The Winter Pony (13 page)
“He’s done,” said Mr. Teddy. “I’m sorry, Forde, but the most kindly thing is to help him on his way.”
Mr. Forde nodded. He was crying, his tears freezing on his cheeks in jagged, windblown lines. He took out his sailor’s knife, shook off his mitts, and opened it. Blucher was on his side, his chest heaving.
“I’ll do it,” said Patrick, holding out his hand for the knife.
But Mr. Forde wouldn’t let him. “No, no, he’s
my
pony,” he said. “I’ve looked after him this long; I’ll look after him now.”
It was over in a moment, as the blizzard swept across the Barrier with a melancholy moan. Poor Blucher was so old, so small and sick, that there was almost no blood to come out of him. Mr. Forde held the pony’s head, the two of them stretched out on the snow, and I felt such a terrible sadness in the air that I thought it would hang over this place forever.
The blizzard seemed longer and colder than the one before. It buried the sledge and it buried the tent, and it buried little Blucher, bit by bit, until only his silver mane fluttered
above the Barrier. Then that was buried too, and there was only the snow where he lay.
Behind the pony wall, Blossom and I huddled close together. Under two blankets, he was shaking like a mouse, swaying his head from side to side. I pressed against him as hard as I could, trying to make him warmer.
When the sky finally cleared, the men buried Blucher. The wind was still keen and cold, whipping up funnels of snow. In their heavy, furry clothes, the men built a little cairn to mark the grave. They stuck a flagstaff into the snow, and we went along to the north.
The wind seemed colder now. Blowing snow whirled through the air all around us. It was Blossom who lagged behind, Blossom who slowed us down. He looked as thin as an old leaf, every bone sticking out. The blizzard had worn him down so far, there was almost nothing left.
Patrick and Mr. Teddy harnessed themselves to my sledge, and all three of us pulled together. Mr. Forde walked with Blossom, holding him up as they waded through the fresh drifts.
Blossom went in a wobbling, weaving way. He went as though every step would be his last. Then he stopped and refused to go farther, and it seemed he wanted to die right there. So Mr. Forde left him, and we all went on as the pony stood and sadly watched us go. But soon he came staggering along, lurching as though he had died but didn’t know it. He
managed mile after mile like that. Then his legs splayed out and he plopped on his belly.
It was a terrible thing to see. Blossom lay on the snow exactly like the old mare, his nose touching the surface. His eyes moved slowly. His breath was soft and wheezy.
I wished I could help him. I wanted to nudge him back to his feet, the way my mother had done for me on the day I was born. But I stood in my harness, and I couldn’t move.
The men melted snow in their hands to let Blossom drink. They fed him oil cakes and sugar, or tried to. They covered him with blankets, put sacking on top, and kept rubbing, rubbing everywhere that the pony trembled.
There was no need for the knife. Blossom closed his eyes and slipped away.
He lay at the very end of his tracks, with the marks of his hooves stretching away to the south, fainter and fainter, until they vanished in the wind-smoothed white of the Barrier.
I snorted quietly. Patrick looked over, then came to see me. He ducked his head under my nose and put his arm around my chest. “No worries, lad,” he said. “We’ll get you home, no fear.”
There was another burial, another cairn. Then all together we pulled the sledge, three men and a pony working together. Every time we stopped, the men built the most enormous wall. They piled me high with every blanket and sack they could find. And they fed me Blucher’s food, and Blossom’s, as well as my own. They stuffed me full at every meal.
Day after day, we walked to the north, toward the lowest point of the sun. There, at midnight he sank below the horizon, only to rise again right after. I had watched his travels all
my life and knew that he was heading for his wintering place, that he would soon be gone altogether.
It was a miserable time, but a wonderful time as well. I lived high on the hog with my extra rations, and I didn’t feel like an old pony tagging along with the men. I felt like a companion, a friend.
When cracks began to appear in the ice, I knew we were getting close to the sea. The men went more carefully then, sometimes stomping on the snow to make sure it was solid.
We strolled along, everyone pleased to see Mount Erebus loom ahead of us, its plume of smoke like a welcoming flag. Patrick stroked my shoulder. “You’ve done it, James,” he said. “You’re home.”
I thought so too. But with my next step, the snow broke apart underneath me. I dropped like a stone, right into a crevasse.
It was an awful shock to have the ground fall away, to be suddenly standing on nothing. I felt my heart push up through my throat as I hurtled down. For just an instant, my eyes were level with Patrick’s—and what a startled look I saw! Then he was above me and I was still falling.
I thought I was going to disappear inside the Barrier. But suddenly, with a thud, I came to a stop.
Luckily, my belly was a little bit wider than the crevasse, and I stuck in the ice like a cork.
The men watched me squirm and kick. My hooves were dangling underneath me, above a frightening chasm that
might have been bottomless for all I could see. The men looked awfully surprised at first, but soon they started laughing.
“It’s all that high living,” said Mr. Teddy. “It’s saved your life, James Pigg.”
Mr. Forde got a long rope from the sledge. They tied it around me and pulled together. They rolled me out onto the snow, and I squirmed like a beetle until I managed to get myself up. The men kept laughing, but there was nothing mean or cruel about it. I
was
a bit roly-poly.
When he saw that I was safe, Patrick walked right to the edge of the crevasse. He bent down and peered into it. “It’s very blue,” he said, smiling. “Deep and dark.”
I went over to see for myself. I stood right beside Patrick, hung my head like him, and together we stared straight down into the darkness. We stared and we stared, then I turned my head and looked at my friend.
Mr. Forde and Mr. Teddy found this enormously funny. I didn’t know why. They put their hands on their thighs and bent forward, laughing all over again. Patrick grinned at me in the way that made me feel warm inside. “That was a near shave for you, James Pigg,” he said.
Far to the west, at his hut on the Barrier, Amundsen is doing some housekeeping between his journeys to the depots. He takes time to make sure that his dogs will survive the winter in comfort
.
From the beginning, he has provided tents for the dogs. Until now, they’ve been sitting on the surface, but that won’t do when temperatures fall to forty and fifty and sixty below. So he sinks the floor of each tent six feet into the Barrier, chopping the ice with axes. Then he drives twelve posts into the floor, spaced evenly along the wall. One dog will be tethered to each post. Otherwise, they would kill each other before spring
.
With that job done, Amundsen loads seven sledges and sets off again to the south. In two weeks, he’ll travel beyond his last depot, all the way to 82 degrees south, but his dogs will be worn out. “This is my only dark memory of my stay in the South,” he writes later, “the over-taxing of these fine animals. I had asked more of them
than they were capable of doing. My consolation is that I did not spare myself either.”
Scott is worried about some of his men and how they will fare in the spring. Oates’s nose seems always on the point of frostbite; Meares has trouble with his feet. Both Cherry-Garrard and Scott himself have been nipped by frostbite on the cheeks. Bowers, who wears nothing on his head but a felt hat, never seems to feel the cold. But Scott sees that his ears have turned white
.
On February 18, Scott hurries ahead to meet Teddy Evans and the others he had sent back with the crocks. He goes by dogsled and is amazed by the speed and endurance of the dogs. From morning to lunch, they take him seventeen miles
.
“The way in which they keep up a steady jog trot for hour after hour is wonderful,” he writes. “Their legs seem steel springs, fatigue unknown—for at the end of a tiring march any unusual incident will arouse them to full vigour.”
HAPTER
S
IX
AT
Safety Camp we rested. It was a lovely place, cold and quiet, with the men’s tent like a tiny gray mountain on the plain of ice. We could see Mount Erebus smoldering away to the west, and the glaciers oozing out onto the Barrier. A glacier moved so slowly that I imagined it saw everything else go by in a blur, the sun and moon dashing round and round the world like an eagle chasing a sparrow.
We expected a long wait for the others to catch up, but after just a day or two, we were surprised by the sound of dogs approaching.
All of us turned toward the distant yapping. We saw tiny black specks far off to the south, rising over the crests of the snow waves. There and gone, that’s how they came: a little bigger, a little louder, every time they reappeared.
Two teams of dogs were running side by side, as though racing each other. The men ran beside the sledges, sometimes holding on with one hand. They stumbled and rose and ran on again. I saw Captain Scott and Mr. Meares at one of the sleds. At the other was young Gran, and then Cherry with his glass eyes on his nose. That made everything seem so fine. I was always happy when I saw Cherry.
Men and dogs, they flew toward us, weaving around the crests of snow. We all watched them come. I peered above my snow wall. Mr. Forde looked out from the tent where he was cooking. Mr. Teddy and Patrick raised their heads from the overturned sledge, where they were sharpening the metal edges of the runners.
The dog Osman was leading a team. I watched him leap at his harness, and all the others leap behind him. Every dog in every team was silent now, exhausted by their travel. We could hear them panting as their paws pattered along.
