“Great God! This is an awful place, and terrible enough for us to have laboured to it without the reward of priority....”
The great goal had been won; but the joy of achievement was dimmed; Amundsen’s records and tent were found there, the Norwegian flag had been hoisted and flaunted bravely in the wind. They had been forestalled by over a month.
Having fixed up their “poor slighted Union Jack,” as Scott called it, the explorers turned northwards again, and began to retrace their footsteps over the Polar plateau, which had cost them so much labour to cross, then down the great Glacier with ever worsening weather. The men themselves, who had been so fit coming out, were now beginning to show signs of their gigantic labours; perhaps now, when the day dreams were over, and hopes long deferred had been fulfilled and dashed to pieces at one moment, they were disheartened; there was not the spur of achievement before them. Evans and Oates began to show signs of weariness—those two strong men of the party. Evans had his nose and fingers frostbitten and suffered much agony. Then, while descending the Glacier, he tumbled on the Glacier, fell among rough ice which injured his head, and gave him a touch of concussion of the brain. Dr. Wilson injured his leg, and snow-blindness was causing him much trouble. All these things impeded the party, to whom time was everything; food depended on picking up the depots on the right days—perhaps hours; and when, as often happened, the track was not easily found, the anxiety of the explorers was considerably increased.
Then Evans grew worse; from being self-reliant, and the man on whom the party had been able to look for help in any circumstances, he became weak and wellnigh helpless; he lagged behind, and the party had to wait for him to catch up. On February 17 at the foot of the Glacier, after a terribly hard day’s work, Evans—poor man!—was so far behind when the party camped, that his comrades became anxious and went back for him. They found him. The limit of human endurance had been reached. “He was on his knees, with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes.” They got him to the tent with great difficulty, and he died that night. Scott mourned his loss; and his journal is full of his praises of the petty officer who had been so indefatigable a worker and so adaptable a man, doing everything his inventive genius could think of to lighten the work for the explorers.
One day was now much like another to the four men left; they pushed on and on, picking up depots as they went, and suffering every day from the bitter cold, and feeling the effects of the hard work. On March 16, Captain Oates went out. Frostbitten hands and feet had made life burdensome for him, and he knew that he was a burden to the gallant men with him; without him, they could progress much quicker.
“Go on without me,” he had said, earlier in the day. “I’ll keep in my sleeping bag!” But they had prevailed upon him to keep on. Like a hero he forced himself to struggle on until they camped at night. When the morning came he awoke. Of him in those last moments Scott said: “He was a brave soul.... It was blowing a blizzard. He said: ‘I’m just going outside, and may be some time.’ He went out into the blizzard, and we have not seen him since.... 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.”
He had sacrificed himself for the sake of the others. “Greater love hath no man than this.”
Reduced now to three men, the little party struggled on gamely, fighting against the weariness that was upon them, making with all haste for One Ton Depot. They had expected ere this to have met the dogs which were to come out to help them back, but misfortune had overtaken Cherry Garrard, who had been waiting at One Ton Depot for six days held up by a blizzard. He had not sufficient food for the dogs to enable him to go south, and he knew that the state of the weather might easily make him miss Scott, whereas to wait at the depot was to be on hand when Scott did turn up.
Now the dire peril of their position forced itself upon them; though they fought to drive the thoughts away, manfully cheering each other up, none of them believed that they would ever get through, and on March 18, when twenty-one miles from the depot, the wind compelled them to call a halt. Scott’s right foot was frostbitten; he suffered from indigestion; they had only a half fill of oil left and a small amount of spirit. It meant that when this was gone, they could have no more hot drink—which would bring the end.
Despite their sufferings they went on again, until on the 21st they were camped eleven miles from the depot, a blizzard raging round them, little food, no fuel, and knowing in their hearts that when the next day dawned they could not continue the journey perilous and laborious; the end was at hand.