Heading Home with the Choristers (continued)
They sang a chorus much older and more mysterious — half mournful, half joyful, and wholly memorable to all who heard it. “Nero”, the leader, and “Nigger”, his second in command, were respectively Baritone and bassoprofundo. “Judy”, the lead bitch who ran with them, was a mezzo, with all the makings of a convincing Carmen — particularly when on heat. “Raven” and “Crow”, identical twins, were reedy tenors: “Jackdaw” and “Mouse” were counter-tenors with a heart-searing upper register. Bringing up the rear were “Mutt” and “Jeff’, two young dogs with uncertain voices: they had auditioned well for the team and shown promise. At full belt the Choristers could have given a good account of themselves in any chapel north of the Trent or west of the Severn.
We caught up with the leaders, enjoying lunchtime break off a group of low-lying islets, uncharted and unrecorded in mid-fjord. The dogs found snow to roll in, then slept blissfully in the sun. The wind had dropped: we could munch our biscuits stripped to the waist, and indeed roll tentatively in the snow ourselves. Ken Blaiklock took a quick sunsight and plane-table survey, Spiv and David knocked rocks for the geological collection and I searched for biological specimens.
After a two-hour break the dogs were bored and ready to go. I led off, crossing a field of frozen-in brash ice. Here we carne upon Adélie penguins, all trotting eastward in groups of six to a dozen toward their breeding grounds along the coast. To Nero, Nigger and Judy the penguins represented original sin — diversions irresistible, to be pursued if only for a few happy yards before traces and the sledge stopped. Three times the trio whooped off like hounds after hares, followed closely by six delinquent teammates and more distantly by myself and a cavorting sledge. Three times their roistering jammed the sledge hard between bergy bits. Immobilised, they howled abuse at the penguins while I howled abuse at them, and the team following closed up to join in the fun.
We sledged over 20 miles that day, doing a worthwhile job of discovery and survey in perfect weather and idyllic surroundings. In the evening we camped by another unrecorded islet, spanning the dogs on fresh snow, rewarding them and ourselves with a feed of seal-meat. One of the bitches surprised us by producing two healthy pups, which the four of us fussed over and settled in a nursery — my spare pullover — alongside their mother.
We perched comfortably on boxes outside the tents, celebrating the happy occasion with brandy from the medical bag and enjoying the evening calm. As the shadows lengthened across the sea ice, the Choristers found cause to celebrate. “Hallelu-u-ja,” they sang to the setting sun; “Hallelu-u-ja” chimed in 18 other huskies — and so did we.’
Bernard Stonehouse, Stonington, 1947/49