Death on the Ice (46 page)

They were a few hundred yards away when the door opened, flooding more light into the Antarctic night.

‘Good Lord!’ someone shouted. ‘It’s the Crozier party.’

The door closed again and Wilson laughed. ‘That’s not quite the welcome I expected after five weeks away.’

Cherry didn’t answer. He knew, once inside the hut, he would collapse. All that horror and all they had to show for the misery were the three surviving penguin eggs.

Yet he had learned something beyond science. That Bowers and Wilson were two men you needed in a tight spot. Wilson because he was imperturbable and extraordinarily calm in the face of the most horrendous adversity. Bowers because he had the staying power of an ox, albeit one with very short legs, and was of constant good cheer.

‘We did it, then,’ Cherry said.

‘Yes,’ croaked Bowers. ‘And people said we were mad to try.’

Wilson’s rueful laugh was laced with exhaustion. At least, thought Cherry, he had two good eyes now.

The door opened once more and shadowy figures, now dressed for the outside world, sprinted across the ice towards them, the relief obvious in their voices as they shouted their welcomes.

Oates reached Cherry first and tried to take the sledge harness over his head. ‘No,’ his swollen cracked lips managed to say. ‘Like to make finish line.’

‘Of course you would, Cherry.’ Oates fell in to walk alongside him, hand pressing lightly on the young man’s shoulder blade as he heaved the last stage to the hut. He could feel the sharp ridge of bone through his mittens.

Taff Evans slapped Bowers on the back, but it was the sound of flesh on metal. His clothes had turned to iron plates.

The welcoming committee accompanying them for the last few yards unleashed a barrage of questions in rapid succession. The three tried to answer as best they could, but exhaustion and starvation had blunted their powers of thought and speech. Atkinson, who would check them for scurvy and frostbite, said: ‘Hold on, chaps, let’s get them inside first.’

Once they did, Atkinson supervised the cutting of their clothes, careful to move along the seams in case the material could be reused. Scott watched, pipe in mouth, concern on his face. He was in his night clothes. The hut had been about to turn in.

‘Tough, was it, Bill?’

Cherry laughed, a soft chuckle to himself, nudging towards hysteria, rubbing the melting ice from his lenses as he did so.

‘You could say that,’ said Wilson. There was disappointment in his voice for all to hear. He haltingly explained the journey, the sudden cold snap, the lack of penguins, the broken eggs and the lost tent. If Bowers hadn’t found the canvas triangle and its ropes wrapped around a rock, they would have died. Then there were the blizzards on the way home. ‘At one point Cherry turned his head to speak to me and his helmet froze, so he couldn’t turn his head back. We had to heave harder to make him sweat so he could move his head.’ He was silent for a moment and someone laughed. ‘It sounds humorous now  …’

By the time the clothes were off, they were in three piles, looking like discarded scrap metal. The men made no comment on the soiled underwear; all knew that when a blizzard trapped you in your tent, defecation was extremely tricky and embarrassing. Cherry sponged himself down and dressed in clean underwear. It felt like mink next to his skin. He eyed his bunk and, his head filling with a fog of weariness, he stumbled towards it. ‘I could sleep for ten thousand years,’ he said, the words coming thick and slow. ‘But wake me after nine thousand for breakfast. Peaches and syrup, please.’

Scott, knowing Wilson and Bowers must be just as drained, decided a full report could wait till the next day. As Cherry snuggled down, he murmured: ‘I’ll tell you what, skipper, no matter what the Pole throws at us, it can’t be any worse than that.’

Scott was about to answer when he realised the lad was asleep, even as his head arced down towards the pillow.

The next day, Scott observed the group, hobbling on sore feet. Their cheeriness, considering what they had been through, was remarkable. He sat down and wrote up his log, striving to recall just how damaged they had been the night before.

Wednesday, 2 August

The Crozier party returned last night after enduring five weeks of the hardest conditions on record. They look more weatherworn than anyone I have yet seen. All for three surviving eggs. Their faces were scared and wrinkled, their eyes dull, their hands whitened with constant exposure to damp and cold, yet the scars of frostbite were very few and this evil had never seriously assailed them. Atkinson says that a preliminary examination uncovered no sign of scurvy. C. Garrard’s sleeping bag of reindeer and eiderdown weighed 171b when he left. Thanks to ice accumulated in it from perspiration it was 451b when he returned. It was so stiff it couldn’t be rolled up. Wilson disappointed with the number of penguins, but we learned much about the equipment and the rations. Wilson had lost the most weight (3½ lb), C-G the least (1 lb). Their feet are exceedingly sore; it will be some time before they are quite right. Apart from Bowers, who seems as indomitable as ever.

Wilson says the gear is excellent. But one can only wonder if the fur clothing of the Esquimaux might outclass our more civilised garb. That can only be speculation.

The sun will return in three weeks, then preparations for the Pole begin in earnest. I feel we are as near perfection as experience can direct.

RFS

T
HE REPORTER FROM THE
Daily Mirror
was nice enough on the outside, but, as Kathleen soon discovered, he was in possession of a devious mind. The paper had certainly sent a smart one: Ronald Baker was very well turned out in a grey three-piece suit and shoes that suggested a military background. His hair was neatly oiled and his moustache trimmed, not what she expected from a man of the press.

Baker looked around the nursery he had asked to see and at young Peter drawing at his desk. Kathleen had taken the precaution of having his nanny dress him in full attire, ‘proper clothes’ as the woman had said approvingly. The windows were open, with a breeze ruffling the curtains. The summer had been stifling, with London perspiring all through July and August. It became impossible to imagine what cold must be like, let alone the ice-bound permanent gloom Con was experiencing.

She knew, though, that the sun must have returned after the lengthy dark. There would be spring sledging trials and the dogs and horses could run free once more. And the men. It would be blissful after the lengthy confinement. But Scott would be well aware, even out there, cut off from the outside world, that the expedition was still badly in debt. Many of the cables from New Zealand demanded money for repairs to the
Terra Nova
and cash for provisions to be taken down to resupply the party for next year. Sir Clements Markham had suggested a ‘Mrs Scott and son at home await their brave husband and father’s return’ article in a newspaper might help raise some funds.

‘Is it true you fly, Mrs Scott?’

‘Fly?’ she asked, stalling for time.

‘Lighter-than-air machines. Aeroplanes.’

Kathleen shook her head vigorously, loosening a lock of hair. Oh no.’

The family had sent Con’s brother-in-law to dissuade her from such a dangerous activity. She was rather amused because the last time she had seen him was at an aerodrome when he had pleaded with her not to tell his wife that he also went up on joy rides.

‘There was a picture of you in a magazine in a machine, wasn’t there?’

She re-pinned up the stray curl. ‘Oh, I thought you meant did I fly aircraft myself. I have been up, yes. But no longer. It is a thrill, but not entirely safe. I have Peter to think of, as well as Con.’

He looked across at the boy. ‘Yes, I see. And I see you are arranging a fund-raising gala at the Coliseum?’

‘Yes. Mr Ponting sent some cinematographic film of the crossing and the unloading on the ice. We will show that. Lloyd George may come.’ The man began to scribble on his pad. ‘No, don’t publish that. It is a sure way to put him off. You can mention the films. They are quite splendid by all accounts.’

‘And will Mr Shackleton be there?’ he asked, with exaggerated innocence.

A skirmish of letter writing had broken out between Shackleton and Sir Clements Markham in the pages of
The Times
. Markham was promoting Con, while Shackleton was suggesting that the Norwegians might beat him to the Pole.

‘Mr Shackleton has been a great supporter of my husband. And vice-versa. He has an open invitation.’

Baker seemed unconvinced but wrote down her comments. ‘Mrs Scott, how much money does the British Antarctic Survey need to cover its debts?’

‘Well, every little helps,’ she said. The figure was close to forty thousand pounds, a sum so great it made her feel giddy.

‘How about four thousand pounds?’

The size of the offer took her aback. Caroline Oates had written offering two hundred pounds, and that had seemed quite a decent amount. ‘The paper would pay that?’

‘No, the British public would. If you have little Peter here writing a letter on behalf of his father. We could show a photograph—’

‘No.’

‘It would touch hearts.’

‘A begging letter, is this?’

‘An appeal.’

‘No. Already people come up to him in the park because his picture has been shown.’ She had hired a company to shoot cinematographic film of Peter, to record his growing, for Con. Someone had sold off stills from it without permission, which angered her immensely. ‘He doesn’t like it. It frightens him.’

‘But four thousand pounds.’

‘You are just guessing at that sum, Mr Baker.’ She was growing angry now and began wagging a finger at him. She knew that she cut an imposing figure when aroused. ‘You have no idea what could be raised. I do not want my son bandied about in the halfpenny press.’

‘Mrs Scott—’

‘No, that’s enough. You have taken up a goodly portion of our time. If you will excuse us.’

From the way her face had furrowed and flushed, Baker knew better than to argue. He fetched his hat and coat. As the maid opened the door to show him out, he walked straight into Fridtjof Nansen, almost bouncing off the big Norwegian’s chest.

When the explorer had been admitted and the front door slammed, Baker took out his pad once more. As he walked back towards the tube, he ran through variations of the headline for the story he would run. Mrs Scott Comforted by Famous Explorer. The Scotts Besieged by Norwegians at Both Ends of the Earth. He liked that. Mrs Scott and the Ice Man. So many possibilities.

It was just a shame that he hadn’t had a photographer with him. That way—

Mr Baker experienced a hard pull at his jacket and his feet left the ground. His starched collar cut into his neck and he felt himself turned through the air. Before him was the great, glowering face of Nansen.

‘Mr Baker, isn’t it?’

Baker could feel the hot breath on his face. People were staring. ‘Sir. Could you put—’

Nansen let him drop and Baker staggered for a few steps. Then the man was up against him again, as if he were a stag rutting, about to charge. Baker retreated till he felt cast-iron railings in his back. ‘Mrs Scott just told me what you are. A member of the press.’ He said it as if it were the name of a plague.

‘
Daily Mirror
.’

‘Well, Mr Baker, I have seen remarks in some portions of the press about the fact that I accompany Mrs Scott here and there. Sly allusions, one might say. These have caused Mrs Scott’s mother-in-law great pain. Do you understand?’

‘Oh.’ Baker was most dismayed that someone had scooped him on the ‘friendship’ with Nansen rather than Hannah Scott’s traumas. ‘Yes, I understand.’

‘So I don’t expect there to be anything in the article you are writing about our lunch to discuss the finances of the British Antarctic Expedition.’ Then his voice boomed like a foghorn. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly, Mr Nansen.’

‘Professor.’

‘Sorry. Professor Nansen.’

‘So we have an understanding?’

Baker nodded, wanting to be as far away from this crazed Viking as possible. ‘We do.’

‘Very well.’ He took a step back. ‘Good day, Mr Baker. And give my regards to Mr Harmsworth. We were very good friends when I was ambassador.’

‘I shall.’ Not that someone like him ever passes the time of day with the proprietor, he thought. But he was well aware what was behind the mention of the
Mirror’
s owner. ‘Good day.’

Baker was aware of Nansen’s eyes on him as he strode away, his legs shaking slightly as he did so. Well, no matter what the truth of the matter, he reckoned that the prickly Kathleen Scott and the thuggish, blackmailing Fridtjof Nansen more than deserved each other.

T
HE RETURN OF THE
sun had not been the fillip Oates had hoped for. While others seemed revitalised by it, and his charges were certainly cheered, his own mood sunk farther into despair. Gran, who had been keeping a low profile over a winter in which his fellow countrymen were often disparaged, was sent by Wilson to the stables to try to gauge Soldier’s mood. The blubber stove was bubbling, and Oates was smoking his pipe, looking pensive. Half the horses were out being exercised by their handlers, the remainder were unusually skittish, as if aware that their colleagues were having a good, frisky roll in the snow.

Oates looked up. ‘How did the skiing lessons go?’

‘Good,’ said Gran, who had been tutoring the sledging parties on man-hauling with skis. ‘The Owner is very pleased, I think. Teddy Evans competes hard with me. My God, he wants to go to the South so very bad. Birdie is holding out on the lessons, saying he can beat any skier on his two good legs. But he’ll come round. Your turn next.’

Oates grunted. ‘I wouldn’t bother with me, Trigger.’

Gran crouched down, feeling the warmth of the fire redden one of his cheeks. ‘What is wrong, Titus? Everyone has noticed how tetchy you have become.’