Land of the Long Day

25 – Twenty Years Later

One day, long after, I came up The River from Greenwich, past the Isle of Dogs and Tower Bridge, past London Bridge and Blackfriars and saw, moored to the Embankment, a battered old Three Master, with a single narrow funnel between her masts and her main-mast set oddly far aft. I went forward to the bridge-deck and spoke to the Skipper of the river boat.
“Now you’re a sailorly sort of chap,” I began. “Tell me, am I going mad, or is that the old “Discovery?”
“Aye, Sir, that’s her right enough. They use her as a sea-scout headquarters these days, they do.”
I went ashore at Westminster stairs and walked back along the Embankment. I limp a bit you know, but I can still walk well enough, they wanted to amputate all my toes but I wouldn’t let them. Whoever was in charge of her should have been flogged at the gratings, her yards had been sent down, her rigging sagged and her t’gallant masts were split and warped but her teak decks still shone in the sun, though stained in places with rust. At the gangplank was the caretaker, some retired Master Mariner, a steamship man.
“You can’t come aboard!” he says in surly fashion. “Only sea-scouts allowed.
“But I know this ship!” I protested. “I’ve been where she wintered in the ice!”
“I don’t care if ye’ve been where she was built,” he growled, “Ye still can’t come aboard.”
“I have been where she was built!” said I, brushing him aside. “Out o’ me way, or you’ll get the toe o’ m’ boot!”
Groups of Sea-scouts of both sexes stood about the deck and I went up to them.
“Isn’t it marvellous?” I said. “To be right here on the old “Discovery? It’s quite hallowed ground don’t you think?”
“Why, Sir?” asked one.
“Well!” I cried. “Look who sailed in her! Do you know, I’ve seen a photograph taken in Lyttleton, with the Owner standing right where you are, with Shackles and Bill Wilson beside him, Michael Barne, Mulock and Skelton there, old “Cutlets” on the right there, and Hartley Ferrar, the Geologist. I was a geologist too, you know!”
“But who were they, Sir?” said one, puzzled.
“Why, Scott and his crew in 1901 of course! Do you know I’ve camped where they spent three years in the Ice, right there in Discovery Bay!”
“But where is that, Sir?”
“Right in the heart of the Antarctic, right under Observation Hill, where you can look down the old route South, out to Corner Camp by White Island, then its only three days down to One Ton. I’ve been there too you know and on to where They are buried. They’re still there you know, down in the snow!”
“Who do you mean, Sir?”
“Why, Scott himself and Wilson and Birdie Bowers. They said he was “The hardest man to ever come South” but he died there too. And a few miles on is Oates, they said he was a “Very Gallant Gentleman” to go out to his death so the others might have a better chance to survive. He was too, don’t you think? One of my men died near there too, he was a Lieutenant in the Armoured Corps, not a Captain of Dragoons, but a very pretty gentleman for all that. I said “Bury him there, he’s in good company!”
“Is this history, Sir?” said one. “They don’t teach us history, now, you know.”
“Well, yes, I suppose it’s history, but it wasn’t so long ago. I knew many of them when I was your age. I knew Mauger, who was Shackleton’s Chippie on the “Aurora”, he made a new rudder when the old one was crushed in the ice. And then I knew Debenham, and Wright and Priestley. And little Teddy Evans who first went down on the “Morning”, you know, “Joy cometh in the ‘Morning”. Scott thought Evans was “A bit of a duffer” but he ended up Lord Mountevans of the “Broke”, what do you think of that?”
“What broke, Sir, I don’t understand!”
“She was a destroyer in The War,” I babbled, feeling I was losing the battle. “Evans put her alongside the German and rushed her bridge with pistol and cutlass. They were all great men you know!”
“I’ve seen a cutlass!” said one proudly. “In the Museum, at Kensington.
“How did you go there, Sir?” asked another. “Did you fly?”
“Heavens no, with dogs on ski, it’s the only way, though no one does it any more. There were some great sledgers then you know, people like Dr Marsh, and Sir Holmes Miller, well of course they’ve gone, but then there were others like Harry Ayres the guide but of course he’s - , and Murray Doug- , and then there’s Commander Brooke, he was in Greenland as well you know, but, well, there is not many of them left, in fact, you know, (as I sat on a bollard), it sounds silly but you must be talking to one of the last of the old-time dog sledgers!” and I tried to laugh at the ridiculous thought, but somehow it was not so easy.
Two girls in uniform had drawn near, one shortish with blue eyes and dark curly hair and the other tall and fair with a skin like peaches. In the background the caretaker was muttering about “Police!”
“Where are you staying, Sir?” asked the taller fair one “On Kensington High Street, at the College.”
“We’re going that way,” she said. “Come with us, we’ll take you!” and she took me by the hand and led me quite unresisting away.

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