Free Death on the Ice by Robert Ryan Page A

its way through. Or being routed.
    They took one further casualty shortly after that, a nasty neck wound to a trooper called Carlisle. Oates watched as a field dressing was put on it, but the white gauze and linen bandage was soon soaked crimson as it wicked up the blood. Now Oates, at last, began to feel fear, the possibility that none of them would make it out alive. Much as he was afraid for himself, he couldn’t countenance the loss of a whole patrol.
    ‘Docherty, I want you to take everyone back to town. Leave me the weapons. I can pretend to be the whole unit—’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘Corporal Ronson is y’man. He’ll take them. I’ll stay here. Don’t fancy four miles of crouching with this shoulder.’ Oates knew that a pathetic excuse but let it pass. ‘I’d best stay with you and Carlisle, ’cause he’s too bollocksed-up to make it as well. If the others can get through, maybe they’ll get the arses moving.’
    Some of the troopers were equally reluctant to leave, but Docherty called them and their mothers unspeakable things and soon the three of them were left alone with the restless horses. Oates let the most troublesome gallop off after the retreating troopers. The remainder he gave a few splashes of precious water each.
    Another hour crawled by, punctuated by probing shots from the Boers. Docherty and Oates took turns to check the enemy’s progress, popping up at varying intervals along the bank—with and without helmets—to try to swell their apparent numbers. Apart from a splash of dirt in his eye, Oates remained unscathed. Carlisle, though, was beginning to moan. He gave the trooper some water, but his eyes were rolling and there was an unpleasant sheen on his forehead and upper lip.
    ‘We might be in a fix, here, sir,’ said Docherty.
    ‘True. But we’ve got most of them away.’
    Docherty took another peek over the bank and let out an exclamation of surprise.
    ‘Sir. Take a look.’
    Oates scrambled to the edge and popped his head up for a second. Then he brought it up again, more slowly. Up on the ridges he could see the Boers gathering, and a string of horses was being led to them. He watched them mount and ride off with a feeling of disbelief.
    ‘Lord above,’ he said. ‘What’s got into them?’
    ‘Maybe the fuckers’ cows need milking,’ offered Docherty.
    Oates laughed. ‘Maybe they do, staff corporal.’
    He waited ten minutes before he risked standing. Then he brought the horses to their feet and walked over to Carlisle to see if the man was capable of getting himself in the saddle.
    Oates saw the puff of smoke from the ridge moments before the sniper’s bullet smacked into his thigh, spun through the muscle and crazed the bone, sending him to the ground into the brilliant light of absolute agony.

Seven
Beyond the Antarctic Circle
    T HERE WAS BLOOD ON the ice. Puddles of it glowed a garish red against the white background. Curlicues of vapour issued from the fresh pools as the warm liquid cooled and congealed. The greasy slick made for uncertain footing as the men, now dressed for the most part in their light but windproof Burberry gabardines, moved over the floe.
    The corpulent crabeater seals barked and rolled away, confused by what was happening, but didn’t take the sensible course of sliding into the sea. Another shot, the sound deadened by the great slabs of frozen water, and another spray of crimson splattered across the floe. That made six dead seals. Then the butchering began, turning the ice pink as the hot fluid from the entrails hissed across the frozen surface and diluted the blood.
    Scott, swathed in greatcoat, cap and scarf, stood at Discovery ’s rail, watching as Wilson supervised the chop, as the doctor called it, creating a stack of seal steaks from one of the carcasses. The others would be skinned and hung from the ratlines, where they would freeze.
    Raucous, pushy skuas were gathering, anxious for a share in the massacre, swirling and