Death On the Ice
“Both men were blinking back tears. It wasn’t getting any easier.
‘How are the hands, Titus?’ ‘Fine.’ He had to take his mittens off to use the revolver and Wilson could see the skin was white and wrinkled. Although they were cold, his hands hadn’t suffered like his nose, which was often hard to the touch by the end of the day and required much massaging in the tent. His leg was aching, too, the old wound flaring hot now and then, and his hip throbbed at night. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked Wilson.
‘Oh, you know.’ He looked over his shoulder.
A few hundred yards away, Bowers was swinging the thermometer over his head. Next to him the tents were being erected. Crean and Lashly were waiting to skin the horses and form the depot, and to the south was the Beardmore. He hadn’t been to look at it yet, concentrating on the job in hand. They had covered eleven miles in eleven hours on the last march through that strange, wet snow, whipping the horses every step of the way, it seemed.
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