Antarctica (11 page)

A Possible. Requiring special handling.

Philip quickly pounded his hammer against the rime until it was all gone.

As he jumped off and ran to the hatch, the crew began raising the sails.

“Oh, Mr. Flummerfelt!” Philip called as he descended. “Would you happen to have a copy of the nautical tables in your pocket?”

Flummerfelt turned. “Nautical tables?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I see Captain Barth has you on ice duty again. What have you done this time?”

Flummerfelt edged toward the galley and set the ice on the stove. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you must have done something to deserve this punishment. Captain Barth usually reserves the menial jobs for people he really hates, such as Nigel and myself. So I assumed you, who work so hard at the engine all day, would be exempt from such tasks unless you did something dreadful.”

“I didn’t do nothing dreadful,” Flummerfelt said. “He just told me to do it.”

“Yes, well, he does have his favorites. And his goats. Doesn’t he?”

“Goats?”

“The ones he picks on. The ones he places himself above, by reason of education or breeding or whatnot. Some are easier targets than others, I suppose—in his mind.”

“He ain’t no better than me.”

“Jolly good. That’s what I say! Now quick, report back to him before he starts insulting you!”

Flummerfelt stalked away, red-faced.

Now Stimson was emerging from the hold, dragging up a frozen seal carcass.

What luck. What extraordinary luck.

“Ah, preparing the menu?” Philip asked.

“Nope,” Stimson replied. “Cutting the blubber from Tubby over here.”

“You
do that? I thought your second cook was in charge of all the dirty work.”

“O’Malley? He’s with Pop. I’m alone now.”

“And no one has been assigned to help you?”

“Ask the captain,” Stimson said. “And step aside in case he bites off your head, like he did mine.”

Philip shook his head gravely. “Mm. How many years did you spend in culinary school?”

“Two. French cuisine was my specialty. Imagine that—and here I am, skinning animals and cooking blubber till I can’t get it out of my skin.”

“Well, I’m sure if Captain Barth weren’t in charge, things would be different, wouldn’t they?”

“I’ll say!” Stimson laughed. “Hey, be careful what you wish for!”

“Oh, you bet I will,” Philip said.

Very careful indeed.

That evening Philip and Nigel had floor duty in the afterhold. A useless task, with Stimson cooking seal. The air was rank with vaporized blubber, which settled like glue in the hair and the skin. No sooner had they cleaned a section of floor than it was slippery with grease.

“I fought you boiled that stuff outside,” Nigel said.

“I do,” Stimson replied. “This is the lean part.”

“Well, I must say, you’re truly a miracle worker. You’re the only man wha’ can make a tasty meal out of that slime, and my ’at is off to yer!”

Stimson smiled. “I do my best.”

Philip elbowed Nigel in the ribs. “You’re laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?” he whispered.

“Wha’ are you talkin’ about? We’ve almost got ’im on our side. Won’t ’urt to butter ’im up a bit.”

Philip turned back to work, but he suddenly felt dizzy. His brush seemed to be slipping, not going where his hand put it. “Nigel …?”

No, it wasn’t him. He was fine. It was the ship. The
Mystery
was shuddering, rocking upward toward the port bow.

A saucepan clattered to the floor, spilling a gooey brown sauce.

Lovely,
Philip thought. He’d need a chisel to clean that.

“All hands on deck!” shouted Mansfield into the hatch. “We’re iced in!”

Philip’s heart raced. He glanced at Nigel, who gave him a brief nod.

It was too good to be true. The Plan had been ready to execute for some time. All they needed was a way to get all of the men in one place, on the ice.

The way had been handed to them.

Nigel and Philip raced for the hatch.

“Blasted Barf,” Nigel cried out, “runnin’ us into pack ice again.”

“He’s using our ship as a battering ram,” Philip said.

“The fool will sink us in no time,” Stimson grumbled.

Good. Correct response.

On deck, the sailors were scrambling onto the kennels, then climbing over the gunwales. Mansfield threw picks, axes, and saws to the ice.

“If you get cold feet, I’ll kill you,” Nigel whispered.

“Poor choice of words,” Philip replied.

Nigel quickly climbed over. Philip waited until Captain Barth was looking his way. Then he hoisted himself, as awkwardly as he could, onto the kennel.

“What’re you doing?” Barth called out.

“Helping out the
Mystery,
sir!” Philip said crisply.

“Not after your performance last time. The men don’t need entertainment. Get below and swab the decks.”

Yes. Perfect.

Out of the corner of his eye, Philip spotted Bailey and the meteorologist, Talmadge.

Louder.

“But I want to help!” Philip protested. “It’s my duty.”

“It’s your duty to obey orders!” Barth snapped.

“Captain, let the boy help out,” Talmadge interrupted. “We need all the manpower we have.”

“Whatever he has, it isn’t manpower,” Barth said, turning away.

Philip drew his lips down and hung his head.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Talmadge said. “It ain’t you. The man wouldn’t know about leadership quality if it jumped up and bit him on the nose.”

Philip nodded. He watched the two men climb over the gunwale.

Below, Nigel was waiting with Hayes and Brillman.

The three men took Talmadge and Bailey aside, away from the gas lamps and into the shadows.

Eight men … if this worked.

Philip smiled. It wouldn’t be long now.

December 11, 1909

“J
ACK!”

Calling was useless. Andrew was eating snow. Drowning in snow. The snow had become the atmosphere itself, the ground indistinguishable from the air. It was a continent exploding, rising up, falling back, swallowing him whole. Sucking out his energy and his will.

The ring of ice inside his hood wasn’t any protection at all. It left a hole in the center where the snow blew in, hard and grainy, like sand. It packed up in the space between his face and the ice, and it stayed there.

His lips were cracked, the blood freezing the moment it oozed out. His cheeks were scraped dry by the wind and snow.

He was alone. The sledges were gone. He’d been holding a tie line with the others, but he was tired and numb, and the line was covered with ice and the ground was ice and he couldn’t hold on, so he fell and let go, and suddenly everything had vanished.

Now he couldn’t see and couldn’t hear through the storm.

And soon he couldn’t walk, so he fell to his knees.

He put his head down to the wind. He would stop. He had to stop. Just for a minute.

He listened to his own breath. It sounded far away, like someone else’s, someone in the next room.

He could stay here. Just temporarily. Soon it would be over. Soon the storm ended. It always did. He could stay here and be warmer and wait.

Holes.

That was how the dogs slept—in holes. The snow insulated them, trapped their body warmth. He would need a hole.

So he began digging. His gloves were frozen solid, natural shovels. In the soft snow he was able to chop out a shelter in no time.

He crawled into it. He turned on his side and felt his body sink in, curled up tight.

His face was out of the line of fire. The snow strafed him from above, pelting his coat, but his face was protected.

Here it was quiet.

He could stay until it was over. He could close his eyes and let them relax.

That was it. Just rest—not sleep. Never sleep. Sleep was the first sign of death.

Rest and think of home, think of the fireplace and the frost on the windows and the snow-dusted cobblestones of Bond Street, and Jack and Colin, and Mother, too
—
she’s saying, Rest. Rest, darling. It’s all right. You’ll be all right. I’ll see you soon.

And then he was moving. Sliding forward. Choking. He could feel the snow on his face again, sharp and hot—something was pulling him by the neck, taking him from the hole, which made no sense because he was safe here, this is what the dogs did, and the dogs
knew….

He dug his hands and his legs into the snow but he couldn’t feel them, he couldn’t feel anything, he was all mind and no body, and beside him right in his ear was a chuffing sound, a heavy breathing, and he forced his eyes open to see a thick mat of ice-covered fur.

“Socrates?”

The dog let go of Andrew’s collar and barked, a scolding, get-up-and-come-with-me bark, and Andrew tried to propel himself but only succeeded in falling facedown in the snow.

“Socrates … just go … get help!”

But Socrates tried again, clamping down on the jacket, pulling from his haunches, until Andrew found the strength to twist himself around and kneel into the snow.

He could feel his legs now. The blood was flowing.

Socrates released his jaw. He rose up, placing his forepaws on Andrew’s shoulders, breathing heavily, trying to lick him.

It was warm, so warm. It felt good on his skin, on his eyes. “My hands, Soc, please!”

He turned his back to the wind and pulled off his gloves. His hands were blue-white, the skin like parchment.

Socrates began licking them, but Andrew felt nothing.

The pain started in his palms, an itch that quickly became sharp and agonizing. The dog’s tongue felt like sandpaper, and Andrew pulled his hands back.

And then, without warning, Socrates was gone. His bark faded into the roar of the blizzard.

Andrew blew into his hands. He flexed them and blew on them until the pain was excruciating, but he knew that was good, that the first sign of frostbite was when you felt absolutely nothing.

A few moments later he heard voices. Shouts.

He tried to yell but his vocal cords were shot. He staggered to his feet, bracing himself against the snow, the pain.

A moment later Socrates leaped out of the whiteness, barking at the top of his lungs—and this time he was not alone. Five dogs emerged from the snow behind him, pulling a sledge. They were haggard and silent, panting heavily, their brows caked with snow and ice.

Andrew heard Jack’s voice before he could make out the face.

“Andrew!”

“Kalò to Theòs!”
Kosta was with him.

Jack jumped off the sledge and wrapped his arms around Andrew’s shoulder. “Can you walk?”

“I think so. A little.”

As Jack and Kosta helped Andrew to the sledge, the dogs hardly gave a glance. They were shivering. Even padded by snow they looked thin. They’d been fine for the first three weeks of the journey, but many had come down with dysentery. Taki, Yanni, and Loukoumada had already been buried. The five who were here surely hadn’t needed this detour to rescue Andrew.

Jack sat Andrew in the sledge, facing away from the wind. He had two blankets, which he wrapped around Andrew, then dug out snow and ice from inside Andrew’s hood.

Kosta handed Jack the reins. “You stay with boy. Kosta walk.”

Jack mushed the dogs. Slowly the sledge began to move. Under the blankets, Andrew began feeling warmer. As the numbness left him, the pain in his hands began to spread until he was shaking uncontrollably.

“Andrew—?” Jack said.

Kosta peeled off his heavy parka and handed it to Jack. “Take—for boy!”

“Kosta, you need that!” Jack replied.

“Have other!” Kosta said, pointing to a thin jacket he was wearing. “Me run. Warm.
Zèsti
.”

Jack threw the coat around Andrew and held him tight with one arm as he guided the sledge.

Andrew’s teeth were chattering and he barely heard the distant barking from the other sledge. It came into sight, hard against the side of a large pressure ridge.

“Bravo!”

Petard was leading a cheer. Andrew tried to acknowledge, but he could barely move.

Both sledges were moving now—uphill, the wind at their backs.

“Stop at the summit!” Jack commanded. “We’ll find a path down the other side, away from the wind!”

The sledge gave an abrupt jerk. Jack yanked on the reins, halting the movement as Kosta sprinted to the front.

One of the dogs—Plutarchos—had fallen. Kosta scooped him up, tearing off his harness. “Go!”

Jack mushed the dogs again. The other men hadn’t even stopped. They trudged ahead, leaning into the slope of the hill.

Kosta was falling back now, slowed by the weight of the dog.

“Slow down!” Andrew called to Jack. “We need to get—”

“Who-o-oa!” Jack shouted. He halted the dogs and jumped off the sledge.

But he wasn’t heading toward Kosta.

Andrew glanced over his shoulder. The men were all gathering in a line at the top of the hill.

Kosta was out of sight now, lost in the snow. Andrew threw his legs over the side of the sledge. His body cried out in pain as he climbed out. Slowly he walked back along the sledge tracks, into the wind.

If he hadn’t noticed a slight movement within the whiteness to his left, he would have missed Kosta.

Plutarchos shivered in Kosta’s arms. They were both lying in the snow.

“Come on!” Andrew said, grabbing Kosta by his jacket.

“Me … not … walk.
To pothi mou!
Me foot.”

“Give me the dog!”

Kneeling down, Andrew took Plutarchos in one arm. The dog was alarmingly light, thin and fragile from sickness. Then Andrew put his other arm around Kosta’s shoulder.

Kosta leaned heavily on him. The pain was sudden and excruciating. Andrew cried out. “I—I can’t—”

“Ella!”
Kosta shouted. “Come!”

The tracks were still visible, but the snow was eating them up fast. Andrew willed his legs forward. He couldn’t give up. With him, all three could make it. Without him …

Right. Left. Right.

“Andrew!”

It was Jack’s voice.

Andrew and Kosta both yelled back, a desperate, wordless howl.