Death on the Ice (39 page)

‘I will see if Mr Barrie will come too.’

He mimed a long face for a second. ‘I would be delighted to meet him.’

The talk of Con had caused her butterflies, the familiar fear, to return. She thought of him trudging through blizzards or huddled in a tiny tent, a dot in the vast whiteness. The passages in his account of
Discovery
sometimes came back to her, the casual mentions of the hunger, the cold and the frostbite, and she wondered how a man could go through it twice. Yet she’d encouraged him. Because, she told herself, it was what he needed, the only way to make him whole again. ‘So where will Con be now?’

Nansen considered the date. It was not yet spring in London, which meant autumn in the South. ‘He will be laying down food dumps on the ice barrier for his return trip. He will be training the animals. And the men. He will watch them all closely, see which one has it.’

‘It?’

‘The stamina, the mind strength to make it to the Pole. Not everyone can do it. He will be discovering that motor cars do not belong on the ice. And if he has any sense, he’ll be thinking of you.’

Kathleen was simply not in the mood to be courted. There was something very pleasing about this man’s directness, so very different from the preening and fawning of the boy in Ceylon. But it always came back to Con. ‘I should be giving Peter an afternoon nap.’

‘Won’t nanny do that?’

‘I like to put my son down myself. I even like to bathe him. I know, it is considered strange.’

‘Not in Norway.’ He placed the tea down and stood. ‘I should not keep you from the lad. So, the lecture. On Friday. Can I at least have a “perhaps” to be going on with?’

She felt a pang of guilt as she said it but, nevertheless, the word slipped from her lips. ‘Perhaps.’

‘And the theatre.’

‘Not this time. Please don’t take offence.’

He leaned forward and took her hand. ‘No, no, of course not. Tell me, can I write to you? Just while Captain Scott is away.’

‘Yes. It would be nice to have a friend who knows what he is going through.’

He bent down and kissed the back of her hand. ‘You certainly have that, Kathleen. And more.’

‘A friend will do for now.’

Professor Fridtjof Nansen took his leave and, like all men in love, clung on to the slenderest thread of hope that his affection would be returned. ‘
For now
,’ she had said. ‘
A friend will do for now.
’

And it would. For now.

T
HE SIGHT OF ATKINSON’S
heel made Scott feel queasy. The young surgeon winced as Wilson slipped off his inner sock. It was crusted with blood. In the green-ringed half-light of the tent, the foot seemed rotten, like mouldering cheese. The top layers of skin had all come away and what was left was a pus-filled bag the size of a tennis ball.

‘Oh dear,’ said Wilson.

‘When did this happen?’ demanded Scott. They were barely days into the deputing trip. He had been forced to face up to the breakdown of the remaining motor-sledges, the poor condition of some of the horses, and now this. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I thought I could walk through it.’

‘How are the eyes?’ asked Wilson.

‘Better, thank you.’ Atch had also suffered snow-blindness, thanks to badly positioned goggles, within forty-eight hours of leaving Cape Evans.

Scott’s old temper bubbled to the surface. ‘If you were a horse I’d have you shot.’

‘If I were a horse I’d deserve it,’ the young man replied, his voice tremulous and full of shame.

‘You are a blithering idiot.’ Scott gave a rueful laugh. ‘Let this be a lesson. Bill, a word.’

They left the tent and stepped into the camp. Around them were the canvas triangles of the other tents and the humps of resting dogs. Oates and Gran were building a snow wall to keep the ponies out of a wind that hadn’t yet arrived. It would, though. For the moment, the sun burned in a clear sky, glinting off the undulating surface of the ice, and the temperature see-sawed either side of freezing. It was a balmy day on the barrier, but that could be turned on its head within minutes. They had all discovered that the winds in Antarctica either blew fierce or gentle; there was no in-between, no moderation between off and on.

‘Why do they do it? Why do they keep such things to themselves? Concealing their ailments?’ Scott asked Wilson.

Wilson smiled. ‘It’s your fault, Con.’

‘Me?’

‘You set a high standard for yourself. They try to match it. Someone like Atch doesn’t want to seem weak in front of you.’

‘Well, he does now. There’s one young man who has damaged his chances of the Pole next season.’

‘He knows that, Con. That will be hurting more than his wound. They see how you value Birdie and Taff, strong lads who don’t complain. They all want to be the same. Oates and Gran, look at them. Both feel the cold, you know, feel it hard. Never a complaint. As I say, you set a hard example to live up to.’

Scott grunted. ‘I wish it were so.’

‘It is. Look, each man here has one thing to worry about. His horse. His dogs. His stove. You, you have to worry about it all. I don’t know how you keep it all in your head.’

‘It leaks sometimes,’ Scott said.

‘You could have fooled me. What shall we do about Atch?’

Scott considered for a moment. The ponies were liability enough; he didn’t need sick, crippled men. ‘Crean! Tom Crean?’

Crean emerged from one of the tents. ‘Sir.’

‘Young Atkinson is not too well. Bad foot.’

‘And a fever,’ said Wilson.

‘I need you to take him back to Hut Point and wait for
Terra Nova
.’ The ice between Hut Point and Cape Evans had gone, a fact disastrously revealed when Wilson had tried to return to the new hut to collect the snowshoes to fit on the horses. Despite Oates’s doubts the plodder of a pony they called Weary Willie had performed well on them, but by then the disappearing ice meant it was too late to fetch some more. Scott had berated Oates for only bringing the single pair.

Crean looked disappointed. ‘Sir.’

‘Don’t worry, no reflection on you, Tom. I just need a good ice man to make sure he gets back.’

‘Sir. Thank you. When?’

‘In a while,’ said Wilson. ‘I’m worried about the suppuration on Atch’s foot. We don’t want blood poisoning. I’d best go and lance it. We’ll see how it is then. After it’s drained of pus.’

Scott grimaced. ‘You won’t mind if I take a back seat for that.’

He watched Oates lead one of the ponies towards the snow wall, and saw how its hoofs cracked through the soft ice crust. Each high step was three times the effort of walking on the flat. The equine snowshoes would have been ideal. Now he had no shoes and a sulking Oates.

The dogs, on the other hand, despite their usual viciousness, had been performing well. Cherry, in particular, said he thought sledging with dogs—at least as a passenger—great fun. Gran guided Weary Willie over to the shelter, and he certainly lived up to his name, shuffling, then stumbling through the snow. It was agony watching a horse up to its belly in the snow trying to pull itself free, as had happened on the slopes to the barrier. It would happen again, too, when they hit the deeper drifts between the pressure waves out on the barrier proper.

Guts was led over the ice crust with the snowshoes on. He slithered a little, but remained on the surface without plunging through. ‘The miracle of the snowshoe,’ he shouted across. Oates ignored him. Well, nobody liked to be proved wrong.

Scott crouched and examined the icy surface. It was slippery from the sun beaming on it. He pressed and his hand sunk several inches with ease. ‘Tom.’

‘Sir.’

‘Pass the word, will you? This is too soft for the horses by day. We’ll switch to night marching. We leave at midnight.’

‘The noise will drive me insane,’ said Oates, as the canvas of the tent cracked and whipped. ‘I should go and look at the horses.’

‘There is nothing you can do,’ said Gran.

‘It’s poor out there,’ said Bowers. ‘I’d best go.’

All three men were in their sleeping bags, their faces illuminated by a storm lamp. The tent’s material lent them all a greenish sheen, which Oates found oddly comforting, as if they were hiding in the hedges of Gestingthorpe’s maze. They had been taunted and prodded by the tail-end of storms, but the first proper Antarctic blizzard caught them at Corner Camp, the point at which they had avoided the disturbances caused by the ice pressing against White Island and could move south. Except they couldn’t move anywhere in the current white-out conditions. All they could do was hibernate in their green cocoons.

‘I’ll go,’ said Oates.

Bowers put a hand on him. ‘Last time your nose nearly dropped off. Now me, I’d be pretty glad if this one fell off.’

They all knew, though, that Birdie Bowers had an incredibly high tolerance for the cold. Where other men’s skin would blacken and blister, his remained ruddy and fresh. Bowers levered himself out of his bag and pulled on his outer clothing. Oates helped him tie the puttees that closed the bottom of the trousers.

‘Have you seen the dogs?’ Oates shouted over the roar of the wind.

‘No.’ Gran had tried to go outside in the blizzard and discovered what everyone had warned him about. The noise, the stinging ice, the buffeting winds of forty or more miles per hour, temperatures dancing around minus thirty or forty, meant you were lost in a whirlwind of pain and disorientation within six paces.

‘The bloody animals are snug in burrows. They are treating this as a rest. As should we, I suppose.’

‘Is it right we should just sit here?’ asked Gran.

‘There’s no way even those skis of yours’ll work out there, Mr Gran,’ said Bowers.

‘It is very confusing,’ said Gran. ‘I thought I was here to show skiing, but the captain doesn’t seem interested now. He can’t seem to decide, horses, dogs, men, skis.’

‘I think the Owner should consult the senior men more than he has so far,’ mused Oates. ‘If he keeps us in the dark about his plans, he’ll run into trouble on the way to the Pole.’

Bowers made a disapproving grunt. He was too embarrassed to look at them directly, so he spoke to his mittens and his helmet as he put them on. ‘I think the Owner is a fine man. He knows what he is doing. There can only be one leader. Nine is eight too many. Loyalty is what we need now. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him. I think he is just splendid.’

He undid the ties that secured the short entry tunnel and the storm entered, carrying giant flakes that fluttered around like deranged moths. Bowers was out in a second, before the temperature could drop too much, and they retied the flap. They heard his faint voice. ‘I’ll try and get them to eat. And there’s—’ But the rest of it was drowned in the howling.

‘I think we upset him,’ said Gran.

‘That’s the Navy for you,’ replied Oates. But they were unsettled by the uncharacteristic outburst by a junior officer. They fell silent. Oates struggled with his biography of Napoleon and Gran composed verses that he hoped Cherry would accept for the expedition’s re-launched
South Polar Times
.

Oates’s stomach began to grumble and cramp. He would soon have to decide whether he could risk going outside to defecate or risk his dignity by trying to perform his duties in the tent. It was not an attractive choice.

‘Titus?’

‘Yes?’

‘Atch was lucky, wasn’t he? If that happened further out on the ice and he couldn’t walk  …’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Oates.

‘What do you think should be done if a man is a danger to his party?’

Oates looked up. ‘Done?’

‘Yes. One man is sick, and threatens the lives of the others.’

Oates didn’t hesitate. ‘A pistol should be carried. The wounded soul should be given the opportunity to help his comrades. That’s what we did in the cavalry.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied Gran glumly.

‘I have to go outside,’ said Oates, clutching his stomach.

‘I’ll turn my back if you’d rather.’

‘No.’

Oates had just struggled to his knees when Bowers returned, looking grim. He had bad news to deliver through his frozen lips. One of the horses was dead.

After they had negotiated ridges of snow fifteen or twenty feet high, they had laid another depot at Bluff Camp, which meant Gran had made it further south than any other Norwegian. He thought it best not to make too much of the fact. They struck camp at midnight, their departure signalled by two sharp blasts from Scott’s whistle, and battled through a heavy snow fall, the ponies once more struggling up to their bellies. As usual, the horse caravan departed first, with the dogs, which made better progress, setting off later, so that they all reached the next camp at the same time.

Scott was leading Nobby, Bowers had Uncle Bill, named after Wilson because of his placid temperament, Oates Punch, Cherry led Guts, and Gran slogged on with Weary Willie. Three other ponies had been sent back, thin scarecrows that could scarcely manage to drag two hundred pounds apiece. Oates had argued that Blossom, Jimmy Pigg and Blücher were so weak that they might not even make it home, but Scott had sent Teddy Evans, PO Keohane and Forde with them.

Gran quickly found himself falling behind. Weary Willie was plodding on gamely, but he had the heaviest load on the eight-foot sledge and it seemed to stick with alarming frequency, so he was forced to drive the horse on to free it.

Willie was snorting and coughing as they went and, despite the weakness of the low sun, he began to sweat. The sweat would freeze on his coat as soon as he stopped, making the poor animal even more miserable.

Gran, skiing ahead of the animal, began to sing to him, in English, the verses he had written:

Night has come—the distant mountains

Have lost their golden fairy glance.

The Barrier lies cold and endless, The wind is sighing in the South.

Gran could see the others ahead, small black marks bobbing up and down like spray of moving ink globules against the whiteness.

Camp is broken—muffled figures

Bending, faces homewards turned.

Skis are moving, creaking, sliding, The wind is singing in the South.