Read Online The Winter Pony by Iain Lawrence - Free Book Online Page A

all the years we’d spent with men—what it meant to go lame.
    I stared at Mr. Oates as he came trudging toward me. Hedidn’t have a gun in his hand—not yet—but he didn’t look at me or at anyone else. Patrick rubbed my cheek with his bare knuckles. “It will be all right, James Pigg,” he said.
    I knew he was trying to be kind. I pressed against him, and he pressed back.
    I was sad. I didn’t want to be shot there in the sunshine, in that soft white snow. But I didn’t blame the men for what they had to do. This wasn’t their fault; it was mine. I felt sorry for Mr. Oates, and especially for Captain Scott because I’d let him down so badly. I wondered what he’d say when he heard the gunshot. I could almost hear his voice.
“Poor James Pigg. He was a good lad.”
    Patrick kept petting me. Mr. Oates joined us, puffing his breaths in the cold. He pulled his gloves away with his teeth, squatted beside me, and lifted my sore foot.
    “I think he twisted something,” said Patrick. “But he’ll be all right, won’t he, sir? A bit of a rest will sort him out?”
    Mr. Oates kept pressing and poking at my tendons. “I doubt that very much,” he said.
    “But he’s barely begun,” said Patrick with a small laugh. “He
has
to be all right.”
    Mr. Oates stood up. He squinted at the sun, at the lonely Barrier stretching south. When he reached into his jacket, I closed my eyes so that I wouldn’t have to see the gun.
    It was a hard thing to stand there and wait for the end. I heard the ponies struggling ahead, the dogs barking in the distance. Then I smelled tobacco and dared to take a look. And there was Mr. Oates with his pipe in his hand—not a gun. He lit it slowly, with nearly as much smoke as a steam engine, staring at me all that time.
    “We could lighten his load, I suppose,” he said. “Give him a rest tomorrow. Maybe that will help.”
    Patrick looked delighted. So was I, of course, but he didn’t really know that. He freed me from the traces and we walked very slowly together. He kept his hand firmly in my halter. “Come on, lad,” he said. “You’ll be getting to the Pole.”
    To the Pole!
I didn’t really understand exactly. I pictured an actual pole somewhere very far away, a bit of wood standing lonely on the ice. I had no idea just then how far there was to go, or what troubles lay ahead. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I wanted to stay with Patrick, and now that I had his promise to take me to the Pole, I had no fear of being left behind.
    I limped along beside him.

    The men were cheerful, excited to be at the beginning of a big journey. They chattered all the time and laughed a lot as we plodded on. They pointed out every little thing, making sure every man shared each excitement. Someone spotted two strange mounds in the snow, and didn’t they wonder about that! They peered at them through telescopes, muttering away in their groups like the penguins on the ice. Then Captain Scott went over to have a look.
    We saw him bend down and brush the snow with his mittens. Then he pulled up scraps of old cloth, and wooden sticks, and something that sparkled in the sun.
    “Good Lord, they’re tents!” said Birdie Bowers.
    He was right. Out there on the Barrier, buried and forgotten,a pair of tents stood flapping in the wind where men had stopped and ate and slept.
    The sparkling thing was a stove. Captain Scott got it going, and he cooked a meal from the things in the tent: cocoa and Bovril, sheeps’ tongue, cheese and biscuits. I was offered one of the biscuits by Patrick. It disappointed him badly when I wouldn’t take it, but I didn’t feel like eating. The wind blew gritty snow across the Barrier, and the men sat with their backs to the blow, eating food that I thought belonged to ghosts.
    We pushed on a little farther, then stopped to make camp. Patrick offered me a biscuit again, and this time I took it. He smiled as I ate. At the other end of the picket line, Birdie Bowers was