Isvik (37 page)

‘Not far now,' Ángel replied.

‘How many miles? That's what Ah asked ye.'

Ángel shrugged. ‘You know as well as I do that the ice here is shifting northward all the time on the current. I know where I saw the ship. I have the co-ordinates and we are now very close. But how many miles she has drifted …' Another shrug of those square, well-proportioned shoulders. ‘How fast is the current – 0.5, 0.75, 1 knot? You tell me, then I tell you where is your ship.'

Iris had joined us and she started to insist on an answer, but Iain put his hand on her arm and said, ‘We'll discuss it tomorrow. It's late now.' The hands of the chronometer stood at six minutes past midnight. It was already 26 January.

Next day dawned bright and very still, no wind at all, which enabled us to take the ship over to the north side of the polynya and moor alongside a floe that was secured to the remains of an old berg. We then rigged a block and tackle to the mainmast yard and hoisted out the snowmobile. Iris, who had spent some months in northern Canada, insisted on calling it a skidoo. After swinging it across on to the ice, we rigged a small cargo net, loaded it full of all the stores and gear we needed and swung that over on to the ice. The outboard for the semi-rigid inflatable started up almost immediately we pulled the cord, but the snowmobile, despite being cocooned in heavy-duty plastic sheeting, appeared to have got water in the engine. It refused to give even the slightest cough. In the end Nils began stripping it down, but long before he had cleaned it thoroughly and checked the fuel lines a hand-chilling wind had come in from the south, and by the time he had got it assembled again it was blowing a good force 6.

The temperature drop was considerable and he had some difficulty in putting the engine together again. Still it would not start. There was more water in the carburettor. We knew what the answer was then. Why we hadn't examined the tank in the first place I cannot think. Doubtless we were tired. We were also excited, anxious to get everything ready in the shortest possible time.

The tank had water in it and I thought of Carlos lashing out with that ice axe. I jumped back on board, checked the drum from which we had filled up. ‘You bloody, stupid little fool,' I yelled at him. ‘You did that.' I was pointing to a round, jagged little hole I had found near the top, half-concealed by the rope securing the drum to the bulwarks. He shook his head, glancing quickly at the others, who were all standing round in an accusing semi-circle staring at him. ‘I didn't …' I think he had been intending to deny it again, but his voice faltered and in the end he said, ‘I w-was not m-meaning to make any damage. It was not – not intentional.'

By the time Nils had thoroughly cleaned out the snowmobile's tank and refilled it from a different drum, and I had dismantled the fuel line and thoroughly cleaned the carburettor again, the wind chill had seeped through to our bones and we were shivering with cold. But the fact that the engine started at the first pull of the cord cheered us, and just to make sure everything was all right, we hitched the loaded sledge to the snowmobile and gave the machine a test drive of a few hundred metres under load, each of us taking a turn at driving it.

The floe ice here was flat, so there was nothing difficult about it, but Go-Go stayed on board. She was preparing lunch, she said, and Andy was in the wheelhouse. The snowmobile had been adapted for travelling on water, so that it was our recce vehicle as well as our sledge-puller. If that hadn't worked we would have had to use the smaller sledges which we put together that afternoon, just in case. There were two of them and a second inflatable, all rubber, which we got out of its pack, testing it out in the water between the ship and the floe.

Just before noon it started to snow, hard, driving stuff that was more like hail and hit one's face hard as bird shot. We went back on board where Go-Go had pasta and a pot of piping hot seal stew waiting to thaw us out. Slowly the snowmobile, with its attendant sledges all packed with gear, were transformed into white mounds that merged with the background. Seen dimly through the driving white of that mini-blizzard, they made a wretched tableau, reminding me of Scott and all the difficulties Shackleton had faced. I was no Worsley, and the prospect of being lost in a whiteout, and having to find my way back, filled me with dread. The ship, buried in snow and ice, would present such a very small target in the vast wastes of Antarctica.

But then the snow stopped and the wind died as quickly as it had got up. Suddenly the sun was shining and it was warm again. We took the stores off the towing sledge, wrapped them in tough woven polyethylene plastic sheeting and strapped them on to the sledge again. Then we slid the whole clumsy-looking package into the water. To my surprise, I must admit, we had got the weight right; it floated. We hitched the ungainly contraption to the snowmobile and towed it back and forth several times across the polynya, then unpacked it and erected the small tent, a dry run for the ice trek ahead. Everything inside the plastic was dry. No water had got in, though in the last run Iain had driven the snowmobile at full throttle.

We were ready to go then. Iain would accompany Ángel. That was the plan. I would be in charge of the ship in his absence. In the event of difficulties, or any disaster, he had a VHF set with a fully-charged battery on the snowmobile. I would be in command of any relief party.

Iris, of course, wanted to go with the two ship-seekers. But no, Iain wouldn't agree to that. ‘If ye have to come after us,' he said, turning to me, ‘Iris, as expedition leader, will have to take charge of the ship. Andy stays on board. He's needed to man the radio. Nils, too. Ye'll need him to handle the engine,' he told Iris. And then to me again, ‘That leaves Carlos. If we dae get into difficulties, then it's ye and Carlos to come to our aid, and make sure ye're able to maintain contact with the ship at all times. There's tae spare VHF sets, and across the pack they should have a range of anythin' up to a hundred miles, that is, so long as ye're not tucked in behind a berg.'

Iris tried to argue with him, but in the end she gave up. I think she realised that, however determined she was, the two men would still travel faster on their own. Everybody turned in early that night. The forecast was good and the starting time was fixed for shortly after first light. I set my alarm for 03.00 sun time. Breakfast would be at 03.30 and DV the start time was fixed for 04.30. For navigational purposes our chronometer, and my own quartz digital wristwatch, were on GMT, or Zulu time, a difference of over four hours since we were over 60 degrees west of the Greenwich Meridian.

I woke once, hearing movement and the sound of voices. That was at 01.17, but I thought nothing of it and turned over and went to sleep again. In a boat like
Isvik
, with its semi-open plan, there was always somebody moving around. The ice was creaking and there were the usual ship noises as she strained at her mooring ropes, shifting to the lift and roll of the slight swell.

My alarm went off at 03.00 and I slid out of my bunk into a raw, cold draught from the wheelhouse. Somebody must have left the door to the deck open. I was struggling into my fur-lined boots when I heard Iris's voice and the sound of feet on the deck above. ‘What's that ye're sayin?' It was Iain's voice, much fainter, and then he laughed. ‘What the hell did ye expect?'

I grabbed my anorak and went up into the dawn. The sky was shot with cloud, the sun painting it a virulent orange. Iain and Iris were out on the ice and the snowmobile was gone, the big sledge too. The twin lines of their going, imprinted on the flat white surface of the floe, ran away to the north-west. ‘Don't worry,' Iain said to her. ‘He'll not lose us.'

It was Ángel, of course, and I would have expected Iain to be furious that the man had gone off with our only powered ice transport and a sledge piled with stores. Instead, he seemed quite relaxed about it, even smiling slightly as he turned his head and saw me. ‘Have a look, will ye, and see if Carlos is in his cabin.'

When I returned to the wheelhouse he and Iris were back on board and the Galvins were on deck. I told him, not only were both cabins empty, but they had taken most of their cold weather clothing with them, also skis, snowshoes, glasses and camera.

‘Carlos is with him then.'

I nodded.

‘The little fool!' Iain shook his head. ‘Ah'm sorry about that. The boy could be in trouble.'

He took Iris's arm and the two of them came in out of the cold, sliding the door to behind them. ‘We'll have breakfast now, then we'll load up the two small sledges. Soon as that's done, Pete and Ah will get goin'.' He said this to Iris. I think he was expecting her to continue the argument she had started the previous day, insisting that she should go with him, not me. There was a sudden tightness about her mouth, her eyes narrowing under a frown. But she didn't say anything, merely turned away and went below.

Now we were in colder regions we were having porridge in the morning. It was warm and comforting. I was thinking there wouldn't be much in the way of comfort as we ploughed our way north parallel to the line of the Ronne Ice Front, each of us hauling a sledge. ‘You were expecting it, weren't you?' I said as I passed Iain a steaming mug of coffee.

‘Expectin' what?' he almost growled, burying his face in the mug. For some reason he didn't want to talk about it.

‘That he'd steal a march on us.'

And when he still didn't say anything, I added, ‘Why?'

‘Yes, why?' Iris echoed. ‘Why would he be so anxious to find the ship?'

He banged his mug down, starting to get up, and I thought he wasn't going to answer that.

Andy nodded. ‘That's something I've been curious about ever since Go-Go and I joined ship. What's the magnet that's pulling you all?'

‘Curiosity,' Iain said. And he got to his feet. ‘Come on.' He tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Time we got ourselves organised.' He told Nils to have a seal meat stew, good and hot, waiting for us when we were ready to leave. ‘Some spuds, too. That'll give us plenty of body warmth to go on with.'

‘
Nei
, beans is better. I put in plenty of beans for you.'

‘Ye dae that and we'll be wind-propelled. Potatoes. Okay?' He looked at me. ‘Everythin' ye load on to yer sledge ye'll have to pull. Just remember that, and what won't go on the sledge goes on yer back. So keep it light.' I asked how many days he reckoned and he shook his head. ‘How the hell dae Ah know? Depends on the ice. If we run into old pack that's been layered, or a gaggle of bergs that have run amok …' He gave an exaggerated, almost Gallic shrug. ‘Better load a prayer mat.' He was trying to keep it light-hearted, but it was a warning all the same and I saw Iris watching him, her face tense.

It was, in fact, beans, large butter beans Nils had soaked overnight. The spuds were beginning to shoot, he said. And there was treacle tart to follow. We left immediately afterwards. I remember Iris standing very still with her raven hair falling in wisps across her eyes, the full lips shut tight and an expression on her face that I can only describe as forlorn. Her eyes were fixed on Iain, and she didn't speak. What she was thinking I can only guess – there were just the four of them left with the ship and I think she had come to rely very heavily on him.

A wave of his hand and we were off, that casual salute his only farewell. He didn't say anything, didn't add to the instructions he had already written out for her, and he didn't look back, not even briefly – just put his face to the tracks we would be following and trudged off, hauling his sledge behind him.

I did look back. Iris was still standing there, quite still and staring after us, and behind her
Isvik
stood out very stark against the sun-sparkling light of the icy background, the water black around her. The Galvins watched us from the door of the wheelhouse, Go-Go's scarlet anorak and trousers looking like an advertisement for some ice-cold Italian drink. Nils was nowhere to be seen and I couldn't help feeling it was not a very strong party, two men and two women, to be left alone in such a remote, icebound part of the world, responsible for handling a largish vessel whatever the weather conditions.

It was just after noon when we left, and six hours later we were still hauling in conditions that had become almost a whiteout. As a result the first we knew of open water ahead was a slight movement and bending of the ice. The tracks we were following went right to the edge of it. There was nothing for it but to inflate our rubber dinghy, load the sledges on to it and paddle across, a laborious exercise requiring two journeys. To add to our difficulties, the slight breeze that had been on our backs most of the way was getting stronger and producing little whitecaps on the water.

Iain went first, and when he got back, he reported that the wind was drifting the light covering of snow and ice so that he had had difficulty picking up the tracks. By the time the two of us were safely across, with the second sledge and the remainder of the stores, the tracks were virtually obliterated, the surface of the pack drifting like icing sugar and making a strange, monotonous rustling sound.

We got going again, pulling wearily. It was almost nine by then, the sun a blurred circle of opaque light reaching down towards the Ice Front. We were moving slower now, our feet dragging and the sledges seeming heavier, the harness cutting into our shoulders. The wind shifted gradually into the south-west, increasing in strength, the rustling surface of the ice drifting like white water round our boots, obliterating the tracks. Suddenly they were gone and we were hauling on a compass course, our heads down, earflaps buttoned tight and the sting of tiny ice crystals on our cheeks.

It was a hailstorm that finally decided us to call a halt. Also we were moving into an area of old ice where there was a certain amount of layering and the going had become much harder. Even so, Iain was quite reluctant to pause, which was odd, thinking back to the moment when we had first discovered the snowmobile had gone, how remarkably laid-back he had been, almost as if he had had us pack the towing sledge as a bait for Ángel to take. ‘It's that boy,' he said, when I asked him about it. We were unpacking the Arctic sleeping bags from our sledges and I suddenly had a mental picture of the two of them in that bunk together.