Death on the Ice by Robert Ryan Read Free Book Online

go to the MO with. The best Boots had the discretion of a priest. Better McConnell knew about his difficulties with writing than a man like Culshaw, who, in his cups, might tell the whole mess.
    Once McConnell had left, Oates looked at the tall, blond lad with his extravagant moustaches.
    ‘Orders,’ he repeated.
    ‘It’s the army, Culshaw. There are always bloody orders.’
    ‘Not like these.’ The moustaches shivered with excitement. ‘We are listed for South Africa. Under Captain Anstice. With fifty troopers.’
    Oates stood quickly, almost spilling his inkpot. He replaced its cap. ‘When?’
    ‘Two weeks. On the Idaho .’
    He hadn’t heard of it. Some rust-bucket troop ship, no doubt. It would be very different from those trips on Union Castle with his parents, shipped south for the good of his weak lungs. Still, even if it wouldn’t be First Class, it was adventure. ‘I’ll be right with you, Culshaw. Wait there.’
    ‘Who you writing to?’
    ‘Carrie. My mother.’
    ‘You call her Carrie?’
    ‘Carrie. Caroline. Mother. Mummy. Mama. I call her lot of things.’ Some he daren’t repeat. ‘If it gets the job done.’
    ‘You short of cash again?’
    ‘Culshaw, I’m always short of cash.’
    ‘I thought you inherited when your father died.’
    ‘I did. Gestingthorpe is technically all mine. It’s just the money my father put a fence round.’
    ‘I wonder why.’
    ‘So I would call my mother Carrie, I suppose.’
    ‘So there would be some left when you reach twenty-one, more like. Want to borrow some?’
    ‘A few pounds, perhaps, till Mother replies. Look, let me finish it off.’ He sat down once more and hastily polished off the letter, ignoring his slapdash spelling.
    ‘Missed you at the races the other day,’ Culshaw said.
    ‘Had things to do.’
    ‘On a Saturday?
    Oates did not want to let on what he had really been doing, tramping from one depressing establishment to another, wasting his time with his futile questions. ‘Yes, on a Saturday. Was thinking of buying a boat.’
    ‘Do you sail?’
    ‘I’ll have to if I buy a boat, won’t I? But it might have to wait till after South Africa, I suppose. Now be quiet for a second.’
    He scribbled some more:
Tremendous news, however. We are to go to South Africa to take on the Boers at last. Shall write again soon. Also need dark grey hunting frock coat, a pot hat and decent butcher boots—not my old ones, they wear them with soft legs and black tops here—and perhaps a saddle from Parkers in St Martin’s Lane. Please send the money.
    Yours affectionately,
    L.E.G. Oates
    Then he scribbled ‘Laurie’ underneath.
    He blotted the ink, folded the single piece of paper and popped it into an envelope and let out a sigh of relief. One day he would find a way of being free of his mother’s influence and his youthful misdemeanours would not be used as a rod to beat him into submission and penury.
    ‘So, Culshaw. War, is it?’
    ‘War it is.’
    Oates stood and checked himself in the mirror. He was reasonably pleased with what he saw. He might not be quite the postcard cavalry officer that Culshaw was—he was clean shaven, for a start—but he was a good half inch taller and his eyes were clear and bright. Culshaw’s were bagged and bloodshot, showing the strain of too many hours in the mess or at Lady Dora’s house in town. Oates was bursting with vigour in comparison, and he didn’t have to feign the enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Well, about bloody time, is all I can say.’

Three
Discovery at sea, 1901
    I T DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Robert Scott to appreciate that the new ship was not without its problems. She was called Discovery , a name chosen by Sir Clements Markham. The vessel had been delivered on time, but was cursed by shoddy workmanship. Scott had also discovered that she was too small. The ship’s company of forty-seven—including five scientists—might have been comfortable, had not so much equipment been required. As it