Death on the Ice (52 page)

‘No need. It isn’t the first time I’ve cut m’self on one of those damned sledges and I’ll wager it won’t be the last.’

It was Lashly who started to sing the carols as they hauled on Christmas Day. Scott’s group heard them intermittently, whenever the headwind faltered. The glacier was behind them, and they had passed through ten thousand feet and were descending ever so slightly. Of course, they could only guess at that because Birdie had broken their only hypsometer. Scott regretted bawling him out now. They should have brought a spare, but that was as much Scott’s responsibility as it was Bowers’s. He apologised later, which at least stopped the little man skulking around with a face like a deflated football.

‘Away in a manger—’ Lashly began. He was bringing up the rear with Teddy Evans, Crean and Birdie Bowers.

Despite the thin air and the laboured breathing it brought, they were making good progress in bright sunshine. Scott was already devising the Christmas dinner they would have when they halted. Pony hoosh at full whack—and damn the extra oil the primus consumed at altitude—with ground biscuit, plum duff, cocoa, crystallised ginger. He laughed to himself when he remembered Shackleton’s Christmas surprise. Odd, the closer he got to the Irishman’s Furthest South, the more warmly he thought about him. It had been all about beating his figures; now he was on the verge of doing so, the old animosity had dissipated. Perhaps, one day, they could be friends again. After all, it wasn’t Shackle’s idea he should receive a knighthood, despite his falling short. It was thrust upon him. And no sane man would turn one down.

Oates was lost in the mindless repetition. Shush, shush, breathe, shush, shush, breathe. The soft noise of the gliding skis contrasting with the harshness of the air being forced into burning lungs. There was a rasping, squeaking noise, followed by a dry sound, like leaves rustling, with each intake. Shush, shush, breathe. But the next snatch of lusty singing penetrated even his head.

‘Once in Royal David’s  …’

‘Where does he get the wind from?’ Oates muttered.

‘It’s Lashly’s birthday, sir,’ yelled Taff Evans.

‘Ah.’ That made him forty-four. A year older than Scott.

‘—cattle shed—’

‘Old enough to know better than to waste his breath,’ suggested Oates.

‘Sir,’ laughed Evans.

‘We should take off some layers soon,’ said Wilson to Scott. ‘Sweating rather a lot.’

The temperature was still rising. Scott didn’t want a long halt; they had covered fourteen miles on Christmas Eve. He was set to beat that so they all earned their plum duff. ‘All right. Give the others a chance to catch up.’ He raised an arm. ‘Halt.’

They slithered to a standstill and the pains began as muscles started to protest at what they had been put through. There was a strange rhythm and an odd gait to man-hauling that, once you found it, was capable of being maintained for hours. It was when a man stopped he truly appreciated just what an unnatural strain the whole process was, how tiring it was, and what damage it inflicted.

‘Everyone all right?’ Scott asked.

Oates lifted the harness over his head and turned away to hide the spasm of pain shooting up his leg. He had looked at his bullet wound and the old scar seemed intact, although it had some soft patches where the old surface had dissolved. Weeks of damp, dirty clothes had not helped.

They all turned and watched Teddy Evans’s party lumber towards them, with Lashly in the lead, singing, the others behind, their arms and legs pumping over the smooth surface. Scott had taken the humped sastrugi in his stride, but they were finding them hard and had moved slightly to the east on to a smoother surface.

‘God rest ye merry—’

‘Well, someone is happy,’ said Oates as he reached into his tunic for a half-biscuit he had been saving.

It was at that moment that the earth swallowed William Lashly, aged forty-four.

T
RYGGVE GRAN WOKE UP
with a start, thinking he was suffocating. He found his mouth filled with reindeer hairs from his sleeping bag. Yet it wasn’t only that which had caused his choking. His airways were constricted by fear. He was scared, apprehensive. Something had pumped ice into his veins, even though he was warm and snug in the shelter they had built at Granite Bay.

As he pulled the last hairs from his lips, he looked around the hut. The others were still asleep, although Taylor was mumbling. His fingers were bad, and causing him great pain, even though there was no obvious cause. The Irishman Forde and the Australian Debenham snored on.

Gran slid out of the bag and pulled on his outer clothes and boots. It was only just gone six, but it was also a few days after midsummer. The sun would be high. He left the gloomy hut and walked out on to the mix of ice and rock that led down to the sluggish sea and the remains of the frozen spray icicles. It was another day tinged with the mist that rolled down from the mountains. However, in the far distance, across McMurdo Sound, he could just make out Erebus. The Antarctic sun was relatively strong at this time of year, and he was sure the fog would lift and give them another glorious day. They had eggs and seal steak to consume for the Christmas celebration. But Gran knew he had drawn the short straw and would have to cook up the seal pemmican for their forthcoming cartographical and geological journeys. It was a filthy job, which made a man smell rancid. Still, none of them reeked of spring flowers.

The mist parted enough for him to see the ice sheets to the north, where the pack had stubbornly refused to retreat before the summer temperatures. Behind him was the building they had named Granite Hut after Jules Verne and
Mysterious Island
. Beyond it rose the glaciers and mountains they would christen over the next few days. They were majestic and terrifying, but he half hoped that by the end of their trip Debenham, the chief cartographer, might have named one of them after a certain young Norwegian.

Gran reached inside his jacket and produced a cigar, a gift from Forde. A strange Christmas breakfast, but this was a strange Christmas. This was his second in Antarctica, if he included the previous year on the ship, when it was held firm by the ice pack. It seemed more than twelve months ago, and he recalled that they had celebrated that whole day and the next one, too, for the twenty-sixth had been Debenham’s birthday. Gran had a pack of cigarettes with him which he would give to Frank the next day. The Australian enjoyed a smoke and Gran liked the easygoing Australian.

It felt strange that the band of men from the
Terra Nova
’s wardroom and mess were now scattered over hundreds of miles. Some were still moving south on the plateau, others would be heading back down the glacier or be on the barrier already. Another group under Atkinson was at Cape Evans, in the hut. Campbell’s party was somewhere to the north, having been landed at a new site by
Terra Nova
after discovering Amundsen had claimed the Bay of Whales. That Northern Party would be picked up by the ship when it returned from New Zealand. And then there was their own small expedition, charged with mapping the western edge of McMurdo Sound. When they had discovered that Amundsen was on the ice, Teddy Evans had suggested that this group be rolled into the polar party to give strength in numbers. Scott had disagreed and Evans had sulked. But Gran knew Scott was right. It wasn’t more men and mouths to feed the Owner needed. It was more dogs.

‘Happy Christmas, Trigger.’

Taylor was squeaking towards him.

‘Happy Christmas.’

‘Any more dreams?’

Gran thought it best not to share the sense of foreboding that had woken him. He had been foolish enough to tell his colleagues that, while dozing on 15 December, he had seen the image of a telegram. It floated on to the wall of the tent, as if projected. It had said: ‘Amundsen reached Pole, December 14th.’ The others had laughed, said it was wishful thinking by a Norskie, but he had written it down and noted time and date just in case it was a premonition.

‘How are the fingers?’

Taylor took off his mitt. ‘Bloody sore.’

Gran examined them. Two had swollen up like plump salamis. He felt his pulse.

‘I thought Debenham was the medic.’

Gran laughed. ‘Good with maps. I think he knows as much as Dr Wilson can write on a postage stamp. I am going to put my arm inside your jacket.’

Gran felt under the armpits, but there was no sign of swelling. He squeezed the fingers that weren’t swollen. Then touched the two bloated digits. Taylor yelped.

‘There is no blood poisoning. Yet. I’ll have to lance those two,’ said Gran.

He grimaced at the thought. ‘Oh, very happy Christmas.’

For some reason, this made them both think of the polar party, hauling south as fast as they could. ‘They will be four by now, I suppose. I wonder who he has selected.’

Gran shook his head, not wanting to speculate. His eyes were drawn to the hazed south. ‘God Bless Captain Scott.’

Taylor nodded, his throbbing fingers forgotten. ‘Yes, God bless Captain Scott. He may not be perfect, but I tell you, none of us could do what he’s done. Not one. Merry Christmas, boys, wherever you are. And Happy Birthday, Bill Lashly.’

I
HAVE A FAMILY!

The objection—thought, rather than shouted—filled Stoker Lashly’s head as the snow crumpled beneath his feet and the shiny-lipped jaws of the crevasse opened up to swallow him.

‘I have a family and nearly my time! A full pension!’

His stomach forced its way up into his throat as he fell into the abyss, accompanied by a glittering shower of ice.

‘It’s my birthday!’

The shimmering blue of the cavern’s side flashed by him and he closed his eyes, resigned to the fatal impact, when he felt the traces bite under his shoulders. He jerked to a halt with a force that squeezed every last breath from him. He was arrested for less than a second before he began a slower descent as his colleagues and the sledge were dragged down after him. If the fall didn’t kill him, three bodies and several hundred pounds of supplies landing on his cranium would.

Then, he stopped again, the downward progress halted.

He began to spin in the traces and dared open his eyes. Above him he could see the skeletal form of the sledge, bridging the gash of the opening. A steady rain of ice particles fell on him.

‘Lashly!’

The voice from above seemed to fill the cave.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I think so.’ Lashly looked around. His skis were still on his feet and his poles around his wrist. He used the latter to estimate the scale of the hole that had taken him. The cyan cavern was about fifty feet deep and about eight wide. He could see the bottom, pearlescent in what little light was penetrating down there. The surface crack was about a hundred feet across. Scott could only just have missed it.

‘We’re just going to wedge the sledge. The others are coming over. We’ll haul you up.’

He wasn’t the first man to go down a crevasse. Most had experienced the terror of a snow bridge collapsing under their feet and nearly all had fallen some distance. Teddy Evans and Atkinson had gone in by the whole length of their traces at the top of the glacier and survived. He could do the same, God willing.

Lashly became aware of just how chilly it was. The skin on his face began to tingle. The glistening walls around him were acting like a giant icehouse. If they didn’t hurry he’d have as much circulation as a Billingsgate cod.

‘Ready now?’

Damn idiots. What was he if he wasn’t ready, dangling there like a corpse on a gibbet? ‘Oh, aye. Just wait a second. Right, there you are. Ready.’

It was hardly a smooth elevator ride to the surface as he rose in a series of jerks that squashed his ribs and snapped his neck with each pull.

‘Nearly there.’

As he reached the lip, hands grabbed the sledge straps and his clothing and he was yanked out to find himself standing upright. Tom Crean pulled off his harness and then slapped him on his painful shoulders. ‘Happy Birthday, William.’

For some reason everyone found this funny.

‘Sledgemeter is broken,’ said Teddy Evans. ‘You great oaf, Lashly.’

Crean was about to say it was hardly the stoker’s fault, when he heard the Owner’s voice.

Scott pushed his way through and asked, ‘Lashly, are you all right?’

‘Few bruises.’

‘Nothing broken?’

‘No.’

‘So all right to continue?’

The stoker shrugged his shoulders and spun his arms. Apart from a few clicks and pops, all seemed well. ‘Aye, skipper.’

Scott touched the stoker’s cheek and rubbed at a pale spot of skin. ‘You watch that. The wind’ll do more damage yet.’

Lashly took off his mitten and touched his face. Like all similar patches, it was scaly to the touch, where it wasn’t covered in his red hair. ‘I will.’

‘Right, we lengthen the traces for the lead hauler,’ he announced. This meant that if anyone fell through, there was time for the others to react. ‘And Lashly.’

‘Sir?’

‘An extra spoon of chocolate hoosh for you this evening.’

Water, cocoa, sugar, biscuits, raisins, all thickened with arrowroot: the very thought of chocolate hoosh made everyone’s saliva flow. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Scott clapped his hands together. ‘So, lads, how about we aim for fifteen miles for Christmas Day?’

As quickly as it had appeared, the saliva suddenly dried in every man’s mouth.

For the next few days the wind from the South never stopped. It was forever pushing at them. Even when the sun shone and the surface was smooth under the runners and skis and they stripped off their outer jackets, it tried to halt them in their tracks. It was as if a giant fan existed just over the horizon, pushing the air towards them, drying lips and eyes. Even at camp, with its constant moan and snatching at the tent and the whiplash of canvas, it drove them to distraction.

On New Year’s Eve, Scott called a halt after a half-day in which seven laborious miles had been covered. They had caught up with Shackleton’s figures—a cause for celebration—but Scott had been worried by the performance of the sledges. Crean and Taff Evans set about sawing them down to ten feet and reconfiguring them. It would save weight and make them more manoeuvrable. However, they couldn’t fix the damaged sledgemeter on Teddy Evans’s sledge.