Magnus Mills - Explorers of the New Century

“You asked to see me, Mr Johns?”

“Ah, Summerfield, yes. Do come in out of the cold.”

“Thank you.”

It was late evening. Hitherto, Summerfield had only put his head inside Johns’ tent, but now he entered fully and closed the flaps behind him. In the dimly lit interior there was little room to spare. A large part of the floor was covered in bedding, already laid out for the night. Other spaces were crammed with equipment and baggage. Johns was sitting at the camp table with his pens and journal before him. The light from a suspended lamp showed that he had removed his woolly helmet. Now Summerfield did the same, before glancing around him.

“Sit on that crate if you like,” said Johns.

“Thank you.”

Summerfield upended a crate of tinned fruit and sat down. At the corner of the table lay a couple of slim textbooks and a folded map. Also a pocket watch. Johns closed his journal and set it to one side; then he gazed thoughtfully at his visitor.

“You’re looking very healthy, Summerfield,” he commented. “This life of ours seems to suit you.”

“Yes, it does rather.”

“Come from a sporting background, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Always excelled in the hundred yards dash?”

“It has been known, yes.”

“First rate, Summerfield. First rate.”

Johns reached for one of the textbooks and sat for some moments weighing it in his hands. Then he began examining the jacket in detail, turning the book over to look at both the front cover and the back. Meanwhile, the lamp flickered as a gust of wind struck the side of the tent, causing the canvas to beat spasmodically before subsiding once more.

“All the same, Summerfield,” he said at length, “I really must ask you to slow down a little when we’re on the march. This is not to be taken as any sort of reprimand, but it just won’t do for you to go sprinting ahead of the rest of the party. We’ve lost sight of you altogether once or twice over these past few days, and I’m worried you might disappear without trace. You must understand that I need to consider the welfare of the expedition as a whole. It is vital that we act as a coherent group, whatever our individual tendencies. So please can you bear this in mind next time you’re in the lead?”

“Of course, Mr Johns,” Summerfield rejoined. “And I apologise if I’ve been a cause for concern. It’s just that the thought of Tostig pressing further and further ahead of us is almost intolerable.”

“So that’s the reason for your impatience, is it?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Well, to be frank, Summerfield, I’m not the slightest bit bothered about what Tostig’s doing. As I’ve said many times before, this is not some sort of contest we’re taking part in. For want of a better description, it’s an International Joint Scientific Enquiry, and it makes no difference who arrives at our destination first, whether it be us, Tostig, or anyone else for that matter. Don’t forget Younghusband and Clark would most probably have got there a decade ago if their luck had held. That was a damned unfortunate business, as it turned out; and if they’d succeeded, of course, they could have saved us all the trouble.”

Johns paused and allowed Summerfield to smile at this remark.

“As for the present,” he continued, “what counts is progress towards our common goal. The sooner the issue is settled one way or another the better.”

At this point the tent was again blasted from without. The ridge pole shook and the lamp swung momentarily, so that its yellow arc rose and fell several times.

“Besides,” Johns ventured, “who’s to say Tostig is pressing ahead of us anyway? For all we know he may have run into all kinds of difficulties. Your own experience will tell you this whole territory is beset by frightful weather conditions. The wind hasn’t ceased for days and I can’t imagine it being confined merely to our immediate vicinity. Incidentally, did you come across Chase on your way here? I’m expecting his report at any minute.”

“Yes, I saw him about a quarter of an hour ago,” said Summerfield. “He was at the edge of the camp taking some readings.”

“Very good,” said Johns, clapping his hands together.

“Well, Summerfield, I hope we’ve put your mind at rest and you’ll no longer feel the need to leave us in a trail of dust.”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Summerfield answered, rising to his feet.

The textbook to which Johns had earlier paid so much attention now lay flat on the table, with its title displayed in bold letters. Summerfield nodded towards it and asked, “Would it be at all possible to borrow that for a day or two? So I can refresh myself on the main points?”

“By all means,” Johns replied. “Borrow it for as long as you wish.”

Summerfield thanked Johns again, slipping the book into the inner pocket of his reefer. Then he went outside, braced himself against the wind, and made his way back through the darkness to his own tent. When he got to the flap he paused for a few seconds before finally going in.

Reposed at the far end was Plover. He lay on his side, outstretched with his legs crossed and his head propped on one hand, facing the doorway.

“And how is our esteemed leader?” he enquired.

“Mr Johns is fine,” replied Summerfield. “Where’s Seddon?”

“Seddon has just gone out.”

“Oh.”

“Something to do with the malt drinks, I believe.”

“Yes.”

After his visit to Johns, Summerfield had omitted to replace his woolly helmet. This he now did, pulling it half over his face and leaving it there while he sat down in his own corner. Plover said nothing more, but continued to lie where he was, staring vaguely at the spirit lamp that hissed intermittently nearby. The two of them remained in their respective positions for about twenty minutes, each silent and isolated from the other, until eventually a muffled voice was heard calling from an outlying part of the encampment.

“Hot drink anybody?!” came the cry.

Summerfield was on his feet in an instant, tugging at his helmet and pulling it into place. As he headed through the flaps he glanced round at his neighbour and said, “Coming then?”

“No, don’t think I’ll bother,” answered Plover. “Not if it means putting my boots back on.”

§

Having attained a higher altitude than Tostig, the western party still enjoyed a brief margin of light around noon each day. There were no shadows on the fields of scree, save those cast by the travellers themselves, and for a short period they could find their way with comparative ease. This was the time when Chase made his most important observations, taking a sighting of the horizon, vague as it was, to ensure they were still going in the correct direction. He also made a note of their achieved mileage. For the rest of the while, however, the men were obliged to stumble through perpetual gloom, their only guide being the wind that blew steadily in their faces, and always from the north.

With little apparent difference between day and night, Johns had decided on strict adherence to a fixed timetable, so that everyone went to bed and got up at an hour appointed by him. This, he explained, was in order to avoid the dangers of lethargy and disorientation. So it was that at seven o’clock next morning, Cook, Sargent and Medleycott were lying awake in their tent, having just been roused by Scagg. Outside, a gale was blowing.

“Should get away with another five minutes,” Sargent murmured. “Then it’s back out into the teeth.”

Cook groaned and hid his head beneath his blanket.

“Bit rough, isn’t it?” said Medleycott.