Then it was a case of the dogs pulling the sledges, and on the 10th the explorers began the ascent of the Beardmore Glacier, the summit of which was thousands of feet above them. Meares and Atkinson left for the base on the 11th, and the reduced party trudged forward and upwards, now having to go down again to avoid some dangerous part, toiling manfully up the Glacier, in danger of falling into crevasses, sinking into soft snow, which made the surface so difficult that after trudging for hours and hours only four miles were covered when they had hoped to do ten or more. By the 22nd, when the next supporting party left, they had climbed 7,100 feet (the day before they had been up 8,000 feet) and then a heavy mist enshrouded them, and hung them up for some hours—when every minute was precious.
When they started on the 22nd there were but eight men, and these toiled on day after day, meeting all sorts of trouble, running all kinds of risks, but never stopping unless compelled, dropping a depot on the last day of the year, and sending back three men on the 4th. This left only Scott, Captain Oates, Petty Officer Evans, Dr. Wilson and Lieutenant Bowers to make the final dash to the Pole. They had over a month’s rations, which was considered ample to do the 150 miles that separated them from their goal.
The party now had the small ten-foot sledges, which were neat and compact, and much lighter than the twelve-foot sledges which were sent back. The dogs had now gone back, and all the pulling was done by the men. The difficulty of the surface made them leave their skis behind on the 7th, but later on that day the surface become so much easier that it was decided to go back for the skis, which delayed them nearly an hour and a half. They were now on the summit, and were held up by a blizzard which, though it delayed them, gave them the opportunity for a rest which they sadly needed, especially Evans, who had hurt his hand badly while attending to the sledges. On the 9th they were able to start again, now swinging out across the great Polar plateau. They cached more stores on the 10th, and found the lightening of the load very helpful. But even then, so hard was the pulling, that on the 11th, when only seventy-four miles from the Pole, Scott asked himself whether they could keep up the struggle for another seven days. Never had men worked so hard before at so monotonous a task; winds blew upon them, clouds worried them because they knew not what might come in their wake; snow was falling and covering the track behind them, sufficient to cause them some anxiety, for they wanted that track to lead them home again via their depots upon which safety depended.
The weather! Day by day the weather worried them; only that could baulk them in their purpose, and never men prayed so much for fine days as did these. The 16th found them still forcing their way onward, with lightened loads again, having left a depot on the previous day, consisting of four days’ food; and they knew that they were now only two good marches from the Pole. Considering they carried with them nine days’ rations, while just behind lay another four days’, they felt that all would be well if the weather would but keep clear for them.
The thing that now troubled these men who toiled so manfully against great odds was the thought that lurked in their minds that when they reached the Pole they might find that they had been forestalled. For they knew, everyone of them, that the Norwegian, Amundsen, was bent on achieving what they were hoping to do: on being first at the Pole. They knew, too, that things had been more favourable for him from the very outset; that he had been able to set out from a much better spot than they had. What if they attained the goal, only to find a foreign flag flying bravely in the breeze? The thought was maddening; but the Britishers were sportsmen. And when months before Scott had heard that Amundsen was in the South, instead of trying for the North Pole, as he had given out when he started, the gallant captain had made up his mind to act just as if he had no competitor.
Next day, the 16th, all their hopes were dashed to the ground. Away out across the white expanse there loomed a tiny black speck, and immediately Scott’s thoughts flew to Amundsen. Some of his companions said it was one thing, others another. As they pulled hard at their loads the five men debated amongst themselves, trying to cheer each other up, seeking to cast aside the horrible thought that would force its way into their minds.
And then, the black spot was reached. It was a black flag, tied to a sledge bearer. It was the sign that the Norwegians had won in the race.
All around were signs of a camp, which to the filmed eyes of the explorers were the tokens of their failure to be first.
“It is a terrible disappointment,” wrote Scott in his diary, “and I am very sorry for my loyal companions. Many thoughts come and much discussion have we had. To-morrow we must march on to the Pole, and then hasten home with the utmost speed we can compass. All the day dreams must go; it will be a wearisome return.”
And the next day the Pole was reached, and from out its solitude and austerity the great explorer cried: