Death on the Ice (35 page)

He stopped at a café on the rue de Rivoli. There were Americans in it, ones who hadn’t yet seen action. He could tell by their eyes, by the jokiness, the relaxed shoulders. It contrasted with a table of Englishmen, drawn and pensive, without the energy for the hysterical celebration that sometimes took hold of soldiers on furlough. There were other signs of the war. The waiters were old, or infirm, with eye patches, missing fingers or, like the one who served him, the strange clonk of a wooden foot.

Millions of men maimed and killed. And here he was still fretting over five that died a lonely, some might say useless, death at the bottom of the world. Why did those men still matter to those who never knew them?

He finished his coffee, paid his over-priced bill, and walked swiftly to the Crillon, Lady Scott’s manuscript tucked under his arm.

Kathleen Scott was dressed in a shapeless blue shift, barefoot as usual, her hair down. She had a suite on the first floor, with a view over Place de la Concorde, which looked bleak in the thin winter sunshine. He refused an offer of more drink and shrugged his coat. The room was white and gold, with richly brocaded chairs, a tapestry on the wall, Louis XV cabinets and deep, swirling Beaveau carpets on the floor. He felt a touch of nausea and the world became muffled, as if his head had filled with fine sand.

‘Are you all right, Trigger?’ she asked.

‘I need to sit. Do you have any water?’

She fetched him a glass from the other room and he drank gratefully. ‘When we came back from the ice, there was this strange effect. You were overwhelmed. The smells first of all. Flowers, fruit ,vegetables, women’s perfume so strong it made you gag. You had been deprived of these things for so long your body had become super-sensitive. And the colours. After months, years, of white, the world glowed, like a deranged oil painting. After the frontline, this room is much the same.’

‘I understand.’ She waited while he recovered, her eyes glancing at the fat envelope he had placed on the coffee table. ‘You’ve read it.’

He nodded.

‘And?’

‘Why did you argue with the other wives? I don’t understand.’

Kathleen sighed. ‘That? Oh, it was all silly. There were incidents, slights, snubs. And Hilda Evans was a woman who would hear no word against her husband. The loyal little wife. She wanted, because he wanted, a guarantee he would be one of those to go to the Pole. Con would give no such undertaking. I am sure that now she is pleased with the way it turned out.’ Now she spoke in a rush, as if to get the sentence out before she changed her mind. ‘And to be frank, I was jealous of Bill and took it out on poor Ory.’

‘Jealous?’

She nodded. ‘It wasn’t till the voyage home I realised it. There was Bill, already having been out on the ice for two years with my man. Now he was going out again. And I wasn’t allowed. No place for women.’

‘It isn’t.’

‘Till the first woman goes out and proves you wrong. Perhaps even a Norwegian woman.’

He laughed. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Apart from that? How did you rate the book?’

‘I think it is fair. Accurate. But I can’t add to it.’

‘No?’

‘No. I drew a picture of how we found them. That is all.’

‘I think there is more.’

‘Why?’

‘Atch says you behaved very strangely. Insisted on going out to look for Oates. With Cherry.’

That explained why she had been so keen to take him back to finding the tent on their previous meeting. She wanted to know why he had seemed peculiar to the others. ‘We found his sleeping bag.’

‘And that’s all. Atch thought you were being foolish. No, not foolish. He says you had a haunted look.’

‘Haunted?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘I was worried we might be caught by weather, that was all.’

‘There’s something you are not telling me.’

‘I could say the same.’

Kathleen Scott stood up and moved to the window. She took a deep breath. ‘I happen to know that Caroline Oates is about to stir up trouble. A book.’

‘Another book?’

‘By a vicar. Criticising my husband. A vicar! She has given him letters from her son that he is to use. She is a bitter woman.’

‘A book can do little harm, surely.’

‘She is also talking about initiating an official inquiry. A public tribunal to apportion blame.’

It was true there had never been an RGS inquest into the deaths of the five men. By the time the national outpouring of grief and pride had subsided and heads had cleared, a war had begun that was taking the lives of millions. ‘Now that, Mr Gran, is a can of worms we could do without.’

He couldn’t help but agree. What was done was done. Who would benefit from the Government or a learned society going back over such well-trodden ground? ‘But surely, not in the midst of this … this carnage?’

‘She has the ear of the Royal Coroner who, I am sure, can pressure some of his lesser colleagues. And some anti-Markham factions in the Royal Geographical Society would love to see the bones picked clean.’

‘Sir Clements is dead.’

‘Barely cold in his grave. But Mr Gran, he was a giant. His ghost walks those corridors still. I think there are those who demand an exorcism. Think who would be called, think of the expense, think of the damage that could be done.’

Now his perceived role was making sense. ‘You think I know something that might stop her convening an inquest?’

She turned away from the window. ‘If I am honest, yes. I am sure Lawrence Oates was no paragon of virtue.’

He tried not to sound too angry at the slur. ‘Her son was an honourable man, Lady Scott. You cannot play one man’s reputation against another as if this was a game of bezique. The five who died are one. That’s how they would want it to be. Oates might have written letters against the skipper. But we all had to have some kind of … I don’t know the word. Release?’

‘Pressure valve.’

‘Yes, something to let off steam. Your book is worthwhile, without debasing it with rumour and conjecture about a very brave man.’

Kathleen strode over to him and placed her hands on the arm of his chair. ‘So I do nothing?’

‘Against a woman deranged with sorrow? No. I know what you are thinking, Lady Scott. That your husband’s reputation is Peter’s legacy. Captain Scott’s stature is intact. He made mistakes, who hasn’t? Nobody, and I mean nobody, who has been south has not made mistakes. I include Amundsen and Shackleton. Both blundered. They got away with it. Shackleton by the skin of his teeth and by the hand of some God who looks out for fools and madmen. No, that’s not fair. But, by rights, by any rights, Shackleton shouldn’t have made it when he lost his ship and was stranded on the ice. If your husband had had a tenth of his luck, he would have survived. But, be assured, while Cherry and Crean and Lashly and Priestley and Ponting and the others who were with him, who knew him, are still alive, then you have nothing to worry about from vicars or inquests.’

He slumped back in the chair, the force of his words having drained him.

‘You won’t help?’

‘The book should be yours, not ours. And I don’t think you should start a feud with Caroline Oates. It would be unseemly. But if you want me to say what I thought of the skipper, I shall send you some of my diary. It’s in there.’

‘Thank you, Trigger. And the inquest? You would appear?’

He considered this. ‘If I live through the war, yes. But Lady Scott, think of what trouble the Government might be making for itself if it did convene an inquest. Caroline Oates feels her son died unnecessarily. Due to poor leadership.’ She was about to speak, but he raised a palm. ‘Her feelings, not mine. There are probably a million others out there who feel the same after Passchendaele and the Somme. Two million, perhaps. Are we to bring all our leaders to account? Will General Haig or John French be called to account for themselves?’

‘I take your point. It would be a precedent.’

‘It most certainly would.’

‘Very well.’ She sighed, sensing there was little more to be gained from the audience. ‘What will you do now?’

‘I have some leave due. I will go to London. Then home, before I am posted to Russia.’

‘Stay well.’

Realising he was dismissed, he stood and fetched his coat. ‘I will. You too.’

As he left the over-opulent confines of the hotel, he was already thinking about boat trains to London and how best to get out to Gestingthorpe. Tryggve Gran was going to see Caroline Oates, and settle matters once and for all.

I
T WAS THE COAL,
the precious coal that nearly did for them. Cherry came to see Oates, as he was feeding the horses. The look on the young man’s face told him something was wrong. ‘The barometer is making me feel queasy.’

‘Falling?’

‘Plummeting.’

Oates looked out at the sea. For the moment the swell was long and lazy, like the South Downs sculptured in water. Even so,
Terra Nova
was making hard work of the waves, rolling enough to terrify the dogs and make the horses skittish.

Within an hour, the soft mounds of water had become more jagged, the troughs deep as a river valley and a wind was hunting across the top of them, flicking spume and foam. Now the horses were complaining, in a series of snorts and whinnies. Anton, the groom, was also in difficulty, heaving his insides over the bulwarks. The ex-jockey would be of little use if he carried on like that, Oates thought.

The first sizeable wave hit two hours later, just as night came upon them, falling on the
Terra Nova
with the force of a brick wall tumbling down. It broke over the deck with a crack, sweeping away a section of pin rail and belaying pins. Oates found himself up to his knees in water that tugged and pushed at him as it swirled away. The light faded as the sky darkened and a fine drizzle began.

‘Sheet,’ said Dimitri, the dog-handler. ‘Doesn’t look good.’

Now, Oates had lost track of the number of vast waves that had broken over them. Even with the topgallant and mainsails furled—just the jib and staysail left—and oil released to try to calm the waters, the ship was twisting and turning, driven this way and that by a gale with no sense of direction. Another column of water loomed over the fo’c’sle and came down like a mallet, with Oates and Dimitri the pegs to be driven through the decks. Oates clung on to the sides of the horse stalls as icy water swirled up to his chest, before draining away.

‘Dimit—’

Another roller, this one snatching one of the dogs. The animal choked as its chain tightened, and then howled as the lead broke. Oates looked into its terrified eyes before the sea took it.

Dimitri stood, looking out into the vicious ocean, his mouth working as if he wanted to say something.

A spout seemed to spin around then, like a tornado, followed by another deposit of water. There was a mighty thud and there, in front of them, was the dog that had gone overboard, looking dazed and confused, as well it might.

‘My Lord!’ exclaimed Dimitri and fell on the husky before the sea could change its mind. He dragged the animal off in search of something to secure him with.

As he considered this small miracle, a heavy object crashed into Oates, pitching him into the horses and sending him sprawling. A stray hoof hit his ribs. As he stood, he felt his footing go again, and clung on to Willie to steady himself. All around the animals’ legs were black lumps, bobbing like excrement. Coal. The coal sacks were breaking free.

One of them flashed by his head, borne on a column of water that seemed alive, and smashed into one of the motorised sledge’s crates. The sack’s contents scattered, flying through the air like oversized buckshot.

The decks were full of men trying to re-lash the cargo, but the storm wouldn’t let them be, yanking ropes from their grip, squirming the jute sacks as if they were possessed by demons within.

As the frequency and size of the waves increased, the horses began to rear and buck in their stalls. Oates tried desperately to calm them, and to keep them on their feet. If they went down, they’d drown.

A fist seemed to strike his head, a savage punch and he saw a circle of stars for a second. Another bag of coal had broken free and caught him. Now it split and spewed its lumpy black vomit into the water.

The noise became unbearable, a combination of the shriek of the wind round the masts and spars, the crashing thump of tons of water on wood, the drumming of the ponies’ hoofs on the stall sides, the yapping and howling of the dogs and the shouted instructions of men. It filled Oates’s brain, leaving no room for rational thought.

He began to lose track of time, as he flitted from pony to pony, sometimes leaning against one to try to stop it being bowled over. His ribs ached, his eyes stung and his teeth were chattering with cold. He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers when he stroked the horses; the gloves he was wearing were soaked through.

Anton, his stomach emptied, but his face still a sickly colour, helped as best he could, pausing only to dry-heave.

Then he felt it, the sudden change in the ship. It began to wallow. There was no vibration through his feet, no faint chuff of the boiler. The engine had stopped. They were powerless. As if to drive home the point, the biggest wave yet, a moving green-black cliff, struck
Terra Nova
amidships, submerging the deck completely, casually tearing away a section of bulwark.

Even over the roar of water and splintering wood, he clearly heard the limb snap. He had to wait till the sea had released him from its grip before he could wade across to see which one had been injured. It was Bonce, donated by South Hampstead School for Girls. He could see a small hook of bone jutting through the skin and the horse began to mew, a sound more feline than equine.

‘Trigger!’ he shouted at a passing figure, who was scouring under the rails for something.

The Norwegian, drenched and bedraggled like him, stopped. ‘I need buckets.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘We have to bail.’

‘Bail?’

They paused while a fresh mound of water enveloped them. Now the injured pony began to thrash and the panic level among the others increased as they heard his pain.