with shock, before his head dropped forward to show the entry wound. He slumped in the saddle and slid, almost gently, to the ground, his holed topee still in place.
By the time Oates pulled his attention back from the fallen captain to the marauders, the Boers had gone, swallowed by the hills.
It was getting dark, they were still a good few hours from Aberdeen, and there was a guerrilla force in the unfamiliar country around them. They were exposed and vulnerable to more hit-and-run attacks. The same thoughts must have struck others, because he felt a ripple of apprehension run through the column.
He re-holstered the carbine and bent down, struggling with the weight of the dead Anstice, and was relieved when other hands came to his assistance. Together they heaved him on to the saddle and bound his limbs under the belly of his horse. Another British grave to be dug in Aberdeen. It was, Oates considered, unlikely to be the last.
Five
Discovery at sea, 1901
S COTT PROWLED THE OVER-LADEN decks, humming a selection of hymns to block out the continuing bleating of terrified sheep and the aggressive yapping of the dogs, both of which they had picked up in New Zealand. As he walked by the huskies’ kennels they snarled and bared their teeth.
‘No respect for authority,’ quipped Wilson, who was sitting on a stack of coal sacks, sketching the hounds. Scott stopped to admire his work. On most days, Bill Wilson was able to turn out exquisite watercolours of animals and scenery. His work on South Trinidad had been inspired and inspiring. The dogs, though, were eluding him, as the many corrections and erasings testified. They were foul-tempered animals, these Siberian huskies, liable to nip man or beast that came within range or, failing that, each other.
Nansen had told Scott dogs would be good company on the ice. It would be like being chained to a lunatic, Scott thought. He’d reluctantly left Scamp behind, because he was fairly certain the huskies, especially the truculent beast they called Wolf, would snap him in two at the first opportunity. Each of the dogs had been assigned a sailor to feed and exercise them. Wolf’s handler had the teeth marks to prove he had been given the cur of the pack.
‘I find petrels far easier,’ said Wilson, by way of an excuse.
‘If you can think of a way to get petrels to haul sleds, I’d happily send these back on the first relief boat.’
‘Happy New Year, by the way, Con.’
‘Happy New Year, Bill.’ They had postponed celebrations of both Christmas and New Year in memory of Able Seaman Charles Bonner, who had fallen to his death from the rigging as they left port. Not an auspicious start. Drink was involved. Although he was in no way to blame, Scott had taken the loss badly.
‘How do you feel?’ Wilson asked.
‘Better, thank you. I think leaving Lyttleton was good for me.’ He had confided in Wilson about his ‘brown moments’, when a melancholy crept through him like a cold front advancing over the sea. He had been forced to fight off several attacks while they tarried in New Zealand, searching for the source of The Leak. ‘No more cables from Markham or the Admiralty. No more going cap in hand to sponsors. No more dignitaries and their wives poking their noses into every corner of the ship. No more speeches, thank the Lord.’
‘And no more Maoris,’ Wilson added, displaying his own prejudice. ‘And their bogus ceremonies. And the crew is set.’
‘At last,’ agreed Scott. Even before they lost the luckless Bonner, there had been some fierce drunkenness on shore, with Taff Evans making a disgrace of himself. The man didn’t actually recall being britchless in the rigging and he was so hangdog apologetic, that Scott let him off with a warning. However, the captain tongue-lashed two able seamen for their dereliction of duty and terrorising of the town. One of them promptly deserted. Now, in that scoundrel’s place, he had Tom Crean, another RN man and a
By the time Oates pulled his attention back from the fallen captain to the marauders, the Boers had gone, swallowed by the hills.
It was getting dark, they were still a good few hours from Aberdeen, and there was a guerrilla force in the unfamiliar country around them. They were exposed and vulnerable to more hit-and-run attacks. The same thoughts must have struck others, because he felt a ripple of apprehension run through the column.
He re-holstered the carbine and bent down, struggling with the weight of the dead Anstice, and was relieved when other hands came to his assistance. Together they heaved him on to the saddle and bound his limbs under the belly of his horse. Another British grave to be dug in Aberdeen. It was, Oates considered, unlikely to be the last.
Five
Discovery at sea, 1901
S COTT PROWLED THE OVER-LADEN decks, humming a selection of hymns to block out the continuing bleating of terrified sheep and the aggressive yapping of the dogs, both of which they had picked up in New Zealand. As he walked by the huskies’ kennels they snarled and bared their teeth.
‘No respect for authority,’ quipped Wilson, who was sitting on a stack of coal sacks, sketching the hounds. Scott stopped to admire his work. On most days, Bill Wilson was able to turn out exquisite watercolours of animals and scenery. His work on South Trinidad had been inspired and inspiring. The dogs, though, were eluding him, as the many corrections and erasings testified. They were foul-tempered animals, these Siberian huskies, liable to nip man or beast that came within range or, failing that, each other.
Nansen had told Scott dogs would be good company on the ice. It would be like being chained to a lunatic, Scott thought. He’d reluctantly left Scamp behind, because he was fairly certain the huskies, especially the truculent beast they called Wolf, would snap him in two at the first opportunity. Each of the dogs had been assigned a sailor to feed and exercise them. Wolf’s handler had the teeth marks to prove he had been given the cur of the pack.
‘I find petrels far easier,’ said Wilson, by way of an excuse.
‘If you can think of a way to get petrels to haul sleds, I’d happily send these back on the first relief boat.’
‘Happy New Year, by the way, Con.’
‘Happy New Year, Bill.’ They had postponed celebrations of both Christmas and New Year in memory of Able Seaman Charles Bonner, who had fallen to his death from the rigging as they left port. Not an auspicious start. Drink was involved. Although he was in no way to blame, Scott had taken the loss badly.
‘How do you feel?’ Wilson asked.
‘Better, thank you. I think leaving Lyttleton was good for me.’ He had confided in Wilson about his ‘brown moments’, when a melancholy crept through him like a cold front advancing over the sea. He had been forced to fight off several attacks while they tarried in New Zealand, searching for the source of The Leak. ‘No more cables from Markham or the Admiralty. No more going cap in hand to sponsors. No more dignitaries and their wives poking their noses into every corner of the ship. No more speeches, thank the Lord.’
‘And no more Maoris,’ Wilson added, displaying his own prejudice. ‘And their bogus ceremonies. And the crew is set.’
‘At last,’ agreed Scott. Even before they lost the luckless Bonner, there had been some fierce drunkenness on shore, with Taff Evans making a disgrace of himself. The man didn’t actually recall being britchless in the rigging and he was so hangdog apologetic, that Scott let him off with a warning. However, the captain tongue-lashed two able seamen for their dereliction of duty and terrorising of the town. One of them promptly deserted. Now, in that scoundrel’s place, he had Tom Crean, another RN man and a
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