I held my breath.

Then, from the Allied emplacements behind me, I heard the speaking of a single artillery piece.

I was later given an account by a friendly Artilleryman of the few moments which had preceded that single shot. This gunner had watched as the engineer Josiah Traveller approached a particular emplacement, his stovepipe hat screwed tightly down around his ears. The fellow wore thick leather gloves which, according to my reporter, added up to a rather comical effect; and at arms’ length he carried a large metal cask that shone with frost, as if it were as cold as death. Following Traveller came Sir James Simpson himself and several of his staff, their faces grim, their epaulettes and decorations gleaming. At the muzzle of the gun the engineer placed his cask on the ground and, by loosening clasps, cracked it open. Its central cavity was quite small, my friend reported, so that the walls of the cask were some inches thick and might, he speculated, have contained some substance which kept the temperature of the cask unnaturally low.

Inside the cavity was a single shell, of size about ten pounds. This the engineer lifted as delicately as if it were a child and placed it gently in the muzzle of the artillery piece. Then Traveller stood back.

The gun fired, with a muffled explosion like a cough. Within seconds that single, precious shell was arcing above my head, bearing a few ounces of anti-ice to Sebastopol.

From my position I could not see the town itself, but still I peered over the heads of my colleagues in anticipation as that shell made for the battered fortress; I even pushed back my cap and peaked my hand over my eyes, the better to see.

I have since learned something of the properties of that strange substance anti-ice, Father. It is mined from a strange seam in the frozen ocean of the South Pole, and as long as it is maintained at those frosty temperatures it is perfectly safe. Once it is heated, however—