The Winter Pony (5 page)

He didn’t stay long that day. After a little pet and a rub on the cheek, he went away with Mr. Meares, strolling together toward the ship. From then on, I watched for him all the time, standing whenever I could at the same spot along the fence. But it was three or four days before I saw him coming toward me again.

It took me by surprise. I was watching for him around the ship, but he appeared instead on the roadway, in a happy group of people.

It was a fine day, the clouds like froth on a river. Honeybees were buzzing around the clovers, and the people came slowly in the sunshine, chattering away like crows.

In the middle of the group was a man with a walking stick, wearing a cap with a gleaming badge, and a coat with rows of buttons that flashed in the sun in rounds of gold. The others swarmed around him—now in front, now behind—like a flock of little birds. He had Mr. Oates close behind him, and a woman at his side, the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Her white clothes reached right to the ground, and I had to wonder if she had any legs, because she seemed to float like a cloud across the grass. At the back of the group, the Russian jockey carried lead ropes draped across his shoulders.

The man in the middle was Captain Scott. He swung his walking stick in his hand, jaunty as a wooden tail. Ten yards away, he stopped and stared at me and the other ponies. He pushed up the brim of his cap.

The whole group stopped along with him. Mr. Meares came up to his side, beaming proudly. Mr. Oates lingered, though I longed for him to come up and pet me.

Captain Scott studied us carefully. For once, all of us were quiet, no one fighting another. Even Hackenschmidt was doing nothing more than eating grass, though he was wary as he did it. We must have made a splendid sight: nineteen white ponies in a field of grass and clover.

“Splendid,” said Captain Scott. He looked very pleased. “A bit of all right. Don’t you agree, Titus?”

“They seem so,” said Mr. Oates. “I haven’t had a proper look yet.”

“No time like the present,” said Captain Scott.

The whole group came through the gate and into the field. The Russian jockey ran ahead and gathered four ponies, including me. He attached our lead ropes and held us in a bunch as Captain Scott and the others came toward us. The lady kept her distance, making sure there was a man between herself and any pony. But Mr. Meares and Captain Scott came right among us, and then Mr. Oates—with his pipe in his teeth—smiled right at me. “There’s my lad,” he said.

I was thrilled that Mr. Oates remembered me. I greeted him with a snort and a nicker and a toss of my head. It made the men laugh for some reason, and the lady cried out, “What a darling!”

I was the first to be examined. Captain Scott held my rope while Mr. Oates looked me over. He lifted my feet and poked my hooves; he felt my belly and my chest. He wasn’t smiling anymore; he was frowning instead. He moved on to the next pony, and the next after that, until he’d looked at all four of us.

Captain Scott seemed impatient. “Well?” he said.

“They’ve had a hard life,” said Mr. Oates with a sigh. “A long one too.”

“Do you mean they’re old?” asked the captain.

“As the hills,” said Mr. Oates. “They’re worn out. A lot of crocks, most of them.”

Crocks. It was the first time I’d heard that word. But I could tell it wasn’t a good thing to be a crock. The ponies beside me
were
old; it was true. Their coats were ragged, their backs bent, their teeth badly worn. I wondered if Hackenschmidt was a crock because he was so wild. Or Christopher because he was stubborn and mean.

Mr. Meares looked disappointed. And Captain Scott
seemed almost angry. “You’re being a bit hard on them, don’t you think?” he said.

Mr. Oates shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Well, I believe they’ll do very well,” said Captain Scott. “They’re as good as Shackleton’s; I’m sure of that.”

There was another new word. I was glad to be better than a shackleton, though I had no idea what it was.

“They’ll do the job,” said Captain Scott.

The job
. I pricked up my ears, hoping to learn something more. But the captain walked away with Mr. Oates and all the rest. So I began to stand around the edges of the field, trying to hear important words. Everything was a puzzle.

When the men began to empty the ship, I hoped they were staying on the island. The things they unloaded were made for cold weather: big sledges and tents and woolly clothes. But they only emptied the ship to make repairs, and then they filled it again. The work took many days, and I spent most of them lying on the grass, eating every tiny clover I could reach without moving. Each morning, the lady brought a parasol and sat beside me, scratching my ears as I nibbled away.

But the work came to an end eventually, and one evening, all of the men got onto the ship.

I was afraid they were leaving without me. I called out to Mr. Oates. I whinnied and nickered for all I was worth. But he didn’t notice. So I dashed back and forth along the fence, crying out like a colt for its mother. But for once—for the first time—Mr. Oates did not come to see me.

In the morning, everything seemed a disaster. The jetty was empty, the ship was loaded, and black smoke billowed from the funnel. I felt a terrible lurch inside my chest. It would be hard enough to watch him sail away, but even worse if Mr. Oates didn’t come and say good-bye.

But the ship didn’t leave. Instead, a huge box appeared, rising from the muddled deck. It made bad memories in my mind, but I didn’t run away. I moved closer instead, hoping to be first aboard.

The men took Hackenschmidt. Six of them wrestled him into the box, and he kicked and bucked all the time. It was the same for Christopher, and I was next after him. A big sailor named Taff Evans gave me a biscuit as he guided me into the box. “That’s the ticket,” he said proudly. “That’s how it’s done.”

He rubbed my ears, then closed the box, and up I went. The men laughed to see me looking down at them as I munched away on my biscuit.

Mr. Oates was waiting on the ship. “There’s my lad,” he said as he let me out of the box. “Midships,” he told a sailor, who led me to my place, down a deck so crowded with crates and sacks that we had to go in single file. I was given a stall in a row of four, with a roof of canvas cloth. I could look up toward the bow, or over the roof of the icehouse, past the funnel toward the stern. I had to peer between packing crates and machinery, but it was a pleasant view. Other ponies, not as lucky, were put right into the ship, in a dark space below the deck.

When the last pony was aboard, the dogs came barking across the island. I had thought I was rid of them, but again
they were chained all around me. One was tied right in front of my stall, another only a few feet away, a few on the roof of the icehouse. I hoped their chains were good and strong, and I wished they’d stop their howling.

The steam engine started thumping below me. Puffs of smoke rose from the funnel like black thunderheads. With a shrill from the whistle, and a cheer from the shore, we started on our way. Captain Scott shouted orders, the men hauled on the ropes, and the ship moved faster every moment. The thumping of the engine made everything shake and rattle and jingle. I saw the captain wave at his wife, who had stayed on the shore, then turn his back toward her. Soon we left the shelter of the land and came out to the open sea.

Despite the never-ending roll of the ship, and the dogs at my feet, I found the early days of that voyage were some of the happiest of my life.

Of the nineteen ponies, I was the sailors’ favorite. They named me James Pigg, in honor of a man who lived only in a book. “A pleasant rogue,” they said. Sometimes they called me Jimmy Pigg, and sometimes only James. And they always said it in the fondest way, with a smile and a thump on my shoulder. Often, there was a biscuit as well, slipped to me from a cupped hand so the other ponies wouldn’t be jealous. “You’re a good lad, James Pigg,” they said.

It was the first time in my life that I had a name. In the past, I had always been “the pony,” just a
thing
that pulled a cart or dragged a log. But now I felt important.

We all got names. A lazy old pony on my left became Weary Willy. A small one on my right was named Jehu, the one beside him, Nobby. I heard other names shouted through the wall, from the space where the ponies were stabled. I never saw the ponies in there but learned of Snatcher and Snippets, and Bones and Guts, and so many others that I couldn’t keep track.

I sometimes heard the sailors singing, and the ship felt safe and happy. But as we went along to the south, the wind blew harder. The sea grew very rough. I saw the men turn anxious faces toward the sky as it filled with wicked clouds.

There was a terrible storm. It began with wind that howled like a dog. Then the waves got bigger and bigger, and soon the ship was rolling heavily. I had to struggle to stay on my feet as I was driven back and forth against the ends of my stall.

The ship rolled so far that I thought it would roll right over. Waves came thundering over the side, surging across the deck. They leapt over the icehouse and burst against my stall. I was suddenly belly deep in water, and it slowly drained away.

For the dogs it was worse. Buried by every wave, they struggled at the ends of their chains. They didn’t bark anymore; they didn’t howl. They whimpered like baby birds, looking around with fear-filled eyes. Even I felt sorry for them.

The wind grew stronger. The waves grew higher. Packing crates and bags of coal shifted back and forth, battering at the railing and the deckhouse.

Then a chunk of railing broke away. It tumbled into the
sea, and a struggling dog, chained to the wood, paddled furiously for a moment before he was dragged under. He rose again, swimming for all he was worth, then disappeared forever.

I believed the ship was drowning. It wallowed in the waves like a great hog in a slough of mud. I could smell fear in the men, but they kept at work. Only a few were sailors. Most were scientists and doctors. There was a cook, and a photographer who’d been seasick on the calmest days. But every man turned out to save the ship, and they did it. They pitched coal over the side by the ton. They pumped water from the hull and lifted it up by the bucket.

A rainbow appeared as they worked. It was the most beautiful rainbow I’d ever seen, huge and bright across the sky. One man saw it and nudged his neighbor, and soon every one of them was looking toward that rainbow. Then the next huge wave collapsed on the deck, and the work began again.

I lost my balance as the ship pitched sideways. My front legs slithered out from under me, and down I went, crashing forward into the boards. I couldn’t get up and couldn’t lie down, and I thought my legs were about to snap. I heard a wave thundering over the ship, and my stall suddenly filled with water.

I panicked. I kicked and thrashed on the floor of my stall; I screamed from fear and pain. The sea roared in, covering me again, and little Jehu had to scamper and jump to keep away from my flailing hooves.

It was a sailor who saw me, a man called Thomas Crean. He shouted for help, and Mr. Oates came running. “Hang on, lad,” he said as he clambered into the stall.