Death on the Ice by Robert Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

claret.’
    ‘Aye.’ Shackleton looked puzzled, and for once Scott shared his thoughts with him, throwing him a painter to be going on with.
    ‘The gist of it is, bad news is best taken on a full stomach, Mr Shackleton.’
    ‘Bad news?’
    ‘I’m curtailing the scientific programme. We’re not calling at Australia either. It’s Lyttleton to check for the source of the leak and then straight down to Antarctica.’ Shackleton’s jaw worked, but Scott raised a hand to stop him speaking. He didn’t care for Mr Shackleton’s thoughts on the matter. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
    Before the dinner, Scott had one important task to perform in the wardroom and he left the bridge and headed straight there, with Scamp scuttling after him.
    All on board shared the same food—a little touch of the Merchant Navy—but the ratings had their own, less well-appointed mess, minus the linen and silver and with beer and rum instead of wine and port. If the ship was not perfect, at least the cosy wardroom, lined with cabins for the officers and gentlemen, was well up to snuff in all but dimensions, which were parsimonious. However, its burnished wood panels, ornate brass lamps, fine, solid furniture, French Salamander stove, mahogany dining table and brace of attentive stewards made for a most harmonious atmosphere. At least, till he broke the news to the scientists that he was cutting short their trawls and readings en route. Still, the real work was to be done in Antarctica. The best of them—Dr Edward Wilson, the zoologist, and Vere Hodgson, the marine biologist—would understand that and appreciate the crisis brought on by coal consumption. The others could go and hang.
    Scott carefully took down the picture of Sir Clements Markham. It was time to break those particular ties. Sir Clements had achieved much, by a mix of guile, bullying and special pleading, but the old man’s shadow must not loom over the ice. For better or worse, it was Scott’s show now.

Four
South Africa, 1901
    A SOUR MOOD PERMEATED the first camp the Inniskillings made in South Africa. Oates’s exhilaration at arriving in Cape Town with his troopers had been tempered by three things. One was the realisation that Captain Anstice, although a well-turned-out officer who looked magnificent on his horse, was a dithering fool when it came to command. The troopers, Oates felt sure, could sense his prevarication. The man had a whim of iron. Second, he was shocked by just how awry the South African campaign was going, with the Boers penetrating well into Cape Province itself. The third was the biggest blow, however. News arrived that Queen Victoria had died. An age was over. None of them had known any other monarch. He was sure the King was a good man, but it was difficult to see how anyone could replace the powerful symbolism of Victoria. It felt as though the whole Empire had shaken, a tremor of unease passing through a quarter of the globe. With the war progressing badly, it seemed as if everything that was certain in life was being called into question.
    Culshaw had dared to voice what they all thought: could this be the end of England?
    Oates was not the only one to blink away the tears when the passing was announced and there were many, many toasts that night. Then news came through that they were to entrain and move east, away from Cape Town to Aberdeen, and join with Colonel Herbert to take on a commando of Boers headed by Willem Fouche. Perhaps, Oates thought, they could honour their dead queen by bashing these guerrillas and ending the war.
    ‘Shouldn’t take long,’ Anstice had decreed. ‘After all, what use are mere farmers—Dutch farmers at that—against the Inniskillings?’
    Oates, maudlin and in his cups after one brandy too many, thought that remained to be seen.
    The column came under attack thirty miles short of Aberdeen, two days after leaving the railhead. It was late afternoon and the fierce heat of the day was only just abating. Not a