The Worst Journey in the World (85 page)

"
Friday, March 16, or Saturday, 17.
Lost track of dates, but think the
last correct. Tragedy all along the line. At lunch, the day before
yesterday, poor Titus Oates said he couldn't go on; he proposed we should
leave him in his sleeping-bag. That we could not do, and we induced him
to come on, on the afternoon march. In spite of its awful nature for him
he struggled on and we made a few miles. At night he was worse and we
knew the end had come.

"Should this be found I want these facts recorded. Oates' last thoughts
were of his mother, but immediately before he took pride in thinking that
his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he met his
death. We can testify to his bravery. He has borne intense suffering for
weeks without complaint, and to the very last was able and willing to
discuss outside subjects. He did not—would not—give up hope till the
very end. He was a brave soul. This was the end. He slept through the
night before last, hoping not to wake; but he woke in the
morning—yesterday. It was blowing a blizzard. He said, 'I am just going
outside and may be some time.' He went out into the blizzard and we have
not seen him since.

"I take this opportunity of saying that we have stuck to our sick
companions to the last. In case of Edgar Evans, when absolutely out of
food and he lay insensible, the safety of the remainder seemed to demand
his abandonment, but Providence mercifully removed him at this critical
moment. He died a natural death, and we did not leave him till two hours
after his death. We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death, but
though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man
and an English gentleman. We all hope to meet the end with a similar
spirit, and assuredly the end is not far.

"I can only write at lunch and then only occasionally. The cold is
intense, -40° at mid-day. My companions are unendingly cheerful, but we
are all on the verge of serious frost-bites, and though we constantly
talk of fetching through I don't think any one of us believes it in his
heart.

"We are cold on the march now, and at all times except meals. Yesterday
we had to lay up for a blizzard and to-day we move dreadfully slowly. We
are at No. 14 Pony Camp, only two pony marches from One Ton Depôt. We
leave here our theodolite, a camera, and Oates' sleeping-bags. Diaries,
etc., and geological specimens carried at Wilson's special request, will
be found with us or on our sledge."

"
Sunday, March 18.
To-day, lunch, we are 21 miles from the depôt. Ill
fortune presses, but better may come. We have had more wind and drift
from ahead yesterday; had to stop marching; wind N.W., force 4, temp.
-35°. No human being could face it, and we are worn out
nearly
.

"My right foot has gone, nearly all the toes—two days ago I was proud
possessor of best feet.... Bowers takes first place in condition, but
there is not much to choose after all. The others are still confident of
getting through—or pretend to be—I don't know! We have the last
half
fill of oil in our primus and a very small quantity of spirit—this alone
between us and thirst. The wind is fair for the moment, and that is
perhaps a fact to help. The mileage would have seemed ridiculously small
on our outward journey."

"
Monday, March 19. Lunch.
We camped with difficulty last night and were
dreadfully cold till after our supper of cold pemmican and biscuit and a
half pannikin of cocoa cooked over the spirit. Then, contrary to
expectation, we got warm and all slept well. To-day we started in the
usual dragging manner. Sledge dreadfully heavy. We are 15½ miles from the
depôt and ought to get there in three days. What progress! We have two
days' food but barely a day's fuel. All our feet are getting
bad—Wilson's best, my right foot worse, left all right. There is no
chance to nurse one's feet till we can get hot food into us. Amputation
is the least I can hope for now, but will the trouble spread? That is the
serious question. The weather doesn't give us a chance—the wind from N.
to N.W. and -40° temp, to-day."

"
Wednesday, March 21.
Got within 11 miles of depôt Monday night; had to
lay up all yesterday in severe blizzard. To-day forlorn hope, Wilson and
Bowers going to depôt for fuel."

"
22 and 23.
Blizzard bad as ever—Wilson and Bowers unable to
start—to-morrow last chance—no fuel and only one or two of food
left—must be near the end. Have decided it shall be natural—we shall
march for the depôt with or without our effects and die in our tracks."

"
Thursday, March 29.
Since the 21st we have had a continuous gale from
W.S.W. and S.W. We had fuel to make two cups of tea apiece and bare food
for two days on the 20th. Every day we have been ready to start for our
depôt
11 miles
away, but outside the door of the tent it remains a
scene of whirling drift. I do not think we can hope for any better things
now. We shall stick it out to the end, but we are getting weaker, of
course, and the end cannot be far.

"It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.

R. SCOTT."

Last entry.
"For God's sake, look after our people."

The following extracts are from letters written by Scott:

To Mrs. E. A. Wilson

MY DEAR MRS. WILSON. If this letter reaches you, Bill and I will have
gone out together. We are very near it now and I should like you to know
how splendid he was at the end—everlastingly cheerful and ready to
sacrifice himself for others, never a word of blame to me for leading him
into this mess. He is not suffering, luckily, at least only minor
discomforts.

His eyes have a comfortable blue look of hope and his mind is peaceful
with the satisfaction of his faith in regarding himself as part of the
great scheme of the Almighty. I can do no more to comfort you than to
tell you that he died as he lived, a brave, true man—the best of
comrades and staunchest of friends.

My whole heart goes out to you in pity. Yours,

R. SCOTT.

To Mrs. Bowers

MY DEAR MRS. BOWERS. I am afraid this will reach you after one of the
heaviest blows of your life.

I write when we are very near the end of our journey, and I am finishing
it in company with two gallant, noble gentlemen. One of these is your
son. He had come to be one of my closest and soundest friends, and I
appreciate his wonderful upright nature, his ability and energy. As the
troubles have thickened his dauntless spirit ever shone brighter and he
has remained cheerful, hopeful and indomitable to the end....

To Sir J. M. Barrie

MY DEAR BARRIE. We are pegging out in a very comfortless spot. Hoping
this letter may be found and sent to you, I write a word of farewell ...
Good-bye. I am not at all afraid of the end, but sad to miss many a
humble pleasure which I had planned for the future on our long marches. I
may not have proved a great explorer, but we have done the greatest march
ever made and come very near to great success. Good-bye, my dear friend.
Yours ever,

R. SCOTT.

We are in a desperate state, feet frozen, etc. No fuel and a long way
from food, but it would do your heart good to be in our tent, to hear our
songs and the cheery conversation as to what we will do when we get to
Hut Point.

Later.
We are very near the end, but have not and will not lose our
good cheer. We have four days of storm in our tent and nowhere's food or
fuel. We did intend to finish ourselves when things proved like this, but
we have decided to die naturally in the track.
^[328]

The following extracts are from letters written to other friends:

" ... I want to tell you that I was
not
too old for this job. It was
the younger men that went under first.... After all we are setting a good
example to our countrymen, if not by getting into a tight place, by
facing it like men when we were there. We could have come through had we
neglected the sick."

"Wilson, the best fellow that ever stepped, has sacrificed himself again
and again to the sick men of the party...."

" ... Our journey has been the biggest on record, and nothing but the
most exceptional hard luck at the end would have caused us to fail to
return."

"What lots and lots I could tell you of this journey. How much better has
it been than lounging in too great comfort at home."

MESSAGE TO THE PUBLIC

The causes of the disaster are not due to faulty organization, but to
misfortune in all risks which had to be undertaken.

1. The loss of pony transport in March 1911 obliged me to start later
than I had intended, and obliged the limits of stuff transported to be
narrowed.

2. The weather throughout the outward journey, and especially the long
gale in 83° S., stopped us.

3. The soft snow in lower reaches of glacier again reduced pace.

We fought these untoward events with a will and conquered, but it cut
into our provision reserve.

Every detail of our food supplies, clothing and depôts made on the
interior ice-sheet and over that long stretch of 700 miles to the Pole
and back, worked out to perfection. The advance party would have returned
to the glacier in fine form and with surplus of food, but for the
astonishing failure of the man whom we had least expected to fail. Edgar
Evans was thought the strongest man of the party.

The Beardmore Glacier is not difficult in fine weather, but on our return
we did not get a single completely fine day; this with a sick companion
enormously increased our anxieties.

As I have said elsewhere, we got into frightfully rough ice and Edgar
Evans received a concussion of the brain—he died a natural death, but
left us a shaken party with the season unduly advanced.

But all the facts above enumerated were as nothing to the surprise which
awaited us on the Barrier. I maintain that our arrangements for returning
were quite adequate, and that no one in the world would have expected the
temperatures and surfaces which we encountered at this time of the year.
On the summit in lat. 85°-86° we had -20°, -30°. On the Barrier in lat.
82°, 10,000 feet lower, we had -30° in the day, -47° at night pretty
regularly, with continuous head-wind during our day marches. It is clear
that these circumstances come on very suddenly, and our wreck is
certainly due to this sudden advent of severe weather, which does not
seem to have any satisfactory cause. I do not think human beings ever
came through such a month as we have come through, and we should have got
through in spite of the weather but for the sickening of a second
companion, Captain Oates, and a shortage of fuel in our depôts for which
I cannot account, and finally, but for the storm which has fallen on us
within 11 miles of the depôt at which we hoped to secure our final
supplies. Surely misfortune could scarcely have exceeded this last blow.
We arrived within 11 miles of our old One Ton Camp with fuel for one last
meal and food for two days. For four days we have been unable to leave
the tent—the gale howling about us. We are weak, writing is difficult,
but for my own sake I do not regret this journey, which has shown that
Englishmen can endure hardships, help one another, and meet death with as
great a fortitude as ever in the past. We took risks, we knew we took
them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for
complaint, but bow to the will of Providence, determined still to do our
best to the last. But if we have been willing to give our lives to this
enterprise, which is for the honour of our country, I appeal to our
countrymen to see that those who depend on us are properly cared for.

Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood,
endurance, and courage of my companions which would have stirred the
heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must
tell the tale, but surely, surely a great rich country like ours will see
that those who are dependent on us are properly provided for.—R.
SCOTT.
^[329]

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. O my onely light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
HERBERT.

I shall inevitably be asked for a word of mature judgment of the
expedition of a kind that was impossible when we were all close up to it,
and when I was a subaltern of 24, not incapable of judging my elders, but
too young to have found out whether my judgment was worth anything. I now
see very plainly that though we achieved a first-rate tragedy, which will
never be forgotten just because it was a tragedy, tragedy was not our
business. In the broad perspective opened up by ten years' distance, I
see not one journey to the Pole, but two, in startling contrast one to
another. On the one hand, Amundsen going straight there, getting there
first, and returning without the loss of a single man, and without having
put any greater strain on himself and his men than was all in the day's
work of polar exploration. Nothing more business-like could be imagined.
On the other hand, our expedition, running appalling risks, performing
prodigies of superhuman endurance, achieving immortal renown,
commemorated in august cathedral sermons and by public statues, yet
reaching the Pole only to find our terrible journey superfluous, and
leaving our best men dead on the ice. To ignore such a contrast would be
ridiculous: to write a book without accounting for it a waste of time.

First let me do full justice to Amundsen. I have not attempted to
disguise how we felt towards him when, after leading us to believe that
he had equipped the Fram for an Arctic journey, and sailed for the north,
he suddenly made his dash for the south. Nothing makes a more unpleasant
impression than a feint. But when Scott reached the Pole only to find
that Amundsen had been there a month before him, his distress was not
that of a schoolboy who has lost a race. I have described what it had
cost Scott and his four companions to get to the Pole, and what they had
still to suffer in returning until death stopped them. Much of that risk
and racking toil had been undertaken that men might learn what the world
is like at the spot where the sun does not decline in the heavens, where
a man loses his orbit and turns like a joint on a spit, and where his
face, however he turns, is always to the North. The moment Scott saw the
Norwegian tent he knew that he had nothing to tell that was not already
known. His achievement was a mere precaution against Amundsen perishing
on his way back; and that risk was no greater than his own. The Polar
Journey was literally laid waste: that was the shock that staggered them.
Well might Bowers be glad to see the last of Norskies' tracks as their
homeward paths diverged.