Antarctica (10 page)

He felt caught in the moment between death and life, looking forward and backward at the same time.

Faith, hope, and love — these ideas had sustained him on the South Pole trip. But it was different then. Then he was returning to a ship, a family, the idea of going home.

Now he had none of the three.

Without a word, Oppenheim slipped away and went back to sleep.

Over the water, the aurora australis winked and faded.

February 7, 1910

“M
ANSFIELD, HOW LONG’S IT
gonna take you to step that mast?” Kennedy barked. “An’
what,
pray tell, are you doin’ with that seal’s blood, Westfall — paintin’ a still life? Smear it on, boy!”

Kennedy, who’d never been known for patience and flexibility, was losing what little he had of each. The repair to the
Horace Putney
hadn’t been minor at all. In sawing the wood around the hole to make a neater fit for the new planks, the hull had caved in. The wood had dry rot. It had probably been rotting for months, escaping notice back in New York. And in repairing
that,
Kennedy had discovered “structural flaws” in the boat, things that could prevent it from sailing true.

Jack hadn’t understood a word of his explanation, but you didn’t contradict Kennedy on matters of carpentry or design.

They had worked straight through, taking shifts. Some of the men had slept in the cave, despite the darkness and the atrocious stink. Others had taken shelter under the overturned boat, managing to sleep soundly despite the noise of repairs. Kennedy had been awake for at least seventy-two hours.

“She should be ready to sail in a few hours, as soon as the caulk sets,” Dr. Riesman said.

Jack shook his head. “We’ll leave her overnight. We need rest, all of us — especially the ones sailing back.”

Flummerfelt peeked out from the starboard side, where he was helping sand down the hull. “You got that right.”

“I could sleep like a hedgehog hidin’ in the canebrakes,” Kennedy murmured.

“He’s human after all,” Ruppenthal grumbled.

Kennedy whirled around and grabbed Ruppenthal by the collar. “Repeat that?”

“At ease, gentlemen!” Jack said, pulling them apart.

They would need the cave. No doubt about it. Without shelter, without a sense of a home base, the men would be at one another’s throats.

He’d have to explore. Despite the smell.

“Who has the matches?” Jack asked.

“I do,” Colin said.

“Come with me to the cave and bring a lamp.”

Colin reached under the decking and pulled out a small kerosene lamp. “Sorry, Kennedy, I won’t be gone long.”

“I won’t miss you,” Kennedy replied. “Stumblebum — Flusterfield — whatever your name is — up here on the double.”

Colin climbed down from the boat and walked with Jack toward the cave. “Who’s going? Tomorrow. With you.”

“You are,” Jack replied. “Only one other. We need speed and flexibility.”

“Who’s the other?”

“Philip.”

Colin gave him a tenuous look.

“I’m serious.”

“But
why
?”

“I can’t leave him here, Colin. The men’ll make mincemeat out of him.”

“Father …”

Colin fell silent. He couldn’t argue that.

The smell of organic waste came out to greet them from the cave opening. Colin covered his nose. Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out Walden’s flag to use as a handkerchief.

The rocks outside the opening were smooth and slick, like the ones below, no doubt from centuries of seal visitations. Among them, Jack saw three tiny white slivers.

Burned matches.

“Who left those?” he asked.

Colin shrugged. “Not me.”

“Has anyone else been using the matches?”

“Nope. I’ve had ’em since we left Camp Perseverance. Robert has the only others, and he’s on the
Raina
.”

Jack picked one up. It was whole.

Matches were priceless. Only a half box remained. Jack had strictly ordered the men to use them only if absolutely necessary — and to cut them in half, to double their lives.

“Looks as if someone’s hiding something from us,” Jack said.

“But why?” Colin asked. “Why keep something like that secret when it could help us all?”

“As we get further into this mess, Colin, I understand more about how to manage men but less about their motives.”

Colin pulled out his pocketknife. He took a match and laid it on a flat rock. With a firm but delicate stroke he sliced the match in half, taking care not to crumble the head.

As Jack cupped his hand around it, Colin struck the match and quickly ignited the blubber in the lamp. Crouching in the cave entrance, he held it forward.

The light played dimly against the smooth walls of ice. Shadows formed by long icicles danced a hoedown. The floor was cluttered with odd-shaped objects.

“Bones,” Jack murmured.

“It’s the seals’ chophouse and mausoleum,” Colin said.

“The seals’ outhouse is more like it,” Jack remarked. “Let’s clean it.”

“The shovel was in the
Iphigenia.”

“We’ll use oars then.”

“You dropped something.” Colin knelt to pick something off the ground. He held out a small American flag to Jack.

Jack took his hand away from his mouth. “I didn’t drop it.”

“Then … where’d this come from?”

Jack held his flag side by side with the other.

They were identical.

February 8, 1910

“H
EY, FELLAS, THE OLD
man’s alive!” Lombardo shouted.

He and Petard had been saying daily prayers by Captain Barth’s side. Apparently they’d been answered.

The men crowded into the makeshift infirmary. Barth was turning his head slowly. “I’m not old, you nitwit,” he mumbled.

“Yeeee-HAAAAH!” Lombardo cried out.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Montfort asked.

“Dandy,” Barth drawled. “Just prop me up and point me to the banquet table.”

“Hungry!” Oppenheim threw his head back and laughed. “Imagine that. As if he’s the only one starving here.”

“Oppenheim, have some respect,” Lombardo snapped.

“Respect for what?” Oppenheim replied. “Barth? If he’d had a lick of sense he’d have died and decreased the surplus population.”

“Enough, you blaspheming lunatic!”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones — and no one cares but Davy Jones!”

Lombardo bolted upward from his crouch, and Oppenheim darted out of the tent.

“You better run if you know what’s good for you!” Lombardo bellowed.

“If you stopped acting like a gorilla, sailor,” Captain Barth said, “people wouldn’t bait you. Thank you for your prayers. Dismissed. All of you!”

“Thank
you,
sir.” Lombardo stood, bowed, and backed out of the tent.

The sailors were moved by Barth’s survival. As they filed out, Andrew could feel the change in the air. A spark of optimism.

Dr. Montfort brought Barth a mug of freshwater, melted from snow.

“How is Nesbit?” Barth asked.

Andrew glanced at the doctor, who shook his head slowly.

Barth’s eyes grew suddenly glassy. “Did he suffer?”

“He never woke up,” Dr. Montfort said.

“He was one of the best.” Barth looked away. “Hayes?”

“He’s right behind me, Captain. Recovering. Exposure and frostbite. He’ll be all right, I think.”

“And the stores — any meat?”

“The men are hunting. The seals seem to have migrated. Unfortunately we’ll have to be patient.”

More than patient, Andrew thought. Soon they’d have to suck nutrients out of wool.

The men had been hunting daily. So far they’d brought back two penguins, a skua, and an albatross. Not nearly enough meat.

Seals and penguins were sustenance out here.

The camp would have to be moved closer to the wildlife. But who knew where the wildlife had gone?

Andrew’s stomach was beyond painful. It felt dried out, shriveled and hard like a walnut. Today his tongue began to water at the sight of the dogs. The thought horrified him. But once, the thought of eating seals and penguins had horrified him, too.

Hunger warped your mind. You saw the world in two categories,
edible
or
inedible.
And the definitions changed daily. How far down the evolutionary chain could you slide before you completely lost your humanity?

The hunters would return soon. Maybe today they’d be lucky.

Andrew stood to leave. “Good to have you back, Captain.”

Barth nodded impatiently. “Yes.”

As Andrew hobbled out, he leaned on a cane made of a plank from the
Mystery’s
deck. Its handle resembled a comely young woman—whittling courtesy of Brillman.

Outside the tent, he placed weight on the injured leg. It still hurt like the devil — maybe a little better than the day before, but not much.

“Oppenheim, get up or I’ll throw you out.”

Lombardo again. Inside his tent now.

“Who’s going to force me?” Oppenheim asked.

“You want to see force? I’ll show you force!”

Stimson rushed toward the tent. “Get ’im!”

“Fight!” Bailey shouted.

Andrew made his way to the tent. Inside, Lombardo and Oppenheim stood on opposite sides of a cot. Lombardo’s fists were clenched, his face red.

“Lombardo, you’re going to give yourself another heart attack!” Andrew called out.

“He was lying on my cot when I got in here,” Lombardo exclaimed. “He knows I’m sick.”

“I’m sick, too!” Oppenheim said. “Everybody says so! Why should you get the deluxe suite, you bombastic lickspittle?”

Lombardo stepped over the cot.
“I’ll kill you. I will personally take you apart, do you hear me?”

“Do it, Vincent. Please. Kill me. Then kill everybody else. Do us all a favor, will you? Because if you don’t, the cold will. Or the water. Or the starvation.”

Lombardo had Oppenheim by the throat.
“You want me to do it! YOU REALLY WANT
ME TO
DO
IT,
YOU WHINING, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING
—”

“Stop it!” Andrew shouted. He grabbed Lombardo by the arm and tried to yank him away.

The cane fell. Andrew tumbled to the ground and howled with pain. It felt as if the wound had been ripped open.

Stimson and Bailey stooped to pick him up. Andrew struggled to his feet.

The men had pulled Lombardo off Oppenheim now, but he was still seething.

“Oppenheim, come with me,” Andrew said, taking his cane.

“Me?” Oppenheim asked. “Where are we going?”

“For … a walk. I need someone to … spot me.” Andrew took his arm and ushered him out the tent flap.

“You’re lucky, Oppenheim, do you hear me?” Lombardo shouted. “Next time I see you, you won’t be so lucky!”

February 9, 1910

“W
E’RE TACKING!”
J
ACK SHOUTED
. “Ready about!”

“Tacking, yes,” Philip said. “Tacking …”

The sail suddenly swung around like a gate. The large horizontal block of wood hurtled toward Philip’s cranium.

With a shriek, he ducked.

Duck
was what they meant to say.
Duck.
Why were these sailors so obtuse?

And why, out of all the men left behind on that dark satanic shore — all professional sailors of great distinction — was Philip chosen for this trip?

They wanted to kill him. That was the only plausible explanation.

The recent catastrophe had affected their minds. Perhaps that hideous cave contained noxious gases. Winslow and son had indeed become a bit strange after cleaning it out — wan and morose, as if they’d discovered the remains of some long-lost relative.

The boat was turning hard, rising up on one side. Philip clutched the edge to keep from falling.

“Father, it’s sucking us in,” Colin said.

“Sucking?” Philip squeaked.

“Hold on tight, Philip!” Jack warned.

Philip looked over his shoulder. He wished he hadn’t. He wished he’d had the sense to curl up under the deck and cower.

The boat was at the edge of a maelstrom, a whirlpool of such viciousness that it sloped downward like the open maw of a malevolent underwater creature.

“Get us out of here!” Philip shouted. “Tack … or something!”

The two Winslows fussed with the sail, pulling and changing angles, but it did no good.

“Stop, Colin!” Jack cried out. “It’s no use! Slacken it!”

“You’re not giving up, are you?” Philip asked.

“No!” Colin loosened the sheets and the sail went slack. “Once we’re in the pool, the sail does more harm than good. It’ll make us heel!”

The
Horace Putney
was in the pool, all right. She tilted toward the center, gaining speed. Philip’s sight blurred. The water’s deafening rush sounded like a massive industrial machine.

He could no longer hear Jack’s or Colin’s voices, but he could see them both on the tilted foredeck, struggling to stay upright. The sail’s bottom edge was blowing in the breeze, the wooden thing — the boom? — flailing wildly against the shins of both men.

That wouldn’t do. Philip slid forward. Fighting dizziness and nausea, he clutched the boom and held fast.

Colin gave up trying to lash the sail. He grabbed the mast with one hand, his father with the other. They were yelling something to Philip, but he couldn’t hear them.

The mast bent with Colin’s weight. Philip pushed the boom aside and reached up toward him.

With a
crrrrack
that resounded even over the surging waters, the mast split.

Colin vaulted off the deck, over Philip’s head, and into the boat, pulling Jack with him.

Philip cringed, covering his head with his hands. He heard a thud.

When he looked up, Colin was leaning over his father’s inert body, listening for breath, shaking him.

He was out cold. Dead, perhaps.

One down, two to go.

Philip closed his eyes. This was it, wasn’t it? This was why God had spared him when he’d fallen through the ice. A quick demise wouldn’t be proper for a wretch like Philip Westfall, would it? Better a slow, cruel death spinning in an ever-quickening gyre.…