Death on the Ice (56 page)

All that way, thought Wilson, with the weight of defeat pressing on their shoulders, making each step heavier than the last. It would require every ounce of Scott’s tenacity, all of Bowers’s strength, Taff’s pig-headedness and Oates’s determination to do right by his regiment, to drive them on. What would they say back home? Ory wouldn’t care less, as long as he returned, he was sure. But Kathleen? Markham? The British Public? How would they react to the bitter blow?

They both watched Bowers, diligent to the end, take out the sling thermometer and whirl it around his head for a reading.

When Scott finally spoke it sent a bigger shiver through Wilson than the cutting wind ever had. ‘Yes, the run home.’ His words came as a tremulous whisper. ‘I wonder if we can do it, Bill.’

‘I am just going outside …’

T
HE MESSAGE WAITING IN
his room at the Adlon caused Fridtjof Nansen’s heart to race wildly. Thanks to a small bribe, he had already examined the hotel register and there was no Mrs Scott checked in or due to arrive. There had been a Miss Bruce, Kathleen’s maiden name, but a few marks for a description had established she was a spinster in her seventies. Unless being a mistress of disguise was among her many talents, it looked as if Mrs Scott was not coming to Berlin.

He consoled himself with a tour of the Persian exhibits at the partially completed Pergamon Museum. Berlin was cold, an east wind threatening snow, and the light went early, as did his spirits. When he returned to the hotel an envelope had been pushed under his door. It was very simple:
Please come this evening at six o’clock.

This was followed by an address in Charlottenburg and then her initials. K.S. Had she taken another hotel, for discretion’s sake, or was this an apartment she was renting? He hoped the latter. Nansen checked his fob watch. It was four. Two hours to kill. He would ask the front desk to source him some flowers, bathe, dress, then take a fortifying schnapps before crossing the Tiergarten for the rendezvous.

Knowing that Berliners demanded punctuality, he was a minute or so early when he yanked the doorbell of the private home. A Jewish maid opened the door, and he offered his card. ‘I am expected.’

‘Professor Nansen!’ The voice that boomed down the dark entrance hall was richly American. Its owner was a tall handsome man in his thirties, dressed in a velvet suit. ‘I have heard so much about you. Come in, come in.’

Somewhat confused, Nansen stepped inside, handed the maid the extravagant bouquet and shrugged off his coat.

‘I am John Harrison. My wife will be down shortly. Kathleen is all ready for you.’

‘Is she?’

‘Yes. I thought we’d have dinner afterwards.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Lovely flowers.’

Nansen exchanged the bouquet for his topcoat and his hat, and allowed himself to be guided along the corridor, past a profusion of thick-leaved plants.

‘We are just renting this place. Not my taste at all. Far too fussy, don’t you agree?’

Nansen made a noncommittal grunt.

‘We’ve put you out back. There is a paraffin heater, but I’ll send some brandy across. Although I would imagine you won’t be taking your clothes off. But you never know with Kathleen.’

Nansen answered robotically. ‘No.’

‘Your talk is tomorrow, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘We all have tickets. Maddie, that’s my wife. Harrington Mann, the artist. You heard of him? No? Very good. He’s painting Maddie’s portrait. And Kathleen, of course. Through here.’

They walked into the kitchen, past the cook, who curtsied, and out of a rear door. The cold night hit him as he stepped into the rear garden, but it was only four paces to the conservatory, where the lights blazed.

‘I’ll leave you to it. Late dinner. Eight-thirty. Take your time. Go on, Kathleen’s in there waiting.’

He stepped into the large glass building. It was double-height, lined with racks for holding pots and seed trays, although these were mostly empty. Kathleen was standing at the far end, next to the fumy paraffin heater and a large wooden table with a few bent-cane chairs.

‘Ah, Fridtjof. Wonderful. You got my message?’ she asked redundantly. Why else would he be here?

‘I did.’

She strode across, stood on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek. She smelled of turpentine. ‘Are those for me? How kind.’ She took them from him. ‘This place could do with some flowers. It’s rented and does not come with a gardener. So all this space goes to waste. I shall find a vase.’

She was dressed in a brown smock that reached down to her knees. Her hair was pinned up and she wore no make-up. It was rather a more quotidian appearance than he had hoped for.

‘Kathleen, who are these people?’

She rummaged under the shelving, found a grubby crystal vase, then rinsed and filled it from the butler’s sink in the corner. ‘The Harrisons? Patrons of the arts. They’ve been wonderful. We’ve been skating, flying—there is a wonderful aerodrome here—and dancing. Although I am disappointed with the calibre of German officers. Hardly a duelling scar between them. They were all young and spotty. Perhaps we’ll dance after your talk; that would be fun, wouldn’t it? I have to keep busy, you know. If I stop I dwell. And if I dwell  …’ There was a catch in her throat. ‘Do you think he has turned around yet?’

It was a second before he realised she meant her husband. ‘I am sure of it.’

She finished arranging the flowers and stepped back to admire her work. ‘So am I. I can feel it. Every day brings him closer to home.’ She beamed at him, a smile he thought slightly demented in its intensity. ‘Can you bear to take your jacket off? Then we’ll begin.’

‘Begin?’

She reached under the table and produced a shallow enamel bowl containing a large globe of wet, glistening clay that she dumped on to the top. ‘Yes. On your head. Just a preliminary shape. But I’d like to have the whole thing finished by the time Con gets back. I can show him and explain about all the wonderful times we had and how you were one of the ones that stopped me going insane with loneliness.’

‘My head?’

‘The sculpture? Remember? We talked about it in Fefor.’

Nansen, despite his disappointment, began to laugh. ‘I see.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I hope you weren’t expecting something else.’

‘No, of course not.’ He placed his jacket on the back of one of the chairs and sat.

She came over and pulled his collar down a little. ‘You have a lovely neck.’

‘So do you, Kathleen.’

He reached up to touch her, but she pushed his arm down and tutted. ‘Don’t make love to me like that. I am not in the mood.’

‘Will you ever be?’

‘I have been thinking on that, Fridtjof. Wondering if you would be so interested in me if my husband was a mere commander of a Dreadnought? If he had never even heard of Antarctica? Would I be quite such a prize?’

Nansen didn’t answer.

She spoke softly as she rotated his head with the palms of her hands. ‘Imagine if he has been beaten to the Pole by a Norwegian.’

Nansen decided he had nothing to lose by being honest. ‘As I fear he might well have been.’

‘There. Perfect. Stay still.’ She stepped away and walked over to the clay. She almost whispered her next sentence. ‘Then it is up to me to make sure that is the only disappointment he suffers at the hands of your country, isn’t it?’ She raised her voice. ‘Ah, here comes the brandy.’

Nansen watched the maid approach with the tray of decanter and glasses. She smiled at him and he managed to send one back, trying not to look too hangdog. He spoke to the maid in German. ‘Best make mine a large one.’

‘L
EAVE ME TO DIE.
Save yourselves. I am finished. There is no way I can go on. Just leave me. That is an order.’

‘No, we’ve been thinking. There has to be another way.’

‘Best make it quick, then.’

‘No, not that.’

Lashly bent down close to Teddy Evans, so his ruined eyes could at least make out his shape. They were on the barrier now, not far from home, but Teddy Evans had collapsed totally. He was lying on the sledge, having been dragged for the past few days. The extra effort had nearly worn out Crean and Lashly completely. They had even dumped their skis to save weight, which they now bitterly regretted.

‘You should have left me when I fainted.’

‘Aye, m’be,’ said Lashly. ‘But we didn’t.’ He looked up at Crean. ‘What do you think, Tom?’

‘I can do it.’

‘Do what?’ asked Evans sharply and then groaned. His knees had swollen to grapefruits, and were paining him even when he was resting. His gums were swollen and bleeding and his body was covered with purple blotches. He was a very sick man. ‘Just leave me.’

‘I am going to stay with you, sir, keep you company. Tom is going to walk to Hut Point to get help.’

‘Walk? How far is that?’

‘Thirty miles, I reckon,’ said Crean. ‘And it’s a fine day.’

It was indeed, a beautiful day, its radiance a taunt after the blizzards that had confined them to their tent, forcing them to consume their food and fuel till they virtually had neither left.

‘We’ll make our way, slow as you like, to Corner Camp. There might be some provisions there. Either way, we’ll wait for Tom and the dogs to come and get us.’

Evans nodded. ‘You are good men.’

‘Just doing our duty.’ There had been many arguments on the return; Evans had wanted to use as much food and fuel from the dumps as they required. Lashly and Crean were more circumspect, thinking of the polar party. Crean was disappointed in the condition Evans had left some of the depots. He should have taken more care.

The next sentence from Evans was unintelligible, and Lashly realised the officer had fallen asleep and was mumbling. He stood up. ‘Well, Tom, if you are certain. I don’t mind giving it a crack.’

‘I’d rather you stayed,’ said Crean. ‘I am not one for sitting around. And there’s your foot.’ Lashly had several frostbitten toes he was nursing, hoping not to lose them.

‘Well, here you are.’ The stoker handed over the food he had put together, a biscuit they had recovered from one of the motor-sledges, which smelled as if it was tainted with petrol, and some chocolate. ‘Don’t gorge it all at once. And take the water.’

‘No. Mr Evans’ll need that.’

They shook hands. ‘Good luck, Tom.’

‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

He watched Tom Crean stride off, bold and resolute. When he had disappeared, he roused Evans and managed to get him to his feet. ‘About a mile to Corner Camp, sir. But I can’t haul you. Haven’t the wind. Or the feet.’

Evans stood swaying, but when Lashly put a strap over his shoulder and into his hands he began to trudge forward, pulling the sledge. Lashly sang for a while, then said, ‘I hope the polar party have it better than us. Don’t you, sir? Still, at least there are five of them pulling. Five is a good number. Three is a devil of a hard work. Look, I can see the flag. Corner Camp. Let’s give it a last shove.’

Teddy Evans didn’t respond and it was another hour before they made it to the cairn that marked the camp. There was precious little food to be had, save for some treacle, originally for the ponies, and a slab of butter. Lieutenant Evans collapsed again, lying on the sledge. Lashly was forced to move him to unpack the equipment for camp.

As he was setting up the tent, he found the note from Mr Day. It was a warning to anyone travelling to Hut Point. ‘Large, treacherous crevasses have opened up on the barrier between Corner Camp and the sea ice, especially around White Island. Anyone travelling should take a detour to the East to avoid them.’

Lashly peered off into the distance. It was too late to warn him now. Only a Higher Power could decide whether Tom Crean would make it or not.

‘T
HE BISCUIT TIN IS
short!’

‘What?’

Scott was on his knees next to the excavated hole that revealed the buried supplies. He head snapped round and he glared at Bowers. ‘The tin is short.’

They were at Upper Glacier Depot. It was 7 February, and once again they had suffered infuriating blizzards and falls of those strange ice crystals that ruined the dragging surface. And now, the depot was short.

‘Someone must have eaten extra biscuits on the way back,’ said Bowers.

‘Who would do that?’ Scott demanded. ‘They all had orders to leave us enough food. Who would be immoral and insubordinate enough to do that? Are you sure it was properly packed?’

Bowers looked stung by the accusation. He had been in charge of the caching of supplies and felt any shortfall or problem to be a personal affront. ‘Yes, skipper.’

‘Con,’ said Wilson, who knew it was no good fretting over riffled biscuits, trying to inject a sense of calm. ‘We should put up the tent. Look at Taff.’

Taff Evans was standing next to the sledge, slack jawed. He had fallen down that morning, narrowly avoiding a crevasse, but had struck his head quite hard on the ice. His already dull demeanour had become worse. It was partly a blessing, because Wilson didn’t have to explain he was going to lose a good portion of his nose and several fingers. The nails had fallen off and underneath each was a mass of pus. The cut from the sledge was suppurating, poisoning everything around it.

‘Come on, Taff, lend a hand.’ It was Oates, starting to unpack the sledge. ‘God’s sake, man. Have you lost your guts completely?’

The attempt to shock him out of his stupor failed. Evans continued to move like a man disconnected from the world. They were all losing condition, thought Oates, just like the ponies had. Wilson had been snowblind and pulled a tendon so badly he couldn’t haul. Oates was becoming frostbitten more and more easily and Scott had fallen and damaged his shoulder. Pulling in the harness was agony for him, which was why he was sharp with Bowers. Birdie remained unscathed; he was glad to be back on skis, which they had collected en route. Oates had also found his pipe, a small, cheery miracle.