Death on the Ice (33 page)

‘W
HAT DO YOU MAKE
of it?’ Scott asked.

The wardroom had been cleared of all but Scott, Wilson and Kathleen while Tryggve Gran read the cablegram. He did so three times. Nothing changed. Being a Norwegian did not allow him insights beyond those few words on paper. He was as mystified as Scott and Wilson.

‘It was sent from Christiana,’ said Gran slowly.

‘So he hasn’t left yet?’ Wilson asked. ‘Does it mean he is coming down next season?’

‘Why go to the expense of a cablegram if something isn’t imminent?’ asked Kathleen.

‘Good point,’ conceded Wilson.

‘
Fram
sailed before we were in Cape Town. The Norwegian consulate there told me. Amundsen was heading for Cape Horn, with a stop for a refit at Madeira.’

‘Madeira?’ Scott asked. ‘Are you sure?’ Madeira was a more usual stop for those heading South to Australasia, not the Horn, where ships tended to work down the east coast of South America.

‘Am I being stupid?’ asked Wilson. ‘Are you saying this was sent while
Fram
and
Terra Nova
were both at sea?’

‘I am.’

‘It’s very sly,’ offered Kathleen.

‘I think  …’ Gran began. The others waited while he stroked the poor attempt at a beard he had been cultivating. ‘I think this was sent in all likelihood by Leon Amundsen. His brother. From Christiana. While
Fram
was at sea.’

‘Why?’ asked Scott.

Gran didn’t answer, at first, because he didn’t like the thoughts crowding into his brain, squirming like rats. The cablegram announces Amundsen was for the South, but it didn’t give Scott time to do much about it. His planning was finished, his crew and ship, all set. It explained why Amundsen wouldn’t see him or Scott. Either he didn’t want to lie to their faces or he was scared of slipping up and his true intentions emerging. ‘I don’t know for sure. I can go and see the Norwegian consul here, see if he knows more.’

‘Yes, good idea,’ said Scott.

‘And you should cable Nansen,’ Gran suggested.

‘And ask what?’

‘If it means
Fram
is to conduct scientific work in the area of Antarctica before going north or if Amundsen is heading for the Pole. The South Pole.’

Scott considered for a moment, even rereading the cablegram, to see if it revealed its inner meaning. ‘I shall do so. But even if it means that, I am not being panicked into altering our plans. I am not anticipating a race. This changes nothing.’

Gran realised Scott hadn’t fully appreciated what kind of man he was up against. As far as he was concerned, it changed everything.

Later that evening, Gran found Oates on deck, staring out to sea. The clouds were clearing, stars poking through the lacunae, and the swell had subsided. Scott, Wilson, the wives and many of the other officers had gone ashore to dine and subtly solicit funds from their hosts. The whole ship, though, had felt the new tension.

‘So, are you going to tell me what all the fuss was about?’ asked Oates.

Gran explained about the message.

‘How did the skipper take it?’

‘More evenly than I would have.’

‘What’s he like, this Amundsen?’

Gran couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. ‘You’ve not heard of him?’

Oates smiled. ‘His fame didn’t extend to India, no. I didn’t hear him mentioned till I joined
Terra Nova
.’

‘He is a fierce competitor. Driven, I think you say. He has been south to the Antarctic before, you know. With the Belgica expedition. That might be why he thinks he has some priority.’

‘I see. That does rather change it. Still, something not quite right about the way he has done it.’

‘Agreed. But he is a giant of an explorer. If he has his eyes on the Pole

Oates watched a cutter motor past them, heading out to one of the other ships. He returned a wave from a passenger. ‘You think he’ll beat us to it?’

‘He’ll have dogs.’

‘We’ll have dogs.’

‘Not enough. Dogs, horses and those.’ Gran pointed at the shrouded shapes of the motor sledges. ‘The motors are temperamental, or were in Fefor. Horses, I am not sure about either, not on the ice.’

‘Shackleton took them.’ Oates said it in a mimic of Scott. He sometimes tired of the way the man was used as justification for every decision. If Shackleton did it, it must be the correct way. It wasn’t just Scott; half the company were mesmerised by those ninety-seven miles. And the knighthood.

‘And they did not perform well. But, of course, they didn’t have you with them to coax them along.’ The Norwegian grinned.

‘That would be their first mistake,’ he replied. But Oates felt a little twinge of apprehension as he said it. Being the equine officer was a far larger responsibility than he had originally envisaged. How the horses—his horses, once they arrived—performed might determine whether they got to the Pole or not. To be blamed for a shortfall would be intolerable.

‘And, as I say, I saw the motor sledges break down in Norway. Sometimes after a few kilometres, sometimes after a hundred metres. If I was planning this expedition, I would have two hundred dogs. What is Mr Meares buying? Thirty-some.’

‘Well, Trigger, if this Amundsen gets there first it won’t just be the dogs coming home with their tails between their legs. We can’t let a bloody Norskie beat us. No offence meant.’

But Gran’s shoulders had slumped and his face dropped. ‘You see, this puts me in an awkward situation. If I had known he was coming down here, I would never have agreed to join Scott. Everyone will think like you.’

‘I was joking, Trigger. Nobody will blame you.’

‘You asked about fighting in a war. Who would I back? I said England. Well, this is a war, but now it is Norway versus England. What do I do?’

He looked so glum Oates had to laugh. ‘It’s not a war. It’s a race.’

‘The skipper does not want a race.’

‘Well, if your man—’

‘He’s not my man,’ snapped Tryggve.

‘All right, all right. The Owner might not have a choice. He might have a race forced on him. You have to agree, it’s pretty rum if he is trying to steal a march.’

Cherry joined them at the rail. ‘I just heard about the bloody feint.’ It was unusual for Cherry to swear.

‘You know Amundsen has been to Antarctica before,’ said Oates.

‘So’s the skipper.’ Cherry bristled.

‘Prior to Scott,’ added Gran.

‘Are you defending him?’ Cherry demanded.

‘No. He’s not,’ said Oates with some force.

‘No, of course not. Sorry, Trigger. How’s the skipper about this?’

‘Dining with the mayor of Melbourne,’ said Oates. ‘Looks like business at usual.’

‘Talking of which … Ovaltine, anyone?’

The mention of a hot drink made Oates realise how cold he had become. ‘Yes, why not? Trigger?’

‘I’ll be down in a while.’

From behind the packing cases came another voice. ‘We should cut and run I say, sir.’

The glow of the pipe and the soft, rounded accent told Gran it was Tom Crean.

‘What’s that?’

‘Pack up now, go get the horses and dogs. Not twirl around for town three weeks more, trying to raise a few coppers. Tell the folks here what we’re up against. They’ll put the hands in their pockets. I know Australians and New Zealanders and they’ll dig deep if he tells them he’s had the rug pulled from under him by this Amundsen fella. That’s what the skipper should do.’

‘Have you told him?’

A snort. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I yield to no man in my admiration of Captain Scott. I shared a tent with him out on the barrier after that second winter. You get to know a man out there. You ever go down a crevasse, young sir, you want Captain Scott or Birdie Bowers on the end of your trace. Neither will let you go or they’ll come over with you.’ He took a noisy suck on his pipe and a few sparks drifted heavenwards. ‘But there are too many voices yapping in his ears on this voyage. Officers. Scientists. Bankers. Politicians. And not forgettin’ the wives. He’s not going to listen to the likes of me.’

‘Perhaps he should.’

Crean gave a small laugh. ‘Maybes. But I’ve spoken out of turn. Must be that nip of rum.’ The pipe flared once more. ‘I’ll leave you to your thoughts, Mr Gran.’

‘Thank you, Tom.’

Gran stood on deck for another half-hour, feeling wretched. He had grown to like these mad Englishmen with their strange rituals and wardroom high jinks. Apart from the wise heads like Crean and some of the scientists, they were overgrown schoolboys, really, so very different from the types Amundsen would have with him. The whole English ethos was alien to Scandinavians; the English wanted to win, but it was a bad show to be seen to put too much effort into the enterprise. The lucky amateur was what they all aspired to. The Norwegians, though, would be hardened, professional ice men and dog handlers. Some of them would have a decade or more of driving Greenland huskies. Most of the
Terra Nova
’s crew had never seen pack ice, bergs or polar conditions before. Amundsen would have a whole shore party of expert skiers; Scott was, ironically, relying on him, a Norwegian, to teach the others.

He decided it might be best if he left the ship. A lot depended on Nansen’s reply to Scott’s enquiry. Had he been party to this? Had everyone but the naïve Tryggve Gran known Amundsen’s true intentions? Was his whole country duplicitous? If so, he would give up his dreams and go home.

He heard lusty singing from below and went down. He could hear Titus holding forth. Oates and Atch often ended up with the men in the mess, despite Scott’s disapproval. The habit had started while the Owner was on the mailship and Teddy Evans in charge.

Then came Lashly’s voice. ‘Who doesn’t like women? Why, Captain Oates. Why not? Because he prefers goats!’

The roar of approval shook the ship’s timbers.

He hesitated, thinking of joining them, but went to his berth instead. It all depended on Nansen. If he had been involved in the sleight-of-hand, Gran was determined to resign from the Scott expedition.

In the event Tryggve Gran had already left the
Terra Nova
, still a troubled young man, by the time the reply came from Nansen. It was no matter; it hardly helped clarify the situation. Scott had asked a series of questions about Amundsen’s intentions. Chief among them was: did Amundsen intend to try for the Pole? He received a reply even less illuminating than the original Amundsen cablegram. It was a single word.

Unknown.

T
HE HORSES AND DOGS
purchased in Manchuria were delivered, after a harrowing journey, to a small quarantine island just outside Lyttleton harbour. When Oates, Birdie Bowers and Scott arrived at Quail Island, they found Meares and Wilfred Bruce, Kathleen’s brother, had pitched a tent and were brewing tea. Bruce had the most alarming black eyes and a swollen nose.

‘What happened?’ Oates asked.

‘Take care with the one with the dark blaze,’ replied Bruce, pointing up the slope to the tethered horses, where a diminutive man was grooming one of the ponies. ‘Caught me a hefty kick.’

‘And watch out for any of the dogs,’ Meares said, pointing to the thirty-three snapping, snarling animals, already lunging against their chains.

‘They never change,’ said Scott with a sigh, taking a mug of strong black tea. ‘Thank you. Is there such a thing as a sweet-tempered husky?’

A stranger emerged from the tent. ‘Good morning,’ he said in heavily accented English.

‘This is Dimitri. One of the men I cabled you about.’

‘Splendid,’ said Scott. ‘The dog driver.’

Dimitri nodded. ‘I can drive dogs, yes.’

‘Even these ones?’

He smiled. ‘Even these. They have had a long journey.’

‘Well, show me around the huskies then,’ said Scott.

Oates took Bowers aside while Scott examined the new arrivals. ‘When I tip you the wink, the answer is linseed, OK?’

‘What?’ the little man asked, confused.

‘Linseed.’

They watched Scott walk among the huskies, sidestepping a lunge every now and then as if he were dancing a bizarre quadrille.

‘Well, the dogs look to be the mustard. Shall we examine the horses?’ asked Scott.

The three men moved up the slope to inspect the line of tethered ponies, which were clearly tired and irritable. The groom introduced himself as Anton. He, too, spoke thick English. ‘All white,’ he said.

‘All right?’ asked Oates.

‘No,’ the Russian said again. ‘Horses all white. As asked.’

‘Yes, all white,’ said Scott. ‘Shackleton’s dark ponies died before the lighter ones. So I asked for white Siberian ponies.’

Oates tutted at this superstitious nonsense, earning him a glare from Scott.

‘They are Manchurian,’ said Anton. ‘Mostly.’

They were also slightly bigger than ponies, but Oates said nothing. The enormity of getting them to the ice intact was only just dawning on him.

As the skipper walked among them, there was plenty of irritable snorting and angry nips. ‘They look splendid,’ Scott announced.

The animals had been en route from Vladivostok for seven weeks, most of it standing. They looked bedraggled and thin, thought Oates, far away from top condition. ‘First class,’ said Oates sardonically.

‘Glad you think so,’ said an apparently oblivious Scott.

‘They need a damn good feed, skipper.’

‘You did the calculations?’

Oates passed over a piece of paper, which Scott scrutinised. ‘What’s this?’

‘The calculations.’

‘It’s illegible, man.’

Oates felt himself redden. His arithmetic was worse than his lettering. ‘Figuring was never one of my talents.’

Scott screwed up the note. ‘Just tell me how much you need in total.’

Oates walked over to the nearest horse. He could hear wind whistling in its tubes. ‘How much did you pay?’ he asked Anton.

‘One hundred twenty-five roubles,’ said Anton and nodded towards Meares. ‘He say that five pounds a pony.’

Five pounds. ‘Not enough, yet too much,’ muttered Oates before he turned to Scott. ‘We need forty-five tons of fodder.’