Death on the Ice (60 page)

Kathleen read to Peter at bedtime, a chapter from Walter Scott, whom the boy always insisted must be a relative.

‘Is Amundsen a good man?’ he asked when she told him the news about the Pole.

‘Yes. I think he probably is.’

‘I think both Amundsen and Daddy made the Pole. Daddy has stopped working now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He is resting.’

‘Yes, I’m sure he is. Goodnight.’

Peter’s strange turn of phrase alarmed Kathleen. She tucked him up and went downstairs to consult her diary and make arrangements. It was a long way off yet, but she had decided that she would travel to New Zealand, via America, and be there to meet Captain Scott when he returned from the Pole the following year.

T
HE WHITE-HOT STABBING
in his legs caused Oates to cry out as he woke up. It had been so bad on the last march he had bitten into his hand; the teeth marks were clearly visible. Nothing about him was healing, apparently. As Wilson had suggested, he had cut the bottom out of his sleeping bag to keep his frostbitten feet exposed, so that they would not thaw. But the morning temperature was high enough to cause him bursts of agony around his ankles and what was left of his toes.

He looked around at the three grey, gaunt faces and the red, sunken eyes that stared back at him. The spectral green light of the tent, once so comforting, made them look jaundiced. Blisters were tracked across their faces and lips were swollen, scabbed and fissured. An ice rime from their freezing breath deposited crystals over their face and hair. Their vocal faculties, the external machinery for speech—lips, jaws and tongues—had all been damaged. Each man spoke as if he had been born with an impediment.

Oates cleared the frost from his mouth. ‘Sorry. I thought. I might not wake at all. Hoped.’ The words came thick and slow, such was the effort to form them. Sentences were punctuated with short gasps for breath. ‘I bet you hoped so. Too.’

‘Nonsense. A few more days’ effort, Soldier,’ said Scott. ‘Soon as the blizzard goes, we march on.’

‘You go on. I haven’t another march left in me.’

‘You must have.’

‘No. None.’ He pulled a leg from the bag and rolled down the sock, just to show how the necrosis had progressed up his calf. The others held their breath and glanced away till it was covered again.

Scott looked over at Wilson and nodded. It was time.

Wilson carefully opened his medical bag and extracted the four tubes. He had already counted them out, so each man had enough to end his suffering if he wished.

They all knew what lay in store now. They were cooking their final supplies with a tiny spirit lamp and a blizzard had surrounded the tent once more. The outside world was a howling maelstrom. Starvation was looming.

‘Just in case,’ said Wilson as he passed the phial to Oates.

Soldier put up his hands, black and swollen like his feet. ‘Can’t even do that without help. You should have left me.’

He had offered to stay on the ice in his sleeping bag while the others marched on. Scott had all but dragged him the next few miles to camp. ‘We couldn’t do that,’ said Bowers with some difficulty. ‘Nobody gets left behind.’

‘What about Taff?’ Oates asked. ‘We left him behind when his skis gave trouble.’

There was a guilty silence. They had indeed carried on without him for a short while before pitching camp, before returning for him.

‘Taff had gone in the head,’ said Bowers eventually. ‘You know that.’

Oates looked at the three men, from one to the other. None was in good condition, but he was the worst by some margin. His feet and hands useless, his brain as slow as a one year old’s, although not as demented as Taff’s had been. His body was worse, though. To his shame, Wilson had spoon-fed him the previous night, even though the doctor was in serious pain from his feet and a torn tendon himself.

‘Do you need help with them, Soldier?’ asked Scott, picking up his own tube of pills.

‘Con,’ Wilson objected.

‘No, skipper, I don’t need help.’

Oates lunged forward and managed to get on to all fours. The pressure on his bones caused him agony and his breath came in short gasps.

‘What are you doing?’ Scott asked.

‘Just going. Outside.’

‘It’s minus forty,’ said Wilson, thinking Titus was answering a call of nature. ‘Perhaps less. Do it in your britches. Or I’ll give you a hand. There’s a blizzard, man.’

Oates laughed. ‘Then I may be some time.’

‘No, Soldier. It’s too late for that. It’ll make no difference, Titus,’ said Bowers, stirring himself, as if he only just realised what was about to happen. ‘Not to us. Don’t do it for us.’

‘Let me do it. For myself.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you think my regiment … will be proud of me?’

‘I do,’ said Scott.

‘Bound to be. To have a man at the Pole, the first army man at ninety degrees south,’ said Wilson.

‘I’ll just go outside,’ he repeated.

He crawled forward towards the exit.

‘Soldier.’ Bowers sat up his bag, as if to lunge and grab him. ‘No.’

‘Let him be, Birdie,’ Scott said. ‘Let him be. Soldier. You were right, you know. All along, About—’

‘Don’t tell me that. Don’t. Not now.’ He knew what Scott was about to say: they should have pressed on and depoted the horses further south at eighty degrees on the original journey to set up One Ton Camp. Had they done so, they would in all probability be sitting next to it at that very moment. If they had just pressed on for thirty miles with Nobby and Guts and the others. It sounded no distance at all. At one time he could have run that. Thirty miles. In that storm, with his feet, it might as well be thirty thousand.

‘Tell my mother I love her. And my sisters. And that I am sorry.’

‘Titus—’ Bill Wilson began.

Before anyone could stop him, Oates had untied the flap and was through the opening and into the storm. It was the fastest he had moved in days, as if he had been saving one last burst of energy. He hadn’t even taken his boots. The wind invaded the tent, bringing large flakes of snow with it. Scott reached across and pulled the ties to close the flap.

‘There goes a very gallant gentleman.’

‘Bugger,’ said Bowers to himself and began to mumble a prayer for the gallant gentleman’s soul. This segued into a low sobbing.

Wilson shuffled towards the door but Scott said, ‘No, he’s gone. You’ll be lost yourself.’

‘And tomorrow?’ asked Wilson, staring at the vibrating entrance. ‘What then, Con? Do we look for him? Say something?’

‘We push on,’ said Scott slowly, shaking his head. ‘Titus has given us that chance. We should take it.’

Tom Crean cracked open a bottle of beer and handed it to Tryggve Gran.

‘What’s this for?’

‘It’s St Patrick’s Day. Lunch, a beer and a walk on the ice.’ The sea ice had thickened around Cape Evans; soon they would be able to exercise the dogs across it.
Terra Nova
had gone, with Meares and Teddy Evans. It had intended to pick up Campbell and the Northern party en route and return them, or signal their relief, but there was no sign, which was worrying. Had the ice beaten the ship back? Was Campbell stranded?

Nor was there any evidence of the polar party, but nobody had expressed too much concern. Not yet. Cherry had depoted enough food for them at One Ton Camp; they could sit anything out there. ‘Perhaps get us some seals,’ continued Crean. ‘What do you say?’

‘St Patrick?’

‘Patron saint of Ireland.’

Gran looked at the date. ‘March the seventeenth?’

‘Every year, Trigger. Cheers.’

‘
Prost
.’ Gran raised the bottle and chinked it against Crean’s. ‘You know, it’s the Soldier’s birthday. Thirty-two, I think.’

‘Is it?’ said Tom. ‘Then happy birthday, Titus Oates.’

One step, two step, three. Enough to be clear of the tent. God, it is so cold, so very, very cold. Another two steps. Can’t quite straighten now. Funny, feet have stopped hurting. Another step. Come on, Titus, you can do better than that. You should have listened to me, Scott. Shouldn’t you? No, don’t the with recriminations. You are not without blame. You should have used snowshoes on the ponies more readily. And a horse soldier with a gammy leg had no business out there anyway. Can’t blame Scott for every little thing. Brave man. A trooper. A lesser man might have lain down at the Pole in front of that damned Norwegian flag. Not Scott. He tried to get them home, that much was certain. And didn’t abandon the weak. Perhaps a little hard on Taff; shouldn’t have left him that day to fix his skis. But he himself had gone along with it without protest. So it was all their faults, really.

Why were they dying? Scott had a mix of bad luck, a bit of stubbornness, a smattering of foolish ideas. But the bits added up, didn’t they? The horses, the motor-sledges, the fuel creep, the extended cooking time, winter coming ridiculously early, no dogs at Hooper. Drip, drip, drip.

If only Scott had listened to him about One Ton. What a price to pay for some nags that were doomed to die anyway.

In the end, does it really matter where a man died? Once you accepted your time was finite, when that terrible clarity of the waiting oblivion shone through all the guff and wishful thinking about after-lives, then whether you were snuffed out at age twenty, thirty or seventy hardly mattered. Except to those left behind.

Oh, Carrie, I am sorry for the sadness it will cause you.

Even the shivering hurts now, muscles banging against bone. Can’t be long.

It would have been nice to find Edie. He wondered what she had called the baby? Was it a boy or a girl? That’s all he wanted to know. That and where he could send a little money. The least he could do.

Why aren’t I dead yet?

Pull off the jumper. Christ, that’s—

Get up. Come on, not far enough away yet. Don’t want them wasting time making a cairn or saying some empty words. Wilson’s God doesn’t live out here, he won’t be listening. Poor Bill. Poor Birdie. And, yes, poor Captain Scott. Oh, and poor Taff. Forgotten so soon. Mustn’t remember him at the end, the broken man, but the other fellow. The proud Welshman, the happy drunkard, the tireless companion.

Get up, Titus. One, two, three. Hup. There. Now, which way is the tent? This way. No, must be over there, so I walk this way. Oh Christ, who is that? No, go back. Go back. Don’t come and get me. Stupid. Oh, it’s you. How did you get here? Good to see you. Yes, I think it must be my birthday. I’m just going to sit down. Take my shirt off. Can you help with the buttons? Thank you. It cheers me to see you, old friend. We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? A long, long way down. And isn’t that odd? A queer thing. Now you are here. I feel much warmer. Much warmer.

T
O MY WIDOW

Dearest Darling—We are in a very tight corner and I have doubts of pulling through—In our short lunch hours I take advantage of a very small measure of warmth to write letters preparatory to a possible end—the longest is naturally to you on whom my thoughts mostly dwell waking or sleeping. If anything happens to me I shall like you to know how much you have meant to me and that pleasant recollections are with me as I depart—I should like you to take what comfort you can from these facts also—I shall not have suffered any pain but leave the world fresh from harness and full of good health and vigour—this is dictated already, when provisions come to an end we simply stop where we are within easy distance of another depot.

[break]

We have gone downhill a good deal since I wrote the above. Poor Titus Oates has gone—he was in a bad state—the rest of us keep going and imagine we have a chance to get through but the cold weather doesn’t let up at all—we are now only twenty miles from a depot but we have very little food or fuel.

Well, dear heart, I want you to take the whole thing very sensibly as I am sure you will—the boy will be your comfort. I had looked forward to helping you to bring him up but it is a satisfaction to feel that he is safe with you.

I must write a little letter for the boy if time can be found to be read when he grows up—dearest, that you know cherish no sentimental rubbish about remarriage—when the right man comes to help you in life you ought to be your happy self again—I hope I shall be a good memory, certainly the end is nothing for you to be ashamed of and I like to think that the boy will have a good start in parentage of which he may be proud.

Dear, it is not easy to write because of the cold—seventy degrees below zero and nothing but the shelter of our tent—you know I have loved you, you know my thoughts must have constantly dwelt on you and—oh, dear me, you must know that quite the worst aspect of this situation is the thought that I shall not see you again. The inevitable must be faced—you urged me to be leader of this party and I know you felt it would be dangerous—I’ve taken my place throughout, haven’t I? God bless you, my own darling, I shall try and write more later—I go on across the back pages …

[break]

Since writing the above we have got to within eleven miles of our depot with one hot meal and two days’ cold food and we should have got through, but have been held for four days by a frightful storm—I think the best chance has gone, we have decided not to kill ourselves but to fight it to the last for that depot but in the fighting there is a painless end so don’t worry. I have written letters on odd pages of this book—will you manage to get them sent? You see I am anxious for you and the boy’s future—make the boy interested in natural history if you can, it is better than games—they encourage it at some schools—I know you will keep him out in the open air—try and make him believe in God, it is comforting. Oh my dear, my dear, what dreams I have had of his future and yet, oh my girl, I know you will face it stoically—your portrait and the boy’s will be found in my breast pocket and the one in the little red Morocco case given by Lady Baxter. There is a piece of the Union Jack flag I put up at the South Pole in my private kit bag together with Amundsen’s black flag and other trifles—give a small piece of the Union flag to the King and a small piece to Queen Alexandra and keep the rest, a poor trophy for you!—What lots and lots I could tell you of this journey. How much better it has been than lounging in comfort at home—what tales you would have for the boy but oh, what a price to pay—to forfeit the sight of your dear, dear face.