“And thickening,” replied Snaebjorn, before lapsing into a prolonged silence.
Eventually Thegn said, “What is it you want to ask me?”
“Just this,” said Snaebjorn. “Why didn’t you claim the first sighting of the bluff?”
“Because I wasn’t sure if it was me or not.”
“But it must have been you. You led for most of the time yesterday morning.”
“That doesn’t mean incontrovertibly that I noticed the bluff before anyone else. Come to think of it, I might ask why you didn’t claim it. No doubt your eyesight is superior to mine.”
“Maybe so,” said Snaebjorn. “Nonetheless, I’m convinced you saw it first.”
“Then go and report me to Tostig!” snapped Thegn. “Have me charged with high treason or some such nonsense like you did the last time!”
“That was different,” murmured Snaebjorn. “On that occasion I was only doing my duty.”
“What’s all this about then?”
“Merely that I seem to have misjudged you.”
“Oh.”
“I assumed you were only included in the expedition because of your ‘connections’, whereas I can now see that you possess certain valuable qualities.”
“Really?” said Thegn. “Well, I won’t ask you to list them.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that all you had to say to me?”
“Yes.”
“Then consider the matter settled.”
After Snaebjorn had withdrawn, Thegn lay for some minutes gazing at the roof of the tent. His face at first bore a bewildered expression, but eventually this disappeared and was replaced with a smile. He gave a quiet laugh and shook his head; then he got up and went out. Snaebjorn was busy making breakfast, and neither man paid the other any attention. Tostig and Guthrum were standing near the group of mules, studiously watching them take their feed. Throughout the night a restless jangling of bells had permeated the little camp, and as the wind shook the flimsy walls the mournful singing had been heard again. It had lasted for many an hour, and only with the breaking of dawn had the voices fallen silent. Now the mules were eating, gathered together in a half-circle, heads bowed, facing away from the men, and seemingly oblivious to the flying dust.
“Odd,” remarked Guthrum. “They usually put their backs to the breeze whenever they get the chance.”
“Yes, but you know how fickle they can be,” said Tostig. “Frankly, nothing in their behaviour surprises me any more.”
“Here’s Thorsson.”
“Ah, the navigator returns.”
Thorsson had been out on the open ground taking some readings. Now he returned with news that the Agreed Furthest Point was less than five miles away. “We should arrive there around noon,” he added. “Then I’ll be able to confirm the exact position more accurately.”
After breakfast, Tostig announced that lots would be drawn to decide who should carry the flag, and therefore who should have the honour of planting it at their destination.
“In so doing we’ll avoid the kind of restraint we witnessed at Modesty Bluff,” he explained. “I don’t want everybody holding back and saying ‘after you’ at this stage in our journey; otherwise, we’ll never get anywhere.”
In the event the winning lot belonged to Thegn, who mumbled his thanks but said little else when the flag was given him for safekeeping. Then camp was broken and the expedition pressed on. During the past hour the dust storm had worsened. This hampered progress considerably. With visibility little better than in the dark days of winter, frequent stops had to be made while Thorsson checked they weren’t straying from their correct course; and after every stop it became increasingly difficult to get the mules moving again. Snaebjorn had taken over from Thegn, but even he was having a struggle managing his charges (there were no sticks on hand with which to drive them). As the morning advanced, however, the gale occasionally subsided, allowing the dust to disperse and offering the travellers a brief glimpse of what lay ahead. It was always the same: a vast, desolate wilderness stretching away towards the horizon. With evident weariness, they covered yet another mile. Then Thorsson spoke to Tostig and a halt was called. It was almost midday. Beneath a leaden sky, Thorsson produced his compass and did some calculations in his notebook. He glanced to the north and to the east, before turning and giving Tostig a nod.
“This is it,” he said.
“The Agreed Furthest Point?”
“Yes.”
There followed a lengthy silence, during which Thegn thrust the flagpole disconsolately into the ground. Immediately the standard unfurled itself and began flogging violently in the wind. The men stood around gazing blankly at one another. Meanwhile, the mules raised their heads and set up a great, sorrowful wailing; swaying back and forth, they rolled their eyes to the heavens in an outpouring of abject despair. For a long time Tostig remained motionless, apparently lost in thought. He looked first at the mules, then at the land he had brought them to. Finally, he spoke.
“This is a terrible place,” he said. “They cannot possibly live here.”
Seven
“You know what I’d like?” said Sargent.
“No,” replied Seddon. “Do tell us.”
“I’d like a plate of freshly baked scones.”
“Oh yes?”
“Scones served piping hot with lashings of butter and jam. A bit of cream would be nice as well, just to finish the job; but the main thing is they’d have to be freshly baked.”
Sargent was reclining on his utility blanket with his hands behind his head. He watched as the tent billowed languidly in the wind, causing dappled lamplight to play along the walls.
“I’m afraid scones are off the menu for the time being,” remarked Seddon.
“No spare flour then?” said Sargent.
“No flour at all,” came the answer.
The tent had four occupants. Sargent was in his normal position by the door. Next to him was Summerfield, already fast asleep. Then came Seddon, and at the far end was Plover. The latter had adopted his usual pose. He was lying on his side, outstretched with his legs crossed and his head propped on one hand, facing the doorway.
He waited a moment and then said, “I think you’ll find that the correct pronunciation is ‘scones’.”
“‘Scones?’” repeated Sargent.
“‘Scones’,” repeated Plover.
“Well, I’ve never heard that before. We’ve always said ‘scones’ where I come from.”
“Same here,” agreed Seddon.
“I assure you the word is ‘scones’,” said Plover. “You should look it up when you get the opportunity.”
“Yes, I will,” rejoined Sargent. “When I get the opportunity.”
He reached over to the lamp and turned it off. In the neighbouring tent a muffled conversation could be heard, indicating that Johns, Scagg (and possibly Chase) were still awake. Sargent also seemed keen to continue talking.
“No flour, eh?” he said.
“Not an ounce.”
“Biscuits?”
“A few.”
“Beans?”
“Likewise.”
“I suppose there’s still plenty of the patent malt drink?”
“Yep,” confirmed Seddon. “The entire case was saved from the river.”
“Well, there’s a mercy.”
“Don’t you like it then?”
“I didn’t mind it at first, but to tell the truth I’ve had that much of the stuff it’s beginning to swill round inside me.”
“So you won’t mind when we start dishing it out to the mules.”
“What?!”
“We gave them the last of their mash this evening,” said Seddon. “The rest was washed away in the disaster.”
“Are you telling me they’re going to be sharing our rations?”
“According to Scagg, yes.”