Death on the Ice (16 page)

He took the car backside, made sure Sorry Kate was looked after, and arrived at the saddling station to the usual chorus of whispered entreaties (‘For the next time out, you need my boy, sir, Simon O’Connell’; ‘I know this fine blood horse, dam out of Ramsey, untried, sir, untried’) and unlooked-for advice (‘Tell yer man to watch out for The Cubby, she leans hard on the rail, no matter who is in her way’).

The course vet, Hugh Flynn, had given Mr Daniels his approval to compete, Dunnet had been put on the scales, the race secretary, one Harold Parrish, had decided the weight penalties. Oates found Jefferies and the jockey in the pre-race stall, saddling the horse. The lad rode in Mr Jefferies’s colours, with an added Gestingthorpe sash of checked mauve.

‘How does he seem, Mr Jefferies?’

‘Good day, lieutenant. He seems happy enough. Just the odd shiver.’

‘It’ll pass. The only horse I’ve ever known with pre-race nerves. And how is our boy?’

Dunnet looked up and grinned. There was a slight cast to his eye, which made it hard to fix where his gaze was aimed. ‘No shivers here, Mr Oates.’

Oates didn’t correct the omission of rank. Unlike some of his friends, he didn’t insist on being reminded every minute of the day that he was property of His Majesty’s army. ‘Glad to hear it.’

‘You know they have posted that it will be the championship course?’ Jefferies asked. ‘Not the club? Ten fences, two miles two furlongs.’

It had been two miles dead, eight fences when he had entered, but Oates was used to the elastic rules they had in Ireland. No doubt someone fancied their horse a stayer, and likely to make good over a longer distance, so had called in a favour or two from the race secretary or chief steward. The change would have been published in some obscure newspaper or nailed to a distant fence post at the rear of the track, just to keep it legal. ‘And still eighteen on the card?’

‘Aye, but All Quiet is scratched, a non-runner. And there’s Pegasus Rising come in.’

‘What do we know about Pegasus?’

‘Very handy.’ It was the jockey. ‘And Jimmy Smythe pulled the ride. He’s a fine one.’

‘As good as you?’

The lad shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no, sir.’

‘Then we’ll be all right, won’t we?’ Oates stepped in and felt Mr Daniels’s forelegs. They were cool and tight. But then he sensed that odd quiver pass through his hands. He stood and stroked Danny’s nose, running a finger between those expressive eyes and the spasm passed.

‘Right, Mr Jefferies, I shall go and see the first two races and be back down.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Oates walked from the stables, through the paddock and into the owners’ enclosure. There was the customary mix of uniforms, morning suits and tweeds, and caps, toppers, boaters and bowlers. Several people wished him good luck with a slap on the back. It was a bright, slightly blustery day but the rain that had threatened soft going had held off for two days now and if Punchestown had one thing going for it, it was good drainage. The ground, and the crowd’s mood, had firmed up.

‘Lieutenant.’

He spun at the bark of his rank. It was Colonel Sterling and his wife. For a second Oates felt guilty, like a truanting schoolboy, till he recalled he had no reason to be. He was an officer, legitimately racing his horse. It was just that he had a larger stable than most. Oates yanked off his bowler.

‘Hello, sir. Ma’am. Didn’t know you enjoyed the races, sir.’

‘Only place I can get to see half my bloody officers these days.’

There was a pause before all three burst out laughing. The colonel’s cheeks were flushed and Oates wondered if he had been at the whiskey or stout.

‘It’s my doing, Lieutenant Oates. My family are from Cheltenham.’ Mrs Sterling was not a tall woman, a shade over five foot, but she was in perfect proportion; she had a delicate dolllike figure, with a sculptured face that, when she smiled, suggested a talent for mischief. He estimated her a good decade younger than her husband. This was no doubt a proper army marriage, with the colonel only seeking a partner when he had promotion and position within his reach.

‘Really?’ Oates regretted sounding so surprised. ‘I mean, you know horses, Mrs Sterling?’

She shook her head. ‘Not know. Who can claim that? But enjoy.’

‘But you ride?’ It wasn’t a facetious question; most wives preferred the carriage and the jaunting car to the saddle.

‘Not often enough. There is a lack of company. Charles rides his desk these days.’

Sterling tutted. ‘Now, Felicity.’

‘There are the hunts, Mrs Sterling. And many of the families around the Curragh ride.’

She glanced at her husband. ‘Not always the right families, I fear.’

Sensing an old disagreement about to bubble to the surface, Oates replaced his bowler and touched the rim. A few niceties were the best he could manage with most women before he became tongue-tied, and domestic disputes floored him completely. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Colonel Sterling, Mrs Sterling. I’d —’ he waved vaguely towards the front of the crowd, as if he had someone to meet—‘best be taking my leave.’

‘Of course,’ said the colonel. ‘But before you do, how about a small wager on your Mr Daniels?’

‘There’re plenty of bookies who will take your money, colonel.’

‘Not this kind of wager, Oates. In kind.’ The colonel was smirking, far too pleased with himself for comfort.

‘Such as?’

‘If Mr Daniels wins, we’ll forget all about Cavalry and Musketry Schools.’ He said it as if the thought had only just occurred to him, but Oates sensed this might be a premeditated snaring.

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘Well, I hear Hythe has one or two nice pubs and a dog track for amusement.’

Despite himself Oates had to laugh. ‘So if I lose I do my sentence?’ The colonel nodded. ‘If it gets you off my back, you have a wager.’ The colonel held out his hand. Oates hesitated, unwilling to seal the bet just yet. ‘Although, it rather distresses me that I will only gain a negative. There is no positive outcome for me. Should I lose, I go to two training schools. If I win, the status quo remains.’

Sterling considered for a moment. ‘I do see. What do you propose?’

‘If I win, you take McConnell on to the roll.’ This would give his Boots the right to billet on-barracks and a decent monthly wage.

‘McConnell? Your Boots?’

‘Sir.’

‘The civilian roll is full.’

‘This civilian served in South Africa, sir. And he’s met a woman. Wants to marry. He needs the security. It’s overdue.’

‘Oh, for goodness, sake, Charles,’ said his wife impatiently. ‘Just do it. What if this man costs you an extra half-crown a week?’

‘Very well.’

The two men shook hands on the deal. McConnell, thought a confident Oates, and his fiancée would be very pleased.

T
HE BAD-TEMPERED SQUALL THAT
engulfed
Discovery
kept them pinned down for the best part of two days, so it was 2 November before the three-man polar party assembled on the ice to set off after Barne. The sky was still grey and troubled, but there were hints of blue in the south and the fiercesome wind had abated.

It was ten in the morning when they were ready and the group looked, thought Scott, like a Caravanserai from another age. Again, the pennants that Markham had made for each officer, the Union Jack and the flags of the Royal Society and the Royal Geographical Society, fluttered in the spluttering breeze and once more the full ship’s company turned out to see them off.

Fully mittened and helmeted they also wore the wide-brimmed hats that helped reduce the eyes’ exposure to glare. Their blouses pulled tight and finnesko fur boots tightly sealed with lengths of lamp wick, Scott, Wilson and Shackleton posed for photographs in front of the train of sledges. ‘Smile, we three polar knights,’ exhorted Shackleton. ‘Off to find another Holy Grail.’

The animals were yapping and restless, as if they knew all about the delays and postponements and were eager to get going. Their original names were lost mysteries, but now Scott could identify each of them by their new ones, bestowed by their handlers. For this trip, the sledges were pulled by Nigger, Jim, Spud, Snatcher, FitzClarence, Stripes, Birdie, Nell, Blanco, Grannie, Lewis, Gus, Joe, Wolf, Vic, Bismark, Kit, Boss and Brownie. Scott even had favourites: the hard-working leader, Nigger, the charming Brownie, indefatigable Kit and the lovable, lolloping Lewis. Wolf, true to his name, was wild and unpredictable, Bismark lazy and Jim sly.

To think he had once called them vile, evil beasts and had discussed with Wilson the dog-eat-dog method of ice travel espoused by Nansen. Now, he could identify all nineteen. He was fully prepared to be proved wrong about the dogs and sledges; Markham, that seasoned advocate of man-hauling, would just have to live with the consequences.

The three of them checked the loads, each making sure their personal possessions were secure. Shackleton fussed over his camera and the double-burner stove. Wilson was most concerned about his sketchpad and pencils, whereas Scott rechecked the theodolyte and the thermometers for the third time in as many minutes. The sledges looked neat and efficient, thought Scott, a contrast to the badly loaded efforts they had put up with the previous season.

There were five linked units, the first two carrying 400 lb of dog food each, the middle one had the tent, kit bag, shovels and ice picks, the last two provisions, seal meat, skis, cooker and oil. The total weight was 1,852 lb, quite a load even for nineteen dogs. The plan was that at Depot A, where Barne was headed, they would replenish food stocks and strike hard for the South. If the weight was too much for the dogs, the men would pull too. And every night would see a reduction of more than 30 lb as both dogs and humans were fed. As they made their farewells, Scott went over the figures in his head again, for the thousandth time.

‘Skipper.’

He turned. It was Tom Crean, the Irishman. Crean was softly spoken, often silent for long periods, but Scott knew him to be the hardest-working man on
Discovery
. Whether it was shooting seals, man-hauling or whitewashing, he always applied himself fully, with good humour. He also had the best singing voice on the ship. ‘Crean. What is it?’

‘I been watchin,’ the loading, skipper. Mr Shackleton did a good job for the most part. But I reckon there is one thing you ain’t got enough of.’

If Crean proffered an opinion, it was normally worth listening to. ‘What’s that, Tom?’

The Irishman pressed an oilcloth pouch into Scott’s hands. ‘Baccy. An extra pipe a day’ll make all the difference.’

Although Scott mainly smoked in the wardroom or his cabin, during the long darkness of winter he and Crean had once or twice shared a section of the pin rail up top, watching the Aurora Australis, or the gathering of yet another violent storm. Their time had been limited, because frostbite was an ever-present and insidious threat, but Crean had reminisced about life in Kerry and talked about how he would one day like to open a pub. This had been news to Scott: Crean was a singularly abstemious sailor. ‘I’m sure it will, Tom. Thank you.’

‘You show them Americans and them Norskies how you set records, sir.’

‘I will, Tom. I will.’

‘I wish I could be there to see it.’

The sentiment took Scott by surprise. Crean had never pushed himself forward. Yet any sledging leader would gladly have him along. ‘Next run, maybe, eh, Tom? Our time here isn’t over yet.’

‘That’s for certain, skipper.’

Scott raised his voice. ‘Gentlemen? I think it is time we took our leave and let these good people get back to work.’

They left with the dogs harnessed in line, the heartfelt cheers of the crew ringing in their ears. With Nigger straining in the traces, the animals were the keenest Scott had ever seen them, all pulling hard and fast, the sledges running straight and true over the ice. Jogging alongside, the three men could hardly keep up. In the end, Shackleton threw himself on to one of the sleds, hoping his weight would check them. It barely did and as his feet pounded over the ice, Scott let out a whoop of joy at the pack’s commitment. Once clear of the long line of well-wishers, the sledge-train swung south towards the nanatuk of extruded black rock and ice they called White Island. The floating barrier had formed pressure ridges and created hidden crevasses around it. Going too close was not advisable, so a dog-leg would take them round that barrier and track them beyond along the headland known as Mina Bluff and then they would be into the great unknown, the last truly uncharted place on earth.

Within the hour, the dogs settled in to a more sustainable pace, but still they threatened to outstrip the humans. The animals took small, fast paces, their ears were up and their tails wagging. They didn’t even break stride when they worked their bowels or bladders. Oft-times the spray of snow churned at the men came tainted with a scatter of undesirable particles as the other dogs ran through their colleagues’ excrement.

The bicycle-wheel sledgemeter that brought up the rear, measuring distance travelled, was fairly humming. Scott tried the skis, but failed to find a rhythm that would enable him to stay alongside and he kept falling back. He had to admit to himself he was still wary after his knee injury. Hot and breathless, shortly after noon, they had an early lunch and set off again. Here, the fresh drift snow covering the ice gripped at the sledge runners and the speed over the ground diminished.

Late that afternoon the slash of brightness in the south had widened and they could see a severe blue sky. Still the dogs pulled well, so that it was impossible for Scott to find enough breath to speak other than to ascertain that the other two were comfortable.

‘Ahead,’ gasped Shackleton.

Scott raised the wooden slit-apertured goggles he preferred over the smoked glass ones that the others wore. He could see a series of dots in the distance, just before the jagged hump of White Island.

‘What’s that, Bill?’ he asked, thinking it was a group of animals.

‘Sledgers,’ said Wilson.

It was the support party, well short of Depot A. The dogs had trounced them.