Then, two miles out, the terrain became more difficult. The sledge got caught in fissures on the ice and went over. Weller admitted, clinging on tightly, that it had been travelling at too great a speed.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologized. ‘We should slow down.’
Coming to a sudden halt, Shackleton understood that the pace they’d set was too dangerous. On skis it meant the men were also subject to the risk of breaking a limb if they fell. Weller and Ferrar righted the sledge and they set off again, this time more slowly. Karina hung back.
Shackleton wondered why the ice had set in frozen waves here, many of which were too steep to ski across. At such times dealing with the skis, the sledges and the dogs took longer than man-hauling the supplies would ever do. Getting down to business he, Blissett and Ferrar stopped and removed their bindings, loading the skis on their backs. The truth was, you still had to walk at least some of the way.
Even going slow, the dogs loved the exercise. They were bred for this, Weller realized and for the first time he was unreservedly glad he was here. This was an extraordinary experience. He wouldn’t swap it. Behind Weller, Shackleton took his turn riding on the sledge like some kind of pagan king and he felt as if he belonged. After four hours of what felt like more or less plain sailing, they pulled up and Weller fed the pack seal blubber.
‘Best I’m in charge of the food, sir. It keeps me top dog,’ he said.
Shackleton grinned, his skin was almost translucent beneath the scarf wound round his face. He enjoyed sledging almost as much as the animals did. It seemed logical to him to have dogs on a polar expedition, if for no other reason than to keep a fellow warm at night. Blissett’s face was concealed behind a thin woollen scarf. Ferrar’s eyes were just visible behind thick goggles. With Winter Quarters Bay long gone, it felt as if they were the only men on the continent. As if they were alone.
Waiting for the dogs to finish their meal Ferrar lit a cigarette and poked it between the folds covering his face. None of them wanted to admit it, but the trip was already evoking the almost forgotten excitement of childhood. Each one was the plucky boy who went to the bottom of the wood, climbed down the well or dived into the village pond – it was, in the main, what had landed them here.
As they set off, Blissett took pole position on the sledge and Shackleton put his skis back on and started out side by side with Ferrar. Ferrar struck up a hymn. He had a strong voice and although he kept it low Shackleton caught the tune.
‘And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountain green?’
He smiled. He was not sure he had the breath to join in. Ferrar must be fit.
‘And was the holy lamb of God on England’s pleasant pastures seen?’
Ferrar cast a glance in the officer’s direction and all at once they sang together. Blissett and Weller too.
‘And did the countenance divine shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here among those dark satanic mills?’
A cloud passed overhead. It was a strange shape, Shackleton thought as he squinted upwards. It looked like some kind of wraith – an ancient Nordic goddess or a banshee perhaps. He wondered if it was carrying snow. So much more. Karina smiled as she noted that there was part of Shackleton that wanted to travel against the weather. They would have to turn back soon if they were to make the round trip in one day, she thought and then, on queue the sub-lieutenant let fly a wish that he could set up camp. Still, he knew he must stick to Scott’s instructions. Perhaps if there was a blizzard he could get away with it. The cloud paused as if it was looking at him and then passed overhead. It must be windy up there, he thought. At ground level there was scarcely a breath of air. A little further, he decided. And then we’ll turn.
Blissett was aware they were pushing time to its limits, but Shackleton was the senior officer.
‘We don’t want to be late,’ he said. ‘They’ll get worried.’
‘Just to that hillock,’ Shackleton motioned towards an incline ten minutes’ ahead. ‘I want to see what’s over the crest.’
Blissett put his back into it. They would chart the terrain they’d covered and Shackleton was right. If they could get a forward view of the landscape – the valleys and hills and the potential danger, the next expedition might be glad of it.
Hours after they finally turned, and far later than they were expected to be away, the camp came into view – a tiny black dot. A stream of smoke snaked upwards from the hut. It was late though the sky was as bright as ever, the darkness yet to cover it. And on the deck of the Discovery, Commander Scott stood still as a statue, looking for the party’s return. The weather had been stable all day and each passing minute he found himself increasingly angry. There was no need to be so late. Shackleton would always push things to the limit. As the sleds appeared on the horizon, he pulled in his stomach, as if this would contain his temper.
Oblivious, the men waved enthusiastically as the team pulled up at the kennels. The football match was over for the evening. The officers had had their meal. Some of the crew were already sleeping. Scott descended.
‘Well?’ He couldn’t wait for the news. ‘What took you so long?’
Shackleton explained how choppy the ice fields had been as Weller and Blissett removed the harnesses, the sledges were unpacked and the dogs returned to their kennels.
‘We kept dinner for you,’ the words escaped Scott’s lips unwillingly.
It had been hungry work and, full of adrenalin, the sledge team boarded the Discovery hoping there might be second portions despite the late hour. The officers had stayed up to hear their news and the team were greeted like heroes. Over soup and pie, Shackleton and Blissett pointed out how far they got, using Scott’s charts. As the crow flew they had made more than the ten miles allotted.
‘I’m sure we could man-haul further in the same time,’ Wilson commented.
‘Perhaps,’ Shackleton granted him. ‘Though we might get better on the skis with practice. And the dogs are a comfort.’
‘A comfort?’
The notion was not one that the skipper allowed himself. Everything on the ship had been loaded for practical reasons. The idea of having comfort was somehow most feminine. He knew the dogs were somehow namby-pamby. Shackleton persisted. It was an Irish choice of word and he wanted to explain it.
‘Yes. For warmth and if it comes to it, for food in dire circumstances. It’s safer too. If one of us got injured we’d be better able to get him back more easily.’
‘That’s true,’ Wilson nodded. Scott didn’t reveal his thoughts, one way or another. The sub-lieutenant was too keen by far and such unbridled enthusiasm was not going down well with him. The Irishman lacked the requisite respect. He was some kind of show-off to go further than ten miles. There was no reason to be late. None at all. Scott valued obedience, not flair. He encouraged the men to think for themselves only if it fell in with his plans.
‘We’ll see,’ he said.
Later that night Karina taunted him. After dark, in his dreams, she showed the commander a vision of the men singing on the ice. Of Shackleton lauded in London. Of Hooker shaking the Irishman’s hand. Scott twisted in his sleeping bag. An impossible bead of sweat broke out on his brow, despite the chill. My, he is like a child, she thought. And she wondered what she might do.
EIGHTEEN
As the nights drew in and the temperature plummeted, the commander became restless. About a week later, he bided his time waiting to speak to the officers after dinner. The plates had been cleared and the men were lingering at the end of the meal. Clarke had excelled himself, braising seal meat with spices to produce a curry, which he served with a flourish. The second edition of the South Polar Times was being compiled and the officers were running with a joke about it having a restaurant column.
‘I’ll be your food critic, Shackle,’ Ferrar, the young geologist, offered. ‘The finest cuisine south of, well, everywhere.’
Laughter peppered the air.<
br />
‘We’ll need illustrations,’ Shackleton insisted. ‘Wilson?’
Wilson watched Shackleton, who had lost another pound or two in the last few days. He wondered if the encroaching darkness had accelerated matters. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Shackle was getting scurvy.
‘Would you draw us something, Billy-boy?’ Shackleton teased.
The doctor liked his nickname, never having been fond of his Christian name, Edward or its diminutive, Teddy.
‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘But I have a more serious piece of art for you first. Look.’
He rustled a piece of paper from his sketchbook. On it there was a more than passable drawing of the Discovery in its mooring. The likeness was much admired as it was passed round.
‘I will draw her again when we weigh anchor for the winter,’ Wilson announced, finishing the last of his brandy.
Scott shifted. He toyed momentarily with his cup. On polar missions, ships docked where they could be sailed. This meant, should the winter prove too awful or should there be an emergency, they could always make for safety.
Inside Scott’s mind, Karina watched his discomfort. He has not told them, she realized. Another liar. Now she followed the story of Franklin’s disastrous Arctic expedition decades ago as Scott brought it into the forefront of his memory. This story haunted modern polar explorers as much as Ross’s Antarctic expedition inspired them. Iced in over two Arctic winters, Franklin’s men starved to death. Debate still raged over whether they had resorted to cannibalism. Scarred by the very idea, successive generations of men at the extremes adopted the wise watchwords – always make sure you can get away.
Scott caught Bertie Armitage’s eye. His second-in-command knew full well the Discovery was moored where she would stay. The knowledge had been a burden. The matter was decided months before the Discovery had even left British waters. In the grand drawing rooms of London’s private clubs, tables had been banged and voices raised. The truth was, alone, the Discovery could not carry enough supplies to make the mission possible any other way. She had to remain in use as quarters. Financing one ship was a gargantuan task, never mind financing two. The matter had been finally agreed over cigars at Admiralty High Command. At the time, it hadn’t seemed the slightest awkward that the officers and men would not be told in advance. The ship would be released in the Antarctic summer, after all, when the sea finally thawed. If she was not, there would be a relief vessel.
‘We always get our men out,’ the chairman of the Royal Geographical Society pronounced, though that wasn’t true. Men died all the time on British expeditions. It was considered regrettable.
Now Scott weighed the necessity of telling the officers against the possible response. Already there were banks of slushy seawater forming in the bay. Under the tabletop, his finger beat a pulse onto his knee. He knew he had to make the announcement. The commander’s nod was almost imperceptible – a signal that he expected Armitage to back him up.
‘We’re not going to move her, Wilson,’ he said casually. ‘Your sketch will stand.’
It took a moment for this to sink in. Wilson closed his sketchbook. Skelton took a drink, only because it was something to do. His cup clattered as he replaced it on the table. Ferrar cleared his throat.
‘You mean …’ he started, ‘that we will be iced in?’
The naval men stayed silent. It took a scientist to dare speak.
‘Those are my orders,’ Scott replied. ‘There will be no shifting from Winter Quarters Bay. That’s why I named it.’
It felt as if the commander had been laughing at them, hinting at this unusual and unpopular plan without revealing it. Winter Quarters Bay indeed. As the idea settled, none of the officers wanted to show his shock. Come what may, every man intended to last the weather but they would all prefer there was an option to leave. Polar exploration was an uncertain business.
Royds’s hands were shaking. He glanced down as if his own flesh had betrayed him and folded his traitorous fingers out of sight. Shackleton’s skin prickled. How dare Scott agree such a thing and not tell anyone? The rest of the officers fixed their eyes on a distant point, as if they were trying to work out a tricky crossword clue.
Below decks the news travelled. Karina could feel a wave of anger roll over the evening air. There was little that was not overheard at the commander’s table. Unguarded, the crew were not silent as the story broke, delivered by young Buckridge, the laboratory attendant, who had been passing the mess after taking a turn on deck. He told the petty officers who informed the men. Tall Taffy Evans crossed his arms and refused to join the conversation, which to his mind was tantamount to mutiny. The rest of them felt cheated and said so in whispers, knowing that none of the officers around the commander’s table could hear them. One or two of the pluckier fellows reacted with bluster like pigeons puffing their breasts to make themselves look larger.
‘He shouldn’t have,’ one man objected and around him the others nodded agreement.
Above, in the mess, the officers remained stunned.
‘Thing is,’ Scott continued, ‘we didn’t want to disquiet the men. There will be a relief ship, of course, come the spring and we are well supplied, so the risk is negligible. The Admiral himself issued the command.’
Armitage cleared his throat.
‘Well, we weren’t for turning, were we, chaps?’ He dutifully backed up his senior officer. ‘And I for one am happy to be quartered on the Discovery. No changing cabins, eh?’
Shackleton swallowed his anger and raised his cup. There was nothing else but to make the best of it.
‘To a winter on the ice,’ he said and after only the briefest pause, the men toasted. For a second, Scott forgot his reservations about the Irishman and allowed himself a moment of relief.
That evening, settling to sleep in their quarters, more than half of the officers were so angry they could not commit Scott’s announcement to their journals. The idea was to write a genuine account, but every man was aware should anything happen to him, the commander might peruse the pages and they did not want the slightest suggestion of mutiny to be found.
Karina stalked the ship. In Scott’s cabin, she leaned over and whispered in his ear. They hate you, she hissed. And they are right. Then she flew up into the rigging and watched as darkness took over the sky and the sea hardened.
NINETEEN
As time passed the prow became fixed. The hammocks hung unmoving and the seagoing equipment stayed rooted to its spot. The steadiness of the Discovery was not as strange as the men expected. Some said they missed the slow rhythm of the tide that used to lull them to sleep but as time wore on, it was generally acknowledged that they were sleeping better in the darkness.
‘It is hibernation,’ Koettlitz joked.
Wilson considered whether this was possible. He could not quite decide.
On the downside, the air became cold beyond imagining, as if the whole bay had plummeted into a bright frozen cave. The men realized that what they had thought was chill was only high summer, and autumn now was bad enough. The encroaching cold slowed everyone. Every movement. Every thought. On one particularly chill day, a poor fellow took the knife from a jar of red berry jam and licked it clean in the mess. The cold metal fused to his tongue and he sustained an ice burn that would scar him for the rest of his life. His screams were heard across the deck – an animal squeal that no one would ever forget. Wilson blamed himself that he had not given adequate warning. He simply had not thought of it. Like all wounds this one would heal slowly in the low temperatures.
‘Be more careful,’ Wilson dismissed the fellow. It would do no good to cosset the men. Not with winter almost upon them.
As the weather worsened, harsh winds whipped up the snow.
‘At least there’s still a little light,’ Royds said.
Not for long. The coming darkness was like a sinister character waiting offstage. Rumours abounded that when the sun set for the last time it would damn them twice. Ther
e would be no light again until the Antarctic summer dawned. The storms became more frequent.
‘At least we’re not at sea,’ Clarke said, inspecting the riot of wind and snow from the safety of the Discovery’s deck.
The seamen nodded, unable to take their eyes off the last of the brightness. In this weather the waves on open water would be titanic. The vicious winds were running at several knots an hour. And then out of nowhere, a mild day would dawn and it would seem as if that was normal.
‘Even the dogs want to stay in the kennel,’ Weller said.
‘The hounds you mean,’ Clarke teased him. ‘If not the wolves. They are practically feral.’
Weller cast a glance that belied the very idea. ‘I’ve got them trained all right.’
‘So far,’ Clarke quipped, ‘until one of them is poorly or we run out of supplies.’
Upon occasion, the snow became so thick that it was almost fog. From the ship, the men looked towards the little village they had built on the ice, unable to make out even the hut.
‘You’d lose your way in a minute,’ Clarke said. ‘Why, I can hardly see my way back to the galley.’
One or two of the men looked sideways at Able Seaman Vince. If anyone was likely to get lost, trip over or make a mistake, it was he. The rest of them, especially the team that built the hut, peered warily across the bay but there was no hope of them making out whether their hard work would survive the storm.
‘We did our best,’ Duncan concluded, ‘but it’s filthy weather. If the hut comes asunder we’ll just have to fix it.’
In his day, Ross would have stuck to the shifting outline where the ice met the sea, but despite the weather, it was Scott’s plan to explore the interior. Storms or not. He had made his lists and he felt ready. There were scientific soundings to take and much to learn. Conditions had to be tried. He was undaunted by the downturn in the weather. They must make the best use of the light, that was the thing. There were only a few weeks left until the darkness became total.
The Ice Maiden Page 17