‘You would not consider you had climbed the Alps if you did so in an airplane,’ he said, steely willed. Such foolishness.
Some of the officers questioned this wisdom privately. You would not climb the Alps without a guide. You would not consider it cheating to have bearers, which, in effect, was the role the dogs played. You would also carry specialist equipment just like the skis that Scott considered somehow foreign. Karina laughed at this silly little man with his ideas. The living could only do what the ice allowed here, not what they wanted. Scott’s position, however, was born of a skipper’s need to be inviolable. He would not have anyone question his achievement. He would not be thought second-rate. The recent foreign expeditions may have used dogs and skis but at heart he believed that a real man should tackle his challenges unaided. Still, he must test the equipment. He had to be sure. As it stood, the officers had more sense than to challenge the commander’s absolute authority. Certainly not today when he was about to pick who would be first out of the hatches. They would rise to whatever Scott deemed the challenge of ‘doing it honestly’.
‘On skis,’ Scott declared. ‘We will start that way.’
There was a ripple of surprise around the table like a little burst of energy.
‘Royds,’ the commander said, ‘do you think you’re up to the job?’
Royds blushed.
‘Yes, sir,’ he saluted. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Scott confirmed. ‘And you’ll take Bernacchi.’
The physicist grinned.
‘On skis, you said, Skipper?’ he checked, his accent stronger because he was excited.
‘You’re straining at the leash, eh?’ Scott was satisfied. ‘You may only be travelling a short distance but you’ll go down in the history books. Our first expedition out of sight of the ship. I think we should raise a toast.’
Shackleton fetched a bottle.
‘Good man,’ Scott said, and they raised their cups.
That night it got colder and the wind dropped, the sun sank and a long flash of darkness overtook the sky. Karina checked below decks. Over the weeks, the crew had made their wills, or at least those who had anything to leave, which mostly meant the officers and the scientists. The men simply arranged things between themselves with a handshake and a wink, their generosity tempered by late-night drink. Sailors carried all their worldly possessions with them – it had always been that way. Weller regarded the light poplin trews stowed in his trunk (what use would they ever be here?) He picked up the Bible his mother gave him when he first joined the service. It remained all but pristine. It was a wonder that he had not sold it.
‘Anything happens to me you can have what you like, Jamie,’ he said.
Able Seaman Walker nodded.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he brushed off the complement. ‘You ain’t going nowhere, Willie. Nowhere but back home.’
Although naval men faced danger wherever they were posted, not a man among them hadn’t recognized that they might die here. Karina wondered, if one of them did, would he stay? She lingered over their thoughts of death, their strange expectations of angels and heavenly hosts. As if their resting place would be something separate to their lives. Awake in the long, silent nights it couldn’t help but cross a man’s mind.
‘We’d be buried at sea, I suppose,’ Clarke chimed.
A small group of the more experienced men clustered together around the brazier.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ replied Lashly, the stoker.
Clarke had never expected anything else. Though he always thought his body would be slipped into warmer seas when the time came. The piercing southern light was too white and not a patch on a tropical afternoon in Bombay, sitting in the shade beneath a palm and gulping down the scent of turmeric. He shuddered at the thought of being subsumed into the ice-ridden chill of McMurdo Sound. You will go back to your mango tree.
‘Makes no difference,’ one of the men mumbled, ‘not a difference in the world. Not once you’re gone.’
Fool.
The timbers creaked a clarion call to send the men to their hammocks. All would dream and tonight their dreams were frantic. Crean was startled by a blonde child on a roof shouting his name. Shackleton imagined he was on a whaling ship and that somehow he fell from the rigging and the skipper dreamed he was so hungry he strangled the life out of a gull and grilled the bird’s stringy, stinking flesh over a low fire. In their dreams each man was alone and they woke with relief, glad of their fellows around them. Not me.
‘The day of our first expedition,’ Scott whispered like a child, and put the flapping blade-billed gull out of his mind.
The team was made up of four more – Royds was allowed to choose, after Scott had briefed him privately. The men thus honoured were excited. There were virgin footprints to be made. Scott held back. He had to test the men and that included the officers. He couldn’t do everything himself, no matter how much he’d like to.
Skelton checked his camera meticulously before he took the photograph this time. He set up the shot from three different angles as they stood there with wooden skis balanced on one shoulder and goggles propped on their foreheads, staring past the camera, forming an untidy cluster in front of the wide whiteness they were hoping to conquer. ‘You are becoming a regular Valentine Blanchard, Reggie,’ Shackleton teased.
Skelton waved him off.
‘I just want to be sure,’ he said, staring at the men as if he was examining the air around them.
Too busy to be troubled by such eccentricity, not one of them showed his excitement until the shot was taken. Then Royds cried, ‘Three cheers for Commander Scott and the crew of the Discovery.’
The men concurred enthusiastically.
‘Have fun, lads,’ Scott smiled.
Bernacchi said a silent prayer and wondered where it came from. And they set off. The entire crew watched from the prow of the ship, Scott with his binoculars in hand, as the party receded. The strange dreams of the night before were superseded by this dream, his great ambition.
After five minutes, the men dispersed but Scott stayed on deck, muffled head to toe. At first, Clarke thought he would bring a mug of Bovril to keep the skipper warm but then he realized it might freeze before he could drink it. As the crew went about their business, they dawdled, trying to make out the movement on the ice.
Fixed on this dry run and immoveable as the centuries, Scott, didn’t acknowledge anyone as they passed him. His eyes were focused on the moving figures, who had now donned skis. From a distance he watched. No one but Bernacchi was expert in this mode of travel. Like everything else the long planks of Norwegian wood had arrived untested. The bindings were tricky and though at first a couple of men took a tumble, they seem to get the hang of it. Still, the surface of the snow was not even enough to make it easy. In addition, the party was hauling two sleds, weighed down with ballast. On an overnight expedition, there would be tents, sleeping bags and food under the tarpaulins.
Coming on board from a morning spent in one of the laboratory tents, Scott’s second-in-command, Armitage, joined the commander.
‘It’s a start, sir,’ he said.
Scott nodded in the direction of the ice party.
‘Skis,’ he murmured.
Armitage was privy to more than most but what the commander meant by this, he couldn’t be sure. The route of between three and four miles would take almost two hours and the party had dipped out of view after not more than twenty minutes ago. Scott hung on the last of their movements, like a spectator at a rugby match upon which the nation’s honour depended. He just stood there.
‘Yes, sir. Skis,’ Armitage said, clapping his hands around his frame to keep warm. Even swaddled in sheepskin the cold was biting.
Scott was still there when they returned. A small party gathered to welcome them. When they removed their goggles, their eyes were shining. Royds saw that they put away their kit with precision. Then inside, hot Bovril was served with slabs of br
ead and dripping. Scott, standing still, was colder than any of them. He placed himself by the stove, to debrief the group.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘how were the skis?’
Unpractised, two had taken well to gliding across the ice, while the others said clearly they’d have preferred simply to walk alongside the sled.
‘I’m not sure it’s not just as quick to walk, sir,’ Royds confirmed. ‘By the time you’ve got the bindings on and off again, and accounting for falls.’
Scott was certain in any case that he could improve on the pace of a little more than a mile an hour.
‘I like the skis,’ Bernacchi disagreed. ‘But I am accustomed to them.’
Karina watched the Belgian. As a child she had skied now and then. Neither she nor Marijke had taken to it. They had wanted to cross the water. They had wanted to go south to places where skis were alien and the food was exotic. Places people drank wine instead of beer. Who cared where the magnetic pole was?
One way or another, that night the crew ate like kings. Clarke excelled himself and three bottles of champagne were opened at the officers’ table to accompany one of the cook’s now famous rhubarb pies.
‘We have made our start,’ Scott toasted, and the officers raised their glasses as if they had just eaten ten courses at the Ritz. ‘Next we shall hazard a day trip, I think. The weather being settled.’
There was a murmur of general agreement around the table. Shackleton piped up to volunteer for the mission. He had been disappointed not to be chosen before and now he could hardly contain himself. The commander smiled indulgently.
‘With dogs this time,’ Scott said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Shackleton tried not to gush. ‘And I’d like to try the skis. Just to get the hang of them. The Swedes and Norwegians swear by them.’
Scott held Shackleton in his eye a moment too long as he lifted the champagne to his lips and drained the last of it. Without further briefing, he asked the sub-lieutenant to choose his men. Shackleton smiled, not realizing that in giving him this freedom, Scott was indulging in some kind of irony. Armitage who knew the commander better, marked Shackleton’s card. The skipper didn’t trust this young Irishman. It was a shame, he thought, he had proved himself capable and the men liked him. Shackleton paused before he spoke.
‘I think Weller for the dogs. Blissett perhaps – it would be good to have one of the marines, and Ferrar.’
Scott nodded. ‘No time like the present, old chap. You’ll go the day after tomorrow. Hike for half the day out and half the day back.’
‘You don’t think we should make camp?’ Shackleton pushed.
Armitage was not the only officer to notice Scott taking only a moment too long to reply.
‘You’re to make ten miles if you can, Shackleton. Take the kit but don’t make camp unless you have to. I want to see how far a team can make in a day.’
‘Better safe than sorry, I suppose,’ Shackleton grinned, and Armitage noted that the strange and disturbing dreams that have peppered his sleep the last few nights were not nearly as threatening as the look in Scott’s eye when he silently made a decision. Shackleton eyed the last of the cocoa in front of him in the jug, and thought that he could not have it. None of them could. To take it would be greedy.
It was late when the knock came on Wilson’s door.
‘Reg,’ he smiled, surprised when Koettlitz appeared.
Koettlitz and Wilson were both medical men but there the similarity ended. Koettlitz was dark-haired and wiry to Wilson’s solid red-haired, pale skinned Englishness. He was a man for graphs, while Wilson liked to experiment on living flesh.
‘I want to talk about the diet.’
‘Now?’
Koettlitz pulled his flask from his pocket. He was of Dutch origin and had brought a personal supply of genever. ‘Meat,’ he said, ‘the three men without meat.’
As well as Shackleton, Vince and Buckridge, the laboratory assistant, continued to forgo the stewed seal and flambéed penguin breast. Clarke cooked them fish and they got extra bread rations.
Koettlitz allowed his gaze to linger momentarily on the sketches tacked to the doctor’s shelf.
Wilson smiled. ‘It was difficult at first to draw in white but I think I’m getting the hang of it.’
Koettlitz sat down and opened his notebook at a graph.
‘They have all lost weight. Buckridge’s gums are inflamed and Vince’s nails are shattered. Shackleton is suffering, I think, though he won’t admit it. We might conclude …’
‘That meat is the most important part of our diet – in the south?’
Koettlitz raised his flask. ‘We must have meat. The chaps forgoing starch are faring far better. And that is my concern. Shackleton will lead a party onto the ice tomorrow. My question is, should we notify the captain?’
Wilson blanched. In the terms of the expedition, this would be to pronounce Shackleton weak.
‘I should say no. He’s a fine, strong fellow, though his gums are shot. We can hardly excuse him his duties and besides, to quit early would leave the study short of vital data. I’ll wager old Shackle is the strongest of all of us.’
Koettlitz put away his flask. ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he said.
‘Absolutely.’
That night the crew slept soundly. Karina slipped along the boards and watched their dreams rather than planting fragments of her own story in their sleeping minds. She let them dream of wheeling over the snow. Of flying.
She had to concede that the men were brave. Braver than Ross or Hooker – neither of whom would have attempted the interior. Had time changed the English? Were these better men than Hooker or Thebo had ever been, she wondered. She was not ready to concede that. Tonight they had been in high spirits. If one of their number was to fall into a crevasse, she wondered, who would try to rescue him? Would these men have rescued her? Would Shackleton have broken her fall? Would Blissett? Would any of these men abandon their wives on a bleak island simply because they felt lonely and wanted to get away? In such circumstances, would they come to some kind of a gentlemen’s agreement with an untrustworthy second-in-command? Would they never think to enquire as to what had happened?
She flickered behind their eyelids. Shackleton was not married but he had high hopes that if he distinguished himself on this mission, he might win the heart of the woman he had longed for. Her name was Emily. Karina sounded it out. Tonight, however, the great explorer was dreaming of tournados of steak, flamed before his eyes at a mahogany table by a white-coated waiter. Karina turned away. There were no women here, so it was difficult to decide how the men might behave towards one in need. She had come to the south by mistake, she conceded. Perhaps she would be the only one. Why would any woman want to follow? What kind of woman would be tempted to try?
Like shadows, memories of the expedition’s far off womanfolk revolved around her. One or two carried plump babies on their hip. Others were smiling and laughing. There was a profusion of bustles and lacy necklines. One girl marched in the street surrounded by others and chanted something about having the vote. In his cabin, Scott dreamed of his wife, Kathleen. ‘You will reach the pole,’ she said. Silently the commander worried that he might let her down and if he did, that she might not love him. Karina saw it all. Being here and doing this was the uppermost thing in their hearts. Scott was not alone, she realized. There was not one member of the crew who would rather conquer a lady than conquer the south and for the skipper, and, for that matter, Shackleton, these things were synonymous. Shackleton turned in his sleep and she noticed a pale blue light emanating around him. She could not be bothered either to tease or torture this evening. With a shrug she moved away as, in his dream, he ordered an English pudding, steamed and served with custard.
The next morning Shackleton woke knowing that out of sight of Winter Quarters Bay he would be free. He was brought up one of ten children so the feeling of being one of too many jammed together was one he had been trying to break free of all his lif
e. He hoped the mantle of his childhood would slip from his shoulders as soon as he was out of sight of the ship, and he would fly.
Scott had plotted a route on his chart. He was obsessed with planning. If anything went wrong, he did not want it to be his fault. List after list, he tried to cover every eventuality. These trial runs would allow him to do so more effectively. In time, he would set up supply hubs on the ice. If his expeditions were to go further they would have to be provisioned and in this the Antarctic weather would help rather than hinder his operation. Food here didn’t spoil.
Outside, Skelton checked his camera meticulously before he photographed Shackleton, Weller, Blissett and Ferrar with the dogs.
‘For heaven’s sake, Reggie.’
Shackleton was impatient today. Skelton waved him off. He seemed strangely taken up with the shadows on the rough white ground, as if he had to be sure that each one was attached to a person. From further away, Karina wondered if he would ever get over that photograph.
Too busy to be troubled by his friend’s eccentricity, Shackleton checked the fastenings on the sled. Weller geed up the dogs. The men waved as the team set off. There were no three cheers for Scott and the Discovery this time. Armitage shook his head. The lieutenant was making mistakes that would cost him dear in the long run.
Shackleton did not even think of it. The exhilaration of being free was apparent already. At first, it was easy going. Skiing alongside the pack, he thought the Swedes and Norwegians were right about it being the best way to travel. He couldn’t understand why Royds had dismissed skis so easily. Ahead, Weller sat like king of the ice on the sled as Karina ran ahead of the animals, a barefoot nymph on the snow, leading the way.
‘We’ll make more than ten miles, surely,’ Shackleton told himself.
As the camp disappeared behind them Blissett whooped into the empty brightness. His voice echoed and Shackleton found he was laughing.
The Ice Maiden Page 16