Explorers of the New Century

by Magnus Mills

  “Sit on that crate if you like,” said Johns.

  “Thank you.”

  Summerfield upended a crate of tinned fruit and sat down. At the corner of the table lay a couple of slim textbooks and a folded map. Also a pocket watch. Johns closed his journal and set it to one side; then he gazed thoughtfully at his visitor.

  “You’re looking very healthy, Summerfield,” he commented. “This life of ours seems to suit you.”

  “Yes, it does rather.”

  “Come from a sporting background, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Always excelled in the hundred yards dash?”

  “It has been known, yes.”

  “First rate, Summerfield. First rate.”

  Johns reached for one of the textbooks and sat for some moments weighing it in his hands. Then he began examining the jacket in detail, turning the book over to look at both the front cover and the back. Meanwhile, the lamp flickered as a gust of wind struck the side of the tent, causing the canvas to beat spasmodically before subsiding once more.

  “All the same, Summerfield,” he said at length, “I really must ask you to slow down a little when we’re on the march. This is not to be taken as any sort of reprimand, but it just won’t do for you to go sprinting ahead of the rest of the party. We’ve lost sight of you altogether once or twice over these past few days, and I’m worried you might disappear without trace. You must understand that I need to consider the welfare of the expedition as a whole. It is vital that we act as a coherent group, whatever our individual tendencies. So please can you bear this in mind next time you’re in the lead?”

  “Of course, Mr Johns,” Summerfield rejoined. “And I apologise if I’ve been a cause for concern. It’s just that the thought of Tostig pressing further and further ahead of us is almost intolerable.”

  “So that’s the reason for your impatience, is it?”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “Well, to be frank, Summerfield, I’m not the slightest bit bothered about what Tostig’s doing. As I’ve said many times before, this is not some sort of contest we’re taking part in. For want of a better description, it’s an International Joint Scientific Enquiry, and it makes no difference who arrives at our destination first, whether it be us, Tostig, or anyone else for that matter. Don’t forget Younghusband and Clark would most probably have got there a decade ago if their luck had held. That was a damned unfortunate business, as it turned out; and if they’d succeeded, of course, they could have saved us all the trouble.”

  Johns paused and allowed Summerfield to smile at this remark.

  “As for the present,” he continued, “what counts is progress towards our common goal. The sooner the issue is settled one way or another the better.”

  At this point the tent was again blasted from without. The ridge pole shook and the lamp swung momentarily, so that its yellow arc rose and fell several times.

  “Besides,” Johns ventured, “who’s to say Tostig is pressing ahead of us anyway? For all we know he may have run into all kinds of difficulties. Your own experience will tell you this whole territory is beset by frightful weather conditions. The wind hasn’t ceased for days and I can’t imagine it being confined merely to our immediate vicinity. Incidentally, did you come across Chase on your way here? I’m expecting his report at any minute.”

  “Yes, I saw him about a quarter of an hour ago,” said Summerfield. “He was at the edge of the camp taking some readings.”

  “Very good,” said Johns, clapping his hands together.

  “Well, Summerfield, I hope we’ve put your mind at rest and you’ll no longer feel the need to leave us in a trail of dust.”

  “Yes, thank you, sir,” Summerfield answered, rising to his feet.

  The textbook to which Johns had earlier paid so much attention now lay flat on the table, with its title displayed in bold letters. Summerfield nodded towards it and asked, “Would it be at all possible to borrow that for a day or two? So I can refresh myself on the main points?”

  “By all means,” Johns replied. “Borrow it for as long as you wish.”

  Summerfield thanked Johns again, slipping the book into the inner pocket of his reefer. Then he went outside, braced himself against the wind, and made his way back through the darkness to his own tent. When he got to the flap he paused for a few seconds before finally going in.

  Reposed at the far end was Plover. He lay on his side, outstretched with his legs crossed and his head propped on one hand, facing the doorway.

  “And how is our esteemed leader?” he enquired.

  “Mr Johns is fine,” replied Summerfield. “Where’s Seddon?”

  “Seddon has just gone out.”

  “Oh.”

  “Something to do with the malt drinks, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  After his visit to Johns, Summerfield had omitted to replace his woolly helmet. This he now did, pulling it half over his face and leaving it there while he sat down in his own corner. Plover said nothing more, but continued to lie where he was, staring vaguely at the spirit lamp that hissed intermittently nearby. The two of them remained in their respective positions for about twenty minutes, each silent and isolated from the other, until eventually a muffled voice was heard calling from an outlying part of the encampment.

  “Hot drink anybody?!” came the cry.

  Summerfield was on his feet in an instant, tugging at his helmet and pulling it into place. As he headed through the flaps he glanced round at his neighbour and said, “Coming then?”

  “No, don’t think I’ll bother,” answered Plover. “Not if it means putting my boots back on.”

  §

  Having attained a higher altitude than Tostig, the western party still enjoyed a brief margin of light around noon each day. There were no shadows on the fields of scree, save those cast by the travellers themselves, and for a short period they could find their way with comparative ease. This was the time when Chase made his most important observations, taking a sighting of the horizon, vague as it was, to ensure they were still going in the correct direction. He also made a note of their achieved mileage. For the rest of the while, however, the men were obliged to stumble through perpetual gloom, their only guide being the wind that blew steadily in their faces, and always from the north.

  With little apparent difference between day and night, Johns had decided on strict adherence to a fixed timetable, so that everyone went to bed and got up at an hour appointed by him. This, he explained, was in order to avoid the dangers of lethargy and disorientation. So it was that at seven o’clock next morning, Cook, Sargent and Medleycott were lying awake in their tent, having just been roused by Scagg. Outside, a gale was blowing.

  “Should get away with another five minutes,” Sargent murmured. “Then it’s back out into the teeth.”

  Cook groaned and hid his head beneath his blanket.

  “Bit rough, isn’t it?” said Medleycott.

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Quite interesting, though.”

  “Interesting?” said Sargent. “What, you mean being bashed about by the wind all day long?”

  “No, no,” said Medleycott. “I mean the prospect of existing nocturnally for weeks on end. It’s going to be quite a challenge: the light isn’t due to improve for another month at least.”

  “So I heard.”

  “We’ve a dim road ahead of us.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Suddenly Medleycott sat up and peered through the slit of the tent flaps.

  “It’s pitch black out there now,” he announced. “Yet what sights we’ve beheld since our journey began. Think of them! The leaden moon floating on a shimmering sea! Sunrise and sunset rolled together into one fiery hue! The burnished skies! The majestic beams spreading over the dip of the hill! Don’t they make a wonderful spectacle?”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever noticed,” replied Sargent.

  A short silence followed,
during which the three men groped in the dark for their various clothes and belongings. Then Medleycott said, “By the way, I hope you fellows don’t mind my being billeted with you all this time. It was Scagg who arranged it. I expect you’re pretty tired of my company by now, aren’t you?”

  “Course we’re not,” said Cook. “Are we, Sargy?”

  “Course not. These your boots?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Medleycott reached over, causing an object to fall from one of his pockets. “Ah, my souvenir,” he said. “I forgot I had that.”

  “What is it?” asked Cook.

  “Just something foolish. One of those blue pebbles we keep seeing. I picked it up when we first came on to the scree.”

  “Ten a penny, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, I know; I ought to throw it away really, but now I’ve carried it this far I think I’ll probably keep it for when we go home.”

  “If we go home,” said Sargent.

  At these words Medleycott started. “You can’t mean that,” he said. “Surely not?”

  “Surely nothing,” Sargent replied. “You said yourself it was rough here.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Mr Medleycott, I’m just pointing out that nothing’s for certain. I’ve been on trips like this before, and I can tell you it does no good to start talking about going home, especially when we’re still heading in the opposite direction.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” answered Medleycott. “Not when you put it like that.”

  “It’s a long way to this blessed Agreed Furthest Point.”

  “Yes.”

  The tent flaps parted and Scagg’s bearded face appeared in the opening. “Discussing geography, are we?”

  “Sort of,” said Medleycott.

  “Most commendable.”

  In his hand Scagg was holding a lamp, which he now used to direct a ray of light into the tent. This showed that both Sargent and Cook had grown beards, while Medleycott remained clean-shaven.

  “Glad to see someone’s keeping up standards,” Scagg remarked.

  The only other lamp in use that morning was hung on a hook above the foldaway kitchen. Here Seddon laboured over his pans as he prepared breakfast. Blanchflower and Firth had risen an hour earlier to give the mules their boiled mash, and the pair were now lost from view at the camp’s periphery. When Medleycott, Cook and Sargent entered the illuminated circle, they found Plover and Summerfield sitting in the lee of a rough stone dyke which had been built hurriedly the previous evening. Construction of such works had become the priority on arrival at each new camping place, simply because there was no other protection from the remorseless wind. Earlier versions consisted of little more than low banks behind which the men could shelter if they hunched down. Lately, however, the dykes had gained height and taken on a slightly curved shape. These improvements were instigated by Summerfield, who strove nightly to provide a little additional comfort for his comrades, and whose efforts were subsequently abandoned when the expedition moved on.

  This morning he sat behind his most recent creation, stirring sugar into a steaming bowl of porridge. “Budge up a bit,” said Cook, squatting next to him with a bowl of his own. “This weather’s blinking perishing.”

  They were also joined by Sargent.

  “There’s hardly room for four,” remarked Plover, who had now been pushed to the end of the row. “Not by a long chalk.”

  As if to emphasise the point, he rose to his feet and finished his porridge whilst wandering slowly around the outskirts of the camp. His place behind the dyke was taken immediately by Medleycott. Scagg, meanwhile, stalked amongst the various stacks of supplies and equipment, his eyes fixed as he carried out a series of counts. Then he produced a notebook, wrote down some figures, and put it away again. “Doesn’t that man ever have a day off?” murmured Cook. “He’s been stocktaking continually since we left the blockhouse.”

  “He’s making sure his calculations are holding true,” said Summerfield. “Don’t forget there are eleven men to clothe and feed; and two dozen mules to look after. It’s quite a tall order.”

  “But I thought Seddon was supposed to be quartermaster.”

  “He is on a day-to-day basis, yes; but it was Scagg who assembled all the stores in the first place, before we even put to sea. I think he feels a duty of responsibility towards Johns.”

  “Well, I wish he’d sit down for five minutes and have some porridge,” said Cook. “It’s wearing me out watching him march about like that.”

  “Where is Johns anyway?” enquired Sargent. “And Chase for that matter?”

  “They’ve gone up to the next ridge,” Summerfield replied. “Apparently the gale is even worse over the other side. Johns is going to make a decision about whether to press on today, or wait here till tomorrow.”

  “I suppose he couldn’t have decided before we all got out of bed?”

  “It seems not.”

  The conversation died down as Scagg retraced his steps and crossed into the cooking area. Here he exchanged a few muffled words with Seddon, but the four watchers heard nothing except the wind howling around the edge of their shelter. It tore through the tiny settlement, pummelling the tents with each violent gust, and threatening to carry away anything that was inadequately secured. On occasion these blasts also caused Seddon’s lamp to flare up brightly. Thus it was that all of a sudden Plover came into view. They could see him moving slowly along the camp’s outer margin, still carrying his porridge bowl and spoon, as he continued his circumambulation.

  “If he keeps coming round this regular we’ll be able to tell the time by him,” remarked Cook.

  Another flicker of the lamplight showed that Plover no longer walked alone. There was a dark shape moving in the gloom beyond him, and this soon resolved itself into a pair of approaching figures. Johns and Chase were back from their survey of the ridge. The instant they appeared, Sargent murmured something inaudible; then he stood up and headed towards the field kitchen, followed closely by Cook. After handing in their dishes, they crossed to their tent and started taking it down. Likewise, Summerfield busied himself by helping Seddon pack away the cooking gear. This left Medleycott sitting in solitude with his back to the dyke. Seemingly lost in thought, he remained where he was for several minutes, gazing silently towards the south while the wind raged all about him. Only when Scagg returned and began issuing a string of commands was Medleycott’s reverie broken. A general stir from the direction of the mules indicated that they were now being roped into train for the day’s journey. In the meantime, Plover had ceased his aimless stroll and was engaged with the allocation of loads. Quickly, Medleycott got to his feet and went over to join his tent-mates.

  “Sorry I didn’t come and lend a hand earlier,” he said. “I thought we were supposed to be waiting for Johns’ decision.”

  “We were,” replied Sargent. “But it was obvious the moment he came back he’d already made his mind up.”

  “Why was it obvious?”

  “Because he looked so blinking cheerful, that’s why!”

  Shortly afterwards, everyone was called into the middle of the camp so that Johns could address them. He was wearing a heavy surcoat, as well as his woolly helmet and mittens, and stood braced against the wind.

  “Good morning, men,” he said, raising his voice. “I’m glad to see you’re all so keen to press on. In fact, I find it most heartening. Now you might have guessed it’s blowing seven bells beyond the ridge, but I’ve come to the conclusion we would gain nothing by waiting here on the off-chance that it subsides. We’d simply lose another day. So, assuming you’ve all breakfasted, I’d like to push forward at once, if that’s agreeable to everybody?”

  “Quite agreeable,” replied Scagg.

  “Excellent,” said Johns. “And by the way, I suggest you don the warmest clothing you have. It’s really quite bitter up there.”

  At these words he glanced briefly at Plover who, unlike the other men, w
as still wearing his high-peaked cap. By some fortune this item had stayed on its owner’s head during even the worst bouts of wind experienced in the past few days, and had lately become a frequent subject of discussion between Johns and Scagg. On several occasions Johns expressed his opinion that woolly helmets were markedly more suitable for the present conditions than any sort of cap, being both warmer and likelier to stay in place. He urged Scagg to press the point on Plover, but for some reason Scagg persistently failed to do this. Johns never raised the matter directly with Plover himself because, as he told Scagg, it might cause embarrassment. Hence Plover continued to be at odds with his companions: them in their woolly helmets; him in his high-peaked cap.

  He was wearing it thirty minutes later when they departed from the camp, leaving Summerfield’s stone dyke as the only evidence they had ever been there. No one witnessed whether or not Plover struggled to retain his headgear as they mounted the ridge. Dawn was still some hours away, and the combination of darkness and rising gales meant all their faculties were directed towards finding a passage over the ridge and into the territory beyond. Summerfield pioneered the way, his body bent to the ground; his pace slow but resolute. Then came Blanchflower and Firth leading the mules, followed by Scagg and the rest of the men in steady procession, with Johns at the rear. The formation had been as such for almost a week now, and at Scagg’s suggestion had remained unaltered.

  “There won’t be any stragglers when they know you’re behind them,” he observed to Johns one evening in the seclusion of their tent. “I’ll pull them and you can push them, so to speak.”

  “Are you sure that’s really necessary?” Johns enquired. “After all, they’re each of them hand-picked volunteers who shouldn’t need any inducement.”