Explorers of the New Century

Five

“Sorry to interrupt the work, Mr Johns, but I think we may have a problem.”

“Really, Scagg? Well, please come in and tell me about it.”

“Do you want me to make myself scarce?” Chase enquired.

“No, no,” said Scagg. “It doesn’t concern any of the men.”

“What is it then?” asked Johns.

“I thought you should know that one of the mules is dawdling, deliberately it seems, and that this is having a discouraging effect on the others. I’ve had it under observation all day, and several times I’ve noticed it dragging the pace. Moreover, it comes to a complete halt at every opportunity. If we allow it to carry on in this way, our progress will be seriously disrupted.”

“You’re quite right,” said Johns. “Oddly enough, Chase and I were just discussing our position, and we were wondering why we’d hardly got anywhere since yesterday. So it’s the mules to blame, is it?”

“One of them, sir.”

“One is enough.”

“So with your permission I’d like to administer some discipline. A night under the hood should teach it a lesson it won’t forget.”

“Have we brought a hood with us?”

“I took the liberty, yes.”

“Very well, Scagg. See to it, will you? And at the same time I suggest you treat all the other mules to a stick of barley sugar apiece. Then hopefully they’ll see both sides of the coin.”

“Right you are, sir.”

After Scagg had departed, Johns turned to Chase and shook his head. “Oh dear,” he murmured. “The order for punishment is always the hardest to give.”

“So I imagine,” said Chase.

“That’s why we’ve resorted to this so-called ‘modern’ remedy of the hood. I’m told on good authority that it works and, frankly, anything more severe would serve no useful purpose in such a harsh climate: indeed it may even be counter-productive. Still, Chase, only time will tell. Now, where were we?”

“Discussing the wind, Mr Johns.”

“Ah, yes, the interminable wind. What’s your analysis?”

“I’m afraid it bears very little moisture.”

“No likelihood of rain then?”

“Not for a while.”

“That is disappointing news,” said Johns. “The last thing I want to do is impose water rationing; yet there appears little chance of locating any other source while we’re on this scree. I had been assuming it would eventually ease out on to some verdant plain, criss-crossed by streams and rivers, but now I’m beginning to think that was just wishful thinking on my behalf.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a flat plain ahead,” replied Chase. “The way the wind sweeps unimpeded towards us has convinced me of that fact. Besides, we’re almost down to sea level again.”

“Well, it’s been such a struggle one would hardly believe we’d been descending for six days in a row. Listen to that gale, pounding the very walls of the tent as if it wants to tear them asunder. Will there be no relief?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Chase.

The flame guttered in the lantern as a fierce gust whirled through the encampment, striking one tent after another. Chase gathered up his charts and tables, and waited while Johns completed the latest entry in his journal. Then they buttoned their coats, extinguished the light and went outside. This sequence of events had become a nightly ritual. Next they would find their way through the blackness for a distance of about half a mile, following a northerly direction, carefully examining the ground and taking note of any landmarks or other points of interest. These were few in number. Nonetheless, both men agreed that their regular evening forays gave them a fair idea of the terrain that lay ahead, and thus prepared them for the following morning’s march. Before returning they would always wait until their eyes had grown fully accustomed to the dark. Then they would retrace their steps back to their respective tents, each getting ready for bed without further recourse to lamplight. In this manner they helped conserve the supply of fuel.

♦

“I can offer you a penny,” said Scagg.

“Pardon?” said Medleycott.

“For your thoughts.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, I was miles away.”

“So I observed. Is something troubling you?”

“Not really, no. Or shouldn’t be anyway. It’s just that today happens to be my birthday.”

“And you were flunking about Mrs Medleycott.”

“How on earth did you know that?”

“It’s quite natural,” said Scagg. “Everyone thinks of their mother on their birthday.”

“Do they?”

“Of course they do.”

Medleycott gave a long sigh. “Yes, well, it’s very true; and it’s so unspeakably lonely out here that I can hardly bear it at times. This endless scree, this darkness, this pitiless wind: men have been driven to distraction by lesser torments. It’s an utter wilderness. Do you know, I’ve been standing here for almost an hour gazing at absolutely nothing?”

“Which is why I came looking for you,” Scagg replied. “You’ve been absent a good while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have wandered far,” said Medleycott. “I just wanted a few moments to myself, that was all.”

“But I thought you said you were lonely.”

“I remarked that this was a lonely place, yes.”

“Well, conducting a solitary vigil won’t help matters, will it?” said Scagg. “If it’s your birthday then surely you should be with the other men, not stuck out here on your own. Now take my advice and get yourself back into camp before Mr Johns notices you’re missing.”

“I’ll go at once,” nodded Medleycott. “Sorry, Scagg, that didn’t even occur to me.”

“And many happy returns of the day.”

“Thank you.”

Scagg watched as Medleycott made his way towards the tents. He waited until he’d disappeared from view, then strolled in a purposeful manner around the margins of the camp, pausing at one point to inspect the mules. These were gathered together in a huddle with their backs to the wind, some sleeping, others eyeing him warily when he drew near. He glanced to his left. Tethered separately a short distance away was the single recalcitrant mule, its head concealed under a heavy linen hood just as it had been all through the night. Scagg stood and contemplated the scene for several minutes before moving on. Presently he came to the kitchen area, where Seddon was busy preparing breakfast. Here he paused again.

“Been in search of our early riser?” ventured Seddon.

“As a matter of fact I have,” Scagg replied.

“I saw him go by an hour ago. Sleepwalking, was he?”

“Yes, something like that.”

Scagg lifted the lid of the cooking pot and peered inside. Steam rose up to engulf him; quickly he replaced the lid. Next he poked around amongst the sundry stocks and provisions, opening boxes and closing them again. Finally he looked at Seddon and said, “You’ve got plenty of flour, haven’t you?”

“Plenty,” answered Seddon.

“Sugar?”

“Yes.”

“Fat?”

“Likewise.”

“I know for certain there’s a bag of raisins somewhere,” Scagg announced. “I loaded them myself. Got a baking tin?”

“Of course I’ve got a baking tin,” returned Seddon with indignation. “What’s all this leading up to anyway?”

“Well, Seddon,” said Scagg. “I want you to pull off one of your culinary miracles.”

“Oh yes?”

“I’d like you to bake me a cake. Nothing special; just a simple cake with icing on the top. Can you do that for me?”

“I suppose so.”

“Much obliged. That’ll be one I owe you.”

“I presume it’s a secret, is it?”

“Correct,” replied Scagg. “And don’t worry about the candles: I’ll see to them.”

“All right, when would you like it for?”

“Tonight.”

“Good grief,” murmured Seddon. “You do want miracles, don’t you?”

Without further discussion, Scagg glanced at his watch, then began his daily round of the tents, waking all those who were still asleep. First to emerge was Summerfield, whose turn it was to feed the mules. He was followed from the same tent by Plover and, lastly, Sargent. All were now clad in the full attire of surcoat and woolly helmet, and all walked with a kind of stoop as they headed out into the wind.

“Any idea when we’re going to see some proper daylight again?” asked Sargent. “All these early nights are taking their toll of me. Wearing me out, they are.”

“Is that why you’re always last up?” Scagg countered.

“Who is?”

“You are.”

“It was only a civil enquiry.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid the man to ask is Chase. He’s been taking all the readings, not me.”

“Will it be days or weeks, do you think?”

“I expect it’ll be one or the other,” said Scagg.

Sargent looked at him for several seconds through the opening of his helmet, then turned abruptly and walked off in the direction of the field kitchen. “Get more information out of a stone,” he muttered, when he was out of earshot.

There was the usual gathering of breakfasters, all hunched together behind one of Summerfield’s constructions while a gale raged around the camp. Sargent collected his helping of porridge and looked for a place to sit down. Finding nowhere suitable, he then wandered over to where Summerfield was still tending to his charges.

“You’d better hurry up,” he said. “Or you’ll miss your share of the vittles.”

“Not to worry,” Summerfield replied. “Seddon always saves me something.”

Sargent nodded towards the hooded mule. “Is that the one that’s holding us back?”

“Supposedly, yes, although for my part I feel it’s most unfair to blame the wretched creature for our shortcomings. Scagg has ordered me not to feed it until all the others have had their fill. Only then may I remove the hood, so he says.”

“Well, it’s hardly a real punishment anyway,” said Sargent.

“Surely it would have been better to give it a sound beating and put it on half rations for a day or two.”

“I wouldn’t let Mr Johns hear you talking like that if I were you,” rejoined Summerfield. “In his opinion the well-being of the mules is our chief priority. Besides which, Professor Childish disapproved of those sort of methods.”

“Who’s Professor Childish when he’s at home?”

At these words Summerfield peered out of his woolly helmet with an incredulous expression on his face.

“But you must know who he was.”

“Was?”

“He’s been dead for twenty years.”

“No wonder I’ve never heard of him.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sargent! Professor Childish was the founder of Transportation Theory.”

“Transportation? Oh, you mean ‘Round ‘em Up and Ship ‘em Out!’”

“That’s the popular name for it, yes,” said Summerfield. “But I know privately Mr Johns prefers the term ‘transportation’. Apparently he finds all the sloganeering rather distasteful.”

“Shocking,” agreed Sargent.

He sat down and stirred his porridge reflectively. Summerfield joined him, having now completed his duties. Meanwhile, at the opposite side of the camp, tents were already being dismanded.

“So this professor chap thought it all up, did he?” Sargent enquired at length.

“He did indeed.”

“I always assumed it was Johns’ idea.”

“Well, certainly, Mr Johns had the technical means to carry the theory out; but it originated with Professor Childish. As a matter of fact, I’ve been studying his treatise lately, when I’ve found the time.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed you’ve had your nose stuck in that book most evenings.”

“It makes fascinating reading,” Summerfield continued. “It’s written in an archaic sort of style which takes some getting used to, but all the same it’s absolutely brimful of ideas. I’m sure Mr Johns wouldn’t mind if you wanted to borrow it after me.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Sargent. “But to tell you the truth I don’t really go in much for theories.”

“I take it you’re not a subscriber then?”

“I’m not anything.”

“Then what on earth made you volunteer for such an arduous journey as this?”

“There was nothing else for me,” replied Sargent with a shrug. “So I decided I might as well sign up.”

“Summerfield!” called a voice from the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want this breakfast or not?!”

“Coming!” he called back, then, speaking to Sargent, “Better dash.”

Summerfield sprang to his feet and in an instant he was gone. Sargent stayed where he was, spending quite some time finishing his porridge before eventually returning to the centre of the encampment. This was now a hive of activity. Most of the stores and equipment had been stacked ready for loading, the field kitchen was all folded away and the men were sorting out the last of their personal belongings. Only Summerfield stood stationary with his spoon and bowl as he hurried down a belated breakfast. Plover was near at hand. He was holding a small shaving mirror close to the lantern, looking at himself and making sure his woolly helmet was on straight.

“I’m surprised you’re late, Summerfield,” he commented. “Quite unusual, for you.”

“Yes, I know,” came the reply. “I got talking to Sargent.”

“That must have been jolly interesting.”

“It was, actually,” answered Summerfield. “I find him very good company.”

“Well, each to his own, I suppose.”

“Someone mention my name?” said Sargent, appearing out of the gloom.

“I was just saying you were on your own,” said Plover quickly. “Now that Cook’s no longer with us. Expect you’re missing him, aren’t you?”

“Why should I be missing him?”

“Because I thought the two of you were great pals.”

“We joined the expedition on the same day,” said Sargent. “But I’d never met him before that.”

“Really? Well, I must say the two of you seemed to get on very well, sharing your plates, swapping jokes and so forth.”

“You mean we’re birds of a feather?” said Sargent.

“Yes…er, no, of course not.”

“What then?”

“Well…”

“Plover,” intervened Summerfield. “I think Scagg wants you for something.”

“Ah, does he?” said Plover. “Then you must excuse me, gentlemen.”

Giving Sargent a curt nod, he smiled, then turned and walked away. After he’d gone, Sargent winked at Summerfield.

“Spoilsport,” he murmured, with a grin.

§

Sometime during that day, amongst his numerous other considerations, Seddon devised a means for baking a cake on an open stove. He refused to disclose the method to a curious Scagg, however, insisting on keeping it to himself. For his part, Scagg made sure Seddon received all the assistance he needed, and when the evening halt was called he instructed Blanchflower and Firth to help set up the field kitchen. There was nothing uncommon in this, as everyone was used to Scagg giving orders. What was noticeable, and remarked upon at different times by various people, was his increasing irritability as the new camp was established and supper prepared.

“What’s irking him?” asked Sargent, after being snapped at for no apparent reason.

“I’m not sure,” replied Summerfield. “It’s rather odd, but he seems to be waiting for something. I’ve seen him glance at his watch once or twice as though he’s due for an appointment.”

“Maybe Johns is going to make one of his speeches.”

“Yes, maybe.”

They followed Scagg’s movements as he walked over to the kitchen and spoke to Seddon. Urgent words were exchanged, then Scagg went round informing everyone that supper was ready. This was quite unnecessary since supper was always eagerly anticipated by the whole party, most of whom had been hovering in the vicinity for the past half hour. The only exception was Johns, who delayed his appearance until precisely seven o’clock. Emerging from the ‘command tent’, as it had come to be known, he proceeded to his favoured place in the lee of Summerfield’s stone dyke. Then, when the others had settled about him, the meal was begun. As usual on these occasions, talk was rare. The men ate in silence, apart from uttering scattered remarks which expressed how very agreeable the food was (Johns), or how it should have been cooked a little longer (Sargent). Afterwards everybody would be expected to disperse almost immediately. This evening was different, however, because all of a sudden Scagg rose to his feet and strode rather stiffly to the middle of the circle.

“Before we go to bed,” he announced, raising his voice against the ceaseless moan of the wind, “I’ve one or two words to say to you all.”

As was his custom, Scagg was wearing his woolly helmet rolled up towards the crown of his head. During the past few weeks his beard and eyebrows had thickened, and these lent him a certain authority as he addressed his companions in the lamplight.

“This is a dark season,” he continued. “Night and day are indistinguishable. We have endured a lengthy trek through perpetual gloom, and consequently some of us may have forgotten what time of year it is. In my case, only a chance conversation with Medleycott early this morning reminded me of today’s date. Now, if you please, Seddon.”

At a signal from Scagg, Seddon entered the circle carrying a large round biscuit tin. On his head he was sporting a chefs hat fashioned roughly from cardboard, and over his left arm was draped a white napkin. With a flourish he removed the lid from the tin, and revealed an iced cake dotted with a number of tiny candles. Some of the onlookers gasped in surprise.

“Oh, there was really no need,” said Johns.

“Certainly there was,” replied Scagg, clearing his throat before turning to face his leader. “Mr Johns…er…may I call you William in these special circumstances?”

“Of course,” Johns affirmed.

“Well, William, as I say, it was only by chance that I remembered today is your birthday, and so, thanks to Seddon here, I am now able to present you with a celebratory cake, along with our good wishes. If you’ve no objection, we won’t bother lighting the candles. I’m afraid the wind will just blow them straight out again.”

This last comment brought a round of laughter from the assembled men, followed by a robust chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to You’. Then Johns offered his humble thanks and asked for the cake to be divided up so that everyone could have a share.

“No one must go to bed,” he insisted, “until it’s all gone.”

Smiling a rare smile, Scagg produced a knife and performed the honours. Only Medleycott declined a slice.

♦

The process of civilisation is almost complete. We live our lives in safely and prosperity. Famine and disease have been defeated. Trade thrives everywhere. We no longer practise warfare and hence we have no need of a standing army. Neither do we fortify our cities and ports. For decades our navies have kept the peace by sailing along foreign shores and firing cannon-balls harmlessly into the sea. Diplomacy does the rest. There is no doubt that we’ve made the world a far better place to live in. Yet there remains one enduring problem: namely, the question of the mules. Since time immemorial they have been our inescapable burden. We have tolerated their presence simply because we have had no other option, but now, at long last, there is light at the end of the tunnel. The recent discovery of new territories in the north has offered a ready-made and welcome solution. We should seize it with both hands!

“You still reading?” enquired Sargent, from beneath his utility blanket.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” said Summerfield. “I was thoroughly engrossed. Were you waiting to turn the light out?”

“Well, everyone else has been tucked up for a while now, so if you don’t mind.”

“All right then. Sorry.”

Summerfield closed his book and put it away. Then he reached over, extinguished the lamp and settled down to sleep.

“Nearly finished it?” said Sargent.

“Almost, but to tell you the truth I’ll be sorry to get to the end. The arguments Childish puts forward are utterly fascinating, and so original. What astounds me is that he wrote it more than twenty years ago yet we’re only just beginning to put his theory into practice. I can’t understand the delay.”

“The reason is obvious,” said a voice in the darkness. “It’s because he was ahead of his time.” The voice belonged to Plover.

“Oh, you’re still awake, are you?” asked Summerfield.

“That question does not merit an answer. You were discussing Professor Childish, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Well, fortunately the world has now caught up with him. All those eyebrows raised at the very mention of transportation have disappeared; all those do-gooders holding back progress with their moral doubts; all those heads stuck in the sand. The objectors have been silenced. Finally we can turn our attention to changing the theory into fact, and not a moment too soon in my opinion.”

“I had no idea you were such a zealot.”

“Well, it’s not allowed, is it?” said Plover. “Johns sees himself as the only ‘thinker’ in the party and if the rest of us don’t agree with every word he says we earn a black mark from his trusty lieutenant, Mr Scagg.”

“Oh, I think that’s a bit harsh,” said Summerfield. “Johns has always listened to what I have to say.”

“Lucky you.”

“So what’s your particular gripe then?”

“Merely that we’re not driving the mules hard enough. Johns is obsessed with all this welfare and general mollycoddling and as a result he’s allowing them to dictate the pace. We should be miles further along by now.”

“But the whole purpose of this expedition is to find out if the mules can survive the journey. There’s absolutely no point in pushing them beyond their capabilities.”

“Come, come,” rejoined Plover. “Have you never read Younghusband’s pamphlet on the subject?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Summerfield. “I’m only familiar with Childish.”

“Good grief, not another theory,” murmured Sargent.

“No, not another theory,” said Plover. “The same one but with a completely different emphasis. Younghusband referred to what he called the ‘natural strengths’ of the mules, and suggested they’re far tougher than they lead us to believe. Laziness is what we used to call it, but of course Johns won’t allow such expressions.”

“Well, yes, we do have one lazy mule,” conceded Summerfield.

“They’re all lazy!” snapped Plover. “They do nothing unless they’re constantly spurred on; therefore spur them on we must, and if one or two fall by the wayside then so be it! In my judgment, all this talk about whether they can survive the journey is academic irrelevance. Our primary aim should be to take them to the Furthest Point from Civilisation and leave them there. What happens to them after that is no concern of ours.”

“But surely the theory should be put to certain tests before any lasting decision is made.”

“Not in my opinion,” said Plover. “There’s nothing more to discuss.”

At that the conversation subsided. The men lay silently in the darkness, and one by one drifted off to sleep. All except Summerfield. After tossing and turning for almost an hour, he eventually sat up and folded his utility blanket.

Then, taking care not to wake his companions, he picked his way to the entrance of the tent. Emerging into the cold air, he buttoned his surcoat and pulled his woolly helmet over his head. Summerfield passed the rest of the night wandering round the edge of me camp, occasionally calling to check on the mules, or adding new stones to the dyke he had built earlier. In the end he sat down behind it, out of the wind, and remained there, dozing quietly, until Seddon appeared and began preparing breakfast. It was Blanchflower’s turn to feed the mules, so he was the next to surface, accompanied by Firth, who came along to lend a hand. In this desultory manner the entire camp gradually returned to life until everyone had risen and was out and about. Chase was particularly busy this morning. Leaving the tents far behind, he went up on to the high ground they’d descended the previous evening and took some readings. Then he reported to Johns. A short while later the assembled company heard an announcement.

“I have a piece of good news,” said Johns. “I’m pleased to tell you that we can expect a glimmer of light at noon today.” He paused while the men cheered heartily, and then continued. “It won’t be much because the sun will barely nudge the horizon, yet at least we’ll be assured that spring is on its way at last!”

There were further encouraging signs to come. Soon after the march had resumed, the terrain began to level out, seemingly on to the great plain that Chase had predicted. It was still stony underfoot, which made the going difficult, but nevertheless the expedition advanced with a much lighter step than before. Moreover, the mules appeared to have recovered some of their vigour. Instead of having to be cajoled along in the normal manner, they now proved easier to lead, practically breaking into a trot as they followed in Summerfield’s wake. He in turn forged ahead, his body bent against the wind as he led the way into the unknown. The rest of the party had long since become accustomed to losing sight of him early in the day (despite Johns’s reservations) and not seeing him again for several hours. Consequently, they were taken by surprise when just before midday he came back to meet them, emerging suddenly from the gloom with an ecstatic look on his face.

“There’s a river!” he cried. “I’ve seen it!”

He was holding his woolly helmet in his hand, and now, in his exuberance, he whirled it up into the air. In an instant it had been caught by a gust of wind, and quickly began tumbling away. Medleycott, who happened to be leading the mules, let go of their rope and ran back to retrieve the helmet. Instead of coming to a halt, however, the mules rushed forward in a bunch, taking their burdens with them.

“Get them under control, someone!” ordered Johns, when he realised what was happening.

Blanchflower and Firth ran up from behind, followed by Scagg, who roared instructions to everyone in sight. Summerfield had already set off in pursuit of the mules and made an attempt to grab their rope, but without success. Similar moves were tried by Chase and Medleycott. The stampede was now gaining momentum, resulting in sundry items falling from the mules’ backs as they careered pell-mell towards their apparent objective: the river. A wide black ribbon was gradually taking shape in the darkness ahead of them, and with it there came the sound of water flowing. Next moment the leading mules were plunging in, dragging the rest behind them. Immediately the entire troop, all roped together, was being swept downstream. Without hesitation, Medleycott threw himself into the river and began swimming, though still fully clothed.

“Use your knife!” yelled Scagg. “Cut the rope!”

Others were now in the water too, wading into the shallows to salvage various pieces of gear that had come adrift. Meanwhile, Medleycott had reached the mules and was at work with his knife amid the pandemonium. Panic had now taken hold, and despite his efforts he only managed to cut five mules free. With a struggle, the men brought four of these ashore. The rest continued to be pulled along with the flow of the river and were soon lost from view. With them went Medleycott. Summerfield ran along the bank shouting at him to swim back, but he still seemed intent on rescuing the mules. Finally he too vanished. Summerfield stumbled on until his legs would carry him no further.

“Medleycott!!” he howled in desperation. “Come back!”

He stopped and for a long time stood motionless, staring into the distance. Presently Johns appeared beside him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I fear we’ve lost him,” he said.

“Is there nothing else we can do?” asked Summerfield.

“I don’t think so. This river is obviously more powerful than it looks. He’ll be a mile away by now.”

While they’d been talking, a soft gleam had begun gradually to spread across the southern horizon. For a minute the land all about them was bathed in a pale silver light, but the figures on the river bank paid no heed and very soon it was gone again. By the time they’d walked back and rejoined the others, Scagg had started taking stock of the remaining supplies and equipment. The four surviving mules were being looked after by Blanchflower and Firth, while Seddon assembled what was left of the foldaway kitchen. The windbreak had gone, as had most of the pots, but the stove itself was still intact. Immediately, Summerfield set about building a stone dyke for Seddon to work behind. Two of the three tents had been recovered, soaking wet, from the river, and these had been unfolded so they could dry out. Much else was missing, including a substantial quantity of food. Johns ordered a simple hot meal to be cooked for everyone. Then, after a period of rest, he organised parties to follow the river in each direction in search of a suitable crossing place.

“It’s our last hope,” he announced.

Plover, Sargent and Summerfield took the downstream leg. Keeping close to the bank, they peered constantly into the black water on the off-chance that Medleycott would still be found. Nothing was seen, however, and after a while they began to conjecture about what Johns would likely do next. It was a lacklustre conversation consisting mainly of Sargent giving his opinion that they had no choice but to turn back. When informed that this was out of the question, he appeared not to hear and merely repeated his assertion, at which point the others ceased to contradict him. Then suddenly a nearby scuffing noise brought them all to a halt.

“What was that?” said Plover.

Just ahead of them a dim shape was moving.

“Medleycott!” proclaimed Sargent.

“No, no,” said Summerfield. “It’s a mule.”

At the sound of their voices, the shape came closer, and a moment later they saw that it was indeed a mule, a young female, trailing a short length of rope. Sargent sprang forward in an attempt to grab it, and instantly the mule moved away again.

“I recognise that one,” announced Summerfield. “It’s the dawdler we punished under the hood. Poor Medleycott must have managed to cut it free before the current took him.”

“Well, three of us should be able to catch it,” said Plover. “It’ll be a good trophy to take back to Johns. Let’s have a go.”

Nonetheless, despite their efforts, they repeatedly failed to get anywhere near the mule. Time after time they moved within a few yards of it, only to lose sight again as it vanished into the darkness. A quarter of an hour passed and still they’d had no success.

Then Summerfield said, “Let me make a suggestion. I’ve had a few dealings with this one already. If you two go back to the camp, I’ll try to coax it in on my own.”

“So that you can earn all the praise?” said Plover.

“Of course not,” responded Summerfield. “I simply think it’s the best workable solution; otherwise we’re going to exhaust ourselves fairly quickly. What’s your view, Sargent?”

“I agree with you,” came the reply.

A few minutes later Summerfield was walking alone along the river bank. Quite soon he came upon the mule and at once paused. The mule did not move so he took a careful step forward. Then another. Then he stopped. Deliberately he turned away and gazed at the river. Still the mule remained where it was. Summerfield allowed several seconds to pass before again facing his quarry. The mule was now looking directly at him and appeared to be quite calm, yet when he tried edging forward it skipped away in a playful manner. Then it turned towards him once more. Summerfield waited.

“Come on then,” said the mule. “Catch me if you can.”

There was a long leaden silence, broken finally by Summerfield.

“How dare you speak to me!” he uttered.

“What of it?” asked the mule. “Just because you forbid us to talk do you think we’ll lose our tongues?”

“I don’t make the laws,” Summerfield replied. “Even so, you had better be silent or you’ll make things even worse for yourself.”

“What could be worse? I’ve already spent a night under that hood.”

“You can forget the hood. You’re asking for a severe beating this time.”

“I don’t think so,” answered the mule. “You wouldn’t lay a finger on me. You’re far too civilised for that.”

“Maybe so,” said Summerfield. “However, that doesn’t mean I can restrain my companions. Some of them are less tolerant than me.”

“Then you’ll just have to be my protector, won’t you?”

♦

Meanwhile, the other party had returned to the camp with some favourable news. Chase, Blanchflower and Firth had discovered a natural ford about a mile upriver, and they had succeeded in getting across and back quite easily. Their find was still under discussion when Summerfield appeared, leading the mule.

“Ah, Summerfield, well done,” said Johns. “Come and join us. Tie it up, will you, Sargent?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d rather you didn’t tether this one,” interceded Summerfield.

“Whyever not?” Johns enquired.

“Because I promised her she wouldn’t be tied up any more.”

“She?!” snapped Scagg. “Since when have we referred to mules in that manner?!”

“Admittedly never.”

“So what’s the game then?!”

“It seemed the most practical approach,” said Summerfield. “I really don’t see what other option I had.”

“Of course you had an option!”

“It’s all right, Scagg,” said Johns. “I think Summerfield can be forgiven under the circumstances.”

“But it’s outrageous making bargains with a mule!”

“I know, Scagg, I know. All the same, I’m afraid we’re going to have to learn to live with it. An hour ago we thought we only had four mules left. Now we have five, and this one’s a female, which is a bounty for us. It makes it worthwhile to continue our journey. Therefore we can allow a small concession.”

“Very well, sir,” murmured Scagg. “If you say so.”

Accordingly, the mule was led away to join the others. Then Johns gathered the men around him and set forth his plans.

“Disaster has struck,” he began. “Yet we shall not be defeated so readily. Blanchflower and Firth, I want you to return southward and collect the extra supplies. Go only as far as Summerfield’s Depression: Cook should be there to meet you by now. In the meantime, the rest of us will take advantage of Chase’s Crossing, as I propose to name it. With our limited resources we’re going to make a ‘dash’ for the Furthest Point. I think you’ll all agree that we owe it to Medleycott to press on.”

“Of course,” said Plover.

The remnants of the afternoon were spent in making preparations for the following day. Scagg went through the food supplies and worked out a system for rationing, assisted by Seddon. The two remaining tents, having dried quickly in the wind, were now erected. It had been decided that Blanchflower and Firth would rest overnight before leaving, which meant there would be four in one tent and five in the other. At the end of the evening, in sombre company, Johns made an entry in his journal:

I regret to report that today we lost Medleycott in a tragic and costly accident. It should be recorded that he gave his life attempting to save some of our mules.

Despite the shortage of accommodation, Scagg arranged that Johns would have sole use of the command tent for one hour each day, immediately after supper. The purpose was to ‘allow Mr Johns a little bit of peace and quiet’, as Scagg put it. During this period everyone else was expected to crowd into the other tent. Johns was quite prepared to receive visitors, however, and two nights after the river crossing he was playing host to Summerfield.

“I’ve come to return your book,” said his guest. “Thank you for the loan: it was most interesting.”

“Interesting?” replied Johns. “Does that mean you weren’t entirely convinced by the arguments?”

“No, no,” said Summerfield quickly. “It’s just that I’ve become a little concerned about one aspect of the theory.”

“What’s troubling you exactly?”

“It’s about this homeland we’re hoping to establish for the mules.”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Will they be treated fairly, Mr Johns? I mean, we’re transporting them to the Furthest Point from Civilisation and leaving them there. Can we be sure they’ll be able to cope on their own?”

“Frankly, we can’t,” said Johns. “There are many unanswered questions still remaining and everyone is aware of the risks. Nevertheless we had to begin somewhere. As you know, the aim of this expedition is to discover whether the mules can survive the initial journey. Our success will be the lodestar: the model for future advances. If the place is considered suitable, then the process of settlement will begin at once. Naturally, we’ll need to provide basic sanitation; we’ll also set up supply lines to help them through the first few seasons. After that, they’ll be left entirely to their own devices.”

“But if all fails they’ll suffer terribly!” exclaimed Summerfield.

“That’s why we’re only starting with a small number.”

“But…”

“Look, Summerfield, you must appreciate that even I have certain reservations about this, but I’m afraid there is no other option. The alternatives have been tried and none of them work. Let me assure you that I bear the mules no personal ill-will whatsoever. I would be the first to declare that most of them are honest and harmless creatures. They have no very deep dye of turpitude. Instead, their inherent weakness lies in all that they lack: the ability to make rational judgments; the concept of propriety; the power of self-discipline. They lose their heads far too easily: the incident at the river was a perfect demonstration of that. Furthermore, they do nothing profitable; they are strangers to industry; they don’t invent things; they don’t plough the waters of the deep; they don’t extract minerals, construct bridges or dig tunnels. Neither do they have any understanding of science. As for art, well, yes, I admit they are capable of some wonderful creations in paint and clay; they possess a marvellous sense of colour; yet they only do this as a sort of pastime, never in a formal, studied way. Then, of course, they have their fanciful beliefs and superstitions, most of which defy all reason.”

Johns paused and gave a long sigh before continuing.

“Summerfield, I cannot overstate the efforts that have been made to let the mules live alongside us. Every conceivable solution has been tried, and every one has failed. Simply put, the mules are completely immune to the forces of civilisation; therefore, we have decided that the only answer is to allow them to develop separately in their own corner of the world; to build shelters and eke out some kind of pastoral existence. Believe me, it will be for their own good in the long run.”

“To quote Professor Childish.”

“Indeed.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“Sadly, no,” said Johns. “He had done all the hard work long before I was around.”

“Any notion of what he was like?”

“A real footslogger, apparently, but to start with it was mainly uphill. He first began to promulgate his ideas through a series of minor publications, followed by an extensive tour of lectures and public meetings. Then came the book, which famously received dreadful reviews. From the outset he was severely castigated; his proposals were considered unthinkable, offensive even; but gradually, as time passed, the Theory started to catch on. An early death left his work incomplete, but others soon picked up the baton, notably Younghusband and Clark, who quickly became the leading lights. It was they who came and built the blockhouse, of course, paving the way for those who followed. Unfortunately none of their mules survived the sea journey, so they didn’t venture inland. That was in the closing decade of the last century, before the details had been properly thought through. Eventually a great conference was held, attended by many interested parties, including myself.”

“And Tostig.”

“Yes, Tostig was there too, so I’m told. I’ve never met him either. Not even an introduction, would you believe? As a matter of fact, I got the impression my presence was being ignored generally, so I didn’t bother with the second conference they held the following year. Not that it made any difference by then. The main achievement of that first conference was its success in agreeing coordinates for the Furthest Point from Civilisation. It took days of debate and discussion, but finally an accord was reached. All further talk seemed superficial to me, so I just left them to it and got on with the job.”

“‘Time for Action not Words’.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Johns nodded and smiled at Summerfield, then began leafing through the pages of the newly returned book.

“Tell me, Summerfield,” he said, without looking up. “How do you find the new system of rationing?”

“It appears to be working well enough,” replied Summerfield.

“Have you had to tighten your belt yet?”

“Not yet, Mr Johns, but I’m quite prepared to do so if necessary.”

“And does that go for all of your companions as well?”

“I’m sure it does.”

A moment passed before Johns spoke again.

“I hope you’ve noticed that the mules’ allowance has not been reduced.”

“Yes, I must say I’ve noticed.”

“On this occasion it’s the men who have made the sacrifice.”

“Yes.”

“So you see we do treat them as fairly as we can.”