The Winter Pony (25 page)

Two of the motor party turned back. Mr. Atkinson stepped into the harness and pulled the sledge that Jehu had pulled.

We saw the mountains to the west as a dark and distant blur. But soon it snowed again and turned our world to white.

That was the last time Chinaman saw the mountains. The blizzard blew without stopping, covering the Barrier in a sludge of soft snow. We all waded through it, men and ponies both. Christopher struggled as much as Chinaman now. Even that big monster of a pony was fading quickly.

For another four days, poor Chinaman struggled on. And they were the hardest days of all. The never-ending gleam of white snow and white sky burned my eyes badly. Snow covered my nose when I walked. It covered my ears and my forelocks, and I had to snort it away from my nostrils. It covered my blanket when I rested. Then it melted. Then it froze, and I felt like a block of ice.

When Mr. Oates led him away, Chinaman didn’t even bother to glance up. He was the most worn-out, tired-looking thing I’d ever seen, slumped and sad. I heard him whooshing his slow breaths with his muzzle near the ground while
Mr. Oates prepared the pistol. But at the very end, he lifted his head and looked north down the tracks of our day’s march. His ears pricked up, as though he’d heard a sound of happy memories. His tail swished, flinging clumps of snow.

I saw nothing on the Barrier, where Chinaman was looking. But he opened his mouth and made the shrill cry of greeting that I’d heard at Blucher’s grave. Then Mr. Oates held out his pistol, the shot boomed, and poor old Thunderbolt fell with a whoof and a thud.

Again the dogs had a feast. And the men, in their tents, cooked up a rich-smelling stew. It made me queasy to think of what they were eating.

Mr. Wright joined the man-haulers. We marched to the south, through blizzard after blizzard.

Captain Scott pressed us on; he had to make his thirteen miles a day. But every march was worse than the one before, and the men grew as tired as the animals. There was deep snow to wade through, and underneath, a crust that sometimes shattered. Patrick broke through it as often as me, his arms and hands sinking into the snow as he fell. Side by side, we staggered and plunged and heaved ourselves on. And no one thought of turning back. That was how badly the captain and the rest ached to reach the Pole; they would never turn back, no matter what.

Every march ended when Captain Scott blew his whistle. It was sharp and loud, like the cry of a hawk, and I came to love that shrill screech more than any sound I’d ever heard.
When the whistle blew, Patrick thumped my neck or patted my nose and told me, “Good work, James Pigg.”

My work was over, but my worry began. At the end of every march, I wondered if my end had come. I watched Patrick for a clue as he led me from the trail, as he unfastened my harness. I listened for clues in his voice. And I watched Mr. Oates as closely as I’d watched him on the little island where I’d first seen him. When he bent down to a sledge, or crawled into his tent, or reached a hand in his coat, was he fetching his pistol?

I didn’t want to be afraid, but I couldn’t help it.

But it wasn’t my turn next. It was Christopher’s.

The choice was Captain Scott’s. Mr. Oates wasn’t pleased, and they argued loudly back and forth. Mr. Oates said Christopher was strong enough to go a lot farther, to go right over the Beardmore if he was asked to do it. But Captain Scott said Christopher had been nothing but trouble from the start. And at any rate, he said, his mind was made up.

Mr. Oates led the pony himself. He used one hand to lead his pony, and the other to carry his pistol. Then they stood together in the ruts of the sledges, with Mr. Oates leaning against Christopher.

I wished I could hear what he was saying. But it was all in whispers and murmurs, while his hand went round and round over the shaggy white hair of the pony.

For once in his life, Christopher didn’t try to pull his head away, or rear up, or stomp the snow with his hooves. He
just stood there, huffing gently, then made a soft nickering sound.

When Mr. Oates brought up his pistol, I didn’t want to see what would happen. I looked for Patrick and saw him hurrying toward me, staggering through a drift of snow as though a wolf was right behind him.

Then the shot made me jump. I jerked at my tether. I tried to bolt, and nearly tangled in the picket line. Then Patrick was beside me, and I didn’t worry anymore.

My ears rang with the crack of the shot. But still I heard Christopher scream. Then I saw him gallop past, more wild than he had ever been. He kicked and he bucked; he spun in tight circles.

Mr. Oates ran after him with the pistol still in his hand. He had somehow missed his shot.

The men chased Christopher through the camp. They spread out in a line and tried to surround him. Birdie Bowers waved his felt hat in the air.

Christopher shied away from one of the men, only to turn and face another. He was terrified, and the smell of his fear made the rest of the ponies uneasy. The men closed in around him. He ran up against a sledge. He nearly trampled a tent, and all the time kept shrieking and fighting, leaping clear from the ground with his four hooves flailing.

Then a man grabbed his tether. And three others held on while the pony bucked and struggled. But Mr. Oates got him calm again, then led him back to the trail.

They went right past me. I saw a hole in the side of Christopher’s head. Drops of blood had been flung in a red
spray through the hairs around it. Mr. Oates looked awfully wretched.

I didn’t watch where they went. The pistol clicked, then fired again, and the monster was no more.

Now there were seven ponies. Again our loads were lightened as the men cached more supplies. Then on we went into the white haze.

It was thick as milk to start with, but it grew thinner as we walked. Patches of sky appeared in the east, then rocky cliffs of yellow and brown. A tumbling glacier shimmered between snow-covered peaks, as blue as the eyes of a sledge dog.

Mr. Wilson shouted, “There’s the Gateway!” and I looked straight ahead, and I could hardly believe what I saw.

Below a band of clouds was a snowy ramp leading up through the mountains, up through a river of ice. On either side were pillars of rock, and the clouds seemed to arch across them.

It was my old vision of the ponies’ place, the image that I’d seen in the wretched stables long ago. I’d never thought I would actually see it, but now I struggled on toward the Gateway, as though into my own imaginings.

For an hour or more, it was there in front of me, glaring and bright. It encouraged me on, until Patrick had to slow me down because I was pulling him along. High in the mountains, the wind whipped snow from the Beardmore, wild whirls that raced across the surface like the spirits of the glacier. Then the clouds thickened, filling the Gateway, and soon it was snowing again.

I wasn’t sure that I would ever reach the Gateway. It was many days in the distance, and I was failing quickly.

It was Victor who trailed at the end of the line that day. He was Birdie Bowers’s pony, and the little man trudged beside him, not caring how slowly they walked. They came into the camp together, and Captain Scott went out to meet them.

Birdie seemed surprised at that. He stopped, looked up at Captain Scott, and put his hand on Victor’s muzzle, as though to guard the pony.

“He’s not doing very well, is he?” asked Captain Scott.

“Oh, he’s all right, sir,” said Birdie, with a funny little smile. He rubbed harder on the pony’s nose. “He’s pulling his weight and more.”

Captain Scott, in his sledging clothes, looked as big as a bear beside Birdie. His face was windburned, his eyebrows frosted. “It’s the end for him, Birdie,” he said.

“But, sir—”

“The forage is running out,” said Captain Scott. “There’s not enough for all the ponies, and I’ve made up my mind.”

“But, sir,” said Birdie again. “I told you that. I asked for more, and …” He looked away; he couldn’t bring himself to argue with the captain. In the end, it would have made no difference.

“I’ll send Oates,” said Captain Scott, and he turned around and left.

Poor little Birdie Bowers stood and petted his pony. When Mr. Oates came with the pistol, Birdie asked him to wait. Then he got out his own biscuits—his dinner—and fed every one of them to Victor, though it meant he would go hungry himself that night. He broke them into little pieces that he
fed to the pony one by one, so that Victor might think he was getting more than he really was.

Mr. Oates didn’t try to hurry him. He looked embarrassed as he stood there waiting, examining his pistol over and over, as though it was something he had never seen and couldn’t quite understand.

Then the last bit of the last biscuit was gone, and Birdie looked up at Mr. Oates. He had to look up at everyone, poor little Birdie. “Well, I suppose that’s it,” he said. “Thank you, Oates.”

Still, he didn’t want to let go of Victor. The pony still seemed strong and healthy to me. He looked back at Birdie as Mr. Oates led him away. Then he trotted along with high steps, as he thought he was heading for a warm stable at last.

I watched Birdie turn away and head toward his tent. It seemed that he was in a hurry to get there. But the roar of the pistol stopped him for a moment. He straightened—looking very tall for a moment—then slumped down and went along on his way.

In the distance, the dogs were coming. Their barks and howls were growing louder.

All the way from the winter station, the dogs had carried food for ponies. I had always thought it was a bit funny they would do that. But now it seemed cruel, just the very sort of thing a dog would do. They had made Victor big and fat, and now they threw themselves at the pieces of him.

They ate and they ate until they could eat no more, until the snow was red all around.

For me, there wasn’t enough. I was still hungry when I finished my meal, though I snuffled up every last bit from the bottom of my nose bag. Patrick looked at me sadly. “That’s all there is. I’m sorry, lad,” he said.

Now Mr. Meares had his eyes on
me
, I thought. Three times I saw him looking at me across the camp, past the peak of his tent. I imagined he was measuring in his mind the pounds of flesh I had, calculating how many meals he could find for his horrible dogs. When he came along the line of ponies, petting every one, I cringed from his touch, from the smell of dog on his hands. I felt as though death was touching me.