“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.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Quite interesting, though.”
“Interesting?” said Sargent. “What, you mean being bashed about by the wind all day long?”
“No, no,” said Medleycott. “I mean the prospect of existing nocturnally for weeks on end. It’s going to be quite a challenge: the light isn’t due to improve for another month at least.”
“So I heard.”
“We’ve a dim road ahead of us.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Suddenly Medleycott sat up and peered through the slit of the tent flaps.
“It’s pitch black out there now,” he announced. “Yet what sights we’ve beheld since our journey began. Think of them! The leaden moon floating on a shimmering sea! Sunrise and sunset rolled together into one fiery hue! The burnished skies! The majestic beams spreading over the dip of the hill! Don’t they make a wonderful spectacle?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever noticed,” replied Sargent.
A short silence followed, during which the three men groped in the dark for their various clothes and belongings. Then Medleycott said, “By the way, I hope you fellows don’t mind my being billeted with you all this time. It was Scagg who arranged it. I expect you’re pretty tired of my company by now, aren’t you?”
“Course we’re not,” said Cook. “Are we, Sargy?”
“Course not. These your boots?”
“Thank you, yes.”
Medleycott reached over, causing an object to fall from one of his pockets. “Ah, my souvenir,” he said. “I forgot I had that.”
“What is it?” asked Cook.
“Just something foolish. One of those blue pebbles we keep seeing. I picked it up when we first came on to the scree.”
“Ten a penny, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I know; I ought to throw it away really, but now I’ve carried it this far I think I’ll probably keep it for when we go home.”
“If we go home,” said Sargent.
At these words Medleycott started. “You can’t mean that,” he said. “Surely not?”
“Surely nothing,” Sargent replied. “You said yourself it was rough here.”
“Yes, but…”
“Mr Medleycott, I’m just pointing out that nothing’s for certain. I’ve been on trips like this before, and I can tell you it does no good to start talking about going home, especially when we’re still heading in the opposite direction.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” answered Medleycott. “Not when you put it like that.”
“It’s a long way to this blessed Agreed Furthest Point.”
“Yes.”
The tent flaps parted and Scagg’s bearded face appeared in the opening. “Discussing geography, are we?”
“Sort of,” said Medleycott.
“Most commendable.”
In his hand Scagg was holding a lamp, which he now used to direct a ray of light into the tent. This showed that both Sargent and Cook had grown beards, while Medleycott remained clean-shaven.
“Glad to see someone’s keeping up standards,” Scagg remarked.
The only other lamp in use that morning was hung on a hook above the foldaway kitchen. Here Seddon laboured over his pans as he prepared breakfast. Blanchflower and Firth had risen an hour earlier to give the mules their boiled mash, and the pair were now lost from view at the camp’s periphery. When Medleycott, Cook and Sargent entered the illuminated circle, they found Plover and Summerfield sitting in the lee of a rough stone dyke which had been built hurriedly the previous evening. Construction of such works had become the priority on arrival at each new camping place, simply because there was no other protection from the remorseless wind. Earlier versions consisted of little more than low banks behind which the men could shelter if they hunched down. Lately, however, the dykes had gained height and taken on a slightly curved shape. These improvements were instigated by Summerfield, who strove nightly to provide a little additional comfort for his comrades, and whose efforts were subsequently abandoned when the expedition moved on.
This morning he sat behind his most recent creation, stirring sugar into a steaming bowl of porridge. “Budge up a bit,” said Cook, squatting next to him with a bowl of his own. “This weather’s blinking perishing.”
They were also joined by Sargent.
“There’s hardly room for four,” remarked Plover, who had now been pushed to the end of the row. “Not by a long chalk.”
As if to emphasise the point, he rose to his feet and finished his porridge whilst wandering slowly around the outskirts of the camp. His place behind the dyke was taken immediately by Medleycott. Scagg, meanwhile, stalked amongst the various stacks of supplies and equipment, his eyes fixed as he carried out a series of counts. Then he produced a notebook, wrote down some figures, and put it away again. “Doesn’t that man ever have a day off?” murmured Cook. “He’s been stocktaking continually since we left the blockhouse.”
“He’s making sure his calculations are holding true,” said Summerfield. “Don’t forget there are eleven men to clothe and feed; and two dozen mules to look after. It’s quite a tall order.”
“But I thought Seddon was supposed to be quartermaster.”
“He is on a day-to-day basis, yes; but it was Scagg who assembled all the stores in the first place, before we even put to sea. I think he feels a duty of responsibility towards Johns.”
“Well, I wish he’d sit down for five minutes and have some porridge,” said Cook. “It’s wearing me out watching him march about like that.”
“Where is Johns anyway?” enquired Sargent. “And Chase for that matter?”
“They’ve gone up to the next ridge,” Summerfield replied. “Apparently the gale is even worse over the other side. Johns is going to make a decision about whether to press on today, or wait here till tomorrow.”
“I suppose he couldn’t have decided before we all got out of bed?”
“It seems not.”
The conversation died down as Scagg retraced his steps and crossed into the cooking area. Here he exchanged a few muffled words with Seddon, but the four watchers heard nothing except the wind howling around the edge of their shelter. It tore through the tiny settlement, pummelling the tents with each violent gust, and threatening to carry away anything that was inadequately secured. On occasion these blasts also caused Seddon’s lamp to flare up brightly. Thus it was that all of a sudden Plover came into view. They could see him moving slowly along the camp’s outer margin, still carrying his porridge bowl and spoon, as he continued his circumambulation.
“If he keeps coming round this regular we’ll be able to tell the time by him,” remarked Cook.
Another flicker of the lamplight showed that Plover no longer walked alone. There was a dark shape moving in the gloom beyond him, and this soon resolved itself into a pair of approaching figures. Johns and Chase were back from their survey of the ridge. The instant they appeared, Sargent murmured something inaudible; then he stood up and headed towards the field kitchen, followed closely by Cook. After handing in their dishes, they crossed to their tent and started taking it down. Likewise, Summerfield busied himself by helping Seddon pack away the cooking gear. This left Medleycott sitting in solitude with his back to the dyke. Seemingly lost in thought, he remained where he was for several minutes, gazing silently towards the south while the wind raged all about him. Only when Scagg returned and began issuing a string of commands was Medleycott’s reverie broken. A general stir from the direction of the mules indicated that they were now being roped into train for the day’s journey. In the meantime, Plover had ceased his aimless stroll and was engaged with the allocation of loads. Quickly, Medleycott got to his feet and went over to join his tent-mates.