‘God,’ he mumbled under his breath.
Why won’t they go? she snarled. Never had she been so unwilling. Not since Pearce.
But the truth was, the life she drew from the men had given her connection to the snow and ice, the light and the wind and the clouds. And it was growing. She could manoeuvre a stream of air. She could scare them. She wondered if she had turned into Loki, the Norse god of Mischief. But to do so she would have to not care. Surely no eternal being should care. Whereas she was drawn back again and again, to the camp. To Hooker. To Thebo. To her death. To the sad futility of her life. To the sense she had wasted it.
For long hours after the cook’s excursion, Karina prowled her grave, keeping watch over the icy image of a woman betrayed, shrunken under the surface. Something animal kept her close to her corpse and suddenly, after decades of wishing to flee, all the resentment over a life half lived, after wanting to know what had happened to Marijke and to Joseph, after all that time wishing that she could go back to Ven or Copenhagen or Amsterdam, she realized she couldn’t leave. She never would. Her body was here and maybe that was what she needed. She was done with the world. It had all been a mistake and she could never go back. This was where she was now. Awake and ready.
Keeping the expeditionary force and their preparations in her sights, she settled like a mythical creature on a comfortable cushion. She had nothing to be afraid of, she mused, her teeth were as white as the cleanest ice and as sharp, too, should she need them. Thebo had hardened her. The sea is not kind, why should we be? These men were interlopers. One icy finger might point at any one of them and a sharp exhalation might blow them over. Who cared what happened to Joseph Hooker? Or who came off the next boat on Ven? She was here now, at one with this place. Her bones were the very bones of it. Her flesh was the frozen sheet that ran over the icy sea.
SIXTEEN
The commander’s next hope was that the dogs would prove useful. A date was set to test the pack. Weller, the dog handler, had some experience and when consulted he was upbeat about the possibilities of putting the animals to good use. Wilson supervised the kennels – he was an amateur zoologist among his other expertise. At home he loved riding. There was little opportunity to discuss this at the mess table, but he was a stalwart of his local hunt. He realized quickly that the huskies chosen for the expedition were a far cry from the beagles at home. More wolf than dog, he concluded, though this was perhaps a positive trait. The beagles would struggle to last even the summer snows.
When one of the dogs fell sick, it was Wilson who was called to the kennel. It was late afternoon. Weller crouched with one hand on the animal’s neck. Of all the crew, Weller had the most trouble reading and writing. He was not qualified in anything but he was expert with the dogs. Brought up on a country estate, his father had been Head Groom so he had doctored sick horses, ponies, dogs and cows since he was too young to be working. He had always had a way with them.
‘It’s Blossom, sir,’ he said. ‘I think she’s lost heart. She won’t eat.’
It was never discussed where the dogs got their names but it was certainly not from Wilson. Among the monikers chosen for the pack, Blossom, Peaches, Luna and Bosco would not have been Wilson’s first choices. Still, Weller was an excellent hand and the kennel was well run.
‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’
The doctor was not an expert in veterinary science, but after five minutes he had to conclude that Weller might be right. There was nothing physically wrong with the animal. Perhaps Blossom was simply not tough enough. Perhaps she had lost heart because she didn’t like her name.
‘If we leave her with the others, they’ll sense it, sir,’ Weller said.
‘And what do you think they’ll do?’
Weller looked bleak. ‘They’ll eat her, sir, if she ain’t got no fight left. That’s the pack’s way. Maybe not tonight, but sometime. She’ll fall behind.’
‘We better hope she perks up then,’ Wilson said without a touch of irony. ‘With these dry runs on the sledges at the end of the week we need the dogs in good condition. Have you ever known the like?’
An icy finger passed over the kennel as if it was stroking the air. Weller shuddered. When he joined the Merchant Navy he was part of a crew that transported Arabian purebreds from the desert Peninsula for sale at Newmarket and Cheltenham. There were a certain amount of those animals that lost heart because England was so alien. It happened on every shipment. You’d think they’d have been glad to go from the desert into England’s lush fields but it didn’t always work that way.
‘Animals ain’t as tough as everyone reckons,’ Weller said sagely, ‘They’ve got feelings. Maybe she just don’t like the change.’
Wilson passed a rubber ball under Blossom’s nose. He made to throw it but the husky didn’t stir. He was frustrated that there wasn’t something scientific to which he could attribute the animal’s malaise. It didn’t make sense – these dogs were supposed to like the wide open snowscape. He didn’t blame Blossom. Like many of the crew he was finding the polar extremes difficult, although the sense of being on a groundbreaking mission had kept him going so far, and intelligent though they were, none of the dogs had a sense of that.
The atmosphere in the officers’ mess had been strained the last few nights. Scott had picked his favourites and everybody knew it. Still, whatever the difficulties, Wilson would sign up again in a heartbeat to serve under the skipper. And it wasn’t Scott’s fault that the weather was difficult or their appetites were high. Some of the men were sickening, though no one as yet as bad as this dog. His train of thought was disturbed by the sound of howling from the other side of the kennel.
‘Are you sleeping all right?’ Wilson asked Weller. Karina heard this as if the question was an echo. Lately, it was in sleep she was closest to the men. She had taken to prowling their dreams. Wilson elicited only a half-nod from the dog handler.
‘It’s bright, isn’t it?’ Weller replied. ‘Though the darkness has started to creep in.’
‘We should enjoy the light while we can. Winter’s coming. It won’t be long.’
Weller nodded. The temperature had dropped in the last week. Below decks the stories told round the brazier had taken a turn towards the Gothic. Somehow the summer sun had staved off the sharing of such horrors.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well you better keep an eye on this little lass for now. Poor Blossom. We’ll try to tempt her again tomorrow.’
That evening as the men played football Weller found himself distracted. He let in a goal and straight after that he fell foul of the offside rule.
‘You’ve got your mind on the dogs not on the pitch, Willie,’ the centre forward glared. ‘You’ve got to concentrate, man.’
‘At least you know what the dogs are going to do,’ Weller retorted smartly.
‘Sometimes I think you care about those bloody animals more than you care about us.’
Weller stayed silent. There was no reply to that. As far as he was concerned, dogs were preferable to people – no doubt about it.
After dinner he dropped onto the ice. Flicking up the collar of his coat against the chill, he perused the half-light of dusk and ignored the feeling that something was out there. The dogs needed him and he’d stay up all night if he had to. Weller slept below decks in his hammock just like the rest of them – but he had discovered it was just as easy to get some shut-eye settling down inside the kennel with the dogs for warmth. Truth be told the dogs were more comfortable than canvas. The huskies had a reputation for being pitiless but Weller knew poodles that would rip out your throat – as far as he was concerned these wolves are no better or worse than domesticated pets. With Blossom poorly, though, the pack remained restless. They kept jostling for position. Blitzen had snapped at him after he’d fed her today and he had had to bring out his whip. Weller checked the kennel, closed the door and decided to bed down below decks.
It was late as he trudged back aboard. Like most o
f the crew, he didn’t own a watch and prayers and mealtimes weren’t enough to keep track. Perhaps when the darkness came properly, it would help. Meantime, it wasn’t like being at sea, he thought as he slipped down to snatch a couple of hours in his hammock.
Outside, Karina curled around the kennel. The dogs barked into the half-light, their howls echoing on the freezing air. On the Discovery, Scott turned and Shackleton woke. For some reason he could not stop thinking about the men who had gone before. Ross. Hooker. And the expeditions since. He shook his head. He was here now, that’s what he should focus on. His stomach growled and he wondered whether the ice or Scott’s favour was the more unstable. He worried that the skipper disliked him. Then he turned over and fell asleep again, cascading into his dreams as if a trapdoor had given way under him.
The next morning Weller was first on the ice. Blossom was still poorly. He left her aside and got on with the rest of the dogs. Exercising the pack was a brutal business. Weller used his whip and he didn’t stint. If he was going to be top dog, they had to understand it. He was looking forward to the first sledge run. It would be a stretch but the pack was ready. With the exercise over, he half melted some ice for the animals to drink and looked in on Blossom in her isolated stall. She turned away her head and with a shrug he decided he’d try again after breakfast.
Just making it on deck on time, he joined the rest of the crew, heads bowed, as Scott intoned the morning prayer and the men uttered a low ‘Amen’ before they shuffled into the mess.
‘Where did you get to?’ Duncan asked.
Weller shrugged. ‘One of the dogs is sick.’
A sense, if not a smell, of hot porridge and stewed tea lingered round the doorway. Clarke was a shady figure, dodging in and out, pushing Brett to the service. Weller took his usual seat as the men tucked in. A jar of jam did the rounds of the table. The sweetness melted in the mouth but the full flavour of the red summer berries was only a memory. Their mothers, wives and sweethearts picked blackberries from the hedgerows.
A burst of laughter emanated from the other end of the table, Vince, the joker, was pretending mail had arrived. He got to his feet and started to dole out imaginary envelopes.
‘Mr Crean, one from Mrs Crean,’ he mimed handing over an envelope. ‘She hopes you’re wearing that vest she made you.
‘And for you, Weller, there’s one here from a chihuahua that’s missing you … .’
Weller grinned and accepted the correspondence with good grace.
It must have been a rogue blast of wind that opened the stall door. Weller would swear later that he had bolted the catch. There was no way a dog could have managed to get in or out, but there it was. Several of the men privately put down what happened to a spirit. The notion was whispered between them.
‘I don’t understand,’ Weller insisted.
He couldn’t hold with the rumours among the men. He only believed what he could see and touch.
One way or another, that morning as he strolled back towards the kennels with his stomach freshly sated, he noticed a long streak of red and a ragged line of fur lying where it had been ripped to shreds on the snow. Pieces of bloodied bone peppered the path leading to the football pitch and one bitch, Dasher, let out a low growl as she crouched over what must have been part of Blossom’s leg. The bitch’s mouth was bloodied and her teeth were pink. Weller knew better than to show any distress. He stared down Dasher and whipped the rest of the dogs back to their quarters. Something had badly unsettled them.
‘Poor Blossom,’ he said under his breath. ‘My poor girl.’
Still, with a machete normally used for butchery, Weller cut up what remained of Blossom’s body and fed the rest of her to the dog pack. Wilson was not consulted, but then, what else might he have suggested? Weller wondered momentarily, if it came to it, would this happen with the men? One of them was bound to die, sooner or later. There was talk of preliminary expeditions setting out but if they went wrong, what would be done with the casualties? Weller tried not to think of it but the sight of Blossom’s body prompted ghoulish imaginings. If a man died on the ice, it would be the only time they’d see the poor soul’s flesh, Weller thought. It prompted a memory of the journey south – saltwater showers on the deck and a discussion with Lashly about his array of tattoos. Everyone was so swaddled down here. For a second, to his shame, Weller let an unaccustomed frisson of raw sexual excitement pulse through him. Stoically, he decided not to dwell on it but he promised himself when the ship got back to Auckland he’d treat himself to a boy. Firm flesh made carefree for an hour or two. If he made it through the winter he’d deserve that at least.
And far off, Karina watched him. And she smiled.
SEVENTEEN
Over the next few days, there were other disquieting incidents. Skelton had a system in place to conserve the materials he needed to develop his negatives. He waited until he had taken enough photographs for the optimum process and then he printed them all at once. He lost some plates to overexposure. The light was impossible to gauge accurately, but the images he had were proving promising. He was pleased with his pictures of the Discovery – the rigging formed a pleasing frame for the ship, surrounded by whiteness as if it was floating in midair.
Developing the prints was a long process but he was dedicated. When the darkness of winter finally fell, his activities would be curtailed and Skelton was keen to capture as much as he could before the lights went out. As he sorted through the plates, his attention was drawn to his most recent photograph – a carefully chosen team of men before they set out on a short practice run across the ice. If Scott intended to make the pole, the men needed to trial different conditions.
The lieutenant’s eyesight was keen. He had taken photographs everywhere he had ever been stationed. It was a hobby as well as a duty. Skelton had spent the last few years in China where he had photographed a number of floating bridges and the spider’s web of bamboo scaffolding over buildings under construction. After that he oversaw the building of the Discovery in Dundee where his exacting nature proved itself. Scott swore there wasn’t a rivet out of place due to Skelton’s diligence. He had taken photographs of the huge ship as it grew and took pride that he knew it inside out. Now, as the negative emerged from the chemical bath, Skelton blinked. He held up the paper. Something surely had gone wrong with the process. He did not understand.
He stepped back, trying to be logical. There were a plethora of photographic hoaxes that had been perpetrated ever since the first cameras became available – fairies and spirits and so on. Skelton, however, was a man of science. He knew how he had taken this shot and that it should not have resulted in what he could see. He squinted at the image in disbelief and confirmed that coiled between one man’s legs and curled around another’s skis there was a thin, white spectre. It seemed too solid to be a cloud and he could swear it looked female. The ghostly woman was smiling.
‘How very odd,’ he said out loud.
He laid the negative aside. There must be an explanation – something to do with the cold. Something that did not immediately spring to mind but was, nonetheless, logical. Something to make sense of it. He stroked his beard as he considered the negative and decided to destroy it. An image like that could terrify the men.
The expeditions continued. Like all the equipment, the snow skis, snowshoes and the husky sledges were untried and little by little they tested them. Scott was not sure the best way to traverse the snowy wastes but he had until next summer to figure it out, for he would not attempt the pole till then. Shackleton, when it was discussed, always made the case for mimicking the Esquimaux with their snowshoes or the Norwegians with their skis. Both these hardy nations used dogs on the ice. Despite this, Scott wondered whether modern technology or, indeed, the iron will of a British explorer might not find a better way. Karina kept an eye on the commander’s journal. She slid around his shoulders and whispered in his ear.
At dinner Scott spoke to his officers. ‘This is not a landscape
that indulges sentiment or cossets weakness,’ he said. ‘It is time for action, gentlemen.’
Around the table everyone sat a little taller. This was the speech for which they had all been waiting. The equipment had been checked and some fledgling outings tried around the camp. Now it was time to hazard a proper expedition. One that went out of sight.
‘It is time for our first foray into the interior, be it not very far,’ was how he put it.
The officers called out three cheers.
The commander had the charts before him and although the shifting shoreline was well recorded, the interior remained uncharted and where there was information, it was patchy. The truth was that the territory shifted according to the season and the weather. A mile that was easily traversed one day might not be navigable the next. Scott regarded the blank stretches of paper. Somewhere, miles to the south, lay the pole – a shining pinnacle. He laid his finger on it.
‘Gentlemen, we have begun and when we succeed we shall claim the pole for England.’
There had been much debate both in London and aboard ship about how this conquest should be made, but it seemed to Scott that using a motor (which it appeared would not work anyway) or dog teams would bely an Englishman’s glory. A man should be able to cross the wastes under his own steam, man-hauling his kit across the icy desolation – like a true Arthurian hero. Of late it became clear that Scott even considered skis something of a cheat and as his main aim was not only to conquer the Antarctic but to do so with honour. He bristled at the thought of taking a single shortcut.
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