Antarctica
Authors: Peter Lerangis
Journey to the Pole
Peter Lerangis
For David Levithan
Antarctica as it was in 1909.
Antarctica as it is today.
Prologue
“I
CAN BE SO
bold to say no man will venture further south than I have done, and that the lands to the south will never be explored.”—Captain James Cook, English explorer, 1774.
The call of Antarctica is loud and clear:
Go away.
You hear it in the groans of colliding ice floes. In the shriek of 200-mile-an-hour winds hurtling down the Transantarctic Mountains. In the thunder of an ice shelf splitting into the sea. In the hostile silence of a darkness that begins in April and ends in June.
You feel it, too, as the temperature drops to -100° F. and your breath forms a mask of solid ice inside your hood. Standing still can kill you, and you fight off the urge to sleep, because you know you may never waken.
You see it in the landscape, a slab of ice so heavy—twenty-four quadrillion tons—that it flattens the contour of the earth. So vast that you can walk the distance from New York to Seattle and never touch ground.
To sail there, you must cross the world’s most savage sea, the only body of water that circles the planet unobstructed by land. On the way you may see an image of the bleak terrain, a lifeless mirage reflected against the ice crystals of a frozen sky.
Antarctica is a fortress. A desert. A prison.
Captain Cook called it as he saw it. But his prediction was wrong.
After him, many more came. In the 1800s, they came in ships, discovering coastlines, landing on shores. By the early 1900s, the British explorers Robert Scott and Ernest Shackleton penetrated into the interior and began dreaming of the impossible: a voyage to the South Pole.
By 1909 Shackleton had come close. Scott was planning another attempt. So was a Norwegian, Roald Amundsen.
No American had attempted to reach Antarctica in almost eight decades. No one had the skill or the interest to join the race to the South Pole.
Or so it is thought.
In a city that was daily stretching its borders from river to river, the father of two boys was setting his sights south.
Like many, he had heard the call:
Go away.
And he had found it irresistible.
The boys were Colin and Andrew Winslow, of 37 Bond Street, New York, New York. Their father’s name was Jack.
This is their story.
Before
1
Colin
C
OLIN
W
INSLOW RAN THROUGH
the canyon streets of lower Manhattan. He ran even though his chest hurt and the rain pelted him and his feet slipped on the wet pavement. He ran because on May 8, 1909, at a little past 5:20 in the afternoon, his world had ended for the second time.
His stepmother was dead. It happened while he and Andrew were watching, while they held her hands in the hospital room. She woke from a sleep, called Father’s name, and closed her eyes. Just like that, the pneumonia took her, and Colin felt his heart squeeze, exactly the way it had when his mother had died. Suddenly the hospital walls couldn’t hold enough air for him, so he ran.
He had to find Father.
Father was downtown with the Fat Man. Colin didn’t know where the office was, so he ran home to find out. People on the street yelled at him, and the old ones tsk-tsked, but he didn’t care.
You weren’t supposed to run in New York. You were supposed to walk, tip your hat to the ladies, cross at corners. Cities had rules, and Colin had always liked that, the way they gave order to chaos. You could feel safe and small, folded in among the grim, purposeful faces; the buildings framing low, soot-gray skies; the faint, familiar stink of fish and horse dung and tannery hides. In his old home in Alaska, the sea and the snow and the cruel, killing waters had reminded him of his mother. Here in New York he’d thought he could bury the pain.
Now he knew he’d been wrong. Wrong about it all. He’d been living in a dream, and only now, at the age of sixteen, did he finally realize the truth: The bad things always found you, and the streets of New York were stone and brick, as gray and flat and ugly as Harwinton, Alaska. In New York you died the way you lived, not by an accident on the sea like the one that had taken his mother, but by something passed quietly in a crowd, a tiny germ that ate away at you until your lungs flooded and then collapsed.
Colin stepped off the curb to cross. He heard a screech to his right, and an automobile skidded, just avoiding him.
“Hey, you overgrown coolie! Aren’t your eyes big enough to see where you’re going?” From a leather seat the driver glared down at Colin. The man’s back was ramrod straight, his whiskers drooping in the rain.
Colin kept going, and so the man said what men like him usually said:
Yellow-skin, slant-eye Eskimo, go back where you belong.
You got used to it here, if you didn’t look like the People Who Owned Things, the light-skinned ones like Father. Colin resembled the People Who Did Things—caught the fish, sailed the seas, built the houses. He was six feet tall like a Winslow but small-necked and broad-shouldered like his mother’s family, like an Inuit, with massive hands and a lumbering, rocking gait.
He didn’t turn back, he didn’t feel like answering or throttling the guy. He felt nothing.
Just past the blacksmith Colin turned left onto Bond Street. Number 37 was in the middle of the block, and he leaped up the stoop to open the front door.
“Father!”
The darkness swallowed his call. He raced past the parlor entry and yanked open the door to his father’s study
It smelled of cherry pipe tobacco and hair tonic. Father’s worn leather chair was angled back from the desk. The drawers had been pulled open and papers were piled helter-skelter. A fan blew in from the open window, causing the stuffed Arctic tern to swing lazily from the ceiling on its string. The moose head stared from the fireplace.
Colin ran to the desk to look for a clue, a note, anything that might hint where Father was.
Samuel Breen, Shipwright, Bill for Labor Pursuant to Construction of Barquentine
Mystery …
United States Government Topographical Map and Report on Antarctic Continent …
Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly,
“The Mad Race to Conquer the South Pole” … April 21, 1909, List of Able Seamen and Officers, Port of New York …
The papers blurred. Colin blinked away tears and swept his arm across the desk. The contents flew onto the polar bearskin rug. He wanted to burn it all, the rug, the maps, the bills, the stuffed animals. All the reminders of polar travel past and future. Of Antarctica, the obsession that had consumed Father’s energy and kept him from home, kept him from the deathbed of his own wife.
As Colin’s eyes focused, he saw a note on top of all the others:
HORACE J. PUTNEY ENTERPRISES, LTD. 176 FRANKLIN STREET NEW YORK, NEW YORK
BY MESSENGER
Franklin Street. That was in the Red Light District.
Colin had never been there. You never went there after dark if you valued your life. What did the Fat Man do for a living anyway?
Colin ran out of the house and barreled down Broadway. It was a long run, at least a mile, and as he crossed Canal Street the sun set behind the tenements and the smell of decay rushed up from the pavement. Fire escapes creaked as if craning to watch him. Figures slithered and turned in the doorway shadows, and a cry exploded from above, strangled and anguished, growing to a shrill laugh. A shapeless blob hurtled to the street from a third-story window and exploded on the cobblestones, a mass of rotted food and rank liquid that oozed into the gutter, from which two animal eyes peered upward, green and greedy.
Corner to corner, Colin told himself. Eyes front.
As he turned onto Franklin, the storefronts advertised goods in languages he didn’t recognize, and broken carts stood chained to hitching posts. The distant din of angry voices grew closer.
Colin strained to see numbers above the doors—119 … 121….
At the end of the wall of shadows, a crowd had gathered in front of a tavern. A man lay across the pavement, his face bloodied, while a group of burly men pulled off an angry attacker. Two mounted constables rode up, brandishing billy clubs, followed by an ambulance.