Death on the Ice (57 page)

‘Note here from Teddy,’ said Scott, unfurling a piece of paper. ‘Made it safely, going well.’ He sat back on his haunches. ‘At least we are off that damned plateau. Thought we were in a bit of a fix there for a while.’

‘Only when we were lost, surely,’ said Wilson. A white-out had obliterated their outward tracks in places, making it difficult to locate the cairns. They had found some of the depots more by luck than judgement. If it hadn’t been for Bowers’s extraordinary vision, they would have missed some of the food supplies altogether.

Scott laughed. ‘True. Only when we were lost.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We should have noted the bearings on our depots on the outward journey or laid more marker flags.’

It was a rare admission of such a basic error by Scott, and Wilson felt a sense of foreboding at the words. It was not a moment for defeatism. ‘We’ll know next time, Con.’

‘At least we beat Shackleton this time out.’

‘Yes. You’ve done that.’

Wilson glanced across to Bowers, who was now helping Oates and a less-than-useful PO Evans erect the tent. Evans was shuffling, his gait clumsy, and he was finding it hard to manipulate ropes and stays with his tortured hands.

‘I doubt that tin is Birdie’s fault,’ Wilson said quietly.

‘I know,’ admitted Scott. It could have been Meares or Teddy or any of the others who had turned back who had been thoughtless. ‘I should not speak in haste. Look—’ he pointed across the ice to an exposed sandstone cliff—‘what about we spend a few hours getting geological samples after lunch?’

Wilson brightened. ‘If you think we can spare the time.’

‘Give us something else to do. Good for morale. And remember, we came for science, not the race. After lunch, I’ll send Birdie off to gather some geological samples. He’s a bit rusty on his skis, give him practice.’

Scott pulled one of the fuel tins from the cache and shook it. Wilson heard the slosh of the paraffin, echoing more loudly than it should have.

‘Half empty,’ Scott said. ‘Teddy Evans?’

‘I’d like to think he’d be parsimonious with our stocks.’

‘Creep?’

‘If it is, we can do without that.’ Paraffin ‘crept’ at low temperatures, evaporating out of the tin. It had happened on the
Discovery
trip; they had hoped new, tighter bungs would have solved the problem.

Scott heard a cry and looked up. Evans was on his knees, cradling his cut hand. ‘How bad is PO?’ he asked Wilson. ‘Be honest, Bill.’

‘Bad.’

‘Stupid, stupid man. He’s slowing us, you know.’

Wilson spoke carefully. He knew Scott was holding himself back by an effort of will. He wanted to lash out at everybody and everything: Evans, Shackleton, the weather, even God. ‘I think the fuel is more of a problem than Taff at the moment,’ he said.

‘You might be right. Let’s see, should be another, here.’ Scott let out a small whoop of joy. ‘A-ha. This one seems pretty full.’ He stood, his arms full of supplies, his mood lifted. ‘Oh, and Bill.’

‘Con?’

‘Don’t mention the creep to the others just yet. Especially Bowers, he’ll take it hard.’ Wilson couldn’t imagine Scott believed a word of his next sentence. ‘It might just be one faulty can.’

‘Of course not, Con.’

‘We have to stop. Skipper, we have to stop. Skipper!’

Scott reluctantly raised a hand and the four men halted, slumping in the traces.

‘What is it now?’ he demanded of Wilson.

‘Look.’

He followed Wilson’s outstretched arm. Taff Evans was standing several hundred yards behind, hands limp at his sides. Evans was no longer in the traces. He had lost the power to pull at all, much to Scott’s surprise. After the scare of being lost in the crevasses, they were almost clear of the Beardmore. Scott felt that there could be no worse time ahead than the twelve hours wasted when they wandered off track, and the desperate attempt to find the mid-glacier depot. Surely, even though the hauling surface was far from good, they must be over the worst of it. But now Taff seemed all in.

Scott unhitched his harness and trudged back to Taff, who remained rooted to the spot. ‘What is it now, PO?’ It was difficult not to sound short, but he was costing them valuable time.

‘Skis.’

He pointed at his feet. The bindings were undone.

‘What about them?’

‘Keep coming off. Need to adjust.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Scott bent down, but Evans slapped him on the back, yelping as he did so. ‘I can do it, sir.’

‘Are you all right, Taff?’

‘Never better, sir.’

‘Well that’s not quite true, is it?’

‘I’ll be fine. You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.’

‘We’ll wait.’

‘You go on.’

Scott walked back to the others and said, ‘We’ll pull slowly. He’ll catch up.’ His tone brooked no argument. ‘Ready? One-two-three-heave, one-two-three-heave—’ After five hard jerks the sledge pulled free and they carried on at a reduced pace. Every few hundred yards one of them glanced back. The hulk of Taff was clearly visible, shuffling after them till the snow began to fall, and he disappeared into the swirl.

They camped for lunch shortly afterwards, waiting for him to arrive.

‘I don’t know what we are going to do if he doesn’t improve,’ said Oates. ‘We can’t pull him on the sledge. Not him and those rocks of yours.’

‘He was better after a good sleep,’ said Wilson. ‘A decent feed at Shambles will help him.’ Shambles, or Pony, Camp was where five of the animals had been buried.

‘I dream about those ponies all day long,’ admitted Birdie. ‘I fear I may gorge myself when we get back to the hut.’

‘I’m looking forward to eating Christopher,’ said Oates. ‘A little recompense for all the misery he caused me.’

‘This is a fern, I think.’ Wilson was examining one of the rocks they had collected. They had about 35 lb in all and Oates often complained about the extra weight, but some of them were quite exquisite and Wilson always dissuaded Soldier from ditching them. ‘Very delicate. I bet the Norwegians haven’t anything like this, to prove it wasn’t always a cold, lifeless place.’

Oates laughed. ‘It’s not what it used to be that worries me. It’s what it is now. Shouldn’t Taff have made it by now?’

‘He’ll be following our tracks,’ said Bowers.

‘Unless they have been drifted over.’ Although Amundsen’s tracks had remained tauntingly clear at the Pole, the winds they had experienced since often caused a rolling ground-mist of ice crystals that obscured all traces of their own passage.

‘I’ll take a look,’ said Scott wearily.

It had stopped snowing and visibility had improved, but there was no sign of Taff Evans. Scott ducked back into the tent. ‘Not a whisker. Come on, we’d best take a look. Leave the sledge. We’ll ski.’

They found him on his hands and knees, sobbing. The skis had been lost altogether. He had cast off his mittens and inner gloves, and his hands were sickening to look at. They glistened black, as if they were made of coal. Strings of saliva hung from his lips. He was whimpering, his mouth working but no words coming.

‘Oh God, Taff,’ said Oates. He took off his skis, sat down next to him, and pulled him on to his lap. He looked up at the others. ‘He’s in no fit condition to take another pace. Go and get the sledge. I’ll stay with him.’

‘Can he stand?’ asked Scott. ‘PO, can you stand?’

‘No, he bloody well can’t stand,’ Oates snapped. ‘I am not going to ask him. Please get the sledge. He deserves it.’

Scott’s frustration exploded over his face. ‘For crying out loud, Taff. You’re the strongest of us.’

The exhausted Evans said nothing, just shook his head.

‘Get the fucking sledge, will you,’ said Oates.

Scott looked taken aback by the reappearance of lower-deck language. His cracked lips pursed in irritation. ‘Very well. Gentlemen, if you will.’

Oates watched the three of them trudge off.

‘Oh, Taff, what have we done to you?’

The Welshman roused and twisted his head to look at Oates. His eyes were slick with tears and the evaporation fogged his eyes. He attempted to mutter an apology, but the words were slurred and his tongue thick. It was like an old, debilitated man trying to speak.

Oates took off a mitten and stroked Taff’s face with his fingers. Through his own numb skin, he could feel the cheeks were hard and scaly. A crater had appeared where the tip of his nose should have been, its colour a queasy yellow and purple. He was like a great strong ox pushed beyond his limits, Oates thought. He’d collapsed just as poor Mr Daniels had at Punchestown. How long ago Ireland seemed now. And to think people there complained about that climate.

Like Mr Daniels, he thought again. Perhaps, if he had a bolt-gun, it would be time for another mercy killing.

‘Sorry,’ the big man finally said, his face wet with congealing tears.

‘Don’t be daft. Take no notice of the skipper. He’s just worried about you. Our luck is running low. Like the fuel. And look at the size of you. Big man on the same rations as Birdie. Don’t know if that’s right.’ He brushed some of the rime from the Welshman’s forehead. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Taff. My feet look like your hands. Hurt like billy-o. Not sure I have that many miles in me, either.’ Oates felt a sob burst from his throat, taking him by surprise. It took a second to regain his self-control. ‘I wonder if you can still ride to hounds with no toes?’

Oates continued to talk to Taff, mainly of horses and hounds, for the next thirty minutes, when the sledgers finally reappeared. They got Taff back to the tent, where he died at twelve-thirty a.m. in the morning without saying another word.

T
HE DOOR TO HUT
Point burst open and Tom Crean staggered in, the weather snapping at his heels. He looked around to see who was in and, for a second, he thought it was empty. He felt his first real moment of panic. Then he saw Atkinson at the corner table, head in his arms, dozing.

Atkinson looked up from the table and jumped to his feet, pulling Crean inside and sitting him down. He looked awful, his face gaunt, his eyes red rimmed. Frost-nip scarred his face like smallpox.

‘Dimitri!’

The dog-driver emerged from one of the bunks, rubbing his eyes. He saw Crean and his head cleared at once. He fetched a tot of brandy and laid it before the seaman. Crean slugged it back and shuddered. ‘Another please.’

‘That’ll do for now, Tom,’ said Atkinson. ‘Maybe later. Don’t want to overdo it.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘You are lucky we’re here. We were just getting some rest before we go out to the barrier with more supplies for One Ton Camp and to wait for the polar party. Where are the others?’

‘Corner Camp.’

‘Who is there?’

‘Stoker Lashly and Lieutenant Evans.’

Just two. They must have lost a man, thought Atkinson, knowing the returning parties were to be four-handed. ‘How did you get here?’

‘Walked, sir.’

‘From Corner Camp?’ It was thirty miles and this man was a near-skeleton.

‘Aye. Took me twenty-four hours to get to the edge of the barrier. Weather closed in a little, I think there is a blizzard at my tail, and I fell a few times trying to get through the Gap. Hurt my back on the rocks.’

‘I’ll take a look.’

‘No, sir, Mr Evans is out there and he is sorely ill. The scurvy, I think. He comes in and out of consciousness. And he’s snowblind.’

‘I don’t think your own eyes are too bright, Tom.’

‘They are sore, all right, sir. I had no goggles. Lost them on our sledge down the Beardmore.’

‘You did what? No, tell me later. Have you eaten?’

‘I walked for twelve hours and then had some chocolate and one of my biscuits. I ate the other two squares a few hours ago.’

Atkinson gasped at this and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You have done something remarkable.’

‘Oh, there was no choice, sir. Lashly and I agreed it was our last best hope.’

Atkinson shook his head. For a man in his condition to make that hike was incredible, even if Crean couldn’t see it. ‘We have some porridge. Dimitri, would you mind?’

Crean began to protest. ‘Mr Evans, sir—’

‘Yes, we’ll go as soon as we make sure you are all right for us to leave you.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No. You’ll rest. Now tell me everything. Slowly. When did you last see the polar party?’

Crean went through the final few days on the plateau with Scott, and the eventual splitting of the party, pausing only when Atkinson quizzed him to be certain he had heard right. That Scott had taken five men to the Pole.

‘Yes. Said I had a bad cough. As if that was anything. I think maybe I just showed the cough wouldn’t have stopped me getting to the Pole, now, haven’t I?’

‘I think you have proved more than that, Tom.’

A bowl of thick porridge was put before Crean and he spooned it up. ‘Lovely’

Atkinson set about gathering some medical supplies and emergency rations for the journey to Corner Camp, while Dimitri went to harness up the dogs. They could make it to Evans and Lashly in a few hours with the huskies.

‘Sir—’ muttered Crean. He stood up, knocking the chair over, and rushed to the door, where he vomited the porridge across the slush.

‘It’s all right,’ Atkinson said. ‘Often happens. You must be half starved.’

‘I think it was the brandy, sir.’

‘I am sure it was.’

‘Never happened before, sir.’

Atkinson helped Crean to one of the bunks and told him they would be back with the other two shortly and that he could get some sleep. The doctor struggled into his sledging gear and went out into a stiffening wind to fetch his skis.

He was already calculating what had to be done. It sounded as if Evans would have to be sledged over to the
Terra Nova
, which had finally arrived from New Zealand, and be sent home, along with Meares, who had opted to ship out. At some point, though, Atkinson would have to find time and resources to send the dogs south for Scott. But his first duty was to the sick Evans.

The huskies were in the traces and yapping, keen to be off, but Dimitri was looking grim.

‘What is it?’

He pointed across the ice to where thick clouds were rolling in and the atmosphere danced and flexed with a strange disturbance. Already Atkinson could feel the icy sting of an advanced guard of the blizzard that had been on Crean’s tail. ‘Damn.’