Explorers of the New Century

by Magnus Mills

  “It’s our last hope,” he announced.

  Plover, Sargent and Summerfield took the downstream leg. Keeping close to the bank, they peered constantly into the black water on the off-chance that Medleycott would still be found. Nothing was seen, however, and after a while they began to conjecture about what Johns would likely do next. It was a lacklustre conversation consisting mainly of Sargent giving his opinion that they had no choice but to turn back. When informed that this was out of the question, he appeared not to hear and merely repeated his assertion, at which point the others ceased to contradict him. Then suddenly a nearby scuffing noise brought them all to a halt.

  “What was that?” said Plover.

  Just ahead of them a dim shape was moving.

  “Medleycott!” proclaimed Sargent.

  “No, no,” said Summerfield. “It’s a mule.”

  At the sound of their voices, the shape came closer, and a moment later they saw that it was indeed a mule, a young female, trailing a short length of rope. Sargent sprang forward in an attempt to grab it, and instantly the mule moved away again.

  “I recognise that one,” announced Summerfield. “It’s the dawdler we punished under the hood. Poor Medleycott must have managed to cut it free before the current took him.”

  “Well, three of us should be able to catch it,” said Plover. “It’ll be a good trophy to take back to Johns. Let’s have a go.”

  Nonetheless, despite their efforts, they repeatedly failed to get anywhere near the mule. Time after time they moved within a few yards of it, only to lose sight again as it vanished into the darkness. A quarter of an hour passed and still they’d had no success.

  Then Summerfield said, “Let me make a suggestion. I’ve had a few dealings with this one already. If you two go back to the camp, I’ll try to coax it in on my own.”

  “So that you can earn all the praise?” said Plover.

  “Of course not,” responded Summerfield. “I simply think it’s the best workable solution; otherwise we’re going to exhaust ourselves fairly quickly. What’s your view, Sargent?”

  “I agree with you,” came the reply.

  A few minutes later Summerfield was walking alone along the river bank. Quite soon he came upon the mule and at once paused. The mule did not move so he took a careful step forward. Then another. Then he stopped. Deliberately he turned away and gazed at the river. Still the mule remained where it was. Summerfield allowed several seconds to pass before again facing his quarry. The mule was now looking directly at him and appeared to be quite calm, yet when he tried edging forward it skipped away in a playful manner. Then it turned towards him once more. Summerfield waited.

  “Come on then,” said the mule. “Catch me if you can.”

  There was a long leaden silence, broken finally by Summerfield.

  “How dare you speak to me!” he uttered.

  “What of it?” asked the mule. “Just because you forbid us to talk do you think we’ll lose our tongues?”

  “I don’t make the laws,” Summerfield replied. “Even so, you had better be silent or you’ll make things even worse for yourself.”

  “What could be worse? I’ve already spent a night under that hood.”

  “You can forget the hood. You’re asking for a severe beating this time.”

  “I don’t think so,” answered the mule. “You wouldn’t lay a finger on me. You’re far too civilised for that.”

  “Maybe so,” said Summerfield. “However, that doesn’t mean I can restrain my companions. Some of them are less tolerant than me.”

  “Then you’ll just have to be my protector, won’t you?”

  ♦

  Meanwhile, the other party had returned to the camp with some favourable news. Chase, Blanchflower and Firth had discovered a natural ford about a mile upriver, and they had succeeded in getting across and back quite easily. Their find was still under discussion when Summerfield appeared, leading the mule.

  “Ah, Summerfield, well done,” said Johns. “Come and join us. Tie it up, will you, Sargent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t tether this one,” interceded Summerfield.

  “Whyever not?” Johns enquired.

  “Because I promised her she wouldn’t be tied up any more.”

  “She?!” snapped Scagg. “Since when have we referred to mules in that manner?!”

  “Admittedly never.”

  “So what’s the game then?!”

  “It seemed the most practical approach,” said Summerfield. “I really don’t see what other option I had.”

  “Of course you had an option!”

  “It’s all right, Scagg,” said Johns. “I think Summerfield can be forgiven under the circumstances.”

  “But it’s outrageous making bargains with a mule!”

  “I know, Scagg, I know. All the same, I’m afraid we’re going to have to learn to live with it. An hour ago we thought we only had four mules left. Now we have five, and this one’s a female, which is a bounty for us. It makes it worthwhile to continue our journey. Therefore we can allow a small concession.”

  “Very well, sir,” murmured Scagg. “If you say so.”

  Accordingly, the mule was led away to join the others. Then Johns gathered the men around him and set forth his plans.

  “Disaster has struck,” he began. “Yet we shall not be defeated so readily. Blanchflower and Firth, I want you to return southward and collect the extra supplies. Go only as far as Summerfield’s Depression: Cook should be there to meet you by now. In the meantime, the rest of us will take advantage of Chase’s Crossing, as I propose to name it. With our limited resources we’re going to make a ‘dash’ for the Furthest Point. I think you’ll all agree that we owe it to Medleycott to press on.”

  “Of course,” said Plover.

  The remnants of the afternoon were spent in making preparations for the following day. Scagg went through the food supplies and worked out a system for rationing, assisted by Seddon. The two remaining tents, having dried quickly in the wind, were now erected. It had been decided that Blanchflower and Firth would rest overnight before leaving, which meant there would be four in one tent and five in the other. At the end of the evening, in sombre company, Johns made an entry in his journal:

  I regret to report that today we lost Medleycott in a tragic and costly accident. It should be recorded that he gave his life attempting to save some of our mules.

  Despite the shortage of accommodation, Scagg arranged that Johns would have sole use of the command tent for one hour each day, immediately after supper. The purpose was to ‘allow Mr Johns a little bit of peace and quiet’, as Scagg put it. During this period everyone else was expected to crowd into the other tent. Johns was quite prepared to receive visitors, however, and two nights after the river crossing he was playing host to Summerfield.

  “I’ve come to return your book,” said his guest. “Thank you for the loan: it was most interesting.”

  “Interesting?” replied Johns. “Does that mean you weren’t entirely convinced by the arguments?”

  “No, no,” said Summerfield quickly. “It’s just that I’ve become a little concerned about one aspect of the theory.”

  “What’s troubling you exactly?”

  “It’s about this homeland we’re hoping to establish for the mules.”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “Will they be treated fairly, Mr Johns? I mean, we’re transporting them to the Furthest Point from Civilisation and leaving them there. Can we be sure they’ll be able to cope on their own?”

  “Frankly, we can’t,” said Johns. “There are many unanswered questions still remaining and everyone is aware of the risks. Nevertheless we had to begin somewhere. As you know, the aim of this expedition is to discover whether the mules can survive the initial journey. Our success will be the lodestar: the model for future advances. If the place is considered suitable, then the process of settlement will begin at once. Naturally, w
e’ll need to provide basic sanitation; we’ll also set up supply lines to help them through the first few seasons. After that, they’ll be left entirely to their own devices.”

  “But if all fails they’ll suffer terribly!” exclaimed Summerfield.

  “That’s why we’re only starting with a small number.”

  “But…”

  “Look, Summerfield, you must appreciate that even I have certain reservations about this, but I’m afraid there is no other option. The alternatives have been tried and none of them work. Let me assure you that I bear the mules no personal ill-will whatsoever. I would be the first to declare that most of them are honest and harmless creatures. They have no very deep dye of turpitude. Instead, their inherent weakness lies in all that they lack: the ability to make rational judgments; the concept of propriety; the power of self-discipline. They lose their heads far too easily: the incident at the river was a perfect demonstration of that. Furthermore, they do nothing profitable; they are strangers to industry; they don’t invent things; they don’t plough the waters of the deep; they don’t extract minerals, construct bridges or dig tunnels. Neither do they have any understanding of science. As for art, well, yes, I admit they are capable of some wonderful creations in paint and clay; they possess a marvellous sense of colour; yet they only do this as a sort of pastime, never in a formal, studied way. Then, of course, they have their fanciful beliefs and superstitions, most of which defy all reason.”

  Johns paused and gave a long sigh before continuing.

  “Summerfield, I cannot overstate the efforts that have been made to let the mules live alongside us. Every conceivable solution has been tried, and every one has failed. Simply put, the mules are completely immune to the forces of civilisation; therefore, we have decided that the only answer is to allow them to develop separately in their own corner of the world; to build shelters and eke out some kind of pastoral existence. Believe me, it will be for their own good in the long run.”

  “To quote Professor Childish.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Sadly, no,” said Johns. “He had done all the hard work long before I was around.”

  “Any notion of what he was like?”

  “A real footslogger, apparently, but to start with it was mainly uphill. He first began to promulgate his ideas through a series of minor publications, followed by an extensive tour of lectures and public meetings. Then came the book, which famously received dreadful reviews. From the outset he was severely castigated; his proposals were considered unthinkable, offensive even; but gradually, as time passed, the Theory started to catch on. An early death left his work incomplete, but others soon picked up the baton, notably Younghusband and Clark, who quickly became the leading lights. It was they who came and built the blockhouse, of course, paving the way for those who followed. Unfortunately none of their mules survived the sea journey, so they didn’t venture inland. That was in the closing decade of the last century, before the details had been properly thought through. Eventually a great conference was held, attended by many interested parties, including myself.”

  “And Tostig.”

  “Yes, Tostig was there too, so I’m told. I’ve never met him either. Not even an introduction, would you believe? As a matter of fact, I got the impression my presence was being ignored generally, so I didn’t bother with the second conference they held the following year. Not that it made any difference by then. The main achievement of that first conference was its success in agreeing coordinates for the Furthest Point from Civilisation. It took days of debate and discussion, but finally an accord was reached. All further talk seemed superficial to me, so I just left them to it and got on with the job.”

  “‘Time for Action not Words’.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Johns nodded and smiled at Summerfield, then began leafing through the pages of the newly returned book.

  “Tell me, Summerfield,” he said, without looking up. “How do you find the new system of rationing?”

  “It appears to be working well enough,” replied Summerfield.

  “Have you had to tighten your belt yet?”

  “Not yet, Mr Johns, but I’m quite prepared to do so if necessary.”

  “And does that go for all of your companions as well?”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  A moment passed before Johns spoke again.

  “I hope you’ve noticed that the mules’ allowance has not been reduced.”

  “Yes, I must say I’ve noticed.”

  “On this occasion it’s the men who have made the sacrifice.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you see we do treat them as fairly as we can.”

  ∨ Explorers of the New Century ∧

  Six

  With the passing of time, the days became gradually lighter. Spring was returning. The members of the eastern expedition, alerted by Thorsson, had paused to witness the long-awaited gleam in the southern sky, since when they had emerged from their rocky wilderness on to a broad windswept plain where they could find their way much more easily, although for the most part darkness still predominated. Tostig had chosen to mark the change in terrain by establishing a staging post for their return journey. Here were deposited some quantities of dried food, some water, and various pieces of equipment. Also three of the five pocket tents. The plan was to travel as lightly as possible for the final outward leg, Thorsson having calculated that the Agreed Furthest Point was at last within reach.

  “Odd to think, is it not?” said Tostig. “That by our own definition we are now beyond the scope of civilisation.”

  He was lying side by side with Guthrum in the first pocket tent. The second tent was occupied by Thorsson and Snaebjorn, while Thegn slept alone in the supply tent, crammed amongst the bare necessities.

  “Odd indeed,” replied Guthrum.

  “And it highlights a dilemma of mine,” Tostig continued. “Namely, the matter of the green ink.”

  “What’s your quandary?”

  “Simply this, Guthrum. The nearer we get to our destination, the less the likelihood of finding the haven we’re searching for. Oh, I know I haven’t mentioned it to the men, but, let’s admit it, the evidence is far from encouraging. This blasted wind hardly suggests the kind of climate we seek, and there has been absolutely no hint of greenery since we came across that sprig of foliage.”

  “A false sign if ever there was one.”

  “Quite,” said Tostig. “Which brings me to the green ink. We have one bottle and it remains unopened. The bottle weighs the same as a day’s ration of dried food for five men. The purpose of our march is to discover a sort of green oasis, and the purpose of the ink is to illustrate it on our map. Yet there seems little sense in carrying the ink when it probably won’t be used. Far better to leave it behind and take an extra ration instead.”

  “But if there’s no green haven then our journey becomes pointless.”

  “My dilemma in a nutshell.”

  Tostig gave a sigh and fell momentarily silent. Outside in the blackness, bells could be heard tinkling as two or three mules sought shelter in the lee of the tent. (Tostig’s mules remained untethered at night.)

  “Shall I shoo them away?” asked Guthrum.

  “No, leave them where they are,” said Tostig. “There’s nothing out there that can do them any mischief, and all the food is safely stowed with Thegn. Let them sleep where they wish.”

  “Very good, sir. Now, with reference to your dilemma.”

  “Yes?”

  “I take it you have no intention of turning back?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then in my view there’s only one solution.”

  “Really, Guthrum? Well, tell me: I’m all ears.”

  “It lies in the simple fact that the map must be finished, come what may. As far as the expedition is concerned, it makes no difference what we find at the AFP, whether it be oasis or desert. Either way, we cannot
return home without a complete record of our journey; therefore, the ink will have to go with us.”

  “You’re right, of course, Guthrum, and very well put, if I may say so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Remind Snaebjorn to include it when he loads up tomorrow. In the meantime, we must prepare ourselves for another kind of disappointment: the possibility that Johns may have beaten us to our destination.”

  “Is it likely?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Tostig. “Nonetheless, it merits serious contemplation. If he has indeed overtaken us, then he will have proved his route to be the faster of the two. This in turn will bring him all the benefits of priority; and for us, nothing. Because without question, Guthrum, there’s much more to it than the simple matter of planting a flag.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Imagine for a moment that the Theory turns out to be workable; that just beyond the horizon there lies a land which fully meets our requirements. It follows that the person who gets there first will not only receive all the credit, but also stands to rake in a handsome profit when the process of resettlement begins. Think of the lucrative contracts waiting to be won: the shipping, the supply lines, the transit camps. No wonder Johns has made such a race of it!”

  “You don’t believe his motives are altruistic then?”

  “Oh, I’m certain his original intentions were beyond reproach,” declared Tostig. “I’ve read several of his published articles and it’s clear he shares our desire to return the mules to their natural state. Even so, there’s no denying that he’s persistently trodden an independent course: not once has he co-operated with the other interested parties; nor has he asked for their assistance. Johns is a true man of enterprise, but like other great explorers he is also flagrantly self-seeking. In his case, I’m afraid ambition has achieved the upper hand.”