Magnus Mills - Explorers of the New Century

“I’m the only one who’s had to get out of bed twice,” he muttered. “Typical of my luck.”

Summerfield attempted to argue that the situation was the same for everyone, and that over subsequent nights it would even out quite fairly; but his efforts were all in vain. Sargent had a simpler explanation.

“My card’s been marked ever since we started this trip,” he said. “It’s always the same: wherever I go you’ll find me at the bottom of the pile.”

“What about the mules, though?” demanded Summerfield. “You’re much better off compared to them.” His manner was unusually terse.

“Yes, Mr Summerfield,” replied Sargent. “So I’ve often been told.”

Both men were now gazing at the dim outline of the litter, which stood some distance away, fully exposed to the elements. Its occupant had remained silent throughout the hours of darkness. Summerfield took a deep breath.

“Look, Sargent,” he said. “I’m sorry I snapped at you like that: it’s not your fault. It’s just that I sometimes have very grave doubts about what we’re doing here. Let’s admit it, the Theory barely stands up to close scrutiny: a set of harsh measures disguised as ideology by some well-intentioned professor. I mean, what exactly does society hope to achieve by rounding up all the mules and shipping them off to the wildest reaches of the earth? Will it really bring improvement, or have we been fooling ourselves all along?”

Sargent gave the questions a few moments’ thought.

“Don’t ask me,” he said.

After that the subject was dropped.

When dawn finally came, nobody professed to having had a good night’s sleep. Instead, they wandered around the camp, waiting for breakfast and becoming irritated with one another for scant reason. Johns mentioned to Scagg that he found this state of affairs rather disturbing.

“It’s only the first morning,” he said. “What will their mood be like when they’ve been carrying that chair for a few days?”

“They’ll soon adapt to it,” Scagg answered. “They always do.”

“Maybe we…good grief!”

Johns broke off as Gribble drew back her canopy and stepped out. The cause of his astonishment was clear. Since the previous evening Gribble’s appearance had changed beyond recognition. She was still dressed in sackcloth, but now there was a belt fastened around her waist. This belt was made from a strip of canvas, and served to give her garment a degree of femininity formerly lacking. Also, her hair was elaborately plaited, whereas hitherto it had always been unkempt. Most striking, though, were the bright blue lines that ran across her face: two on each cheek, and one in a V-shape on her forehead. These lines had been applied in the form of a thick paste, apparently ground down from the blue stones so carefully chosen by Gribble.

“I wondered why she wanted that spare strip of canvas,” said Sargent, reddening slightly.

Apart from this solitary remark, the men seemed at a complete loss for words. They stood in a half-circle gaping as Gribble passed by before seating herself at a discreet distance from the cooking area. There she waited until Summerfield delivered her breakfast. When he rejoined his comrades he said, “Gribble asked me to say she had a pleasant night, thank you very much.”

“Well, that’s something,” replied Johns.

As departure time approached, great care was taken to ensure that only the most essential items were packed for the onward journey. Any gear considered dispensable was left behind in a new depot. The rest was bundled into three loads, along with the remaining food supplies. Then, when all was ready, Gribble was requested to take her place on the litter. She was to be carried on this first day by Chase, Seddon, Sargent and Plover, while the other three men shouldered the packs. ‘Unexpectedly light’ was the unanimous verdict when the litter was raised from the ground and they got moving. The air was heavy with dust, however, and it was not long before Gribble closed the canopy, leaving her entourage to battle on as best they could. After an hour, Johns called a halt.

“Slow but steady,” he announced. “So far, so good.”

During the break, Chase was asked to check their position. Summerfield had been leading the way, and Chase quickly established that he had, in fact, erred from their desired course.

“We’re a bit too far to the west,” Chase told Johns. “An easy enough mistake.”

“Maybe so,” Johns replied. “Yet I wouldn’t have expected it from Summerfield of all people.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“He’s seemed rather distracted of late; therefore, I think I’ll take over the leading from now on, and I’ll make sure to confer regularly with you.”

“Righto, sir,” said Chase.

When the journey resumed, no more comments were heard about the litter being ‘unexpectedly light’. Instead the men fell into a solemn march, heads down against the wind, and kept their thoughts to themselves. In this manner they continued for the rest of the day. The miles dragged by, and there was little to distinguish one hour from the next. Occasionally Gribble would peek out from her recess as if taking note of their progress. Then her face would vanish once more. Otherwise she was rarely seen. At meal breaks it was always Summerfield who served her. Johns did not wholly approve of this arrangement but, as he said to Scagg, no one else ever offered to do it, so for the time being it might as well stand.

By dusk the pace had slowed noticeably. At six o’clock Johns paused and raised an arm. Immediately the entire party halted, unrolled the tent, and began setting up camp.

“Actually I was only adjusting my pack,” said Johns. “But I suppose this is as good a place to stop as any.”

♦

The days passed, and gradually their objective drew nearer. One morning, after breakfast, Sargent made a great show of inspecting the portable chair. He went from corner to corner, spitting on his hands before grasping each of the carrying poles to test the grip. When he’d finished he shook his head in a puzzled way, then wandered back to join his companions.

“What’s the matter, Sargent?” Johns enquired.

“Well, it’s very odd, sir,” came the reply. “But it seems to be heavier at the front left-hand corner.”

“You mean the corner you were carrying all day yesterday?”

“Yes, sir,” said Sargent. “I’ve tried all the other corners and mine’s definitely the heaviest. I just can’t understand it.”

“But you built the blasted thing!”

Sargent sighed deeply. “I know, sir,” he said. “That’s the worst part of it.”

“Well, take another corner then.”

“No, it’s all right, sir,” said Sargent. “I’ll keep my corner now I’m used to the weight. I’m just saying it’s heavier than the others, that’s all.”

“Sargent, would you like some chocolate?” said Plover suddenly.

Six startled faces turned towards him.

“Please don’t make jokes like that,” Johns uttered. “Not when we’re struggling on short rations. You really should know better, Plover.”

“It wasn’t a joke, sir.” Plover reached into his inside pocket and produced a complete bar of chocolate, still pristine in its wrapper. “I’ve been saving this since the expedition began,” he said. “I thought Sargent might enjoy a pick-me-up seeing as he’s having to endure extra hardship. As a matter of fact, there’s enough for everybody.”

A stunned silence followed, during which the bar was passed round amongst the men. It was divided into eight sections, and consequently there was one piece remaining at the end.

“Gribble can have that bit, if she wants,” said Plover.

“Are you sure?” said Summerfield.