Magnus Mills - Explorers of the New Century

“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.