A First Rate Tragedy

by Diana Preston

  Later on, when Scott knew that he himself was probably going to die, he wrote that Evans’s death had spared them a terrible decision since ‘the safety of the remainder seemed to demand his abandonment’. He also noted gratefully that Evans had died a natural death – meaning he had not had to resort to suicide or even that his comrades had not been required to give him a merciful release with the opium they carried. They would never have left him while he lived, yet it would have been impossible to pull him on the sledge. As it was, both Scott and Wilson could record their pride that their record ‘was clear’.

  Scott and his companions kept vigil for two hours after Edgar Evans died – the first victim of a journey that would prove too far for them all. What they did with his body is not recorded.

  16

  ‘Had We Lived . . .’

  The next day, as the surviving quartet marched grimly on their way, Kathleen wrote in her diary: ‘I was very taken up with you all evening. I wonder if anything special is happening to you. Something odd happened to the clocks between 9 and 10 p.m.’ She felt uncharacteristically depressed and had to shake off a sense of foreboding. There is a story that around this time Peter asked to be lifted down from his rocking horse and ran to the door holding out his hands and calling: ‘Hello Daddy’, but Kathleen did not believe in the supernatural.1 She was, however, brooding over Scott’s perennial bad luck and told Sir Compton Mackenzie, who was sitting for her at the time, that she feared it would prevent him from reaching the Pole. Kathleen was not to know that her husband had reached the Pole, only to be disappointed, and was now struggling against the odds to return.

  After snatching five hours’ sleep at the Lower Glacier Depot Scott and his three companions reached Shambles Camp, the desolate spot where the last of the ponies had been slaughtered, but a ‘fine supper’ of pony meat revived them a little. As Scott wrote: ‘New life seems to come with greater food almost immediately.’ They could take comfort that the plateau and the treacherous glacier lay behind them, but they now faced a slog of nearly 400 miles across the Barrier where the only certainty would be the mind-numbing monotony of a featureless landscape. They prepared as best they could, swapping their sledge for a new one which had been left at the depot and loading it with pony meat. However, they soon discovered that the surface was coated with soft, slushy snow. Scott described miserably how it was ‘like pulling over desert sand, not the least glide in the world’. He knew they must maintain a reasonable momentum to reach the depots containing the vital supplies, strung out across the Barrier, before their food and fuel ran out. There are echoes here of Shackleton’s return from his great southern journey when he wrote the morbid line: ‘Our food lies ahead and death stalks us from behind.’2

  Scott pinned his hopes on a change in the weather. A brisk southerly wind would enable them to hoist their sail and be blown across the ice. Even a moderate blizzard would have helped by sweeping away the loose ice crystals that clogged the sledge. Yet no kindly wind came to their aid. As he hauled, Scott pondered whether the loss of the tragic fifth man was a help or a hindrance. He concluded that: ‘The absence of poor Evans is a help to the commissariat, but if he had been here in a fit state we might have got along faster.’ On 20 February they staggered into Desolation Camp where the blizzard had imprisoned them for a disastrous four days on their outward journey. They searched hopefully for more pony meat but found none.

  Scott was lost in gloom. Trudging on, the only ‘rays of comfort’ were finding the tracks and cairns of the outward journey. This was not easy and they sometimes found themselves veering off-course. Scott was on tenterhooks, straining for the sight of each new cairn, anxiously assessing the weather, the surface of the Barrier and wondering what the weather held in store. On 24 February Scott set down the challenge: ‘It is a race between the season and hard conditions and our fitness and good food.’ He might have added that it was also a race to cover the distance before their fuel ran out. That very day while collecting supplies from the Southern Barrier Depot they had found a worrying shortage of oil. The fuel allowance had been carefully calculated – two one-gallon tins had been left at each depot for the returning parties. However, the oil had been exposed to extremes of heat and cold. In particular, the tins were often left in an accessible place on the top of the cairns and in the sun’s warmth the oil vaporized and escaped through the stoppers. The problem was exacerbated by the fact that the leather washers around the stoppers were prone to perish in the cold and that the tins had been disturbed by being opened by the other returning parties. Scott noted that they would have to be ‘very saving’ and from now on his diaries are peppered with worried references to the fuel situation and the need to cover greater distances. Scott’s anxiety expressed itself in various ways. The next day he nagged Bowers about his ability to pull on skis, writing that he ‘hasn’t quite the trick and is a little hurt at my criticisms, but I never doubted his heart’.

  As the month drew to a close the temperature dropped steadily. By 27 February Scott was describing it as ‘desperately cold’. The surface of the ice was deteriorating. It was now ‘coated with a thin layer of woolly crystals . . . These are too firmly fixed to be removed by the wind and cause impossible friction on the runners’. Scott knew their position was critical. Everything now depended on reaching each depot in time. He made endless calculations – how many days would it take to reach the next depot? How many days’ supply of food and fuel was left? Apart from everything else the Barrier itself depressed him – there was nothing to see, no warmth, no comfort on this great shelf of ice. ‘There is no doubt the middle of the Barrier is a pretty awful locality,’ he wrote in the knowledge that there were nearly 300 miles to go. Wilson’s diary ceased from this time. Living up to his ideal of being ‘entirely careless of your own soul or body in looking after the welfare of others’ left him neither time nor energy to write.3 Oates had abandoned his diary on 24 February, the day the poor meat-loving soldier had dug up Christopher’s head, only to find that it had gone rotten. From now on Scott became the only one to record the unfolding tragedy day by day.

  On 1 March they reached the Middle Barrier Depot to discover a trio of misfortunes. First, there was a further serious shortage of oil – there was barely enough to carry them on to the next depot over sixty miles away. Second, Oates, no longer able to conceal the appalling state of his feet, disclosed his frostbitten gangrenous toes on which the bitter temperatures on the Barrier had taken their toll. Third, that night the temperature fell to below -40°F, leaving them so chilled that it took them an hour and a half to struggle into their foot gear the next morning. Scott was not mincing his words when he wrote: ‘We are in a very queer street.’

  Indeed, from now on Scott’s account descends into thinly veiled despair as they battled along, barely managing a mile an hour, although he acknowledged the bravery of his companions: ‘Amongst ourselves we are unendingly cheerful, but what each man feels in his heart I can only guess. Pulling on foot gear in the morning is getting slower and slower, therefore every day more dangerous.’ It was also taking longer and longer to push painful and sensitive frostbitten limbs into sleeping bags which were becoming ever heavier and more rigid with frozen sweat and exhaled breath. Scott derived his strength and comfort from Wilson and Bowers, knowing he would not be able to cope if they ‘weren’t so determinedly cheerful over things’. He was painfully aware of Oates’s condition, knowing that a colder snap would spell disaster for the soldier. On 5 March he was writing: ‘Our fuel dreadfully low and the poor Soldier nearly done. It is pathetic enough because we can do nothing for him . . .’ None of them had expected such dreadfully low temperatures on the Barrier and the one suffering most, after Oates, was Wilson, ‘mainly, I fear, from his self-sacrificing devotion in doctoring Oates’s feet’.

  By 6 March poor Oates could no longer pull. He never complained and, indeed, was growing daily ever more silent. There seems little doubt that he knew what lay ahead and was coming to terms with
the fact that he would never again see Gestingthorpe, nor ride to hounds nor see his mother. He knew he was now a drag on the others. So did Scott, writing: ‘If we were all fit I should have hopes of getting through, but the poor Soldier has become a terrible hindrance, though he does his utmost and suffers much . . .’ The obvious solution stared Oates in the face. He must have remembered his discussions with Ponting at Cape Evans when he had asserted that suicide was the only honourable course for a sledger who was imperilling his companions.

  The days that followed were harrowing – three men struggling to pull what had become an impossible load, the fourth wondering how much longer he should continue to be a burden. On 7 March Scott wrote that the soldier’s crisis was near, but implying that it was fast approaching for them all. He himself was determined to keep going: ‘I should like to keep the track to the end,’ he wrote defiantly. Much would depend on what they found at the next depot. Had the dogs been out there with fresh supplies? Would there be enough fuel? Arriving at the depot at Mount Hooper on 9 March they found everything in short supply and only ‘cold comfort’ – ‘the dogs which would have been our salvation have evidently failed,’ Scott recorded grimly. The dogs had actually been awaiting the Polar party at One Ton Depot since 3 March, but a week later after depoting some supplies their drivers Cherry-Garrard and Dimitri had turned northwards again.

  Meanwhile, in early March London was abuzz with rumours that Scott had been first to the Pole. Kathleen, however, confided in her diary that: ‘I was certain there was something wrong.’ On 7 March, with Amundsen’s arrival in Tasmania, came proof positive that the Norwegian had in fact been the victor. The reaction in Britain was predictably muted and praise of Amundsen was tempered by the suggestion that he had not really played the game. The Times declared that his sudden decision to go south rather than north and the secrecy which surrounded it ‘were felt to be not quite in accordance with the spirit of fair and open competition which had hitherto marked Antarctic exploration’. Kathleen reacted with characteristic dignity and generosity to the Norwegian’s triumph but wrote: ‘I worked badly and my head rocked. I’m not going to recount what I have been feeling.’ Perhaps her little son was trying to cheer her up when he said: ‘Amundsen and Daddy both got to the Pole. Daddy has stopped working now.’

  Out on the Barrier Oates’s crisis was approaching. On 10 March he ‘asked Wilson if he had a chance this morning, and of course Bill had to say he didn’t know. In point of fact he has none,’ Scott wrote, staring reality in the face. ‘Apart from him, if he went under now, I doubt whether we could get through.’ The next day Scott wrote:

  Titus Oates is very near the end, one feels. What we or he will do, God only knows. We discussed the matter after breakfast; he is a brave fine fellow and understands the situation, but he practically asked for advice. Nothing could be said but to urge him to march as long as he could. One satisfactory result to the discussion; I practically ordered Wilson to hand over the means of ending our troubles to us . . . We have 30 opium tabloids apiece and he is left with a tube of morphine. So far the tragical side of our story.

  What bleak thoughts were now playing across their minds? They would have agreed with Cherry-Garrard that: ‘Practically any man who undertakes big Polar journeys must face the possibility of having to commit suicide to save his companions.’4 On the Winter Journey even the indomitable Bowers had ‘had a scheme of doing himself in with a pick-axe if necessity arose, though how he could have accomplished it I don’t know: or, as he said, there might be a crevasse and at any rate there was the medical case.’5 However, Scott had not abandoned hope and was still making frantic calculations. They had seven days’ food left and were about fifty-five miles from One Ton Camp. Averaging about six miles a day, the limit of their endurance, they would be just thirteen miles short of the depot when their food ran out. Could they get through?

  On 12 March they managed a further few miles at terrible cost. ‘The surface remains awful, the cold intense, and our physical condition running down. God help us!’ They awoke the next day to a strong northerly wind and a temperature of -37° which they simply could not face. They stayed in camp till afternoon when they managed just over five miles. The next day brought even lower temperatures of -43° at midday. Wilson was so horribly cold he could not even take off his skis for some time and ‘poor Oates got it again in the foot’. Scott wrote, ‘It must be near the end, but a pretty merciful end.’ Under the pressure of ‘tragedy all along the line’ Scott was now beginning to lose track of dates and, instead of writing his diary at lunchtime and again at night, was simply making notes at midday. That he kept writing at all is remarkable.

  On 16 or 17 March Oates decided he could go on no longer and asked to be left in his sleeping bag. Wilson had been reading Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam’ earlier on the journey. It contained lines which could have been written for the broken cavalry officer: ‘This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wished no more to wake.’ His comrades persuaded him to continue and he hobbled gamely on but at night his condition was so bad it was clear he could go no further. Scott recorded his end:

  Should this be found I want these facts recorded. Oates’s last thoughts were of his Mother, but immediately before he took pride in thinking that his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he met his death. We can testify to his bravery. He has borne intense suffering for weeks without complaint . . . He did not – would not – give up hope to the very end. He was a brave soul. This was the end. He slept through the night before last hoping not to wake; but he woke in the morning – yesterday. It was blowing a blizzard. He said, ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’ He went out into the blizzard and we have not seen him since . . . We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death, but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman. We all hope to meet the end with a similar spirit, and assuredly the end is not far.

  March 17 was Oates’s birthday. He was thirty-two.

  The forlorn trio marched onward. They had jettisoned their theodolite, Oates’s sleeping bag and a camera, but were still dragging their geological specimens ‘at Wilson’s special request’.6 Bowers was now the fittest. Both he and Wilson continued to talk of winning through but, Scott wondered, could they really believe it? They were all suffering frostbitten feet and Scott’s right foot was so bad that amputation was the least he could fear. However, this seemed increasingly academic – he had begun to write his farewell letters.

  By 19 March they were only eleven miles from One Ton Camp but the next day a severe blizzard descended. It was decided that Wilson and Bowers would try to battle through to the depot to fetch fuel, but Wilson’s letter to Oriana suggests it was a forlorn hope: ‘Birdie and I are going to try and reach the Depot 11 miles north of us and return to this tent where Captain Scott is lying with a frozen foot . . . I shall simply fall and go to sleep in the snow . . . Don’t be unhappy – all is for the best.’7 Bowers’s last letter to his mother is in similar vein: ‘God alone knows what will be the outcome of the 22 miles march we have to make but my trust is still in Him and in the abounding Grace of my Lord . . . There will be no shame however and you will know that I have struggled to the end . . . you will know that for me the end was peaceful as it is only sleep in the cold.’ It was his firm belief that ‘nothing that happens to our bodies really matters’. A sad little postscript added, ‘My gear that is not on the ship is at Mrs. Hatfield’s, Marine Hotel, Sumner, New Zealand.’8

  However, malign fate again took a hand. The blizzard was too thick for any such attempt and their plan changed. They decided they would all march for the depot when the blizzard lifted and die in their tracks if necessary. Yet even this was denied them. The blizzard seems to have continued to blow and their lives ebbed away with it. Perhaps, as he lay there, Scott reflected on the ill luck during the depot journey and his sensitivity to the ponies’ suffering, which had resulted in One Ton Depot being laid thirty m
iles further north than he had originally intended. Perhaps he still hoped against hope to hear the yapping of dog teams loping through the snowstorm to their rescue. Yet in his heart he must have known it was the end.

  He completed his letters. In his message to Oriana Wilson he paid tribute to Bill and also revealed his sense of guilt: ‘I should like you to know how splendid he was at the end – everlastingly cheerful and ready to sacrifice himself for others, never a word of blame to me for leading him into this mess.’ To Bowers’s mother he wrote of her son’s ‘dauntless spirit’ and that ‘he has remained cheerful, hopeful, and indomitable to the end’. He asked Barrie to help his own wife and child but also appealed for others: ‘Wilson leaves a widow, and Edgar Evans also a widow in humble circumstances. Do what you can to get their claims recognized.’ He also wrote to a number of those involved with the expedition including the treasurer Sir Edgar Speyer and his agent Mr Kinsey. His ‘Message to the Public’ justified the decisions he had taken, aware that in death, as in life, there would be those to criticize him. He did not write directly to Markham, telling Kathleen: ‘I haven’t time to write to Sir Clements, tell him I thought much of him, and never regretted his putting me in command of the Discovery.’

  Of course, Scott’s deepest thoughts and feelings were reserved for his ‘dear, dear’ mother and for Kathleen. As he confessed to Hannah Scott: ‘For myself I am not unhappy, but for Kathleen, you and the rest of the family my heart is very sore.’ In a letter addressed ‘To my Widow’ he wrote: ‘What lots and lots I could tell you of this journey. How much better has it been than lounging in too great comfort at home. What tales you would have for the boy. But what a price to pay.’ Inspired perhaps by the faith of his two companions he urged Kathleen to try and make their son believe in a God because ‘it is comforting’. He also told her to guard their son against indolence. In his dying hours perhaps he thought back to his own boyhood, to the little daydreamer they had called ‘Old Mooney’ and to the hardship caused by his father’s fecklessness. He urged Kathleen to ‘make the boy interested in natural history’ and encouraged her to remarry: ‘When the right man comes to help you in life you ought to be your happy self again – I wasn’t a very good husband but I hope I shall be a good memory.’ In fact as he lay dying Kathleen was giving a party in London, hoping hourly for news of him. Her brother Rosslyn was there and saw the strain she was under but he also noted that ‘a new beam of courage has grown into her face’.9