“You put one on, too,” she said.
Sinclair took a shorter coat from the pile—it was red with a white cross on its sleeves and another on its back, and hung down to his thigh. But he did not know how to fasten it at first; there was a long ribbon of tiny metal ribs that ran down its front, and he pushed them together, thinking they might bind somehow, but they did not. Fortunately, he also found some metal buttons, under a narrow placket, that he found would snap together when pressed.
The dogs were restive, and done with their food. Several of them stood, staring, at Eleanor and Sinclair. And when he went to the food sack, one of them barked, no doubt thinking he was about to receive a second ration. But Sinclair dipped into the bag, and came up with a handful of rounded pellets, the size of shot, and put them to his own nose. The smell was vaguely horsey. He put one in his mouth; the taste was gritty but acceptable. He swallowed one, then the whole handful. They were crunchy, but not nearly as hard as ship’s biscuits.
“Here,” he said, holding out another handful to Eleanor. “They’re not much, but no worse than army rations.”
But the smell seemed to upset her, and she turned away, shaking her head. Sinclair poured the pellets into one of the red coat’s voluminous pockets. There wasn’t time to argue about it now. He had too much to do.
He went to the chest at the rear of the pen and knelt beside it. The chains were gone, the hasp had been broken off, and the lid was barely attached. He raised it slowly, and inside found his sodden campaign coat, his stirrups, his helmet, a couple of his books—miraculously, still frozen solid and seemingly intact—and, finally, three unbroken bottles labeled, though illegibly, as Madeira from San Cristobal. He grabbed these first, wrapped them in the campaign coat, then carefully tucked the bundle into the shell of the sled. There were empty cargo bays, he discovered, running from the front of the sled to its rear stanchions, and he tossed everything else he could think of—his riding gear, his books—into them.
Finally, he dragged a sack of the food pellets toward the sled, and the dogs—now perhaps convinced that their provisions were being stolen—all stood up, on silent alert, at their neatly spaced stakes. That, or maybe it was just the odor he gave off. Sinclair had noticed that animals often became anxious in his presence…ever since Balaclava.
The lead dog—a massive creature with eyes like blue agate—barked furiously, and strained at his stake.
“Quiet down!” Sinclair urged, trying to keep his voice low but commanding. He prayed that the howling wind would keep anyone from hearing.
But as he lifted the bag into the sled, the dog leapt into the air, restrained only by the short chain running from its collar to the stake.
“Enough!” Sinclair declared. Eleanor was cowering against the wall, but Sinclair led her over to the sled and helped her to climb inside it.
“How will you ever harness them?” she asked, her voice nearly inaudible under the hood.
“The same way I’ve harnessed horses all my life.” Though, truth be told, he was wondering himself. He had not expected a rebellion. And he needed to quell the noise, immediately, or his whole plan would be for naught.
He came around the wooden partition and lifted the front of the harness—not so different from what was used on a coach-and-four—and shook it out. The other dogs studied him intently, but the lead dog, again, would have none of it. Barking loudly, he jumped at the intruder, but was yanked back to the ground by the buried stake. Instantly, he scrambled to his feet, spittle flying from his jaws, and leapt again—only this time the stake bent, then burst up out of the ground. Even the dog seemed surprised by it, shooting past Sinclair and banging his snout against the wooden wall. Wheeling around, and dragging the chain and stake, the dog charged at Sinclair, who managed to step to the side and parry the attack with one arm. The loose stake got snared on another one, still rooted in the permafrost, and in the few seconds it took for the dog to shake itself free, Sinclair dodged behind the partition.