Death on the Ice (42 page)

T
HE SUN HAD BEEN
gone for weeks and the
Terra Nova
even longer. Oates busied himself with the horses, making sure that each man gave his assigned pony sufficient exercise—three times a day unless there was a blizzard—and enough food. Despite initial grumbling, the men soon bonded with their charges and he had to nag less and less. Crean became very attached to Bones and Taff to Snatcher; both spent more than the required time in the stables with their pony.

He improvised acetylene lighting and a heating system for the stables and, eventually, he and Cecil Meares all but moved in. Oates had fashioned himself a thick balaclava and gloves that just left his fingertips free. With a thick cable-knit sweater and two layers of underwear beneath his tatty trousers, he was, to begin with at least, warm enough in the stables, no matter what the weather.

As the winter gripped harder and the temperatures fell, he had improved on Atkinson’s blubber stove, altering the air circulation so that it burned more efficiently. A newly designed fine mesh screen above the flames caught most of the greasy particulates. He could do nothing about the smell, however. Blubber was blubber.

Meares began to spend more time in the stables, ostensibly so he could look after the dogs more easily. He also found Oates’s company easier than the sometimes rowdy and confrontational atmosphere in the hut. Teddy Evans and Griffith Taylor only seemed to be happy if there was a topic to argue about or expound upon. Politics and women’s suffrage were popular. There were several Kier Hardies among the group, Oates discovered, and he found his own background a poor fit sometimes. The horses, however, didn’t care whether he had been to university or came from a family that owned a large estate.

Although Oates knew that the Antarctic night pressed home its misery most forcefully after the first two months, he found that time passed relatively easily with Meares. Cecil and Wilfred Bruce had not got on during the journey to acquire horses and dogs, mainly because Kathleen Scott’s brother had thought Meares scruffy and uncouth. Oates, who had suffered similar ridicule, found him pleasant company, happy to sit in silence but willing to talk when pushed. He no longer blamed him for his selection of ponies. Scott had insisted on white and the percentage at the market had been skewered towards dark. Meares had picked up the best of a small, bad bunch. Oates regretted acquiescing about staying behind and not travelling to Siberia. He liked to think he would have ignored the light/dark idiocy and bought the strongest on offer.

The dog-driver had travelled the world, spoke several languages and admitted to undertaking some shadowy work for the British government in Russia. He was, he hinted, a secret agent, a job which Oates thought sounded every bit as glamorous as polar explorer. He had given a talk on his adventures in Tibet, a sequence of misfortunes that ended with the murder of the expedition leader. You could have heard a pin drop in the hut while he held forth for the best part of two hours. Even Scott, who thought the dog man antisocial, had been impressed, although he offered the opinion that murdering the boss of any expedition was not to be sanctioned lightly.

That afternoon, Meares had improvised a story about a race through snowy Siberia, driving a dog team ahead of some angry Cossacks, trying to save the life of Mrs Cordingley, the wife of the British Consul in Vladivostok. She was, by his account, extremely grateful when he out-ran the sabre-waving brutes. Even Anton, whose grasp of English was still shaky, had stopped his brushing of the ponies to listen to the climax of the tale.

When he had finished, Meares poked the fire. ‘Do you have a girl, Titus? At home?’

Oates shook his head. ‘There is no room with my mother. Besides  …’

‘Besides what?’

Oates was glad the heat of the fire had already made him flushed. ‘Besides, I’m not sure what they are for.’

Meares hooted with laughter. ‘I tell you, Mrs Cordingley would have shown you. Hey, Anton, do you have a girl?’

The groom stopped what he was doing once more. ‘Huh?’

Meares repeated the question in Russian.

‘Ah. Yes. But she is just a leg,’ he said in English.

‘Just a leg?’ laughed Oates. ‘Well, that gets rid of some of the problems.’

Meares and Anton exchanged a couple of sentences in the groom’s native tongue. ‘She has one leg,’ the dog driver explained. ‘And he is upset you laughed. He worries about her.’

Oates pulled himself away from the fire and went over to the stall where Anton was inspecting Nobby’s hoof. Christopher, the most truculent of the animals, made a lunge for him as he passed by, causing him to sidestep. A man needed the temperament of a saint to get on with Christopher; it took eight hands to get him fastened into a sledge and then he only pulled if whipped.

Oates put a hand on Anton’s shoulder. ‘Sorry. It was nothing. Nothing. I don’t know what I would do without you.’ This was no platitude. Anton, an outsider in the mostly English-speaking expedition, threw himself into his work. ‘I meant no harm.’

The Russian nodded solemnly. ‘I know. It just remind me.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Name? Elena.’

‘Very nice. You’ll see her soon enough.’

‘I hope.’

A blast of the southerly wind hit them as Atkinson entered the stables, his cheeks reddened by the short sprint around from the hut. ‘I have fresh bread and the finest New Zealand butter. Toast anyone?’

He didn’t wait for an answer, but sat down with four thick slices of bread and an improvised toasting fork. ‘By the way, I checked Christopher’s doings. Tapeworm. Big one.’

‘Ah. Maybe that’s why he’s such a grouch,’ suggested Oates.

‘I’m sure it doesn’t help. But I’ll have to do all the others, so if you could collect—’

‘Can we wait till we’ve had the toast?’ asked Meares. ‘Before we continue this topic.’

Atkinson had a fascination for parasites, which meant he didn’t always appreciate how squeamish the subject made other people feel. His gleeful discovery of a trypanosome in a fish was met with studied indifference over one breakfast.

‘How is it in there?’ asked Oates, nodding towards the hut.

‘Oh, chaos. Keohane got them talking about home rule for Ireland.’

‘I bet the Cambridgers loved that.’ This was Oates’s nickname for all the university-educated scientists, even though he knew that at least one—Cherry—went to Oxford.

‘Well, Taylor and Debenham were for it. Home rule, I mean.’

‘Colonials, you see,’ said Oates. ‘Like to stir up trouble. They’ll want independence for Australia next.’

‘It was getting a bit heated. Bill Wilson is trying to keep the peace. It will have calmed down by the time the Owner speaks.’

‘Another lecture?’ Evening talks, along with Ponting’s popular slide shows, had become as compulsory as Sunday Service. Oates was down to give an address on horse management that already had him waking in even colder sweats than usual.

‘No. Haven’t you heard in here? After dinner, the Owner’s going to tell us about his polar plans.’

Conversation over supper, which as always began around six p.m., was stifled by anticipation. Scott had set up a board and easel. Whatever was on the board was covered by a blanket. As they ate the tomato soup, there was only the sound of slurping and the ring of spoons and the constant moan of wind. The silence over the fried seal liver was broken by one of Teddy Evans’s frivolous stories, but few lent more than half an ear to it. All eyes strayed towards the map or chart the men assumed was under the cover.

Once dinner was done, the pipes and a bottle of port were produced and Scott invited the ratings to move some of the packing cases that divided the hut so they could see his presentation better. All drank sparingly. Scott was pleased at how relatively abstemious the shore party was, preferring to pass the time on constructive work rather than in an alcoholic stupor. Even Taff Evans had showed great control, although Oates was always trying to wheedle the ‘medicinal’ brandy out of Bill Wilson. That had taken on the nature of a parlour game.

As soon as dinner was over the table was upended and the legs removed to make space for the whole party. The gramophone played Nellie Melba while the seating was arranged, although gossip fuelled by anticipation drowned her out somewhat. The wall of packing cases separating officers and ranks was partially dismantled.

Once he had his pipe going, Scott moved two of the blubber lamps so more light was cast on to his board. He cleared his throat and uttered the one word that killed all discourse dead in an instant. ‘Gentlemen.’

He paused theatrically and sucked on the pipe.

‘In case I have neglected to say it, I would just like to make it crystal clear that it is an honour and a privilege to have this group of men down here with me. I truly believe that we represent England at its best.’ He looked around the room. ‘Yes, Tom, and Ireland and Wales, Taff, and Scotland and the Empire.’ He looked at Gran but said nothing about Norway. ‘We have strength, intelligence in abundance, humour and expert knowledge. No polar expedition has ever had such a collection of scientists, so preeminent in their fields. It is a triumph to have collected such men. I am sure you all know my thoughts on the true meaning of exploring these remote places. It is knowledge and understanding. Not merely saying you have stood on this spot or that spot.’ It was, they all realised, an oblique reference to Amundsen. ‘However, although the scientific programme is paramount, we would be foolish to neglect the other reason people gave us funding, equipment and their strongest sons. The South Pole.’

He flicked back the blanket, revealing a map, which showed a slice of Antarctica, with Cape Evans at the top, the Pole at the bottom, and the few known topographical features sketched in. It was Wilson’s work. ‘It is, as you know, seven hundred and eighty-three nautical miles from Hut Point to the Pole. For the landlubbers among you, that’s the best part of one thousand, eight hundred statute miles there and back. The polar party, whoever they are, will cross on to the barrier, travel south and use the Beardmore Glacier to access the polar plateau. That, as you know, was Shackleton’s route through the mountains. Don’t imagine just because he did it that the glacier is a soft journey. It isn’t. The Beardmore is over a hundred miles long, with blue ice and crevasses and it’s tricky to negotiate. In itself, it represents one of the most hazardous sections, for man or beast. Personally, I feel that we cannot trust the dogs much beyond this point.’ He indicated the foot of the glacier with the stem of his pipe, ignoring a loud tut from Cecil Meares, who had been uncharacteristically liberal with the port. ‘But we’ll see. We use the dogs, the horses and the remaining motor-sledges, which are now fully functioning once more, to bring food and supplies to the foot of the glacier.

‘A reduced party will ascend the glacier by either man-hauling or a combination of dogs and man-hauling. At the top of the glacier, there will be two parties, which will haul the early part of the plateau. Then, for the final leg, four men and one sledge will make the last dash to ninety degrees south. I know what you are thinking. Which four? I honestly do not know and don’t expect to know till the last moment. There is a lot to get through between here’—he slapped a fist over at Cape Evans—‘and here.’ A jab at the polar plateau, at the spot where the quartet who would make history was to be selected. ‘As for a starting date, we know the ponies suffer terribly from the cold, which means the southern party will leave a little later in the season. The end of October, or the first days of November.’

There was a stirring around the table. All knew that the dogs would be ready to leave before that date.

‘This is not a race, gentlemen. We are not geared up for such a contest. We pursue the Pole in our own way and at our own pace with the tools we have brought. Now I want every man to apply himself to this scenario. All suggestions for improvement welcome. Bowers will give his lecture on sledging rations next week. And perhaps he can instruct us for once and for all whether tea or cocoa is the preferable beverage out on the ice.’ Supporters of each drink shouted their support.

‘Brandy,’ said Oates, theatrically glaring like a pirate at Wilson, who wagged a finger at him.

‘And Teddy Evans is preparing a talk on sledging loads and depoting. Plus the telephone trials are going well. We expect to have a circuit between here and Hut Point shortly.’ He considered what he had said for a moment and the wonder of it. ‘Which really is quite remarkable.’

It was Teddy Evans who asked the one question that was on every man’s mind. Teddy who took every opportunity to remind Scott that he had given up his own expedition to join Scott. Teddy who, more than anyone, found it hard to hide his itching for the Pole. ‘What about the Norskies?’

‘Well, as you all know, they are here. On the barrier at the Bay of Whales. Closer to the Pole. And he has dogs, which will enable him to start earlier.’ A grumble, again coming from the direction of Meares. ‘But, if he is heading straight south, the Transantarctic mountains bar his way. Is there another Beardmore Glacier, another way up to ten thousand feet? We don’t know. If not, he is sunk. If there is  …’

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to.

‘I hate to say this, but it is down to fortune. The team with the best luck will win.’

‘Then we’ll make our luck, sir,’ shouted Crean to cheers of approval and a beaming smile from Scott.

Meares leaned over to Oates, speaking just as the roar died down. ‘Dogs, men, horses and tractors? I think someone should buy the skipper a shilling book on transport.’

The words carried around the hut and eyes were cast down and feet shuffled in embarrassment. Scott said nothing, just stared coldly at the dog-driver, not a trace of his grin remaining. Meares felt himself colour. One thing was for certain, thought Oates, no matter who were to be the final four for the polar rush, Cecil Meares and his dogs weren’t going to be in their number.

An hour after his presentation, before nine o’clock, the table was back in place and a game of snapdragon in progress. The first men began to climb into their sleeping bags, with an accompaniment by Enrico Caruso on the gramophone. ‘
La Donna e mobile
’. Woman is fickle. There were many who thought they could tolerate a little fickleness in exchange for company during the long dark of a polar winter.