Explorers of the New Century

One

“He’s a thoroughly decent man,” said Johns. “His reputation for fair play is second to none. Clearly he had good reason for his early departure and, therefore, we must allow him the benefit of the doubt. It goes without saying that this development will have no bearing on our own arrangements. We’ll continue with our preparations and proceed as per schedule.”

“But he’s stolen a march on us!” protested Summerfield.

“That doesn’t matter,” replied Johns. “We’re not in a competition to see who gets there first, and I don’t want anyone thinking in those terms. What concerns us now is the immediate job in hand. How long do you reckon till nightfall, Scagg?”

“About an hour.”

“Right you are then. The temperature is already beginning to plummet, so we’d better get the stove fired up. Then we’ll see about getting some supplies landed.” Johns glanced around the blockhouse. “I must say they’ve left this place in immaculate condition. Quite spick and span. One would never think it was occupied until only a few days ago.”

“They’ve even replenished the coal stocks,” said Scagg.

“Yes indeed. They were obviously expecting us to arrive hard on their heels. Well, we might as well make the most of their kindness. Can you light a fire, Summerfield?”

“Yes I can.”

“All right. See to it, will you? The rest of us can set to work unloading the Centurion.” Johns turned and led the way outside, followed by most of the others. Only Summerfield and Plover remained behind. They stood gazing at the stove, then Plover laid his hand on the iron plate.

“Stone cold,” he said. “This hasn’t been lit for at least a week.”

“As long as that?” asked Summerfield.

“At the very least. And I don’t care what Johns says about fair play: in my opinion they cleared out of here at the first opportunity.”

“Leaving a barrel of coal in recompense.”

“Quite.”

The door opened and Scagg looked in. “Two to light a fire, gentlemen?”

“We were just talking a moment,” said Plover.

“So I see.”

Scagg said nothing more, but waited in silence as Summerfield bent quickly to his task. Meanwhile, Plover buttoned his reefer, thrust his hands in his pockets, and went outside.

The blockhouse stood on a low headland. Down by the water’s edge, a number of boxes, sacks and crates were being unloaded from the cutter. Two men sat at the oars, and as soon as everything was beached they rowed back out to the anchorage for further supplies. On Scagg’s instructions, Plover went and assisted Johns. The mules had been roped together and swum ashore, and Johns was examining them one by one as they recovered their land legs.

“We’ll put them in the lee of the blockhouse after they’ve had some hot mash,” he announced, when Plover joined him. “They’ll need a while to acclimatise after so many days at sea. Perhaps you could rig up some kind of shelter; a tarpaulin slung across poles maybe?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Plover.

“Very good.”

Johns completed his appraisal, then the two of them stood for some minutes regarding the mules, which had now gathered in a group, their ropes slack as they huddled together for warmth.

“They’re in pretty good condition for the most part,” Johns remarked at length. “We won’t work them for the time being, though. They’ve got a rough time ahead, and we need to conserve their strength.”

“Shall I see Seddon for some equipment?” Plover asked.

“Yes,” said Johns. “I’ve appointed him as quartermaster, so tell him what you need and that will be all right. Now I need to go and speak with Scagg.”

§

“I’m thinking of offering the men a choice this evening. To mark our last day at sea they can have the option of either staying on board the Centurion for one more night, or else sleeping in the blockhouse. It will be entirely up to them. Personally, I’m very happy to be back on terra firma, but I know it’s likely to be a wrench for some.”

“They’ll have to get used to it soon enough,” said Scagg.

“You’re quite right,” replied Johns. “Nevertheless, I think they’ll appreciate the gesture. Could you see your way to passing the word around?”

“As you wish, Mr Johns. Was there anything else?”

“Not at present, no. You appear to have everything running smoothly. I expect you could do with an extra pair of hands, though?”

“It would help.”

“Very well,” said Johns. “I’m at your disposal until dusk.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right, Scagg. Every one of us is going to have to put his shoulder to the wheel if this expedition’s to be a success. Now what would you like me to do?”

“Well, the cutter is just coming back, so that will need unloading.”

“Right you are. Leave it to me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Scagg watched as Johns trudged across the sand to meet the boat. Then he went and found Cook, who was busy lashing down a stack of crates. “When you’ve finished doing that, go and give Mr Johns some help,” Scagg ordered. “And don’t let him get his feet wet.”

The rest of the day’s work was straightforward: a simple matter of bringing in as many supplies as possible before dark. Actually, no one ceased from their labours until night had crept fully on to the shore and was beginning to hamper further progress. Only then did Scagg call everyone into the blockhouse for supper. Johns returned in his own time, having carried out a cursory inspection of the camp. When at last he went inside he was met by a general cheer from the men. A bottle had been opened to celebrate their landing, and as they gathered around the stove he spelt out his plans for the following day.

“We’ve made excellent advances so far,” he began. “If we continue at the same rate, we’ll have all our provisions ashore by noon tomorrow. Then, tide permitting, I want to see about getting the Centurion beached. Will your estimates allow for that, Chase?”

“Should be all right, Mr Johns.”

“Good. It’s going to be hard work, there’s no avoiding that, but we’ll travel easier knowing that the ship’s safe. In the meantime I suggest an early night. Your various tasks will be posted at daybreak.” Johns paused and looked around him. “By the way, where are Blanchflower and Firth?”

“They’ve opted to stay on board this evening,” said Scagg. “I’ve told them to bring in the cutter at first light.”

“Fully laden, I hope?”

“Of course, sir. Blanchflower knows what we need.”

“Well, Scagg, you seem to have everything organised so I’m going to turn in now, if nobody minds. I’ll take one of the upper bunks. Good night, everyone, and congratulations: we’ve trodden our first few steps.”

Johns was cheered again as he ascended the ladder to bed. Then, while the men quietly resumed their supper, he made an entry in his journal:

Tostig has struck for the interior. We will follow in due course.

At dawn, a greenish bloom arose in the eastern sky, spreading gradually into a vast gleaming radiance. As darkness receded, Cook emerged from the blockhouse and grimaced at the sea. Closing the door behind him, he swiftly unfolded Johns’s standard, ran it up the flagpole and secured it. Then he went inside again. A little while later smoke began issuing from the chimney. At about the same time, Blanchflower appeared on the fore-deck of the Centurion. He looked across at the standard flapping stiffly in the breeze, and immediately went below to wake Firth.

Now Medleycott opened the blockhouse door and stood gazing out. Within seconds someone inside demanded that he shut it right away, so he did as they asked before wandering down to the water’s edge. On the horizon, the early light was giving way to a cold greyness. Medleycott picked up a flat pebble and skimmed it into the waves. Then Blanchflower and Firth started moving around on the Centurion. Medleycott watched as they lowered some boxes into the cutter, climbed aboard and cast off.

“‘Each man should try to do an hour’s work before breakfast’,” said a voice behind him.

He turned round and saw Plover coming down the beach.

“Yes,” said Medleycott. “I noticed that when I was reading through the postings. Quite a smart idea really. Good morning, by the way.”

“Morning,” replied Plover. “I assume it’s Johns’ method of ensuring we all build up a healthy appetite.”

“Yes.”

“As if we wouldn’t in a place like this.”

“Well, I think anything that gets us on the move can only be to our advantage,” offered Medleycott. “After all, the sooner we get the work done, the sooner we can get going inland.”

“I suppose so.”

“Better look sharp. Here’s Scagg.”

The cutter was now halfway to the shore, so the two of them got into the surf and made ready to catch it as it came in. At the same time, Scagg came down from the blockhouse, followed by Seddon, Chase and Cook. The provisions were quickly landed, then relayed on to higher ground. With Scagg directing operations, the cutter underwent three more journeys during that first part of the day, and by mid-morning all the portable equipment had been stashed near the blockhouse. After breakfast, Johns asked Scagg if he could ‘borrow’ Chase for an hour or so. Scagg obliged, and the pair went off to conduct a brief coastal survey. Meanwhile, the Centurion was prepared for beaching. Around midday, lines were taken out and made secure. Next the ballast was discharged and the vessel allowed to float in on the tide. Plover and Summerfield had harnessed the mules in readiness; these were now brought down to the water’s edge. Then the Centurion was gradually hauled ashore, with the entire crew helping the mules cover the last few yards. Johns and Chase returned just in time to lend a hand, taking their place on the ropes alongside the others. Finally, timber supports were positioned beneath the hull, and tarpaulins fastened over to protect it from the weather.

Further along the shore, about half a mile to the east, a second ship lay already beached. The bulk of the day’s work having been completed, Johns ordered a break. Then he and Scagg walked over to have a look at the other vessel. It was a converted steam tug, similar to their own though slightly shorter in length, carrying the name Perseverance. Painted blue with yellow gunwales (the Centurion was red and white), it stood clasped in a makeshift wooden cradle, fully battened down, with sand gathering slowly around its keel.

“Very thorough work,” said Johns, testing a guy line for tautness. “Not a loose fitting to be seen.”

“He certainly hasn’t left anything to chance,” remarked Scagg.

“Each item in its proper place, just as I’d expect. And would you believe he’s even stuck a marker post at the beginning of his trail? Chase and I discovered it when we were out surveying this afternoon.”

“So you know the route he’s taken?”

“Well, we’re fairly certain,” replied Johns. “As far as we can tell, he’s gone by way of that dry river bed we could see as we sailed in yesterday.”

“But wasn’t that your preferred direction, sir?”

Johns smiled. “Initially, yes, Scagg. However, it seems to me that there’s little to be gained from two parties treading the same ground. Indeed, it may prove favourable to establish a secondary, alternative route. With this in mind, I’ve decided we’ll take a more westerly path than that chosen by Tostig.”

“The river bed looks the easier way by far,” Scagg pointed out. “The natural course is often the best.”

“Maybe so,” Johns smiled again. “But I’m sure our journey will be much more interesting.”

At that moment a cry went up from the main work party. This was followed by a commotion around the Centurion. Quickly they hurried back, and were met halfway by Plover. They paused briefly to hear his news.

“I’m afraid there’s been a mishap.”

“What happened?” asked Scagg.

“Well, a few of us decided to drive some extra wedges under the hull. To make it more secure, so we thought.”

“Who’s this ‘we’?”

“A few of us.”

“And?”

“Unfortunately, we overdid it and the boat tipped forward. One of the mules was crushed under the port bow.”

“What?!” bellowed Scagg, quickly starting off once more. Johns said nothing, but followed with the others to where the hapless creature lay trapped. It was still attached to the rest of the mules, which were now being unharnessed and carefully led away by Summerfield and Firth. Scagg observed the scene for some moments before rounding on Plover.

“Why hadn’t they been moved clear?!” he demanded. “And what was the idea of adding more wedges without consulting myself or Mr Johns?!”

Plover did not reply.

“Well?” said Scagg.

As Plover stood before them, seemingly unable to answer, Johns at last broke his silence.

“It doesn’t matter, Scagg,” he said.

“But it’s such a waste, sir!”

“I know, I know. Yet whatever happened was plainly an accident, and doubtless a valuable lesson has been learned as a result. We’ll just have to make do with one less mule, that’s all.”

From his pocket he produced a revolver, which he loaded and handed to Scagg. Scagg passed it to Cook, who walked over and quickly destroyed the mule. Then Johns turned and addressed the men in general. “Could everyone please try to be a little more careful in future? I should hate us to lose another.”

“Sorry for my part in that,” murmured Plover.

“That’s all right,” Johns replied. “Now perhaps a few of us could get this boat straightened out and made safe again. Can you see the best way of going about it, Scagg?”

“Well, I dare say we’ll manage something if we give it a bit of thought.”

“Good.”

“And the mule will need burying.”

“Of course.”

“So if you want to leave it with me, Mr Johns? I’m sure you’ve got more important issues to deal with.”

“All right, Scagg. Thank you. Yes, I could do with consulting Chase again to discuss possible routes. Maybe we’ll have another stroll before dark.”

§

“Marvellous!” said Cook. “Sheets, pillows and a mattress. Makes a change from swinging about in that blasted hammock.”

“Well, you’d better make the most of it,” remarked Sargent. “Once we set off inland you’ll have to get by with your utility blanket and nothing more.”

Cook stretched himself and yawned. “Yes, I’m fully aware of that fact, thank you,” he said. “But I’ll worry about sacrifice and hardship when we’ve received the order to move, and not a moment before.”

“There’ll be no luxury of any kind,” Sargent continued. “No hot-water bottles. No thickly buttered toast. No orange marmalade or lemon curd. And no more bedtime cocoa.”

“No cocoa? Whyever not?”

“Because we’ll be getting a patent malt drink instead.”

“Good grief.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’ve heard it’s made with powdered milk.”

“How do they produce that then?”

“I’ve no idea, but apparently Johns swears by it. Brought a whole crateful with us.”

“Must be one of his ‘innovations’.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Rolling out of his bunk, Cook padded over to the stove. “Oh well, if it helps keep the blinking cold out I’ll give anything a try. I heard the mercury dropped to fifteen below last night.”

“That’s nothing,” said Sargent. “We’ll be losing the sun in a week or two. Then we’ll really know about it. Put some fuel in there, will you?”

“All right.”

In the corner stood a coal bucket, which Cook grabbed and swung upwards, emptying the contents into the stove. He did this in a careless manner, allowing black dust to spill on to the floor. Closing the lid, he adjusted the flame before seizing a broom to sweep up. Sargent, meanwhile, had pulled a sheet from his bunk and was giving it a shake.

The door opened and Scagg looked in. “Spring cleaning, gentlemen?”

“Not really, no,” Cook answered.

“What are you doing then?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“We thought it was a rest day,” said Sargent. “There was no work posted this morning.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to be carrying out voluntary tasks.”

“Well, no one told us.”

“You shouldn’t have needed telling!” declared Scagg. “Mr Johns expects people to just get on with things without being ‘told’. At the moment, for example, Blanchflower and Firth are outside this very blockhouse, applying a new coat of whitewash. Summerfield’s helping Medleycott gather driftwood, and Seddon’s gone out in the cutter to see if he can catch some fish.”

“What about Plover?” enquired Cook. “What’s he doing?”

Scagg came inside, closed the door, and spoke with a lowered voice. “Don’t concern yourselves about Plover,” he said. “I’m keeping my beady eye on him, you can be sure of that. But for your own sakes get on with something useful. You don’t want Mr Johns to catch you slacking, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then.” Scagg glanced at the stove. “Tell you what, why don’t you bring in the rest of the coal?”

“All right,” said Cook. “Can we have a bit of breakfast first?”

“Certainly you can.”

“Like some?”

“No thanks. I had mine hours ago.”

By this time, Sargent had finished making his bed. He tucked in the final corner, then turned round to face Scagg. “Don’t mind my asking,” he said. “But when are we going to get moving?”

“As soon as the survey’s complete,” Scagg replied. “Could be tomorrow; could be the day after.”

“But all the time we spend here Tostig’s forging ahead.”

“That has nothing to do with us. Mr Johns won’t hear of leaving until he’s got the full lie of the land. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be patient, that’s all.”

“Well, I only hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“Of course he knows what he’s doing!” Scagg snapped. “Now get on with your work and don’t let’s have so much of it!”

He marched outside, slamming the door behind him. This caused the flames briefly to flare up inside the stove. Cook glanced at Sargent and shrugged. “You’d better be careful what you say to him in future.”

“All right I will, but I must say I don’t like the sound of all this volunteering for extra work.”

“I suppose it’s meant to be a chance for us to show willing.”

“But we volunteered to come on this trip, didn’t we? Wasn’t that showing willing enough?”

“Well, to be truthful, I don’t really mind getting the rest of the coal in. It’ll only take an hour or so, the two of us together.”

“That’s not the point,” replied Sargent. “If the job needed doing then someone should have said!”

§

On the evening before the journey began, Scagg went out alone. Sometime after supper he slipped unnoticed from the blockhouse, crossed the headland, and began walking westward. The moon was down. There were no landmarks along that deserted coast; no trees or bushes; and only a few stars to light his way. From time to time he paused to glance at the sea, or to pick up a stone whose shape caught his interest. This he would examine momentarily in the gloom, before casting it aside and continuing again in the same direction. Eventually he came to the dry river bed, where he headed inland, following its course between gradually rising banks. After another minute he arrived at a thin wooden pole stuck into the ground. At the top fluttered a small pennant. Here Scagg halted and stood for a long while gazing into the darkness beyond. Then he turned and retraced his steps back to the blockhouse. Inside, all was quiet. He opened the door and saw Johns sitting by the stove. “Ah, Scagg,” he said. “Just in time for ‘lights out’.” The rest of the party had retired for the evening, though none of them were yet asleep. They lay on their bunks writing diaries, or making minor preparations for the days ahead, replacing lost buttons and so forth. Only after Johns said good night did they try and get their heads down, but even then few slumbered properly. There was much to do next day, and long before dawn the whole company was up and about once more.

Cook had been instructed not to raise the flag that morning, and instead his first duty was to make some boiled mash for the mules. They were to be given extra portions to nourish them for the arduous journey that lay ahead, though Cook was careful not to be too generous.

“Don’t want them getting fat,” he muttered to himself, as he carried the steaming pot round to the rear of the blockhouse.

Meanwhile, his companions busied themselves with sundry tasks, getting the supplies ready for carrying and making sure nothing had been forgotten. The hour’s work before breakfast passed quickly. Then, when everyone came outside again, Johns asked them to gather round him.

“So we have,” he said, reading from a list, “Blanchflower, Chase, Cook, Firth, Medleycott, Plover, Sargent, Seddon and Summerfield. All present, Scagg?”

“All present, Mr Johns.”

“Very good. Now it’s far too cold to stand here making speeches. I’ve no time for such flummery, so without further ado I think we’ll make an immediate start. I just want to say, however, that I believe you have all been well chosen. I could not wish to begin an expedition such as this with a finer set of fellows. In Chase, for instance, we have one of the best navigators of our age. As you know, his excellent guidance brought the Centurion to this forsaken shore without a single fault, and I am relying fully on his judgment over the coming weeks as we head for the interior. Likewise, I regard Scagg as a most able deputy, and if anything should happen to me he will, of course, take command. As for the rest of you, well you are competent individuals without exception. You all know where we’re going and why we’re going there. It may take a good while, but I am confident that we’ll achieve our goal as long as each of us pulls in the same direction. Now, Scagg, the blockhouse has been left in a fit state, I presume?”

“Yes, Mr Johns. Everything’s in order.”

“All right then. Lock the door, will you, and we’ll go.” During the past few days Johns had taken to wearing his woolly helmet, a practice swiftly adopted by the majority of the party. Plover, alone, persisted in sporting a high-peaked cap. The rest of the men, their faces hidden, could easily be distinguished from one another by their various gaits as they began their long march. The twenty-three mules, now fully laden, were led in train by Blanchflower and Firth, with the remainder of the group following in the rear. Johns was ‘last man’. He paused for a moment to gaze out to sea, and then, after a final glance at his ship, he set off in pursuit.

§

The leading mules were over the headland and on to the vague trail that had been established as far as the dry river bed. When Johns caught up, he sent Chase forward to help conduct them to the other side. It was an easy crossing, during which not one member of the party drew attention to the pennant fluttering on its pole a hundred yards inland. Instead, they all helped drive the mules up the far bank and on to the start of the ‘westerly’ route. “The wind has swung ahead,” observed Chase, as they regained level ground. “We’re going straight into it.”

“Well, it can’t be helped,” Johns answered. “Doubtless it will swing back round in due course.”

“Mr Johns!” called a voice from the rear. “Mr Johns, could I have a word?!”

Johns turned to see Medleycott coming up the slope. Beyond him were Cook and Sargent, who had paused briefly to adjust their packs.

“Certainly, Medleycott. What is it?”

“I was wondering…” Medleycott waited a few moments to allow Chase to move slightly ahead. “Has anyone mentioned the tents?”

“No, they haven’t,” replied Johns. “Good gracious! Are you telling me we’ve left them behind?”

“No, no,” said Medleycott. “We’ve brought all four. I made sure and loaded them myself.”

“What’s the matter then?”

“It’s just that I wondered if there were any plans. About who’s going to be put with who.”

“You mean the allocation of places?”

“Yes.”

“It’s been taken care of. As far as I recall, there are three to a tent apart from myself and Scagg. He’s organised it all.”

“Oh.”

“So I’m afraid you’ll need to speak with him if you wish to know who you’re sharing with.”

“And it’s set in granite, is it?”

“I really don’t know, Medleycott, but this isn’t the time or place to discuss such matters. What exactly are those two fiddling about with back there?”

“I think they’re tightening their straps.”

“Well, let’s hope they make an effort to catch up soon. We’ve only been on the move for half an hour and already the party’s becoming strung out. The last thing I want is for everyone to divide into separate little groups all going at different speeds. That would be terribly harmful to the expedition, so please let’s try and keep together, can we?”

“Yes, of course, Mr Johns. Sorry for the delay.”

“And I’m sure you’ll be perfectly all right, whichever tent you’re in.”

“Thank you.”

Without a further word, Medleycott put his head down and pressed forward. After another minute he had latched on to the main group, where there was little talking to be heard. Each of the men walked in silence, leaning into the wind and settling to an even pace as the untrodden land opened up before them. Only Summerfield journeyed alone. Having already moved clear of the mules, he could now be seen as a remote figure, leading the way towards a chain of distant blue hills.

“Impatient as ever,” commented Chase, when Medleycott drew alongside him. “If he keeps going at that rate we’ll lose sight of him altogether.”

“He knows where he’s going, does he?” Medleycott enquired.

“I’ve given him a rough bearing, yes, though to tell you the truth he can hardly go wrong. It’s steady as she goes until we can see the best way through those hills. Or over them.”

“What do you think is on the other side?”

“Who knows? More of the same, I’d hazard.”

“A desolate region bereft of life.”

“That’s very well put,” said Chase.

“I’ve spotted one or two dwarf plants along the way, and the occasional tuft of grass, but little else. Nothing to suggest some verdant belt lying just around the corner.”

“No.”

The conversation was difficult to sustain, held as it was in the face of the wind, and perpetually muffled by their woolly helmets. Nonetheless, Medleycott persisted.

“I don’t suppose,” he asked, “if you’ve heard who’s going in which tent?”

“No, I haven’t,” replied Chase. “Why, was there someone with whom you especially wished to share?”

“No, there wasn’t.”

“So it’s someone you’d rather not share with?”

“It’s neither.”

“Then it barely matters, does it? As long as you get some shelter, that’s all that counts.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Medleycott. “I was just interested really.”

“Now I wonder what’s stopped him in his tracks?”

By this time Summerfield was almost a mile ahead of them, but they could see that he had come to an abrupt halt.

“Maybe he’s resting,” suggested Medleycott.

“Possibly,” Chase answered, pausing to gaze into the distance. “But, knowing Summerfield, he’d be more likely to press on until he reached a definite point. He wouldn’t just stop halfway.”

They watched as Summerfield turned and made his way back towards them. Then he halted again, seemingly unable to make up his mind. For a few seconds more he continued to hesitate, before finally turning again and carrying on in the original direction. His speed of movement, though, appeared somewhat slower than it had been before.

“Perhaps he’s giving the rest of us a chance to catch up,” said Plover, who had now joined Chase and Medleycott. Chase glanced at him but said nothing in reply, then the three of them resumed their headlong march. Only after another twenty minutes did they discover the cause of Summerfield’s apparent indecision. Until now the ground they’d been travelling on had consisted of hard bare earth, rough in places but generally firm underfoot. All of a sudden, however, it began to change, the earth quickly vanishing under an immense sweep of pebbles that stretched ahead as far as they could see. The leading mules had already got on to the new surface, and were clearly finding it a hindrance to their progress. Meanwhile, Summerfield continued pushing forward, the margin now reduced to about half a mile. With careful tread, the others followed.

“‘Some of the seeds fell on stony ground’,” remarked Plover, before being pulled up by Scagg.

“Wait a moment everybody!” he called. “I want to speak to Mr Johns before we go any further.”

The whole party took the opportunity to rest while Scagg went back to meet Johns.

“What is it, Scagg?” he asked.

“Scree,” Scagg replied. “Mile upon mile of it, rising all the way to those hills, from what I can make out.”

“Is there any way round it?”

“Unfortunately not. It’s covering our path completely.”

Johns peered beyond his second-in-command, his eyes studying the vast stretch of wilderness.

“Who’s that man up ahead?” he enquired at length.

“Summerfield,” Scagg answered. “He’s been blazing the trail.”

“Well, he seems to be making reasonable headway,” Johns announced. “So I propose we carry on. After all, we can hardly allow every obstacle we meet to turn us aside.”

“Very well, Mr Johns. I just thought I’d better consult with you before we ventured too far.”

“Yes, that’s all right, Scagg. Tell the men to take a short break, then we’ll get moving again before we lose our momentum. And I must have a quiet word with Summerfield when I get the chance. His enthusiasm is laudable, but I think we need to rein him in a little at this early stage. Otherwise heaven knows what he might lead us into.”

Summerfield did, in fact, appear to have noticed that the main party had come to a halt. He could be seen in the distance, standing at the start of a gentle slope, his pack resting on the ground while he awaited his companions. The mules, likewise, were motionless. They stood patiently in a long line, one behind the other.

§

When the journey restarted, a change was immediately noticeable. Not only was the going much slower than it had been before, but now each man’s step was accompanied by the harsh crunch of stones beneath his feet.

This sound was to accompany them relentlessly during their entire time on the scree.

Johns insisted that henceforth a tighter formation should be adopted, ‘in order to prevent anyone straying too far behind or ahead’, as he put it. It was decided that this was best achieved by having all the men travel forward of the mule train, so as to set a steady pace.

“You can’t tell a mule how fast to go,” murmured Cook to Sargent when they reshouldered their packs. “They’ve only got one speed, and that’s their own.”

Medleycott overheard the comment. “If you’ve got reservations,” he said, “why don’t you voice them to Johns instead of just muttering darkly?”

“Because it’s got nothing to do with me,” Cook replied. “My opinions don’t count.”

“But surely it’s your duty to speak out.”

Cook gazed at Medleycott and shook his head. “There’s no need. It’ll be obvious soon enough.”

For the next half hour they advanced two by two across the scree, and good progress was recorded. Yet the further they went the deeper the layers of stone became, causing an increased degree of drag. Moreover, the gradient was uneven in places, with the ground falling away to one side or the other, so that the men were often obliged to walk in single file. Maintaining any sort of close formation was also impeded by the sheer physical differences between individuals, and it was not long before the idea was abandoned in all but name. Summerfield, meanwhile, continued to forge ahead, having started forward the moment the main party began moving again. No one had been able to communicate Johns’s instructions to him, so they could do nothing but watch as his bobbing form gradually faded into the distance. It was becoming clear that what they’d assumed to be hills were mere peaks in this great pebbly expanse. It rolled away from them in a series of crests, swept ceaselessly by the unremitting wind. Another stop was called to allow an extra layer of clothing to be donned. At the same time some food and drink was taken.

“I’m afraid these delays are unavoidable for the present,” Johns observed. “But I should think we can reduce their frequency once we’ve properly settled into our stride.”

He was sitting alongside Scagg and Chase, all three with their backs to the wind, facing the way they’d come. For reasons of his own, Scagg had rolled his woolly helmet upwards to form a sort of cap, so that only his ears and crown were protected from the cold. He now showed the beginnings of a beard.

“I hope Summerfield realises,” he said, “that we’ll be needing to make camp at some stage. The light will only last another hour and a half at the most.”

“I imagine he’ll start looking for somewhere suitable fairly soon,” Johns replied.

“Well, it’ll be at the foot of a leeward slope, if he’s got any sense. Shall I give the signal to resume then?”

“Yes, if you will, Scagg.”

During that first part of the journey the sky had remained a uniform grey, with only a faint gleam at the horizon to indicate the presence of the sun. As the afternoon progressed, however, the gleam reddened, suggesting they could expect a brighter day tomorrow. In a long, final haul they traversed a broad ridge of particularly loose stones, to be confronted with yet another ridge about a mile away. In between there lay a shallow depression, and at its lowest point waited Summerfield. The sight of the continuing scree produced an audible groan from some members of the party. This seemed not to be heard by Johns, who had already begun his descent, but nevertheless it brought a rebuke from Scagg.

“Any more of that whingeing,” he growled, “and you’ll all be going to bed early without supper.”

The mood lightened considerably the moment they dipped out of the wind. The depression was a gloomy spot, and a difficult place to pitch tents, but the shelter it offered brought general agreement that it was a good choice. Summerfield was congratulated by Chase, who was first to join him, followed soon after by Medleycott and Seddon. When everyone had arrived, Scagg ordered the unloading of the tents. “All right,” he said, referring to his notebook. “Chase: you’ll be with Blanchflower and Firth tonight. Seddon, Plover and Summerfield: you can all team up together. I’ll be sharing with Mr Johns. That leaves Cook, Sargent and Medleycott. I suggest you keep the tents as close to one another as possible to maintain some warmth. Then we’ll have some food please, Seddon.”

This being the first occasion the tents had been unpacked since coming ashore, it took a little trial and error to get them properly erected, especially as they could not be pegged down. Instead, they had to be weighted with stones, and by the time the work was finished a couple of lamps needed to be lit. Meanwhile, a field kitchen had been set up, complete with spirit stove, from which Seddon produced an evening meal. This was later described by Johns as ‘miraculous’, and earned Seddon a hearty three cheers. Afterwards Plover went over and offered to help him put away the cooking equipment. Everyone else had retired to their allotted tents, and the only sounds were the muted conversations coming from within. Johns could be seen in silhouette at his camp table, writing his journal by lamplight. Summerfield was already asleep. Plover gathered together a group of nestling pans, then spoke quietly to Seddon.

“You’ve heard what Medleycott’s been doing, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” Seddon replied. “I’ve been too busy.”

“He’s been going round all day asking people which tents they’re in.”

“Well, he didn’t ask me.”

“As a matter of fact he didn’t ask me either,” said Plover. “But apparently he’s made quite an issue of it. Even spoke to Johns himself. Not that he’s gained anything for all his troubles: he’s still ended up stuck with Cook and Sargent.”

During this exchange, Seddon had been folding away a large canvas windbreak. Now he stood up and glared at Plover.

“Meaning what?” he asked.

“What?” said Plover.

“What do you mean ‘stuck with Cook and Sargent’?”

“Well…you know.”

“No, I don’t know!” Seddon snapped. “Look, Plover, I’m not interested in your gossip, so can you just get on and hand me those pans if you’re going to?!”

“All right, all right.”

“And if you really mean to help me you could at least stop getting in my way.”

They completed the rest of the chores in silence, before returning to their shared tent. Seddon entered first, taking care not to wake Summerfield as he did so. Plover stayed outside for a while longer, and added a few extra stones to those already piled along the edges. Then he, too, went to bed.

§

When Summerfield emerged at first light, he noticed that something had disturbed the mules. They were in an agitated state, straining on their tethers, heads all turned in the same direction. As they pressed against one another, each jostling for an advantage, he tried to follow their line of vision. For a moment there appeared a remote glint, perhaps ten miles away to the northeast, and again the mules kicked up. Summerfield blinked and peered once more into the distance, but he saw nothing else. Speaking softly to his charges, he now made a big show of measuring out the quantities for their hot mash, and getting the pot ready. His actions had the desired pacifying effect. Within a few minutes the mules had settled down to a calm anticipation of breakfast. Leaving the pot to boil, Summerfield then set off across the scree towards the next crest. It was more steeply inclined than the previous one, rising quickly to a sharp ridge, which he reached after a quarter of an hour’s hard scrambling. When he made the top his eyes were met by a further vast tract of monotonous stony ground. The oncoming wind had not abated.

Pausing only long enough to take a deep breath, Summerfield turned and headed back.

In his absence, the other members of the party had risen and were all occupied making preparations for the day’s march.

“I really must have a word with Summerfield,” Johns remarked, when he was spotted moving around on the ridge. “It’s all very well him scouting ahead all the time, but if he’s not careful he’s going to expend all his energy before we get anywhere.”

“Do you want me to speak to him?” asked Scagg.

“No, it’s all right, thank you, Scagg,” said Johns. “It only requires a gentle word.”

§

“Gentle word, my Aunt Molly,” declared Cook. He’d been working near to Johns and Scagg, and had overheard their discussion. A short while later, as he and Sargent packed their tent, he gave forth his own particular opinion. “It was Summerfield’s blessed fault we got on to this scree in the first place. If he’d only given Johns a chance to make a decision we could have done a detour; gone round the side or whatever it demanded, instead of ploughing straight through the middle. That was the worst night I’ve ever had, lying on all those blinking stones. I never slept a wink.”

“Why were you snoring so much then?” asked Sargent.

“Who was?”

“You were. You kept waking me up. And Medleycott.”

“Well, Medleycott can hardly complain about me. He spent half an hour folding his clothes away before he put the light out.”

“He didn’t complain.”

“Oh.”

“Shared his chocolate with us, actually.”

“Yes, I’ll give him that,” conceded Cook. “He did share his chocolate.”

§

By the time they left Summerfield’s Depression, as the site had now been named, the sun was already partway through its slow crawl along the southern horizon. It appeared as a dull red orb, offering little in the way of warmth, and providing light for only a few short hours. Faced with this scarcity, they continued travelling in a straight line.

“We can assume,” said Johns, “that the terrain is bound to change eventually.”