Death on the Ice (50 page)

‘Never!’ shouted someone from the balcony. The audience tittered.

‘Thank you. And I would like to thank the Bechstein Company for the use of their exemplary piano. If any of you should wish to purchase one of these marvelous instruments  …’ He paused and smiled to show that his salesmanship was ironic. ‘Then a representative of the company will be in the foyer after the talk. But I am aware that you are not here for my music. There are thirty-three variations in all. I played but seven, so as not to keep you from our distinguished guest. If you want to hear the others, I am at the Albert Hall in two days’ time.’ There was scattered clapping—possibly, thought Kathleen, because some were relieved that they had been spared the other twenty-six. ‘Now, to the evening’s main attraction, as they like to say in Music Hall. I first met him in Christiana a decade ago. He is my very good friend, the greatest explorer of his age—’

Kathleen felt herself squirm. Surely that was yet to be seen.

‘Professor Fridtjof Nansen.’

Nansen emerged from a door at the rear of the stage and she was conscious of how his bulk filled the entire space. It was as if a polar bear had emerged, loping across to the lectern, which seemed dwarfed by his great hands as he gripped it. The Norwegian surveyed the crowd, nodding to accept the applause.

‘Thank you very much for coming out on this cold November night. Yes, even I feel the cold in London.’ He let the polite laughter die. ‘My Lords, ladies and gentlemen, before I begin my illustrated lecture, I would like to introduce a very great gentleman indeed. A king of polar exploration. I am sure he won’t mind standing. Please. Do not be shy. I give you, Sir Ernest Shackleton.’

Kathleen felt her throat constrict. She had had no idea he would be there. As the Irishman stood, there came foot stamping and fevered clapping. Nansen beamed as Shackleton crossed to the low stage and the men shook hands. The cheers reverberated around the ceiling.

‘Sir Ernest, like myself, is keeping a keen eye on events at the South Pole. I want to say now, publicly, that I wish my countryman had taken a different course of action.’ There was less enthusiastic clapping. The audience didn’t like to be reminded of Amundsen’s treacherous change of tack. ‘Just to illustrate that we explorers of the ice are one large family, there is someone else here I would like you to acknowledge. My—’

Kathleen didn’t hear the rest above the roaring in her ears. How could he do this? For her to be recognised from the stage by a Norwegian, of all people. Had he no sense of decorum? What would Hannah Scott make of it? She regretted sneaking in; how could she have been so naïve?

If anything, the roars for her were louder than for Shackleton and, in the end, she had to half rise from her seat before they would stop. It was a good thirty minutes before her reddened cheeks stopped glowing with anger and chagrin and she felt composed enough to slip away without drawing too much attention to herself.

‘I have ruined everything.’ Nansen sat at the lunch table, his face hangdog.

‘No, Fridtjof. It’s just that I have to be so careful. The public watch my every move.’

He reached into his pocket and placed an envelope before her.

‘What’s this?’

‘Two hundred pounds. For
Terra Nova
.’

‘No, I couldn’t take that—’

‘It’s not from me. It’s from the talk last night. At the end, I asked the public to be as generous as possible. Shackleton backed me to the hilt.’ He smiled. ‘Of course, you weren’t there.’

‘You saw me leave.’

He nodded.

‘I’m sorry, I had no choice.’

‘And you have heard all my stories and jokes before.’

‘No.’ She laughed, thinking of his sometimes clumsy English. ‘Well, yes, I have. But that isn’t the reason. I have already explained.’

‘So why did you come in the first place?’

‘Ah, here we are. Thank you, Bellamy.’

The soup had arrived and they talked about where Con might be for a while, but Nansen was too wily to be diverted. He waited till Bellamy had left before he retraced his steps. ‘So, why did you come? You know the lecture. You have said we should be discreet.’

She took a last sip of the soup and put down her spoon. ‘I missed you.’

‘A-ha.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Now, I think we have the truth.’

‘The truth is I can be surrounded by people and still be lonely.’

‘You know, before I got caught by the ice, I studied anatomy. Chiefly the brain.’

‘The brain? How fascinating. What did you learn?’

‘About anatomy, lots. An intriguing organ. But, in terms of psychology, or emotions, motivations, feelings, nothing. Nothing. You dissect the heart and you say, yes, I see, I understand. The kidneys, too. Even the liver, under the microscope, releases its secret. But the brain? Why do we feel lonely or sad or happy? Why do some people nourish us, just by being in the same room, while others drive us to melancholy? We don’t know. And I hope we never do.’ He reached for his glass of sherry. ‘Let us toast the mystery of humans.’

They clinked glasses.

‘I think some people are like the sun, able to give off invisible rays that warm,’ Kathleen said. ‘I think you have that power.’

‘And your husband?’

She didn’t answer. She was becoming frightened of how ethereal he felt of late, a ghost out on the ice, as insubstantial as the crystals that sometimes swirled around him. Only by staring at little Peter could she conjure him up. It was hard having a man who was at the bottom of the world, too far for any of his warming rays to reach her.

The soup was cleared away and Nansen leaned forward, his eyes wide and voice low. ‘So, Kathleen. You missed most of my lecture last night. I had a new joke.’

‘Shame.’

‘Will you come to Berlin with me in the New Year? January?’

‘Do you like whiting, Professor?’

‘I do.’

‘I get these at Johnson’s.’

‘Lovely. Thank you.

‘And a white wine? Hock?’

‘If you’ll join me.’

Bellamy fetched a bottle and, once it was approved, poured the wine. ‘Tell cook I’ll ring when we have finished this course,’ Kathleen said as he left. ‘Come back then.’

‘Very good, madam.’

‘So. Where were we?’ she asked.

‘We were in Berlin.’

‘Not quite.’ Her cheek dimpled as she smiled. ‘You were in Berlin.’

‘Will you come?’

‘Yes, Professor,’ Kathleen said slowly. ‘I believe I will.’

B
ILL WILSON HELD ON
to Nobby while Oates loaded the revolver. Both men were blinking back tears. It wasn’t getting any easier.

‘How are the hands, Titus?’

‘Fine.’ He had to take his mittens off to use the revolver and Wilson could see the skin was white and wrinkled. Although they were cold, his hands hadn’t suffered like his nose, which was often hard to the touch by the end of the day and required much massaging in the tent. His leg was aching, too, the old wound flaring hot now and then, and his hip throbbed at night. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked Wilson.

‘Oh, you know.’ He looked over his shoulder.

A few hundred yards away, Bowers was swinging the thermometer over his head. Next to him the tents were being erected. Crean and Lashly were waiting to skin the horses and form the depot, and to the south was the Beardmore. He hadn’t been to look at it yet, concentrating on the job in hand. They had covered eleven miles in eleven hours on the last march through that strange, wet snow, whipping the horses every step of the way, it seemed. Oates was tired.

‘I worry about the skipper,’ said Wilson. ‘When I manage to read, I see him sitting, fretting, chewing his lip. How many miles today? Tomorrow? Are we depoting enough? Are the depots close enough? He can’t relax.’

‘Hold Nobby steady. We don’t want another Christopher.’

‘Have you been keeping count?’

‘Of what?’

‘Camps. This is camp thirty-one. You know, Nobby and Jimmy are the last survivors of the original deputing journey.’ Wilson looked wistful, his gaze drawn to the ice beneath his finnesko boots. ‘Nobby escaped the killer whales—’

The shot made Wilson jump. Nobby gave a small exhalation and folded down on to the ground. Both men stepped out of the way and felt the impact through their feet. A surprisingly small amount of blood trickled from the wounded head, hot and smoking.

‘Dear Lord,’ said Wilson. ‘What a shambles.’

Oates nodded, but kept his counsel. He had to get through this and his work was done. He cupped his mouth with his mittens and shouted over to Silas Wright at the pony string. ‘Next.’

After the last pony had been shot, Oates walked with Wilson and Bowers to take a better look at the Beardmore. It was snowing again, but without the driving force of the wind, the flakes swirled gently around them and visibility was better than they expected.

‘Thank God that is done with,’ said Wilson. ‘We can do the hard work ourselves now.’

‘Show those Norskies how it should be done,’ added Bowers. ‘That the British are not as degenerate as they think.’

Oates stopped, sensing the snowfall was diminishing. Within ten minutes it had ceased altogether. and the three men wiped their goggles and peered upwards.

‘My God,’ said Bowers.

They were staring up at a wide channel of ice, a frozen roadway, with saw-toothed mountains where the hedgerows should be. The gateway to this express path was framed by a trio of huge granite columns on the left and, far away to the right, Mt Hope, which really had lived up to its name. Whenever the storm abated they had seen its distant shape, offering hope of a change of scenery, something from the monotony of the barrier. Now Oates could see what this change would be, he wasn’t quite so certain it was an unalloyed joy.

‘How can it be just ice and wind?’ he asked himself softly

Scott’s voice came from behind them. ‘Fourteen miles wide, a hundred and twenty miles long. It rises to ten thousand feet. At the end of it is the Polar Plateau. We have to thank Shackleton for showing us this way’

‘And warning us of its crevasses,’ added Wilson.

‘Which is why we’ll keep away from the mountains,’ said Scott. ‘And there is a lot more snow than when Shackle was here. He describes blue ice from here on up.’ They all looked at the deep drifts the storm had deposited. Scott had hoped he would have had some horses in hand for the initial ascent, but the blizzard had robbed him of all margin.

He turned to Oates. ‘You did wonderfully well to get us here, Soldier.’

‘You have. I congratulate you,’ added Wilson.

‘And I thank you, Titus,’ said Scott with feeling. He took off his mitten and held out his hand. ‘We’ll take the dogs up a little way, eh, Bill?’

Wilson looked puzzled. ‘If you say so, Con. Meares claims he is going back on
Terra Nova
.’

‘Yes. Well, we’ll see about that.’

Oates looked up at the glacier, and felt butterflies in his stomach at the majesty of it. And not a little fear. They had completed stage one. Stage two was the Beardmore. And the final leg was the plateau. In regular land-miles, which he tended to think in, unlike Scott, they had come four hundred miles. There were still five hundred to go to the Pole. It was a daunting thought.

Yet he felt pleased that he had at least done his duty. As he took Scott’s hand, he experienced a strange sensation, like an infusion of calm into his bloodstream. All the animosity he had felt towards the man dissipated like the falling snowflakes. He now knew that half his own mood swings had been caused by the worry that he wouldn’t get the animals this far, that he wouldn’t fulfil his part of the contract. That he would let Scott down.

‘We go on,’ said Oates, nodding at the glacier.

‘We go up,’ agreed Scott. ‘And from this point I’d like you in my sledge team, Titus.’

Oates smiled and nodded. For some reason the Soldier couldn’t quite fathom, he felt strangely pleased.

Three groups of four began their ascent of the glacier on 10 December. Scott, Wilson, Oates and Taff Evans; Teddy Evans, Wright, Lashly and Atch; and Bowers, Cherry, and the Irish duo of Crean and Keohane. The horses were dead and buried in the snow. Scott told Meares that the dogs, having gorged on pony flesh, were to go on a little further up the glacier, pulling eight hundred pounds of supplies between them. Meares was not happy. He had expected to turn his huskies for home well before that point, and his food margin for the dogs on the return trip was, therefore, not generous.

Oates had never experienced man-hauling in anger before. He found the harness uncomfortable. He felt, in fact, like a beast of burden. But Scott’s enthusiasm was infectious and for the first few miles it seemed to Oates that the load felt less than the 170 lb they were pulling. He soon got the rhythm of the skis and silently thanked Gran for his nagging. Oop the Fut, he recalled, and laughed to himself. Taff Evans had also improved and stiffened the ski boots, so there was less strain on the Achilles tendon, for which Oates made a mental note to thank him.

The snow deepened, though, and he found the sledge snagging all too easily. Now, after every stop, they had to jerk the runners free, with a one-two-heave. It sometimes took ten or twelve jerks, and left his spine and hip plagued by a dull ache. But Scott, Wilson and the burly Taff were pulling like locomotives, so he made sure he did his part.

The momentum was hard to keep up. If, on a steep section, they slowed, the sledge began to sink, till it became a snowplough. They sweated so hard they were working in singlets. When they made camp on the first night, all were ravenously hungry. After they had eaten, Oates went out for a pipe, leaving Scott and Wilson to their fretting. Taff took himself off to Crean’s tent, knowing the officers would talk more freely without one of the men present.

Oates walked over to where Meares and Dimitri had settled the dogs, which were gorging on more pony. The covering now was a good twelve or fourteen inches deep, and his feet throbbed, as if the bones themselves had been bruised. ‘Titus, how goes it with the Owner?’

‘He keeps a very neat tent.’

‘I’ll wager he does. If only his mind was so tidy’