Death on the Ice (20 page)

‘Damn.’ There was a prolonged period of silence before he spoke again. ‘Do you think we should turn back, Bill?’

‘Shackle doesn’t know about his condition yet, but he will soon enough. And that cough is a concern.’ There was another lengthy pause while Wilson gathered more wind to speak. ‘Should we turn back? It pains me, but I think perhaps we should.’

Scott looked ahead. He knew the eighty-second parallel was there for the taking, just in front of them, and to the West were the forbiddingly beautiful cliffs and elaborate, twisted ice cascade formations that deserved a look. Some of the steeper faces were bare of ice or snow, and it might be possible to take geological samples, to see how these peaks were related to the ones further north. He might also be able to make sense of the mix of mountains, glaciers, snowcaps and plateaux they could see at various times. It would mean going back with more than a valueless southing record. He pushed harder into the harness, willing the dogs to join in. ‘Just a little further, Billy. Just a little further. Would you mind?’

‘Very well, Con. Just a little further.’

They took the lunch of seal meat and biscuit out in the open in their sleeping bags, shivering as the sweat of their efforts cooled and froze into sheets. Wilson sat apart, sketching the mountain ranges. Despite the burning in his blistered fingers, he drew fast and firmly.

‘You know, those drawings of Bill’s really are quite special,’ said Scott to Shackleton. ‘I knew he was a fine one for capturing animals, but his landscapes astonish me. He has a remarkable eye for depth and they are geographically very accurate. I’ve tested his proportions by angular measurement. As accurate as any photograph.’

‘He should watch his eyes. Two hours a day staring at the glare of mountains is not good for them.’

‘I have warned him.’

Shackleton struggled up and crossed to stand behind Wilson. He watched his pen strokes for a while before he spoke. ‘Billy, the captain says you’re better than my camera. Shall we see?’

‘By all means, Shackle.’

Shackleton set up the half-plate camera and took several photographs of the most prominent features and, satisfied, sat down to finish the last few crumbs of biscuit.

‘Shackle.’

‘Yes, skipper?’

‘Don’t tempt me like that again, eh?’

‘How?’

‘Get up and leave your biscuit. I’m only human.’

Shackleton roared with laughter.

‘What?’

‘Your face is black with snowburn, your nose is peeling, your eyes are as raw as steak, your hair is filthy and, if I might say, very ungroomed. You look more monkey that human.’ He scratched his own beard. ‘We all do. So, point taken.’ He licked his own blackened fingers. ‘I will tempt you no more.’

‘Good. I shall take some sightings before we move on. Four point five miles this morning. Well done.’

‘Billy will steer this afternoon. I’ve done with whipping for now.’ None of them liked driving the doomed dogs.

‘He said that?’

‘No, but he will.’

This meant putting Shackleton in harness, which, if Wilson were right about his scurvy, would rapidly deplete his energy levels.

‘I think we should carry on as we were.’

‘Why?’

Scott was momentarily lost for a decent reason. Eventually he said: ‘We made good progress as it was.’

‘There are three of us in the group, you know. You can’t keep Billy to yourself. That’s what you are doing, isn’t it? I hear you talking, laughing. We all need another to converse with.’

Scott was taken aback by the venom behind the words. ‘You are being a fool, Shackle.’

‘And you are the biggest bloody fool of all. You give me words, I’ll give them back to you tenfold.’

Scott felt his anger drain away and trepidation replace it. Shackleton had never been the most mature of men as far he was concerned, often quick to take offence, but this was something new. Something irrational. He spoke slowly and clearly. ‘No slight was intended. Nor did I mean to deprive you of company.’

‘Then Billy Boy steers.’

‘Bill steers.’

That afternoon they were visited by an exotic beauty. It was a vision so extraordinary it tested their credulity, making them wonder if hunger was fostering hallucinations on them. But they all saw the same thing. It began with a sudden drop in temperature that forced them to close all fastenings and pulls on their clothing and yank down their caps. Then the air took on a strange, hazy quality. The sun dimmed so rapidly, it was almost possible to look at it without the goggles.

‘Ice crystals,’ said Shackleton, attempting to grab a handful from the air in front of him.

Now Scott could feel them on his face, a million tiny needle points. Colours began to dance in the cloud that enveloped them, light broken apart by the prismatic effect of the crystals and water droplets. Then, lines and circles and arcs dissected the heavens, as if God was playing with a geometry set. A glowing double halo embraced the sun and, above it, hovering to the left and right, were two other discs.

‘Mock suns,’ Scott said. ‘I’ve heard of them, but never—’

He had to stop as more strange lines appeared, glowing links joining real sun to false sun. Wilson appeared running at their side, breathless. ‘Do you see it? I must sketch it. It’s magnificent.’

So they halted while Wilson carefully set down a record of the phenomenon, and marvelled at the shifting hues both in the sky and all around them. Now and then, despite themselves, they reached out to try to touch some dancing fire or dark shadow, but it dissolved away, to be replaced by an apparition even more beautiful and ethereal. They felt privileged to be seeing the phenomenon, as if nature was putting on a three-man show, just for them.

That night Dr Edward Wilson went snow-blind.

L
AWRENCE OATES STRIPPED OFF
his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and began with Sorry Kate’s hoofs, noting that she would have to be re-shod soon. He cleaned her cornets and began brushing her down, enjoying the feel of the animal’s muscles rippling with pleasure as he did so.

Oates had cancelled his racing entries for two months following the demise of Mr Daniels. Animals died, he was quite sanguine about that, but the manner of their dying concerned him. So, during the week he attended the veterinarians’ course in Galway, where practical ability accounted for three quarters of the final mark, and he spent the weekends back at the Curragh riding Sorry Kate and then grooming her. They had enjoyed a decent canter that morning, before a slanting drizzle had blown in from the West.

While he brushed, he sang softly:

I’m Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten-thirty

And reach Kempton Park around three.

I stand by the rail, when a horse is for sale

And you ought to see Wooton watch me.

I lean on some awning, while Lord Derbys yawning,

Then he bids two thousand and I bid Good Morning.

I’m Bert, Bert, I’d buy one, a Cert,

But where would I keep it, you know?

I can’t let my man see me in bed with a gee-gee

I’m Burlington Bertie from Bow.

‘Oates.’

He looked up to see his old friend Culshaw, now a captain.

‘Sir.’

‘Oh, knock that off, Titus. How are you?’

‘Not too bad.’

‘I hear you passed your horse veterinarian’s examination.’

Oates shrugged. ‘I’ve had nothing official yet.’

Culshaw gave a broad grin. ‘I did a stint as the colonel’s adjutant, remember? I hear you have passed your horse veterinarian’s exam.’

He had been reading Sterling’s papers. ‘Oh. Good.’

‘I also heard you reduced the examiner to tears.’

Oates had to smile at the memory. His written exam had, of course, been borderline, so for his viva he had been required to criticise some poor nag they had brought out. He had been very thorough in his appraisal and critical of the conditions that could have been cured. ‘Keeping an animal in discomfort just so someone can diagnose summer itch is not right in my opinion. I told him that. Quite strongly, I fear. I thought they must fail me.’

‘Apparently not.’

There was something about the way the captain had his arms wrapped around his body that concerned Oates. He was shivering, too.

‘Are you all right, Culshaw? Are you ill?’

A heavier downpour began, beating on the stables’ iron roof with an insistent pulse.

‘Bit of trouble in town.’

‘The pox?’

‘Oh, I wish. That would be easy. I’d go and see one of those witches in Temple Bar for a few powders. Look, I hope you don’t mind me talking like this. Don’t know who else to speak to. You’ve always been a good sort. Hold up.’

They watched the Saunterer, the horse named after his boat, being led in by Trooper O’Neill who had taken him out to the gallops. Both were drenched, but O’Neill had a smile on his face.

‘How was he?’ Oates asked.

‘Very good, sir. Very keen.’ O’Neill wiped the moisture from his eyes. ‘He’ll make a fine hunter.’

‘Good. Just take the saddle off and throw a blanket over him, I’ll be there in a while.’ Oates turned back to Culshaw, his voice low. ‘It’s a girl, then.’

‘That obvious, eh?’

‘Usually is. Pox or a girl. How far gone?’

‘Two months, perhaps.’

‘Marry her?’

Culshaw snorted louder than Sorry Kate. ‘I have a fiancée.’

‘Fiancées can be unhad.’

Culshaw shook his head. ‘Not this one.’

‘Babies can be unhad.’

‘Catholic.’

‘Oh Lord, Culshaw.’

The captain hissed at him. ‘It’s all right for you, Oates, you’ve always kept your pecker in your pants. The rest of us don’t have that luxury—’

‘Or don’t choose to.’

The captain snarled now. ‘Whatever. What can I do? She’s from a good family.’

‘Do you love your fiancée?’

‘I suppose. She’s one of the Caldwells.’

Oates didn’t know who the Caldwells were, but no doubt they were another prominent family on a par with the Sheffield Steel Culshaws. ‘And this Irish girl?’

The wistful look on his face and the glint in his eyes gave the answer. ‘There you are, then. You choose love.’

‘You don’t fully appreciate what that would mean at home, it would ruin me to be with this girl. Her family is nothing away from the bogs.’

‘You are ruined either way, Culshaw. Go with the one where your duty lies.’

The captain frowned. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘I won’t breathe a word. And there are places where she can be confined, you know.’

‘I am aware of that, Titus. But it’s hardly your area of expertise, is it? Women, I mean. Forget I mentioned it, would you? There’s a good chap. You don’t understand.’

Oates waited till Culshaw had gone before he muttered: ‘Don’t I?’

He returned his attentions to Sorry Kate, brushing with even more vigour. Culshaw’s dilemma took him back to his own. The meeting with the mother superior had been another dead end. Edie Roslin, the girl he sought, had left no trace of her passing in the convent or any other such establishment.

‘You heard about the orders, sir?’ Trooper O’Neill asked as he walked past.

‘No. Not another khaki jacket?’ Oates replied and the private laughed. There had been five changes of jacket style in the last year, with the fifth one being remarkably similar to the first. The British Army, Oates had decided, was totally cracked.

‘There’s to be a detachment of the sixteenth deployed in Belfast. But they—’

O’Neill stopped and looked around for any stray ears of rank. It was amazing how the men often knew more than the officers and spreading gossip—no matter how accurate—was frowned upon.

‘Go on, you can tell me. I won’t spill the beans.’

‘No, I know that, sir. They say it’s only a stop-off. Belfast, I mean. Not much call for cavalry there. It appears that the unit in question is to join a squadron to go to Egypt.’

‘Egypt? Really? What’s happening there?’

‘Turks have taken some of it, so I hear. And a few uppity tribes need a taste of the lance.’

‘Egypt,’ Oates said, mainly to himself. ‘That might be something to see. The pyramids and the Nile.’

O’Neill winked salaciously. ‘An’ a lot more, so I hear from thems that been there.’

Oates remembered he had been due to go before the committee of the Kildare Hunt, with a view to a post as chief whip. ‘Do they hunt there, do you think?’

‘I dunno. Desert, innit? Do you get foxes in deserts? But there’s a racetrack in Cairo. I know that. And polo grounds.’

‘Is there, indeed? Yes, that rings a bell. Where did you get all this from? About the orders?’

O’Neill looked slightly abashed. ‘The
Cork Examiner
, mostly.’

‘Ah. Well, it must be true, mustn’t it?’

Detecting a note of scepticism, O’Neill said: ‘Well, those papers often seem to know what we doin’ before we do. They get tip-offs from the War Office, so Corporal Houghton says.’

‘I’m sure the Corporal of the Horse is right.’

He slipped O’Neill a sixpence for giving the Saunterer a workout, retrieved his jacket and headed out for a word with Higgins, the squadron corporal quartermaster. As always, he’d know what was really afoot and how best to get his name on the list for attachment. At that moment, with chill rain squalls hammering on the roof and the trail of Edie colder than ever, Egypt didn’t seem like too bad an option. At least it would be warm.

S
COTT FOUND HIMSELF YELLING
impatiently. ‘Keep still, man. Keep your hands from your eyes.’

Wilson was lying in his sleeping bag, his feet thrashing, his face screwed up in agony. He had been grinding his knuckles into his eye sockets, and Scott had smacked them away. Now he was leaning over Wilson, examining his corneas, which looked like a river delta drawn in capillaries. ‘I’m going to put some of the cocaine in there.’

‘Don’t touch the eye,’ pleaded Wilson.