Death on the Ice (58 page)

‘We best wait and see if it blows itself out.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And I was just thinking, doctor. If a strong man like Crean is that bad  …’

Atkinson nodded; he had been plagued by the same thought. ‘I know. How are the polar party getting along?’

C
HRISTOPHER, AS UNTRUSTWORTHY AND
spiteful as ever, had one last trick to pull. As they dug into the spot where he had been interred, a sickening smell rose up to greet the four exhausted men.

Oates, though, had to laugh with something like admiration. ‘He’s rotten. Look.’ He poked into spongy flesh. ‘The only horse that could spoil in an ice locker.’

The other horses had been fine. They had exhumed one shortly after they had made a cairn over the body of Taff Evans. And there had been tasty, thick pony hoosh at Shambles Camp. It was a shame they didn’t have the energy to haul a whole carcass with them.

Not that they would have much fuel to cook it with. They were at the Southern Barrier Depot and Christopher wasn’t the only bad news. The oil for the primus had ‘crept’ here as well, and they faced a real shortage. The wind had dropped, which meant the sail they had rigged up was useless. Wilson was snowblind. Oates could not hide his hobbles now, nor the pain he was in.

‘There is more fuel at the next depot,’ said Scott as brightly as he could manage. ‘A gallon. We’ll make the most of what we have here.’

They pitched tent for the night and huddled together as the temperatures dropped to minus 40. There was enough fuel for a reasonably hot hoosh using the pony meat they had. taken from the last depot. Scott tried to update his diary, but his numb hands would not co-operate. It was easier to write at lunchtime, he decided. Bowers had ceased his diary-keeping back in January. Wilson had stopped sketching after the ascent of the Beardmore and his entries in his diary were getting shorter and shorter. There was never much variation, he said. Cold, hungry, miserable. Wind, no wind; going good, going poor.

‘I know things seem grim,’ said Scott, ‘but we must meet the dogs at some point. Meares will have depoted enough dog biscuit at One Ton for them to come south to meet us.’

‘How far do you think they will come?’

‘I told Evans to come to eighty-one or eighty-two. I hope they push on to that. They’ll have the dog rations to make Mt Hooper at the very least.’ That particular depot was sixty-five miles closer than One Ton.

‘Hear, hear,’ said Wilson. He raised, his lukewarm tea. ‘To the dogs.’

Nobody responded.

‘How far to the next depot?’ asked Oates.

‘A shade under seventy miles,’ Scott said.

Oates imagined seven more days of white-hot pain from his feet. It would be at least that; they were lucky if they got into double figures now. They had spread the depots out too far for the cripples they had become to make the distance with ease.

‘I don’t mind admitting I am cold tonight,’ said Birdie, shivering in his bag.

‘The temperatures can’t last,’ said Scott. ‘Not at this time of year. Shackleton didn’t have this weather.’

‘I think we have shown Sir Ernest a clean pair of heels, despite everything.’

‘Aye, Birdie,’ Scott smiled, ‘that we have. And without his luck, too. He had no snow on the Beardmore, no blizzards … ’

Bowers’s mind had drifted. He knew that it hadn’t been all beer and skittles for Shackleton, no matter what the Owner thought. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of mulligatawny.’

As the others settled down, Scott looked at his figures. They had ten days’ food; but the fuel to cook it was desperately short. He would have to eke that out.

He forced his frozen fingers to write one more line in his journal:

We may find ourselves in safety at the next depot; but there is a horrid element of doubt.

It took them the best part of two hours to get into their gear the next morning. Once again, nothing had dried in the night, when, the temperature had almost reached fifty below. Socks and boots were caked in ice, which only thawed in body heat. It meant extremities chilled down far too quickly, making them instantly vulnerable to frostbite.

Oates tended to dress with his back to the others. He didn’t want anyone to see his feet. He could do little about the smell that rose up to greet him, but the others, deep in their own agonies, hardly seemed to notice.

As he pulled on his icy socks, a fresh pain shot up his leg and seemed to play about the old wound. That was weeping now, a watery yellow pus. His feet were considerably swollen, and pulling the finnesko over them was even worse than the socks. Tears formed in his eyes. It was the only time his hunger pangs seemed to fade.

His finnesko boots were almost done, the soles shredded, the sides split from the effort of pulling them over his bloated limbs. He had one fresh pair left, but he would delay using them till the last possible moment. They would have to see him home.

‘Home,’ he said out loud, relishing the impossible word.

‘With God’s help,’ muttered Wilson.

After they had struck camp and reloaded the sledge, Scott announced the order. ‘Birdie and Bill to take the front if that is all right. Soldier and I will bring up the rear.’

That was fine by Oates. The lead positions caused the most strain on the eyes, as the vanguard searched for cairns or the old tracks in the snow. All of them had suffered blindness because of it.

Scott bent down and took a handful of surface, letting it run off his mitten. It was powdery. ‘And skis, I think.’

The ski boots were also showing signs of wear; Oates didn’t think his had many days’ use left. Then he would be down to slogging on foot, as Bowers had once been. That was like walking over a bed of needle-sharp nails. Skiing was only similar to traversing red-hot coals.

They erected the sail they had fashioned, but did not unfurl it. Scott would wait and see how helpful the wind was going to be. Some days the wind pushed from the South, in which case it gave them a great boost; at other times it veered and came from unhelpful directions or dropped completely.

Once the fiddly work was done, cold hands were put into chill mittens and rubbed together to try to bring some life back. Then it was into the hated harnesses. Even before they pulled, Oates’s back, leg and shoulders began to protest, as if balking at the memory.

‘One, two, three, heave. Heave. Heave.’

Now the pain was real, heartfelt. The sky was clear, the sun bright, but there was little warmth in it. The air was bitterly cold, the slightest breeze stabbing at any exposed skin. Ice began to form on his straggly beard. They had all stopped trimming their facial hair now, too beaten by the effort after a long day.

The surface beneath the sledge runners was again poor. For a reason Scott couldn’t fathom, once the thermometer dropped below minus 25, the ice changed texture, becoming more like gravel than smooth ice.

‘The glide has gone again, Titus,’ said Scott between gritted teeth.

‘I’ve noticed,’ said Oates ruefully. His hip felt as if someone had driven a sword into it.

‘Minus forty-eight last night,’ said Scott.

‘It felt like it.’

He dropped his voice. ‘I’ve got us in a bit of a pickle, Soldier, haven’t I?’

Oates didn’t reply. There was little to add. They were in a fix all right, but it was a waste of energy apportioning blame. After a few minutes, Oates said: ‘Nobody made me come.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

‘What are our chances?’

‘If there are no more setbacks, good. If we make a decent fist of marching for the next few days, we can open up the food a little. Still some pony left. That will get us to Middle Barrier. And if Teddy Evans makes sure the dogs come to us, we’ll be fine, Titus. We’ll be fine.’

They were into the rhythm now, their breath coming hard; they lapsed into silence, thinking alternately about food and the dogs surely heading their way.

It was hard not to stare at mealtime. Oates had to force himself to look away as Scott divided the rations. With his stomach groaning and twisting, it took all of his effort not to count every crumb. He could see the others drawn into the act of division as well, like moths mesmerised by a flame. Scott’s hand shook with more than cold as he dished out the portions.

Whatever poor conversation they managed while setting up camp always faltered prior to a meal, as if hunger had consumed all thoughts. The only sound was the hiss of the stove, the only thing worth watching the slow bubble of the hoosh; the smell, once so nauseating, flooding the nostrils, saliva flowing in anticipation.

‘Soldier.’

Scott handed over the pannikin and Oates took it. His hand gripped the spoon, but a great effort of will stopped him digging in before the others.

‘Birdie.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And Bill.’

‘Left yourself a bit short,’ said Wilson, nodding to the amount of hoosh left for Scott.

‘Have I?’ Scott looked puzzled. ‘Well, I’m sure I had a greater-helping last night.’

‘I think not, sir,’ said Birdie as he reached over to try to spoon some back.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, lieutenant,’ Scott snapped.

Bowers looked taken aback. For a moment Oates thought he might cry. ‘All in this together, sir. Fair dos, I think.’

‘Yes. Sorry, Birdie. I’ll give myself extra at breakfast.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Now came the greedy scrape of metal on metal and the smacking of lips. To stop himself bolting, Oates said: ‘He should be back by now, shouldn’t he?’

‘Teddy?’ Scott nodded. ‘Yes. I expect he is.’

The thought of Teddy Evans organising their relief cheered them all immensely.

T
EDDY EVANS WAS DELIRIOUS.
He could make out that people were speaking, and often about him, but the words brought no sense to him. They were just noise in his ears. He opened one eye. Atkinson and Cherry were engaged in conversation, with Atch looking animated. Atch caught sight of Evans stirring and came across to his bunk. He knelt, so his head was close to Teddy’s ear.

‘There you are, Teddy. Had us worried there for a while.’

‘Lashly?’

‘At Cape Evans. As is Tom Crean. Both on the mend. I thought we’d best keep you here till you are a little stronger, then I’ll move you across. Think you could manage some soup or porridge?’

A thought flashed into Evans’s mind. ‘Dogs?’

‘Yes, I was just talking to Cherry about that, don’t worry, it’s all taken care of. Now, what could you eat?’

Evans closed his eyes. There was something he meant to say about dogs. What was it? ‘All taken care of?’

‘Yes. All in hand, old chap. Just concentrate on yourself.’

Atkinson stood and looked down at the scurvy-damaged face.

‘I can’t leave him,’ he said to Cherry. ‘You’ll have to go south with Dimitri.’

Cherry suddenly looked like the young lad he was. ‘Me? I’ve never driven dogs before. Not properly.’

‘There’s nobody else.’

‘What about Silas?’

‘Wright’s got the whole scientific programme to shoulder. Look, if the polar party are making decent time they might even be at One Ton Camp now. And it’s been depleted over the season by everyone helping themselves. It must be restocked. Dimitri can give you lessons in driving and make sure he goes in the lead. All you have to do is follow.’

Cherry stuttered with nerves at the thought of dog-driving in a white-out. ‘Atch, you know I can’t navigate worth a fig—’

The doctor pointed to the man in the bunk. ‘I don’t think you can look after Teddy Evans properly either. As I say, with Sunny Jim going back … ’—he was referring to Simpson, their weather man, who had been recalled to India—‘Wright has to do his meteorological work at Cape Evans. Imagine what the Owner will say if he finds gaps in that data? And everyone else is scattered to the four winds. And it isn’t hard to navigate to One Ton. It’s only after that it becomes tricky. Really, Cherry. It won’t do.’

Cherry took off his glasses and cleaned them on his jumper. As he had found during his blind stumble from Cape Crozier, normal sledging with spectacles was not easy. It was harder at the speeds the dogs could manage. He would have trouble spotting the cairns. ‘Very well. I’ll do my best.’

Atkinson put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you will.’

‘So, One Ton Camp.’

‘Yes. Take three weeks’ worth of food for you and the dogs. And enough full rations for the polar party’

‘What if he has already been there?’

‘Use your judgement. But don’t risk the dogs by haring off on a wild-goose chase.’

‘How long do I wait?’

Atkinson shrugged. ‘You’ll have to be the judge of that, too. But don’t go further south than One Ton. Scott was quite clear on that because he wants the dogs in good condition for next season. There’s no dog food at that depot. If you go south, you’ll have to start killing huskies.’

Cherry shuddered at that thought. ‘So I should leave soon?’

‘As soon as Dimitri gets here.’ The dog man had been trying to feed up the animals, which were still exhausted from their trip to the glacier, and he had returned to Cape Evans for fresh supplies for them. It was asking a lot of them to go out again; it was a two-week return trip to One Ton, plus waiting time if Scott wasn’t there.

Cherry sighed. He still had misgivings, but with Victor Campbell far to the north and not yet returned, Scott down in the south and Teddy Evans incapacitated, Atch was the team leader now. He had to obey his orders. ‘I’ll put my gear together.’

‘And remember, Cherry. Don’t risk the dogs further south than One Ton or we’ll be sunk.’

‘There is something else you should see,’ said Oates.

The remaining four were in the tent once more, having consumed a decent pony hoosh and cocoa. But the food had not settled stomachs or tempers. There had been a gallon of fuel cached at Middle Barrier. Three quarters of it had evaporated. So they had food, but little to heat it with. It was another sixty-five miles to the next depot, Mt Hooper, which should have been resupplied by the dog teams. Only with the most rigid economy would the paraffin last. And if there had been creep at Hooper, it was another sixty-five to One Ton. But the dogs would come to Mt Hooper, he reminded himself. Teddy Evans would see to that.