Magnus Mills: Explorers of the New Century

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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.