The sledges were three or four feet under drift, and it was late afternoon before the dog teams got away. I’d planned to follow with three groups of ponies, my party to start last and then spurt ahead of the others. Tom Crean, Cherry-Garrard and Bowers got off all right, but when we removed the blankets from Weary Willie his condition proved worse than I could possibly have imagined – ribs bursting through the skin, an open gash on the shoulder from his brush with the dogs, a continual tremble wracking the poor beast from nose to tail. Oates was all for putting a bullet through him on the spot.
‘I think not,’ I said. ‘We should give him his chance,’ and I gave the order for Bill and Meares to start.
‘We ought to finish him off, sir,’ persisted Oates. ‘It would be a great mistake for us to fall behind the others, the weather being so bad. He won’t last five yards.’
‘We’ll coax him along,’ I said.
It was a losing battle. When Oates and I tried to get Willie to move, without a load and untethered, he instantly fell down. No matter what we did, he wouldn’t rise; a dreadful film of defeat dulled his eyes.
‘You might as well leave him to me and Anton, sir,’ Oates said. ‘We can manage between us. You and Gran go on ahead.’
‘I’ll decide when I shall leave,’ I said, as evenly as I could manage. I believe Oates thought I was acting out of a sentimental regard for dumb animals. He’s a man of few words, and those not often complimentary, and so comfortable with himself – and why not, he’s wealthy enough – as to be incapable of stooping to self-doubt. I can’t pretend we hit it off; yet I feel there’s mutual respect. I take him for a good soldier, and what might be termed a strenuous man, and I expect, with hindsight, it’ll come home to him that I have to be the one to call the shots. In the meantime he can go on scoring points off me.
We hoisted the pony up by brute force and propped him against the snow wall. He would have fallen again if I hadn’t crouched down and supported his shrunken belly with my back. Anton, the Russian groom, boiled up a mash and he and Titus literally spooned the stuff down the poor thing’s throat. Several times I attempted to ease myself from under him, only to feel the instant buckling of his knees. A curious thing, there was no smell to him at all, no odour of harness or blood or fetid breath, nor any stench of waste, though the snow beneath him was stained sepia with urine. The scant hair on his withered flanks, far from being rank with sweat, scraped dry as corn stubble against my wrist.
I crouched there for some time, looking down at my own footsteps jumbled in the snow. I thought of the accident to the dogs on our way back to Safety Camp. Two had dropped out of the traces and landed on a snow bridge some seventy feet below, and when we’d hauled the others up I went down on the alpine rope and managed to rescue them. I wondered how long it would be before one or other began to sicken from the ordeal. Those dangling in the crevasse must have suffered ruptures; three had already started passing blood.
Had I perhaps been foolish to risk my own neck? I had fallen from a rope thirty years before, in the birch avenue at Outlands. My father had climbed a tree and slung a rope over for Archie and me to swing on. It was one of his good days. He took first go, swirling round, feet kicking up the gravel path, Archie thumping him on the shoulderblades so that he twisted again, round and round, the three of us wild with excitement. Then he said he’d give me sixpence if I could shin to the top of the rope. Half way up I could see the house in the distance, the sun glinting on the conservatory glass, and I waved one hand in case my mother should be watching, and fell. I was so giddy with laughter I dropped with my mouth open and knocked out a tooth.
The daydream was so real I forgot where I was; as though on that childhood rope I swung out and up from under Weary Willie, at which the wretched animal collapsed, although this time he seemed to make some effort to scramble upright. I couldn’t bear it. I left Oates and Anton to do what they could, and walked about.
Those who envisage this place as nothing more than a godforsaken plateau of ice and snow are mistaken. For one thing, there are outcrops of jet-black rock about which the wind blows so fiercely that the snow can never settle; and for another, the ice, being subject to reflections of sun and sea, is never purely white but tinged with rose and cobalt-blue and every shade of violet, the whole set against skies, day or night, that run through all the colours of the spectrum. Tonight there were lowering clouds of deepest purple, a sure indication of worse weather to come.
There is nothing on earth so vast, so glorious, as the southern heavens. In the ordinary world a man measures himself against the height of buildings, omnibuses, doorways; here, scale blown to the four quarters, he’d be a fool not to recognise he’s no more significant than a raindrop on an ocean. Standing there, it seemed irrelevant where Amundsen was – we were both cut down to size.
That being said, I was nevertheless seriously alarmed about the ponies. At this rate their numbers would be drastically reduced before we even started the Polar journey. Jimmy Pigg had left in a pitiful state, as had Bowers’s animal. I’d underestimated the effect blizzards could have on them and, unless their condition miraculously improves, it almost certainly means a late start at the end of the year. We never encountered such frightful weather on the 1901 expedition – not during the month of March. It’s surely unprecedented, and I don’t see how I could have taken it into account.
We watched over Wearie Willie into the small hours. It was bitterly cold. Anton squatted on his haunches and rocked himself to sleep. Gran had turned in. Since the news of his countryman’s arrival he’s lost some of his bounce, which is all to the good. I don’t hold his nationality against him. He’s a tolerable enough chap, apart from being somewhat lazy and exhibiting a marked aversion to soap and water.
Oates kept me awake by asking questions about Ross, Franklin, Crozier and the rest of the bunch. His interest centred on the fate of Franklin’s expedition, which had sailed north in 1845 and never returned. An investigation, paid for by Franklin’s wife, had uncovered the unpalatable fact that a few crew members had survived, though not for long, by eating the numerous dead.
‘I think I can accept that,’ Oates said. ‘One should never underrate the instinct for survival.’
‘Under certain conditions,’ I said, ‘I suspect instinct is the one thing left functioning.’
‘If we should get into such a pickle,’ he said, ‘I would prefer to shoot myself.’ His face in the light of the lantern, skin pitted blue from the smallpox, appeared curiously young. For once, his eyes expressed uncertainty.
‘In the unlikely event of its being necessary,’ I said, ‘we have more up-to-date methods. Bill has opium and morphia.’
‘Damn it, no,’ he said. ‘I want to be in control. I don’t want to drift into death.’
He’s a solitary by nature, and a nihilist, which is why he ordered his men to abandon their positions and leave him to play the hero in the gully in South Africa. It’s easy to be brave when the only life in jeopardy is one’s own. Although it’s never been my lot to have that singular experience, I can well imagine the surge of well-being such a sacrifice can bring.
The pony died. Anton set about the grisly job of chopping it up for the dogs. Oates didn’t crow over me. If he were less confident and I more sure, we might be friends.
We set off on skis early in the morning. Above us the wind blew the heaped clouds along rivers of gold and crimson light. A quarter of a mile from the Barrier edge the sky darkened and the broken shapes of huge floes jostled on the distant horizon. I thought it an optical illusion – one often gets such mirages – but as we drew nearer we found to our horror that they were real. The sea was a seething mass of floating chunks of Barrier ice. A mere six hours earlier we could have walked to the Hut on sound sea ice.
Everything fitted into place – the decline of the ponies, the death of Wearie Willie, the calamitous fall of the dogs into the crevasse. Let those who believe in random happenings, Caesar among them, carry on believing th
e fault lies in ourselves; nobody will ever convince me that the stars don’t play a part in it. My heart sank at the thought of the fate of the advance parties.
Retreating, we marched parallel to the edge until we discovered a working crack. We dashed over this and increased pace as much as possible, not slackening until we were in a line between Safety Camp and Castle Rock. I took out the glasses and made out two specks moving in the direction of Pram Point. Hastening on, we met Meares and Bill, who greeted us with relief as they’d feared we were lost. Bill, disregarding orders, had taken a different route, and on climbing Observation Hill had spotted ponies adrift on the sea ice. He had thought it was our group.
We put up the tent and brewed a hot drink. We were all terribly cast down, though Bill did his usual best. He was of the opinion that Teddy Evans, starting so much earlier, might possibly have got through. And if it was Bowers out there, why then he was such an indomitable little fighter he was bound to survive. Gran pretended to believe him. Oates didn’t say a word. He sat with slumped shoulders, staring fixedly at the flame of the primus.
‘Come now,’ I said, attempting a cheerfulness I was far from feeling, ‘Bill’s right. Dear old Birdie is well-nigh indestructible.’
‘There’s every possibility he took a different route,’ Bill said, backing me up.
‘Dear old Birdie,’ Oates said, ‘would stick to the route he was told to take. Dear old Birdie’s a stickler for following orders, even when they’re given by a bloody fool.’ Then he left the tent.
Bill was shocked on my account. He was all for going after Titus and having it out with him.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Leave him. I imagine he’s only putting into words what the rest of you think.’
At that moment Oates let out a shout, and on rushing outside we saw him pointing at a solitary figure walking in the direction of Safety Camp. Gran went off on skis to intercept, and brought back Crean, completely done in and far from coherent. As far as we could gather the ice had broken up all around while they were camped for the night. One pony had disappeared. They had packed with great haste and jumped from floe to floe, pulling the horses after them.
‘The sea was like a cauldron,’ Crean said. ‘And them killer whales were all about us, rearing their ugly snouts. We somehow got near to the Barrier edge, but when we tried to climb up bits kept breaking off and we couldn’t get a purchase. Lieutenant Bowers said one of us would have to go for help, so I left him and Mr Gerrard behind and went off sideways, jumping and scrambling until I comes to a heftier piece of ice which drifted closer in. Then I managed to get off and up.’
‘Well done, Crean,’ I said. ‘You’re a resourceful chap. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to have you safe.’
‘Them whales, sir,’ he repeated, shuddering. ‘Them murderous whales.’
We lost no time in getting to Safety Camp to pick up rope and provisions. Marching cautiously in a half circle, we approached the ice edge. I’m not sure I’m a full-time Christian, but every step of the way I prayed to God I should find my men alive. To my intense joy I caught sight of Birdie and Cherry almost immediately. I was so relieved I found it damn near impossible to blink back the tears. We got out the rope and dragged them onto the Barrier. There was no time for anything but a heartfelt handshake all round before commencing the laborious task of salvaging the sledges and equipment.
We worked into the small hours, and just as I’d decided we could now attempt to haul up the three ponies the ice began to shift again. Exhausted, we could do nothing more for them beyond attaching an anchor line to the floe and throwing down a quantity of fodder. Then we turned into our sleeping bags. None of us slept.
The next morning we found the anchor had drawn and there was no sign of the ponies. Bowers begged we should at least go on a little further in the faint hope of finding them alive. We followed the edge for some three quarters of a, mile without result, and were just about to turn back when Bowers caught sight of them through the binoculars.
It wasn’t too difficult to reach them, and we decided they should be rushed over the floes in a last attempt at rescue. We were worn out, don’t forget, and more than a little overwrought – we tried to leap the first pony across, but even as his front hooves left the ice the gap widened and he plunged into the water. There was no way we could pull him out, and yet it was unthinkable to leave him there. Oates showed Bowers the quickest way to end its misery. ‘Now,’ he shouted, grasping the animal by its mane to hold its head steady, ‘Strike hard!’ and Bowers sank the pickaxe into the middle of its forehead.
I fought back nausea and concentrated on digging footholds for the other two ponies. We got one out, and thought we had the other; at the last moment it jumped short and slipped into the water, the killer whales rising all around, Oates hollering like a madman in an effort to scare them off. He and Birdie managed to haul the poor beast onto the floe. Birdie straddled its back and fought to yank it upright, but it couldn’t rise from its knees.
I don’t think any of us were in our right minds. None of us will forget that nightmare scene – the ice chunks heaving in the black water amidst the bucking whales, Birdie grotesquely riding that dying pony, Titus swinging the pickaxe against a sky the colour of blood.
We are now languishing in the old Discovery Hut waiting for the sea ice to freeze over. It’s hardly as comfortable as the one at Cape Evans, yet snug enough for all that. Bowers, having wrought miracles out of empty kerosene cans and firebricks, has constructed a stove connected to the old pipe. Within days, such is his nature, he decided it would soon exhaust our supply of firewood and redesigned the whole thing to run on blubber. We boil our cocoa on a primus and stew or fry on the stove. It makes for a lot of smoke, but it generates a lot of heat. Not a day passes without Bill remarking to me, or me to him, on the marvellous qualities possessed by Birdie.
We’re all right for food. What with sugar, salt, raisins, lentils and sardines, etc., we shan’t starve. Indeed, some of our number are in danger of putting on weight and have to be chivvied into taking exercise, Teddy Evans, Meares and Gran being the worst offenders. Cut off as we are, it was difficult at first to find enough to occupy the men, for beyond a limited amount of geological work, seeing to the fabric of the hut and attending to the animals, etc., there was very little to be done in the way of serious work. I’m afraid a minority spent all too many hours writing letters and generally loafing. Since then, I’ve sent off two dog teams with further supplies for Corner Camp, instigated regular ski instruction, and organised seal-killing excursions.
At night some play cards, the rest read by the light of blubber lamps, a fuel-saving innovation thought up by Keohane and Birdie. We have a small collection of books which we interchange, with the exception of A History of the Napoleonic Wars belonging to Oates, which he appears never to get very far with. He told Bill he’s been reading it for ten years.
For my part, I’m continually engaged in working on plans for the Polar journey, though they don’t seem to be progressing as fast as I’d like. I’m conscious my mind is somewhat clouded at the moment. The thought of what might have happened to Bowers and Co. on the ice still haunts me. However, I’ve been thinking that when we get back to Cape Evans and settle in for the winter, it would be an excellent idea for the various scientific experts among us to give lectures on their special subjects – Simpson on coronas and auroras, Griffith-Taylor on modern physiography, Wright on ice formations, and so forth. In fact, we needn’t confine ourselves to meteorological and geographical matters. For instance, Ponting could enlarge on photography, and Atkinson and Bill on parasites. Bill is absolutely marvellous when one gets him going on bloodsucking worms and the diseases they cause in man. We might even persuade Oates to give us his views on the management of horses.
When I told Bill of my idea, he was very enthusiastic. For the last few days he’s been bullying everyone into a frenzy of sewing, patching and darning. I hadn’t realised, until he pointed it out, how terribly neg
ligent Englishmen can be in regard to the care of clothes. He says it’s because they naturally shrink from looking as though they’re playing the peacock. I suspect it has more to do with a reliance on women and servants.
Most mornings Bill and I march to Castle Rock to examine the state of the sea ice. It alternately melts and freezes. Our route back to Cape Evans lies over the worst corner of Erebus, and the whole mountainside appears to be a mass of crevasses. We might get over if we climbed to 4000 feet. We have long chats on these dawn excursions, mulling over things he realises I can’t discuss in the hut. He understands me well enough to know that my continual harping on Amundsen’s chances of beating us to the Pole isn’t down to self-interest, or a longing for glory, simply a desire to reach, in an endless process of addition and subtraction, a kind of mathematical peace. One hundred dogs, none of them presumably having fallen down a crevasse, must surely equal formidable odds.
It’s ironic that the same situation should be happening to me all over again. It’s barely three years since Shackleton sneaked off and nearly pipped me to the post. There again, I’d made no secret of my intentions. I’m not stupid enough to think of the Pole as mine, but I do detest underhandedness.
Sometimes Bill and I talk of personal matters, mostly on his initiative: mothers, fathers, wives. We don’t go too deep. He says he misses his father. I counter by asserting I miss my mother, though I don’t; I just hope the girls are looking after her and that she’s not worrying about me.
‘My father’s such a steady man,’ Bill says. ‘I owe him everything.’
‘My mother’s been a brick,’ I say. ‘It’s not been easy for her, what with my father gone, and Archie dying.’
It’s true my mother was broken-hearted over my brother Archie’s death, but my father’s demise came as a merciful release – more so for her than him. He’d grown less careful in his later years, and my mother underwent humiliations.
The Birthday Boys Page 10
