

Oates furrowed his brow, trying to picture a map of Europe. He had been away so long, it remained blurred. ‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’

‘No matter. Who would you fight for?’

‘England.’

‘Really? But you are on the Continent. Don’t you all hate us?’

Gran sighed. It was true that the self-centered jingoism of the British Empire was hard to warm to, but not the individuals who made up the country. At least, not his strange and endearing collection of shipmates, men like Crean, Taff, Archer, Clissold, Lashly and, yes, Oates, Cherry, Wilson and Scott. ‘Like it or not, Titus, I am part of the British Antarctic Expedition. Always will be, now. I have a job to do and fine crewmates. As long as it does not involve betraying my home or family, then I would proudly stand alongside Englishmen and fight for their king and their country.’

‘You would?’

‘You have my word.’

Oates held out his hand, his words slightly slurred as he spoke. ‘And you, Tryggve Gran, have a friend.’

T
HE
TERRA NOVA
BOBBED
and weaved at anchor, close enough to the dock that the voices of the men on board, if not their exact words, could be heard clearly on the quayside. Between land and ship, however, was a dark unsettled sea, foam flashing in the night as the wind sliced the tops of the waves. The little motorised cutter, intended to ferry the party gathered at the stone steps, was rolling and pitching; it was as inviting as mounting an unbroken horse.

The four passengers gathered for the ferry journey, already wet through with spray, hesitated.

‘I think we should wait,’ said Ory Wilson.

‘It’s all right for you,’ said Kathleen, drawing her shawl around her. ‘You have your husband here.’

‘And yours will be ashore soon, I am certain,’ said Bill Wilson.

‘I have not seen him since Cape Town.’

‘Well, who is to blame for that?’ snapped Hilda, Teddy Evans’s wife.

‘Ladies, please,’ said Wilson. Plans had changed in South Africa. Scott had taken back command of the
Terra Nova
from Teddy Evans, and charged Wilson with chaperoning the three wives down to New Zealand, with a port-of-call by both parties for fund-raising and supplies at Melbourne.

‘Con meant no slight when he resumed command,’ said Kathleen, knowing that it had caused some resentment. ‘He told me he was pleased with the way the crew had butted together.’

‘Without him,’ Hilda said tartly.

‘Yes, which is why he needed to establish himself once more. You see plots where there are none.’

Wilson looked between the two of them. Hilda was the more attractive, beautiful even, with a waspish tongue at times. Kathleen was more forceful and with an enticing charisma that she used to great effect. On balance, he was glad to have his Oriana, who he believed combined the virtues of both without the vices.

‘Please God,’ said Wilson, ‘never let me run more than one wife at a time, ever again.’

Ory giggled. Only she had heard the muttered prayer.

‘Either way, I am going out,’ said Kathleen. She leaned into the wind and bellowed down to the young sailors in the cutter. ‘Quite safe, is it?’

‘Safe. Aye. Choppy, though. Have you had your dinner?’

‘No.’

‘Just as well, ma’am. Or you’d be saying hello to it again.’

‘I have been seasick enough to last me a lifetime,’ said Mrs Evans.

‘I think I agree with that,’ said Ory.

Kathleen turned on them, fists clenched. ‘Oh, you, you  …’ she struggled for a suitable insult. ‘Women!’

‘Women who know their places and capabilities. Not some suffragette.’

‘Pah. Don’t insult me.’ Kathleen hated the lumpen, graceless champions of women’s rights. She cocked her head to one side. ‘Listen.’

‘What?’ asked Wilson. He could hear nothing but wind and water.

‘That’s my man.’

‘Which one?’ muttered Mrs Evans.

Ory laughed again. They had joked about a Mr Hull who had paid Kathleen much attention during the voyage from Cape Town. They thought she had done scandalously little to discourage the lovesick puppy.

Her face became a ball of fury. ‘I have left my baby on the other side of the world to be with Captain Scott. I am not going to let a patch of rough water separate us. Do you understand?’

Ory found herself nodding meekly.

‘I’m coming down,’ Kathleen shouted. Her leather soles slipped on the top step and she nearly tumbled in.

Wilson caught her elbow. ‘Steady, there.’

‘I suppose Teddy will frown upon me if I don’t come too.’

‘And I can’t let you two women go out alone. The skipper would toss me overboard.’

Ory sighed. ‘And I am not standing here by myself.’

Wilson pulled the strap of the mailbag he was carrying over his head, to make it more secure. ‘Then we all go.’

It took ten minutes to get the party safely into the motor launch, and when it did cast off, it had trouble making any progress. The lights on
Terra Nova
refused to get any closer. As far as they could tell the cutter’s bow was plummeting up and down, but making no headway. ‘It’s like deadwater,’ said Wilson, remembering the phenomenon from the Antarctic.

Mrs Evans put her head over the side and dry-retched. Kathleen sat tight lipped, not giving them the satisfaction of showing how queasy she felt.

Eventually, after an exaggerated zigzag by the cutter, the
Terra Nova
loomed larger and, with a few deft tugs on the rudder and judicious use of reverse, the boat was brought alongside.

‘Con!’ shouted Kathleen.

‘You need a hand there?’ It was Birdie Bowers, looming over the rail, nose first.

‘Yes, please,’ said Ory Wilson.

With the aid of ropes—and Oates, whose watch it was—the four were transferred from cutter to deck in no time. Their faces were dotted with globules of spray, their hair damp and clothes soaking. Oates laughed when he saw them. ‘We should have piped you aboard.’

‘Where is my husband?’ Kathleen demanded.

‘Below, ma’am.’

Wilson took off the mailbag. ‘Tell him there is correspondence and cables.’

Kathleen hurried below and met a half-dressed Scott coming up. He had on his shirt, but unfastened, with no tie. His face split into a grin of pure joy when he saw her. ‘Kathleen! We were just getting ready to come ashore.’

‘I couldn’t wait that long.’

They kissed and he put his arms round her. For a second, the ship fell away and they were half a world distant, entwined, never wanting to separate. Her heart beat so fast, he could feel it against his chest. Tears stung his eyes and she felt a small catch in her throat. Scott took a huge, shuddering breath, which broke the spell. ‘You’re wet.’

‘Don’t fuss. It was worth it.’

‘How was the crossing from Cape Town?’

‘Dull without you. Yours?’

He shook his head in dismay. ‘She’s a handful.’

‘And still smells.’

‘Not for want of trying. Come down to the wardroom while I finish dressing.’

She followed Con down below decks, careful with her footing as the ship rolled. His hair was failing ever more; she could see the sovereign-sized disc of scalp at his crown grown noticeably bigger. She felt a rush of affection for him. He was under such strain. None of the men—with the exception perhaps of Bill Wilson—appreciated just what it took to organise such an undertaking and to make it, as he insisted, scientifically worthwhile rather than just what Barrie would no doubt call an ‘Awfully Big Adventure’.

‘I have a letter from your mother. The boy thrives.’ The mutual frostiness between Hannah and her daughter-in-law had thawed with the arrival of Peter. Being asked to guard the precious son while she was away had helped turn the corner. ‘She sends all her love. As do your sisters.’

‘Excellent. Did Bill bring the rest of the mail?’

‘He did. And—oh—’

The most extraordinary sight greeted her in the wardroom. Teddy Evans was standing up to his full five foot seven, his legs spread wide, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes looking fit to pop from his head. In his mouth was a belt. Still attached to the belt was a furiously blushing Cherry, his feet kicking in thin air. Looking on, either bemused or roaring with laughter, were Herbert Ponting, Bernard Day, the mechanic, Tryggve Gran, Atch, the surgeon, and half-a-dozen officers she didn’t know by name.

When he saw Kathleen, Teddy released his grip and Cherry crashed to the floor, losing his glasses and causing more hoots of laughter. ‘Sorry, Mrs Scott,’ said Teddy.

‘Just a wager,’ explained Cherry, retrieving his spectacles, getting to his feet and brushing himself down.

‘It’s always just a wager,’ said Scott, slipping into his cabin and sliding the door shut. ‘Ignore them.’

‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said Kathleen to the men sitting around the table. ‘Looks like great fun. Is that your party piece, Teddy?’

Now he coloured as he pointed to the upright jammed in the corner. ‘I’d rather play the piano, but that’s what nature gave me. Strong teeth.’

‘I’m sure strong teeth are more use on the ice than a quick rendition of “Boiled Beef and Carrots”. Mrs Evans is up top, Teddy.’

‘Right.’ He rolled his sleeves down. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Mrs Scott. Duty calls.’

He squeezed past Wilson, who had come down with the mail sack for Scott to read. There were greetings exchanged between the doctor and the company, and he joined Scott in his tiny cabin.

The room fell into silence, as it always did when a woman was around. Kathleen resented this, but her attempts at camaraderie back in England—such as teaching them the slightly bawdy songs she had learned in the Balkans—had been treated with even more suspicion. She was the Owner’s wife and they were more comfortable if she played that part.

To relieve the thickening atmosphere, she sat down at the pianola, which had been dragged out of the ‘Nursery’ for a sing-song, and executed a deliberately ham-fisted version of ‘Kelly From the Isle of Man’. Cherry, bless him, sang a couple of verses, giving cover for the others to slip away and resume their duties.

One of them stopped by before he did so, a muscular handsome chap. ‘Don’t stop playing. I’m Frank Debenham. Geologist. Just joined. Pleased to meet you.’

‘And you,’ she said.

As the last note died away, she heard raised voices in Scott’s cabin. He emerged a few seconds later, his face disfigured by a strange, baffled expression. Behind him, Wilson had the look of an undertaker. ‘Where’s Gran?’ Scott demanded.

‘He went on deck, I believe,’ stuttered Cherry.

‘What is it, darling?’ Kathleen asked.

‘I’m not entirely sure.’

He passed the cablegram to her and as she read she felt a terrible foreboding descend on her. It was so terse as to be cryptic; but in her heart she knew it couldn’t be good news.

BEG LEAVE TO INFORM YOU
FRAM
PROCEEDING ANTARCTICA. AMUNDSEN.

Herr Professor Fridtjof Nansen,

I have dreaded sending this letter, but there is nothing for it now.

I beg you to read it carefully and consider my position.

Cook and Peary, with their claims for the Pole, killed my enterprise in the North stone dead. I was dismayed at the news.

This meant with the North probably gone, or at least sullied by claim and counter-claim, there remained only one goal left for me. The South.

So, it pains me to admit, in September 1909, I decided that I would change my ambitions from the conquered North to the unconquered South. Since then, there has not been a day when I haven’t been tempted to blurt out the truth. I even wished Scott would somehow discover my new plans, because it would mean an end to subterfuge. Of course, I intend to rendezvous with Terra Nova and explain myself.

It is not my intention to follow in the footsteps of the English. If I am to succeed for Norway, I must forge my own route. I will not use Scott or Shackleton’s bases or landing points.

I hope you understand, no other option was open to me.

All this has been done in the utmost secrecy. I have written to the King to explain my change of plan, but even my crew have been kept in the dark. I shall announce the new mission shortly, and see how they vote. At the same time my brother Leon will inform the press and Captain Scott.

So again, I beg you not to judge me too severely. I am no thief nor, by nature, a deceiver. The change of events has forced this upon me. I beg forgiveness for any ire I may have caused. Perhaps my work in Antarctica will in some way compensate for the manner of my arrival there.

With my most respectful greetings,

Roald Amundsen