Explorers of the New Century

by Magnus Mills

  “No wonder I’ve never heard of him.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Sargent! Professor Childish was the founder of Transportation Theory.”

  “Transportation? Oh, you mean ‘Round ‘em Up and Ship ‘em Out!’”

  “That’s the popular name for it, yes,” said Summerfield. “But I know privately Mr Johns prefers the term ‘transportation’. Apparently he finds all the sloganeering rather distasteful.”

  “Shocking,” agreed Sargent.

  He sat down and stirred his porridge reflectively. Summerfield joined him, having now completed his duties. Meanwhile, at the opposite side of the camp, tents were already being dismanded.

  “So this professor chap thought it all up, did he?” Sargent enquired at length.

  “He did indeed.”

  “I always assumed it was Johns’ idea.”

  “Well, certainly, Mr Johns had the technical means to carry the theory out; but it originated with Professor Childish. As a matter of fact, I’ve been studying his treatise lately, when I’ve found the time.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed you’ve had your nose stuck in that book most evenings.”

  “It makes fascinating reading,” Summerfield continued. “It’s written in an archaic sort of style which takes some getting used to, but all the same it’s absolutely brimful of ideas. I’m sure Mr Johns wouldn’t mind if you wanted to borrow it after me.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” said Sargent. “But to tell you the truth I don’t really go in much for theories.”

  “I take it you’re not a subscriber then?”

  “I’m not anything.”

  “Then what on earth made you volunteer for such an arduous journey as this?”

  “There was nothing else for me,” replied Sargent with a shrug. “So I decided I might as well sign up.”

  “Summerfield!” called a voice from the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want this breakfast or not?!”

  “Coming!” he called back, then, speaking to Sargent, “Better dash.”

  Summerfield sprang to his feet and in an instant he was gone. Sargent stayed where he was, spending quite some time finishing his porridge before eventually returning to the centre of the encampment. This was now a hive of activity. Most of the stores and equipment had been stacked ready for loading, the field kitchen was all folded away and the men were sorting out the last of their personal belongings. Only Summerfield stood stationary with his spoon and bowl as he hurried down a belated breakfast. Plover was near at hand. He was holding a small shaving mirror close to the lantern, looking at himself and making sure his woolly helmet was on straight.

  “I’m surprised you’re late, Summerfield,” he commented. “Quite unusual, for you.”

  “Yes, I know,” came the reply. “I got talking to Sargent.”

  “That must have been jolly interesting.”

  “It was, actually,” answered Summerfield. “I find him very good company.”

  “Well, each to his own, I suppose.”

  “Someone mention my name?” said Sargent, appearing out of the gloom.

  “I was just saying you were on your own,” said Plover quickly. “Now that Cook’s no longer with us. Expect you’re missing him, aren’t you?”

  “Why should I be missing him?”

  “Because I thought the two of you were great pals.”

  “We joined the expedition on the same day,” said Sargent. “But I’d never met him before that.”

  “Really? Well, I must say the two of you seemed to get on very well, sharing your plates, swapping jokes and so forth.”

  “You mean we’re birds of a feather?” said Sargent.

  “Yes…er, no, of course not.”

  “What then?”

  “Well…”

  “Plover,” intervened Summerfield. “I think Scagg wants you for something.”

  “Ah, does he?” said Plover. “Then you must excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Giving Sargent a curt nod, he smiled, then turned and walked away. After he’d gone, Sargent winked at Summerfield.

  “Spoilsport,” he murmured, with a grin.

  §

  Sometime during that day, amongst his numerous other considerations, Seddon devised a means for baking a cake on an open stove. He refused to disclose the method to a curious Scagg, however, insisting on keeping it to himself. For his part, Scagg made sure Seddon received all the assistance he needed, and when the evening halt was called he instructed Blanchflower and Firth to help set up the field kitchen. There was nothing uncommon in this, as everyone was used to Scagg giving orders. What was noticeable, and remarked upon at different times by various people, was his increasing irritability as the new camp was established and supper prepared.

  “What’s irking him?” asked Sargent, after being snapped at for no apparent reason.

  “I’m not sure,” replied Summerfield. “It’s rather odd, but he seems to be waiting for something. I’ve seen him glance at his watch once or twice as though he’s due for an appointment.”

  “Maybe Johns is going to make one of his speeches.”

  “Yes, maybe.”

  They followed Scagg’s movements as he walked over to the kitchen and spoke to Seddon. Urgent words were exchanged, then Scagg went round informing everyone that supper was ready. This was quite unnecessary since supper was always eagerly anticipated by the whole party, most of whom had been hovering in the vicinity for the past half hour. The only exception was Johns, who delayed his appearance until precisely seven o’clock. Emerging from the ‘command tent’, as it had come to be known, he proceeded to his favoured place in the lee of Summerfield’s stone dyke. Then, when the others had settled about him, the meal was begun. As usual on these occasions, talk was rare. The men ate in silence, apart from uttering scattered remarks which expressed how very agreeable the food was (Johns), or how it should have been cooked a little longer (Sargent). Afterwards everybody would be expected to disperse almost immediately. This evening was different, however, because all of a sudden Scagg rose to his feet and strode rather stiffly to the middle of the circle.

  “Before we go to bed,” he announced, raising his voice against the ceaseless moan of the wind, “I’ve one or two words to say to you all.”

  As was his custom, Scagg was wearing his woolly helmet rolled up towards the crown of his head. During the past few weeks his beard and eyebrows had thickened, and these lent him a certain authority as he addressed his companions in the lamplight.

  “This is a dark season,” he continued. “Night and day are indistinguishable. We have endured a lengthy trek through perpetual gloom, and consequently some of us may have forgotten what time of year it is. In my case, only a chance conversation with Medleycott early this morning reminded me of today’s date. Now, if you please, Seddon.”

  At a signal from Scagg, Seddon entered the circle carrying a large round biscuit tin. On his head he was sporting a chefs hat fashioned roughly from cardboard, and over his left arm was draped a white napkin. With a flourish he removed the lid from the tin, and revealed an iced cake dotted with a number of tiny candles. Some of the onlookers gasped in surprise.

  “Oh, there was really no need,” said Johns.

  “Certainly there was,” replied Scagg, clearing his throat before turning to face his leader. “Mr Johns…er…may I call you William in these special circumstances?”

  “Of course,” Johns affirmed.

  “Well, William, as I say, it was only by chance that I remembered today is your birthday, and so, thanks to Seddon here, I am now able to present you with a celebratory cake, along with our good wishes. If you’ve no objection, we won’t bother lighting the candles. I’m afraid the wind will just blow them straight out again.”

  This last comment brought a round of laughter from the assembled men, followed by a robust chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to You’. Then Johns offered his humble thanks and asked for the cake to be divided up so that everyone could have a share.

 
; “No one must go to bed,” he insisted, “until it’s all gone.”

  Smiling a rare smile, Scagg produced a knife and performed the honours. Only Medleycott declined a slice.

  ♦

  The process of civilisation is almost complete. We live our lives in safely and prosperity. Famine and disease have been defeated. Trade thrives everywhere. We no longer practise warfare and hence we have no need of a standing army. Neither do we fortify our cities and ports. For decades our navies have kept the peace by sailing along foreign shores and firing cannon-balls harmlessly into the sea. Diplomacy does the rest. There is no doubt that we’ve made the world a far better place to live in. Yet there remains one enduring problem: namely, the question of the mules. Since time immemorial they have been our inescapable burden. We have tolerated their presence simply because we have had no other option, but now, at long last, there is light at the end of the tunnel. The recent discovery of new territories in the north has offered a ready-made and welcome solution. We should seize it with both hands!

  “You still reading?” enquired Sargent, from beneath his utility blanket.

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” said Summerfield. “I was thoroughly engrossed. Were you waiting to turn the light out?”

  “Well, everyone else has been tucked up for a while now, so if you don’t mind.”

  “All right then. Sorry.”

  Summerfield closed his book and put it away. Then he reached over, extinguished the lamp and settled down to sleep.

  “Nearly finished it?” said Sargent.

  “Almost, but to tell you the truth I’ll be sorry to get to the end. The arguments Childish puts forward are utterly fascinating, and so original. What astounds me is that he wrote it more than twenty years ago yet we’re only just beginning to put his theory into practice. I can’t understand the delay.”

  “The reason is obvious,” said a voice in the darkness. “It’s because he was ahead of his time.” The voice belonged to Plover.

  “Oh, you’re still awake, are you?” asked Summerfield.

  “That question does not merit an answer. You were discussing Professor Childish, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, fortunately the world has now caught up with him. All those eyebrows raised at the very mention of transportation have disappeared; all those do-gooders holding back progress with their moral doubts; all those heads stuck in the sand. The objectors have been silenced. Finally we can turn our attention to changing the theory into fact, and not a moment too soon in my opinion.”

  “I had no idea you were such a zealot.”

  “Well, it’s not allowed, is it?” said Plover. “Johns sees himself as the only ‘thinker’ in the party and if the rest of us don’t agree with every word he says we earn a black mark from his trusty lieutenant, Mr Scagg.”

  “Oh, I think that’s a bit harsh,” said Summerfield. “Johns has always listened to what I have to say.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “So what’s your particular gripe then?”

  “Merely that we’re not driving the mules hard enough. Johns is obsessed with all this welfare and general mollycoddling and as a result he’s allowing them to dictate the pace. We should be miles further along by now.”

  “But the whole purpose of this expedition is to find out if the mules can survive the journey. There’s absolutely no point in pushing them beyond their capabilities.”

  “Come, come,” rejoined Plover. “Have you never read Younghusband’s pamphlet on the subject?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Summerfield. “I’m only familiar with Childish.”

  “Good grief, not another theory,” murmured Sargent.

  “No, not another theory,” said Plover. “The same one but with a completely different emphasis. Younghusband referred to what he called the ‘natural strengths’ of the mules, and suggested they’re far tougher than they lead us to believe. Laziness is what we used to call it, but of course Johns won’t allow such expressions.”

  “Well, yes, we do have one lazy mule,” conceded Summerfield.

  “They’re all lazy!” snapped Plover. “They do nothing unless they’re constantly spurred on; therefore spur them on we must, and if one or two fall by the wayside then so be it! In my judgment, all this talk about whether they can survive the journey is academic irrelevance. Our primary aim should be to take them to the Furthest Point from Civilisation and leave them there. What happens to them after that is no concern of ours.”

  “But surely the theory should be put to certain tests before any lasting decision is made.”

  “Not in my opinion,” said Plover. “There’s nothing more to discuss.”

  At that the conversation subsided. The men lay silently in the darkness, and one by one drifted off to sleep. All except Summerfield. After tossing and turning for almost an hour, he eventually sat up and folded his utility blanket.

  Then, taking care not to wake his companions, he picked his way to the entrance of the tent. Emerging into the cold air, he buttoned his surcoat and pulled his woolly helmet over his head. Summerfield passed the rest of the night wandering round the edge of me camp, occasionally calling to check on the mules, or adding new stones to the dyke he had built earlier. In the end he sat down behind it, out of the wind, and remained there, dozing quietly, until Seddon appeared and began preparing breakfast. It was Blanchflower’s turn to feed the mules, so he was the next to surface, accompanied by Firth, who came along to lend a hand. In this desultory manner the entire camp gradually returned to life until everyone had risen and was out and about. Chase was particularly busy this morning. Leaving the tents far behind, he went up on to the high ground they’d descended the previous evening and took some readings. Then he reported to Johns. A short while later the assembled company heard an announcement.

  “I have a piece of good news,” said Johns. “I’m pleased to tell you that we can expect a glimmer of light at noon today.” He paused while the men cheered heartily, and then continued. “It won’t be much because the sun will barely nudge the horizon, yet at least we’ll be assured that spring is on its way at last!”

  There were further encouraging signs to come. Soon after the march had resumed, the terrain began to level out, seemingly on to the great plain that Chase had predicted. It was still stony underfoot, which made the going difficult, but nevertheless the expedition advanced with a much lighter step than before. Moreover, the mules appeared to have recovered some of their vigour. Instead of having to be cajoled along in the normal manner, they now proved easier to lead, practically breaking into a trot as they followed in Summerfield’s wake. He in turn forged ahead, his body bent against the wind as he led the way into the unknown. The rest of the party had long since become accustomed to losing sight of him early in the day (despite Johns’s reservations) and not seeing him again for several hours. Consequently, they were taken by surprise when just before midday he came back to meet them, emerging suddenly from the gloom with an ecstatic look on his face.

  “There’s a river!” he cried. “I’ve seen it!”

  He was holding his woolly helmet in his hand, and now, in his exuberance, he whirled it up into the air. In an instant it had been caught by a gust of wind, and quickly began tumbling away. Medleycott, who happened to be leading the mules, let go of their rope and ran back to retrieve the helmet. Instead of coming to a halt, however, the mules rushed forward in a bunch, taking their burdens with them.

  “Get them under control, someone!” ordered Johns, when he realised what was happening.

  Blanchflower and Firth ran up from behind, followed by Scagg, who roared instructions to everyone in sight. Summerfield had already set off in pursuit of the mules and made an attempt to grab their rope, but without success. Similar moves were tried by Chase and Medleycott. The stampede was now gaining momentum, resulting in sundry items falling from the mules’ backs as they careered pell-mell towards their apparent objective: the river. A wide black ribbon was gradually takin
g shape in the darkness ahead of them, and with it there came the sound of water flowing. Next moment the leading mules were plunging in, dragging the rest behind them. Immediately the entire troop, all roped together, was being swept downstream. Without hesitation, Medleycott threw himself into the river and began swimming, though still fully clothed.

  “Use your knife!” yelled Scagg. “Cut the rope!”

  Others were now in the water too, wading into the shallows to salvage various pieces of gear that had come adrift. Meanwhile, Medleycott had reached the mules and was at work with his knife amid the pandemonium. Panic had now taken hold, and despite his efforts he only managed to cut five mules free. With a struggle, the men brought four of these ashore. The rest continued to be pulled along with the flow of the river and were soon lost from view. With them went Medleycott. Summerfield ran along the bank shouting at him to swim back, but he still seemed intent on rescuing the mules. Finally he too vanished. Summerfield stumbled on until his legs would carry him no further.

  “Medleycott!!” he howled in desperation. “Come back!”

  He stopped and for a long time stood motionless, staring into the distance. Presently Johns appeared beside him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “I fear we’ve lost him,” he said.

  “Is there nothing else we can do?” asked Summerfield.

  “I don’t think so. This river is obviously more powerful than it looks. He’ll be a mile away by now.”

  While they’d been talking, a soft gleam had begun gradually to spread across the southern horizon. For a minute the land all about them was bathed in a pale silver light, but the figures on the river bank paid no heed and very soon it was gone again. By the time they’d walked back and rejoined the others, Scagg had started taking stock of the remaining supplies and equipment. The four surviving mules were being looked after by Blanchflower and Firth, while Seddon assembled what was left of the foldaway kitchen. The windbreak had gone, as had most of the pots, but the stove itself was still intact. Immediately, Summerfield set about building a stone dyke for Seddon to work behind. Two of the three tents had been recovered, soaking wet, from the river, and these had been unfolded so they could dry out. Much else was missing, including a substantial quantity of food. Johns ordered a simple hot meal to be cooked for everyone. Then, after a period of rest, he organised parties to follow the river in each direction in search of a suitable crossing place.