“As a committee member of the Alpine Club, I was able to wangle a couple of extra tickets out of the secretary of the RGS. However, he did request a small favor in return.”
George wanted to ask two questions at once, but it quickly became clear that Young had already anticipated them.
“Of course, you’ll be interested to know who my other guest is,” said Young. George nodded. “Well, it won’t come as much of a surprise, because I’ve invited the only other climber in your class.” Young paused. “But I must confess that the favor the RGS secretary requested did come as a surprise.”
George put down his coffee cup on a side table, folded his arms, and waited.
“It’s quite simple really,” Young said. “Once Captain Scott has finished his lecture and calls for questions, the secretary wants you to raise your hand.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT WAS ONE of those rare occasions when George was on time. He had rehearsed his question during the train journey up from Godalming and, although he felt confident that he knew the answer, he was still puzzled why the RGS secretary wanted him to ask it.
George had been disappointed when he’d read in The Times earlier that year that it was an American, Robert Peary, not an Englishman who had been the first to reach the North Pole. But as the subject of Captain Scott’s lecture was “The South Pole Yet Unconquered,” he assumed that, just as Geoffrey Young had suggested, the great explorer was about to make a second attempt to make amends.
George jumped off the train at Waterloo as it came to a halt, ran along the platform, and handed in his ticket before going off in search of a hansom cab. Young had warned him that such was Scott’s popularity most of the seats would be taken at least an hour before the lecture was due to begin.
There was already a small queue forming at the entrance to the RGS by the time George presented his invitation card. He joined the chattering crowd as they made their way to the lecture theater on the ground floor.
When George entered the recently built theater, he was surprised by how grand it was. The oak-paneled walls were covered with oil paintings of past presidents of the RGS, while the dark parquet floor was covered by what must have been five hundred plush red chairs, perhaps even more. The raised stage at the front of the hall was dominated by a full-length portrait of King George V.
George scanned the rows, searching for Geoffrey Young. He finally spotted him on the far side of the room, seated next to Finch. George quickly made his way across the hall and took the seat next to Young.
“I couldn’t have held on to it for much longer,” said Young with a grin.
“Sorry,” said George, as he leaned across to shake hands with Finch. He looked around the theater to see if he knew anyone. Somervell, Herford, and Odell were seated near the back. The thing that struck George most was that there were no women in the body of the hall. He knew they could not be elected as fellows of the RGS, but why couldn’t they attend as guests? He could only wonder what would have happened if Cottie Sanders had been one of Geoffrey Young’s guests. Would they have put her in the front row perhaps, which remained unoccupied? He glanced toward the upper gallery, where several smartly dressed ladies in long gowns and shawls were taking their seats. He frowned before turning his attention back to the stage, where two men were erecting a large silver screen. In the central aisle another man was checking slides in a magic lantern, flicking the shutter backward and forward.
The lecture theater was filling up quickly, and long before the clock below the gallery chimed eight times, a number of members and their guests found themselves having to stand in the aisles and at the back of the room. On the eighth chime, the committee, crocodile-like, entered the room and took their places in the front row, while a short, elegantly dressed gentleman wearing a white tie and tails strode up onto the stage, to be greeted with loud applause. He raised the palms of his hands as if warming himself by a fire, and immediately the applause died down.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “My name is Sir Francis Younghusband. I have the honor of being your chairman this evening, and I believe that tonight’s lecture promises to be one of the most exciting in the Society’s long history. The RGS prides itself on being a world leader in two different, but not unrelated fields: first, the surveying and drawing up of maps of previously uncharted territories; and second, exploring those distant and dangerous lands where no white man has ever trodden before. One of the Society’s statutes allows us to support and encourage those single-minded individuals who are willing to travel the length and breadth of the globe, risking their lives in the service of the British Empire.
“One such man is our lecturer tonight, and I have no doubt,” continued Sir Francis as he glanced up at the portrait of the King, “that we are about to learn of his plans to make a second attempt to be the first of His Majesty’s subjects to reach the South Pole. It is a well-worn phrase to suggest that a speaker needs no introduction, but I suspect there isn’t a man, woman, or child in our land who does not know the name Captain Robert Falcon Scott RN.”
The audience rose as one as a clean-shaven, stockily built man with fierce blue eyes and in a naval uniform marched out from the wings. He took his place at the center of the stage, his legs thrust apart, giving the impression that he did not intend to be moved for some time. He smiled down at his audience and, unlike Sir Francis, made no attempt to quell their enthusiasm, ensuring that it was some time before he was able to speak.
George was captivated from Scott’s first sentence. He spoke for over an hour, never once referring to notes, while dozens of slides projected on the screen behind him brought dramatically to life his previous expedition to the Antarctic in his ship the Discovery. His words were regularly interrupted by spontaneous bursts of applause.
The audience learned how Captain Scott went about selecting his team, and the qualities he demanded: loyalty, courage, and unquestioning discipline were, it seemed to him, prerequisites. He then went on to explain the deprivation and hardship his men would have to take for granted if they hoped to survive for four months in the Antarctic trekking four hundred miles across a frozen wasteland on an uncharted journey to the South Pole.
George stared in disbelief at images of men who had been on his previous expedition, some of whom had lost not only fingers and toes to severe frostbite, but ears and in one case even a nose. One of the slides caused a woman in the gallery to faint. Scott paused for a moment before adding, “Each of the men who accompanies me on this enterprise must be prepared to undergo such suffering if he still hopes to be standing when we eventually reach the South Pole. And never forget, my most important responsibility is to ensure that all my men return home safely.”
George only wished that he could be among those who would be invited to join Scott, but he knew that an inexperienced schoolmaster whose greatest achievement to date was conquering Mont Blanc was an unlikely candidate for Scott’s team.
Scott ended his lecture by thanking the RGS, its committee and fellows for their continued support, aware that without their backing he couldn’t even consider raising anchor at Tilbury, let alone docking in McMurdo Sound fully equipped and ready to carry out such an ambitious enterprise. When the lights came up, Scott gave a slight bow and the audience rose as one to acknowledge a very British hero. George could only wonder what it must feel like to be standing on that stage receiving such plaudits and, more important, what would be expected of him to prove worthy of such adulation.
When the applause eventually died down and the audience resumed their places, Scott thanked them once again before inviting questions from the floor.
A gentleman rose in the front row.
“That’s Arthur Hinks,” whispered Geoffrey Young. “He’s just been appointed secretary of the RGS.”
“Sir,” Hinks began, “rumors abound that the Norwegians, led by Amundsen, are also planning an assault on the South Pole.
Does this concern you?”
“No, it does not, Mr. Hinks,” replied Scott. “Let me assure you and the Society’s fellows that it will be an Englishman, not a Viking, who will be the first to reach the South Pole.” Once again these sentiments were greeted with loud applause.
From the dozen hands that shot up, Scott next selected a man seated in the third row. The left breast of his dinner jacket was adorned with rows of campaign medals.