by Magnus Mills
“Well, no one told us.”
“You shouldn’t have needed telling!” declared Scagg. “Mr Johns expects people to just get on with things without being ‘told’. At the moment, for example, Blanchflower and Firth are outside this very blockhouse, applying a new coat of whitewash. Summerfield’s helping Medleycott gather driftwood, and Seddon’s gone out in the cutter to see if he can catch some fish.”
“What about Plover?” enquired Cook. “What’s he doing?”
Scagg came inside, closed the door, and spoke with a lowered voice. “Don’t concern yourselves about Plover,” he said. “I’m keeping my beady eye on him, you can be sure of that. But for your own sakes get on with something useful. You don’t want Mr Johns to catch you slacking, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Well then.” Scagg glanced at the stove. “Tell you what, why don’t you bring in the rest of the coal?”
“All right,” said Cook. “Can we have a bit of breakfast first?”
“Certainly you can.”
“Like some?”
“No thanks. I had mine hours ago.”
By this time, Sargent had finished making his bed. He tucked in the final corner, then turned round to face Scagg. “Don’t mind my asking,” he said. “But when are we going to get moving?”
“As soon as the survey’s complete,” Scagg replied. “Could be tomorrow; could be the day after.”
“But all the time we spend here Tostig’s forging ahead.”
“That has nothing to do with us. Mr Johns won’t hear of leaving until he’s got the full lie of the land. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be patient, that’s all.”
“Well, I only hope he knows what he’s doing.”
“Of course he knows what he’s doing!” Scagg snapped. “Now get on with your work and don’t let’s have so much of it!”
He marched outside, slamming the door behind him. This caused the flames briefly to flare up inside the stove. Cook glanced at Sargent and shrugged. “You’d better be careful what you say to him in future.”
“All right I will, but I must say I don’t like the sound of all this volunteering for extra work.”
“I suppose it’s meant to be a chance for us to show willing.”
“But we volunteered to come on this trip, didn’t we? Wasn’t that showing willing enough?”
“Well, to be truthful, I don’t really mind getting the rest of the coal in. It’ll only take an hour or so, the two of us together.”
“That’s not the point,” replied Sargent. “If the job needed doing then someone should have said!”
§
On the evening before the journey began, Scagg went out alone. Sometime after supper he slipped unnoticed from the blockhouse, crossed the headland, and began walking westward. The moon was down. There were no landmarks along that deserted coast; no trees or bushes; and only a few stars to light his way. From time to time he paused to glance at the sea, or to pick up a stone whose shape caught his interest. This he would examine momentarily in the gloom, before casting it aside and continuing again in the same direction. Eventually he came to the dry river bed, where he headed inland, following its course between gradually rising banks. After another minute he arrived at a thin wooden pole stuck into the ground. At the top fluttered a small pennant. Here Scagg halted and stood for a long while gazing into the darkness beyond. Then he turned and retraced his steps back to the blockhouse. Inside, all was quiet. He opened the door and saw Johns sitting by the stove. “Ah, Scagg,” he said. “Just in time for ‘lights out’.” The rest of the party had retired for the evening, though none of them were yet asleep. They lay on their bunks writing diaries, or making minor preparations for the days ahead, replacing lost buttons and so forth. Only after Johns said good night did they try and get their heads down, but even then few slumbered properly. There was much to do next day, and long before dawn the whole company was up and about once more.
Cook had been instructed not to raise the flag that morning, and instead his first duty was to make some boiled mash for the mules. They were to be given extra portions to nourish them for the arduous journey that lay ahead, though Cook was careful not to be too generous.
“Don’t want them getting fat,” he muttered to himself, as he carried the steaming pot round to the rear of the blockhouse.
Meanwhile, his companions busied themselves with sundry tasks, getting the supplies ready for carrying and making sure nothing had been forgotten. The hour’s work before breakfast passed quickly. Then, when everyone came outside again, Johns asked them to gather round him.
“So we have,” he said, reading from a list, “Blanchflower, Chase, Cook, Firth, Medleycott, Plover, Sargent, Seddon and Summerfield. All present, Scagg?”
“All present, Mr Johns.”
“Very good. Now it’s far too cold to stand here making speeches. I’ve no time for such flummery, so without further ado I think we’ll make an immediate start. I just want to say, however, that I believe you have all been well chosen. I could not wish to begin an expedition such as this with a finer set of fellows. In Chase, for instance, we have one of the best navigators of our age. As you know, his excellent guidance brought the Centurion to this forsaken shore without a single fault, and I am relying fully on his judgment over the coming weeks as we head for the interior. Likewise, I regard Scagg as a most able deputy, and if anything should happen to me he will, of course, take command. As for the rest of you, well you are competent individuals without exception. You all know where we’re going and why we’re going there. It may take a good while, but I am confident that we’ll achieve our goal as long as each of us pulls in the same direction. Now, Scagg, the blockhouse has been left in a fit state, I presume?”
“Yes, Mr Johns. Everything’s in order.”
“All right then. Lock the door, will you, and we’ll go.” During the past few days Johns had taken to wearing his woolly helmet, a practice swiftly adopted by the majority of the party. Plover, alone, persisted in sporting a high-peaked cap. The rest of the men, their faces hidden, could easily be distinguished from one another by their various gaits as they began their long march. The twenty-three mules, now fully laden, were led in train by Blanchflower and Firth, with the remainder of the group following in the rear. Johns was ‘last man’. He paused for a moment to gaze out to sea, and then, after a final glance at his ship, he set off in pursuit.
§
The leading mules were over the headland and on to the vague trail that had been established as far as the dry river bed. When Johns caught up, he sent Chase forward to help conduct them to the other side. It was an easy crossing, during which not one member of the party drew attention to the pennant fluttering on its pole a hundred yards inland. Instead, they all helped drive the mules up the far bank and on to the start of the ‘westerly’ route. “The wind has swung ahead,” observed Chase, as they regained level ground. “We’re going straight into it.”
“Well, it can’t be helped,” Johns answered. “Doubtless it will swing back round in due course.”
“Mr Johns!” called a voice from the rear. “Mr Johns, could I have a word?!”
Johns turned to see Medleycott coming up the slope. Beyond him were Cook and Sargent, who had paused briefly to adjust their packs.
“Certainly, Medleycott. What is it?”
“I was wondering…” Medleycott waited a few moments to allow Chase to move slightly ahead. “Has anyone mentioned the tents?”
“No, they haven’t,” replied Johns. “Good gracious! Are you telling me we’ve left them behind?”
“No, no,” said Medleycott. “We’ve brought all four. I made sure and loaded them myself.”
“What’s the matter then?”
“It’s just that I wondered if there were any plans. About who’s going to be put with who.”
“You mean the allocation of places?”
“Yes.”
“It’s been taken care of. As far as I
recall, there are three to a tent apart from myself and Scagg. He’s organised it all.”
“Oh.”
“So I’m afraid you’ll need to speak with him if you wish to know who you’re sharing with.”
“And it’s set in granite, is it?”
“I really don’t know, Medleycott, but this isn’t the time or place to discuss such matters. What exactly are those two fiddling about with back there?”
“I think they’re tightening their straps.”
“Well, let’s hope they make an effort to catch up soon. We’ve only been on the move for half an hour and already the party’s becoming strung out. The last thing I want is for everyone to divide into separate little groups all going at different speeds. That would be terribly harmful to the expedition, so please let’s try and keep together, can we?”
“Yes, of course, Mr Johns. Sorry for the delay.”
“And I’m sure you’ll be perfectly all right, whichever tent you’re in.”
“Thank you.”
Without a further word, Medleycott put his head down and pressed forward. After another minute he had latched on to the main group, where there was little talking to be heard. Each of the men walked in silence, leaning into the wind and settling to an even pace as the untrodden land opened up before them. Only Summerfield journeyed alone. Having already moved clear of the mules, he could now be seen as a remote figure, leading the way towards a chain of distant blue hills.
“Impatient as ever,” commented Chase, when Medleycott drew alongside him. “If he keeps going at that rate we’ll lose sight of him altogether.”
“He knows where he’s going, does he?” Medleycott enquired.
“I’ve given him a rough bearing, yes, though to tell you the truth he can hardly go wrong. It’s steady as she goes until we can see the best way through those hills. Or over them.”
“What do you think is on the other side?”
“Who knows? More of the same, I’d hazard.”
“A desolate region bereft of life.”
“That’s very well put,” said Chase.
“I’ve spotted one or two dwarf plants along the way, and the occasional tuft of grass, but little else. Nothing to suggest some verdant belt lying just around the corner.”
“No.”
The conversation was difficult to sustain, held as it was in the face of the wind, and perpetually muffled by their woolly helmets. Nonetheless, Medleycott persisted.
“I don’t suppose,” he asked, “if you’ve heard who’s going in which tent?”
“No, I haven’t,” replied Chase. “Why, was there someone with whom you especially wished to share?”
“No, there wasn’t.”
“So it’s someone you’d rather not share with?”
“It’s neither.”
“Then it barely matters, does it? As long as you get some shelter, that’s all that counts.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Medleycott. “I was just interested really.”
“Now I wonder what’s stopped him in his tracks?”
By this time Summerfield was almost a mile ahead of them, but they could see that he had come to an abrupt halt.
“Maybe he’s resting,” suggested Medleycott.
“Possibly,” Chase answered, pausing to gaze into the distance. “But, knowing Summerfield, he’d be more likely to press on until he reached a definite point. He wouldn’t just stop halfway.”
They watched as Summerfield turned and made his way back towards them. Then he halted again, seemingly unable to make up his mind. For a few seconds more he continued to hesitate, before finally turning again and carrying on in the original direction. His speed of movement, though, appeared somewhat slower than it had been before.
“Perhaps he’s giving the rest of us a chance to catch up,” said Plover, who had now joined Chase and Medleycott. Chase glanced at him but said nothing in reply, then the three of them resumed their headlong march. Only after another twenty minutes did they discover the cause of Summerfield’s apparent indecision. Until now the ground they’d been travelling on had consisted of hard bare earth, rough in places but generally firm underfoot. All of a sudden, however, it began to change, the earth quickly vanishing under an immense sweep of pebbles that stretched ahead as far as they could see. The leading mules had already got on to the new surface, and were clearly finding it a hindrance to their progress. Meanwhile, Summerfield continued pushing forward, the margin now reduced to about half a mile. With careful tread, the others followed.
“‘Some of the seeds fell on stony ground’,” remarked Plover, before being pulled up by Scagg.
“Wait a moment everybody!” he called. “I want to speak to Mr Johns before we go any further.”
The whole party took the opportunity to rest while Scagg went back to meet Johns.
“What is it, Scagg?” he asked.
“Scree,” Scagg replied. “Mile upon mile of it, rising all the way to those hills, from what I can make out.”
“Is there any way round it?”
“Unfortunately not. It’s covering our path completely.”
Johns peered beyond his second-in-command, his eyes studying the vast stretch of wilderness.
“Who’s that man up ahead?” he enquired at length.
“Summerfield,” Scagg answered. “He’s been blazing the trail.”
“Well, he seems to be making reasonable headway,” Johns announced. “So I propose we carry on. After all, we can hardly allow every obstacle we meet to turn us aside.”
“Very well, Mr Johns. I just thought I’d better consult with you before we ventured too far.”
“Yes, that’s all right, Scagg. Tell the men to take a short break, then we’ll get moving again before we lose our momentum. And I must have a quiet word with Summerfield when I get the chance. His enthusiasm is laudable, but I think we need to rein him in a little at this early stage. Otherwise heaven knows what he might lead us into.”
Summerfield did, in fact, appear to have noticed that the main party had come to a halt. He could be seen in the distance, standing at the start of a gentle slope, his pack resting on the ground while he awaited his companions. The mules, likewise, were motionless. They stood patiently in a long line, one behind the other.
§
When the journey restarted, a change was immediately noticeable. Not only was the going much slower than it had been before, but now each man’s step was accompanied by the harsh crunch of stones beneath his feet.
This sound was to accompany them relentlessly during their entire time on the scree.
Johns insisted that henceforth a tighter formation should be adopted, ‘in order to prevent anyone straying too far behind or ahead’, as he put it. It was decided that this was best achieved by having all the men travel forward of the mule train, so as to set a steady pace.
“You can’t tell a mule how fast to go,” murmured Cook to Sargent when they reshouldered their packs. “They’ve only got one speed, and that’s their own.”
Medleycott overheard the comment. “If you’ve got reservations,” he said, “why don’t you voice them to Johns instead of just muttering darkly?”
“Because it’s got nothing to do with me,” Cook replied. “My opinions don’t count.”
“But surely it’s your duty to speak out.”
Cook gazed at Medleycott and shook his head. “There’s no need. It’ll be obvious soon enough.”
For the next half hour they advanced two by two across the scree, and good progress was recorded. Yet the further they went the deeper the layers of stone became, causing an increased degree of drag. Moreover, the gradient was uneven in places, with the ground falling away to one side or the other, so that the men were often obliged to walk in single file. Maintaining any sort of close formation was also impeded by the sheer physical differences between individuals, and it was not long before the idea was abandoned in all but name. Summerfield, meanwhile, continued to forge ahead,
having started forward the moment the main party began moving again. No one had been able to communicate Johns’s instructions to him, so they could do nothing but watch as his bobbing form gradually faded into the distance. It was becoming clear that what they’d assumed to be hills were mere peaks in this great pebbly expanse. It rolled away from them in a series of crests, swept ceaselessly by the unremitting wind. Another stop was called to allow an extra layer of clothing to be donned. At the same time some food and drink was taken.
“I’m afraid these delays are unavoidable for the present,” Johns observed. “But I should think we can reduce their frequency once we’ve properly settled into our stride.”
He was sitting alongside Scagg and Chase, all three with their backs to the wind, facing the way they’d come. For reasons of his own, Scagg had rolled his woolly helmet upwards to form a sort of cap, so that only his ears and crown were protected from the cold. He now showed the beginnings of a beard.
“I hope Summerfield realises,” he said, “that we’ll be needing to make camp at some stage. The light will only last another hour and a half at the most.”
“I imagine he’ll start looking for somewhere suitable fairly soon,” Johns replied.
“Well, it’ll be at the foot of a leeward slope, if he’s got any sense. Shall I give the signal to resume then?”
“Yes, if you will, Scagg.”
During that first part of the journey the sky had remained a uniform grey, with only a faint gleam at the horizon to indicate the presence of the sun. As the afternoon progressed, however, the gleam reddened, suggesting they could expect a brighter day tomorrow. In a long, final haul they traversed a broad ridge of particularly loose stones, to be confronted with yet another ridge about a mile away. In between there lay a shallow depression, and at its lowest point waited Summerfield. The sight of the continuing scree produced an audible groan from some members of the party. This seemed not to be heard by Johns, who had already begun his descent, but nevertheless it brought a rebuke from Scagg.
“Any more of that whingeing,” he growled, “and you’ll all be going to bed early without supper.”
The mood lightened considerably the moment they dipped out of the wind. The depression was a gloomy spot, and a difficult place to pitch tents, but the shelter it offered brought general agreement that it was a good choice. Summerfield was congratulated by Chase, who was first to join him, followed soon after by Medleycott and Seddon. When everyone had arrived, Scagg ordered the unloading of the tents. “All right,” he said, referring to his notebook. “Chase: you’ll be with Blanchflower and Firth tonight. Seddon, Plover and Summerfield: you can all team up together. I’ll be sharing with Mr Johns. That leaves Cook, Sargent and Medleycott. I suggest you keep the tents as close to one another as possible to maintain some warmth. Then we’ll have some food please, Seddon.”
