The Midnight Circus, стр. 14
“Itis only in part my confession,” he responded with a hintof irony. “It is another’s confession that I must pass on to you, and Ipromise you will not thank me for it.”
Iwas puzzled by his words, but I took another sip of the brandy and didnot challenge him. It was only to be expected that his thoughtsshould become confused in this final extremity of his life.
“Youare acquainted with the tragic consequences of Scott’s Antarcticexpedition?” he asked.
Thequestion was unexpected, but I answered that, indeed, I was. “Who hasnot heard the tale of Captain Oates’s noble sacrifice and thecourageous end of Captain Scott and his men?”
“Yes,there have been several accounts published, but none—not even Scott’sown journal—contains the truth,” Atkinson said. “That truth has been aburden I have carried to this day. I am haunted by it. I have keptScott’s secret all these years, turning over and over in my mindwhether I was doing the right thing by concealing it, or whether itwould serve Scott and myself better for the world to know the truth. Ihave left it ’til too late to make a decision, so now I have no optionbut to pass that responsibility on to you. As a man of God, you ofall people should know the value of discretion and be able to balancethat against the stern demands of truth.”
Indeed,I did not know if he had the right vicar for such an undertaking. Godand truth, discretion and balance, were words in my vocabulary ofservice. But of late I would have been hard pressed to swear I knewwhat they meant. I was a bit old for a crisis of faith, but in fact ithad thrust itself upon me. And the difficulty I was having writing mysermon was but one aspect of that thing. Still, itwould not do to say so to Atkinson’s face. The man was clearly dying.He needed my help. I did not need his.
Soinstead I nodded, setting aside the glass of brandy and leaning closer.“I am sure that you have made whatever decisions you thought best atthe time. None of us make unflawed choices but any error can be excusedif forgiveness is sincerely sought.” That sounded as weak as one of myrecent sermons, and I blamed it on the brandy. I vowed not to takeanother sip ’til the poor man was done.
“I seek nothing for myself,”Atkinson insisted, “not even forgiveness. But this is my lastopportunity to discharge a duty that was laid upon me all those yearsago. Listenwell, vicar—and try to understand.”
Heclosed his eyes briefly—the one good one and the one that was dead—asthough gathering his strength. Then his eyelids sprang open and hecommenced his account, staring at the ceiling all the while. Someonemore fanciful than I might have thought he beheld on that white plastersurface the harsh polar landscape that seemed to be haunting him, butnot I. I merely waited for him to go on.
“Iwas not a member of Scott’s first Antarctic expedition,” he began,“not the one that left in 1900. But I was honored to be chosen as oneof the crew of the Terra Nova, which set sail upon the secondexpedition in 1910. The aim of the earlier journey had been explorationand scientific study, but this second voyage, as we all knew, was aquest for the ultimate goal—the Pole itself.” He stopped speaking for aminute, and licked his lips.
Igave him a glass of water that was sitting on the bedside table,holding it for him, while he drank two or threesips eagerly. He waited a moment before starting up again.
“Sixmonths after setting sail from England, we landed at Cape Evans. ByGod, we were all awed by the imposing grandeur of the Great Ice Barrierand the distant mountains that guarded the hidden lands ofAntarctica.”
“Antarctica,”I whispered. It was really a place to conjure.
“Itwas less than twenty years since man had first set foot upon thatcontinent,” Atkinson said, “and its frozen interior was as unexploredas the surface of the moon. In fact,” and here he laughed withoutmirth, “without the benefit of radio, we were so isolated from the restof the world, we might as well have been on the moon.”
“Isee your point,” I muttered, though I did not entirely.
“The nextseveral months were spent establishing our base and penetratingsouthward to lay down depots of food and fuel to supply the journey yetto come. It was during this time that we learned of the arrival ofAmundsen and his Norwegians at the Bay of Whales. They had traveledsouth against all expectation with the avowed intentionof being the first to reach the Pole.”
AsI suddenly recalled, they had. But I said nothing.
“There was nodenying the sense of disappointment andresentment we all felt at Amundsen’s intrusion, but we were not to bedeterred. We were English, after all. Scott asserted vehemently that westill had every chance of beating our rivals in this race.”
Wewere both silent for a moment, considering Scott’s words, for hindsightis ever more accurate than foresight.
Then Atkinson continued. “You maynot know this, butScott was subject to periods of gloomy abstraction. He was so resistantto any criticism of his plans, that any suggestions that ran counter tohis expressed intentions were treated as little short of mutiny. I am anaval man, Reverend, so mutiny is not a term I use lightly.
“Iwas a member of the support party that accompanied Scott on the firstleg of the journey, and I doubt if there was one of us who did not hoperight up to the last he would be selected by Scott to join the summitparty, those chosen few who would make the final push to the Pole.
“Wecrossed the frozen surface of the Great Ice Barrier and pushed on upthe Beardmore Glacier to trek across the mainland of Antarctica itself.I can still hear the sound of the place, the immense stillness brokenby an explosive crack—like a fusillade—as the ice responded to its ownweight and pressure. There is nothing else quite like it in the world.”
Hebegan coughing again,