I drove my sticks hard into the snow and charged him on my skis. I drove into him head first and we collapsed in a tangled heap. He was quicker on to his feet than I was, encumbered by my skis. But I had the gun and the bolt was free. I got up carefully, watching him all the time. I’d misjudged his motive in staying behind. I could see now that one of the boats had already been partly decked-in with pieces of packing cases. It was just as Howe had said. He wanted to be the only man out of the ice alive. Only his nerve had failed him when he was alone and he’d had to get drunk. “How the hell do you think you’d get away in one of those boats without a crew?” I demanded angrily.
“I’ve sailed boats single-handed all my life,” he answered sullenly. “If that berg missed the camp, I’d have got back to the Southern Cross somehow.”
“You damned fool!” I shouted at him. “You don’t realise the half of what you’ve done. The Southern Cross came into the ice after us. She was beset and smashed.”
He stared at me. His mouth hung slackly open. “I don’t believe it,” he cried. “It isn’t true.” And then as I didn’t say anything, he added, “How do you know? Your radio went down with your ship.”
“We had a portable,” I said.
The men were coming into the camp now. I ordered them to start breaking the first boat out. Then I slipped the bolt out of the rifle and threw the weapon into the tent. “Better get to work, Bland,” I said. “You’re going to help us run these boats back to the camp.”
He didn’t say anything. He just stood there. It was as though he couldn’t realise the truth of what I’d told him. I went over to help the men. They were hitching the ropes to the first boat and running them out to block and tackle fixed to the anchor bedded in the ice. Bland lumbered across to me and caught hold of my arm.
“Is she sunk?” he demanded hoarsely. The steam of his breath in the cold air smelt of whisky.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Any survivors?”
“We don’t know yet. We’ve had no message since they abandoned ship.”
He suddenly laughed. It was an ugly sound, half drunken, half menacing. “Nobody will dare come into the ice to rescue us now. We’re alone. Alone, out here in the ice. An’ it’s a damn good thing, too. Damn good thing.”
“Doesn’t the loss of that ship mean anything to you?” I demanded angrily.
“Why should it? The insurance people will pay.” He was grinning almost happily.
I fought down a sudden desire to strike him, knock him down and kick him till he understood what he’d done. “Your father was on that ship,” I reminded him.
“Why should I care about my father? I hardly knew him.” His gaze wandered to the men straining on the rope to break the boat out. He lurched towards them and caught hold of the rope. “Come on, damn you—pull!” He was like a man suddenly possessed of a devil. “Come on, Craig,” he shouted. “Don’t stand there gaping. Lend a hand.”
He was like that for perhaps ten minutes whilst we broke both boats out from where they were frozen in. Then the drink died in him and he became morose and sullen. We ran the two boats out of the camp. There were eleven of us with Bland. But though we could shift them all right, it was exhausting work. With the aid of my skis I was able to put my full weight on the rope without breaking through the snow. But the others went through, sometimes up to the waist. It was hopeless. I spliced the forerunners together, ran them out to the anchor with block and tackle, and that’s how we got the boats back to Disaster Camp. It was slow work. But it was the only way.
We reached the camp just before ten that night, utterly exhausted. The pain in my side was like the stab of a knife. Gerda had left one tent still standing. We cooked a meal and lay down. No watch was set, for I knew not one of us could stand even half an hour out there in the biting wind.
Three hours later I woke to find Gerda shaking me. “You must come quickly, Duncan,” she said. Her voice was urgent. “The icebergs are not more than two miles away and the ice is breaking up.”
I was so tired I did not care if an iceberg crushed the tent with us in it. It seemed easier to die than to go on. I was weak and numbed with cold and pain. The ice was shuddering under me, yet my heavy eyelids closed and the movement of the ice merged into Gerda shaking me violently. Then my face was being slapped and I was dragged out into the freezing wind. I staggered to my feet then and stood swaying weakly, staring unbelievingly at the cold, ice-clad scene. Tauer III was gone. There was no sign of it. And along the trail we’d dragged the boats the ice was heaving like a frozen sea. An iceberg with a tall, jagged spire, like the Pillar Rock, was driving towards us, icy chaos running out ahead of it.
The others were being pulled out of the tent. “Hurry! Hurry!” Gerda called to them. She had a dozen men with her. They began to move out of the camp, dragging the men from the tent with them.
“Wait!” I called. “We must take the boats.”
“No,” Gerda shouted at me above the wind. “We must go quickly or we shall be too late.”
I stared at the iceberg. There seemed little hope whether we stayed here or reached the floe-berg. I pulled myself together. “Get your men on to the boats,” I ordered her.
She started to argue, but I stopped her. “With the two crews there are over thirty of us. We need all three boats. If we do escape destruction and we lose these boats, then we are doomed anyway. Better to die with the boats.” I called the men together and there in the ice, with the wind driving right through us, we knelt down and I prayed that we might be delivered from the disaster that threatened. After that the men took up the ropes of the first boat without a word.
I shall never cease to marvel at man’s determination to cheat death. It wasn’t love of life that drove them out there on the ice. Life wasn’t lovely to them then—it was days and days of cold and hunger and exertion stretching ahead of them unendingly. It was their determination not to die. Call it fear if you like. But whatever it was it gave them strength—incredible, fantastic strength—and courage.
With all twenty-two of us tugging on the ropes we’d take one boat in a rush a hundred yards, sometimes two hundred. Then we’d come back and do the same with the other boat. The ice was splitting all round us, the cracks opening like bursts of machine-gun firing. Yet they never hesitated to go back for the second boat and I never had to drive them. Twice men were only saved by the ropes from the opening jaws of the ice. Once we had to rush the second boat across a gap that was half a boat’s length in width.
But we did it in the end. And as we dragged the second boat to the foot of the floe-berg, a whole crowd of men came down and took the boats with a rush to the top of the berg. I remember a vague impression of new faces, of soft hands, of another voice taking command in Norwegian, then I had slipped into oblivion.
My return to consciousness was like the slow drag to the surface of a drowning man. I lay still, panting as though I’d run a race, and listened to the deathly stillness that seemed to surround me. I was stiff and numb. The cold struck through to the very core of me and the pain gripped me every time I breathed. There was a sudden grating roar. It rose till it filled all the place with sound, and terminated in one splitting crash. Was this death? Was this what Milton had tried to portray? The world-shaking sound did not roll on ponderously like thunder. It ceased abruptly. There was no echo. The stillness filled my ears, shutting me in upon my own thoughts. And yet I wasn’t alone. There were others near me. I could hear their breathing, feel their faint stirrings. I could smell them, too—the sour odour of men’s sweat. I opened my eyes. I was in a world of sepia glory with huddled shapes packed close beside me.
Then I suddenly wanted to laugh. The sepia glory was the sun slanting through brown sail canvas. The men around me were not dead. They were sleeping. I sat up and then I didn’t want to laugh any more. I wanted to be sick.
I crawled out of the tent, staggered to my feet in the snow and stood there, retching. The wind was gone. The air was still and a
ll the white, incredible snow-scape steamed in the sun so that the atmosphere was iridescent, impermanent—a water mirror in which nothing was real and every changing form of ice writhed and shimmered in mutability. The sweat broke cold on my forehead. I had nothing to bring up. The retching stopped. And in that moment the dragon’s roar of sound that had invaded the stillness of the tent came again, terrifyingly loud, like a clarion call of the Four Horsemen galloping through Hell’s gates. The crash that followed seemed like an atom split. I straightened my aching side and searched the blinding, gold-tinted ice for the source of the sound. And I stared unbelievingly as a block of ice that seemed as big as the Crystal Palace I’d known as a kid emerged out of the ice. It opened up like a flower and then fell crashing, shattered into a million fragments, each prismatic, each an enormous diamond throwing forth sparks of eye-blinding light. The sound of its fall was like the end of the world. But no mountain crags sent the sound reverberating round the heavens. It was a noise that split the ear-drums and then ceased—ceased as though there had never been any noise. Stillness shut down on the ice again and a hand touched my arm.
“Feeling better?”
I swung round at the voice. The sound of it was as loud as blasphemy in the stillness of a cathedral. It was Howe who had spoken. His face was white and his hand trembled as it held my arm. He was scared. “Feeling better?” he repeated. And then as I nodded dumbly he produced a flask. “Take a swig at this,” he said. “It’s brandy. Do you good.” I took a pull at the flask. “You were all pretty exhausted when you got in last night.”
I didn’t say anything. I was trying to remember what had happened. Of course, we’d brought the boats to the floe-berg. There they were, black against the frozen snow. Four boats and a litter of stores, tents and makeshift sledges. Somebody had stuck a Norwegian flag on an up-ended oar outside one of the tents. The triangle of red with the blue cross hung dejectedly. A splintering shivered the frosty air and behind it sounded the deep, artillery rumble of ice pounded to rubble. Beyond the floe-berg the ice stretched westward in crumpled, jagged folds. And beyond that ploughed-up field of ice was a huge berg. It was a fairy crag, a gigantic, prismatic skyscraper citadel of ice, one pinnacle reaching like the torch of the Statue of Liberty into the gold-shot rainbow of the sky. At its base the ice was moving, turning back on itself, splintering and folding as the wedged cut-water ploughed into the floes. To the north of it was another, and to the south another and another—great masses of shimmering ice.
I shivered and handed Howe back his flask. “Thanks,” I said. “Not much future for us, is there?”
“I’ve worked it out that at its present rate of drift that one over there will be ploughing right through the camp at about midday tomorrow.” His voice was the voice of science, quite unemotional.
“There wasn’t much point in shifting our camp, then,” I said wearily.
He shrugged his shoulders. “If it were just one—” he began and then again he shrugged his shoulders as though it wasn’t any good talking about it. He didn’t speak for a moment and when he did his voice was bitter. “Why couldn’t you leave well alone?”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Why couldn’t you leave him to die in the Tauer III camp? I told you not to bring him back.”
“And I told you I’d only abandon him if that was what he wanted.” I felt very tired. “He didn’t want to be left—not when he knew I’d come for the boats.”
“What was he planning to do?”
“The fool thought he’d got a chance of getting away alone in one of the boats. He’d got one of them half decked-in before he started drinking.”
“What happened? Did he lose his nerve?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Any man would lose his nerve on his own out here, watching those icebergs ploughing into the ice towards him.”
“Why the hell do you waste your sympathy on him?” Howe demanded.
“I’m not wasting my sympathy on him,” I replied wearily. “I’m just explaining what happened. Where is he now?”
“Over there.” He nodded towards one of the tents. “Talking to Vaksdal and Keller.” His gloved hand caught hold of my arm. “Don’t you realise what you’ve done?” His voice was hoarse. “We’re in a bad enough fix without having Bland here. He’s a murderer. He knows it and he knows that we know it, too. It’s not only Nordahl. There’s Raadal and that other poor devil. And all these men here”—he waved his hand round the camp—“they’re all going to die. We’re all as good as dead—you and me; Gerda and Judie, too. And why?” His voice was unsteady, almost out of control. “Because of Bland. But for him we’d have got the crew of Hval 5 out. Instead we’re all locked in the ice and the men of the Southern Cross as well. Gerda’s beside herself. She’s scared for her father. She loved him. And you go and bring Bland back and Gerda has to be a party to his rescue. God, I could have throttled you to see you going out like a bloody little Sir Galahad to rescue a man who’s responsible for the killing of nearly five hundred men.”
“I went for the boats,” I reminded him.
“What good are the boats to us?” He stared out across the ice, his hands clenching and unclenching. “We’re going to die and you’ve forced on me the choice of killing a man or dying with him without doing what I swore I would do.” He paused and then said, “And if we do get clear of this iceberg, we’re going to have trouble with Bland. He’s lost his nerve for the moment. But if he can do something to get back his self-confidence, then he’ll be dangerous. I’m going to have a word with Peer Larvik.”
“Larvik!” I swung round, not hearing what he replied, seeing four boats where there should only have been three and the Norwegian flag drooping from the upended oar. I seized hold of him, shaking him in my sudden excitement. “Is Larvik here? Have the Hval 5 crew joined up with us?”
He nodded and I hesitated, steadying myself, conscious of the pulse-beat in my body. “Judie? Is she all right? Is she here, too?”
He stared at me, astonished. “Good God! Don’t you remember? You collapsed into her arms last night.”
I stood there for a moment, cursing the ice that made our time so short, cursing myself for bringing her husband back. “Where is she?” My voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.
“Over there—in Larvik’s tent.”
I stood there without moving for quite a while. I was thinking that perhaps it was as well for both of us that we had only a few hours left of life. I bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, rubbing it over my face. I no longer felt weak. I felt strong—strong enough to cheat death and to fight my way out of the ice. And yet it was better this way. I knew that. I walked slowly over to the tent where the Norwegian flag hung and called to her.
In a moment she was out there in the glory of that iridescent sunshine, holding my hands, looking up into my face and smiling and laughing all in one, her eyes gleaming like frosted diamonds. We just stood and looked at each other and laughed with happiness. And then without a word we turned and walked through the powdery snow to the farther edge of the floe-berg and stood and watched the towering cliffs of ice tearing up the floes, not seeing them as death any more, but dominating their terror with our sense of life, so that they were just something exciting to watch. It was as though our love could exorcise the devil of fear. And that’s a funny thing. We never had to ask each other about our love—the truth was there in our eyes.
But our moment alone together was very short. Kalstad came up. His round, rather Slavonic face looked worried. “What’s the trouble, Kalstad?” I asked, as he coughed awkwardly.
“It’s Vaksdal and Keller,” he said. “The men do not want them in their tents. They are Sandefjord men, both of them.”
“Good God!” I exclaimed. “This is no time to worry about whether a man comes from Sandefjord or Tönsberg.”
“Also these two men will not do what I order,” Kalstad added woodenly.
“Then make them.”
“I have tried, but
—” Kalstad shrugged his shoulders. “Vaksdal is a big man and it is no time to fight, I think. Also he is very angry because he is no longer mate.”
“I see. What about Keller?”
“Keller will do what Vaksdal do.”
“All right, bring Vaksdal here.”
Vaksdal was in an ugly mood. I could see that by the morose way he slouched towards me. When he stood in front of me he was a good head taller. “Kalstad informs me you refuse to obey his orders?” I said.
“Ja. It is not right he should give me orders.”
“Did you hear me appoint him mate yesterday?”
“Ja.”
“And I reduced you to ordinary seaman for abandoning your boats.”
“Kaptein Bland say you have not the authority to—”
“Damn Bland!” I shouted. “Bland is—” I stopped then. I was seething with anger. “You come and talk to Captain Larvik.”
“No.” Judie’s hand was on my arm. “You must not worry Peer Larvik with this, Duncan.”
“It’s his responsibility,” I said. “He’s in charge now.”
But she shook her head. “No. You’re in command. Larvik is very ill. His ribs are crushed, and his legs. He got caught between the side of Hval 5 and the ice. I was just going back to him. I don’t think—” She hesitated and there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t think he’ll live very long. You must handle this yourself.” She turned then and walked towards the tent where the Norwegian flag hung. I felt suddenly very tired again. So the responsibility was still on my shoulders. I looked up at Vaksdal. “Have you ever thought what it’s like to die?” I asked him.
He looked puzzled. “No,” he said. “I do not think about such things.”
“You’ve never looked death in the face.” I turned him round so that he faced the slow, inevitable advance of the iceberg. “You are looking at death now,” I said. “I don’t think we have much hope. But so long as we’re alive there’s still a chance. So long as we’re alive and working together. This is no time to cause trouble, is it?”
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