Authors: Peter Lerangis
Colin was stunned. This was no joke.
But it made no sense. Sure, the men had been grumbling about Barth for a while. But then they’d been grumbling about a lot of things—the ship, the weather, the lack of Christmas festivities, one another. They couldn’t seriously intend to take the ship back and strand half the crew on the ice.
“And my father’s party?” Colin asked. “We’re just supposed to leave them?”
Flummerfelt’s face dropped. “They say he ain’t coming back, Colin.”
“Who says that?”
“Nigel … Philip,” Flummerfelt said hesitantly. “A few of the others, too—Bailey, Hayes, Brillman.”
“So the idea is, cut our losses and save ourselves? Leave them for dead before we have any definite knowledge? This is Philip’s thinking, isn’t it?”
“Look, Colin, I never should have mentioned this to you,” Flummerfelt murmured. “Don’t tell nobody I said—”
“Are the men actually following
Philip?”
“He’s tougher than you think, Colin. All that high-and-mighty talk? An act. Seems he’s a dangerous outlaw—”
Colin burst out laughing. “And I’m the czar of Russia!”
“He’s got newspaper clippings. Nigel showed me. Philip is wanted by the police—the
London
police. Look!” Flummerfelt stomped over to Philip’s bunk, pulled open the curtain sheet, and reached into an unlocked chest underneath. “They’re in here somewhere.”
He riffled through a pile of papers and fished out a yellowed news clipping.
Colin took it and read:
Public-school vandals … weaponry was most likely toy guns …”
a
lark,” Sergeant Hollings said. “These boys have had it handed to them for so long, they believe they deserve it” … “any theft of £10,000 from a London bank has to be taken seriously, and those young men treated as adult criminals and prosecuted to the full extent of the law” …
A
warrant has been issued for the arrest of
…
Philip Westfall
…
to be treated as armed and dangerous …
“It sounds like a prank,” Colin said. “A stupid schoolboy prank that turned dangerous. Did you read this?”
“Well … yes. I mean, I know the gist of it …” Flummerfelt looked at the article, his brow furrowed deeply. He pointed to the first paragraph. “Read this part—aloud, like. So I can recall it.”
Colin cringed.
Of course. He should have known.
“These big words on top?” Colin said patiently. “They say, ‘Boys Will Be Boys—Upper-Class Thieves Honing Their Skills on the Backs of the Working Class.’“
December 31, 1909
“I
T’S HIS HEART.”
Dr. Riesman tried to save him and blew into his mouth.
Jack felt helpless. He stood there, crouched under the low ice ceiling of a cave in the middle of nowhere, with his stepson on one side and a makeshift hospital on the other, and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do.
In the list of all that could go wrong—accidents, frostbite, maritime collisions, rebellion, starvation, snow blindness—he had never thought to include heart problems.
One minute Lombardo was like everyone else—frozen, weary, numb from a two-week retreat through a constant blizzard. They’d been moving slowly but steadily, each man catching sleep only when it was his turn at the sledge. When they’d stumbled on this bleak, tiny cave, Lombardo had staked out a corner and begun hacking the ice off his sleeping bag, which had frozen solid. Just like everyone else.
Then the convulsions started, and his face was blue.
Dr. Riesman instantly took over. And he was still at it, steady, emotionless, a real pro. One, two, three, blow.
The cave felt like a tomb. Two gas lanterns flickered over Dr. Riesman’s shoulders, hung on pegs that had been driven into the ice walls.
The men were watching, but barely. They’d repelled sleep for days, and it wouldn’t capitulate any longer.
One, two, three, blow.
Lombardo’s body jerked. He coughed twice. Spittle oozed down the side of his mouth.
“Riesman …” Lombardo mumbled, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, Lombardo,” Dr. Riesman said.
“I—I didn’t know you cared.”
That idiot grin. That stupid sense of humor.
“He’s back,” Andrew murmured.
“Merry Christmas,” Jack said.
“When was Christmas?” Rivera asked.
Dr. Riesman drew a blanket over Lombardo. “You rest.”
“Are you going to have to shoot me, Doc?” Lombardo asked.
“Not today. Ask me again in the morning.”
Lombardo’s eyes shut. He was out.
Jack sat back against the cave wall. Around him, the men looked wind-burned and scruffy. In seven weeks, none of them had shaved or washed.
A pile of ice shards lay against the back wall, all of it hacked off the men’s sleeping bags. A questionable achievement, since the bags had frozen through. Body warmth would only turn the remaining ice into wetness. Of course, that might not ever happen. The temperature in the cave was -15° F.
The men had barely reacted to Lombardo’s plight. They were little more than nerve endings now. Reaction. Self-protection. Propulsion.
They needed rest. And they would have it, Jack decided. They would stay here for days if they had to. As long as it took for them to resemble humans again. They had made it this far—450 miles out, maybe 350 back—they couldn’t give in now, when they were so close.
“Will he—?” Jack asked.
Dr. Riesman nodded. “It was a mild attack. He’ll be all right.”
He quickly put away his stethoscope, gave Jack a cursory nod, and fell asleep on the snow-packed floor.
Oppenheim peered out of his sleeping bag. “Poor guy. Would have been luckier if he died now and got it over with.”
“Look at it this way—he’ll have plenty of good stories to tell when we get home,” Jack offered.
“If,
Pop,” Oppenheim replied.
“If.”
Jack said nothing. Oppenheim’s attitude had grown poisonous. He was pulling the men down with his nervous bleakness.
Pessimism was a sickness. If you fed it, it spread. Sometimes it was best to leave it alone. Let it wear itself out. Oppenheim’s eyes were closing.
Jack felt the weight of Andrew’s head on his shoulder. The boy had fallen asleep, too.
Jack was now the only one awake.
Gently he set Andrew down on the ground. He removed his parka and covered the boy with it.
Andrew was a good kid.
He hadn’t lost his will, like some of the others. Maybe his youth made him more resilient. Maybe he realized that he was lucky to be here, that he’d have a chance to do it again someday.
Or maybe he was just putting on a good show.
Jack checked Lombardo’s pulse. It was steady.
He peered outside the cave. The dogs were in their holes, still as the dead. He wondered how many would wake up.
Next to the dogs the supply tent was iced through and sagging.
At least the blizzard had let up. Now the weather was merely dismal. A run of dismal weather would be good luck.
Jack’s eyelids felt like lead weights. His body shook, and he didn’t bother trying to control it.
Andrew had been scheduled for the first night-watch shift, but Jack couldn’t wake him. No one deserved to be awakened.
No harm in taking a shift or two himself. Eventually someone would wake up and relieve him.
Jack stood in the cave door. He considered taking his parka back from Andrew, but that wouldn’t be fair. The boy was smaller; he needed it more.
Besides, the cold was good, Jack decided. It would keep him awake.
To keep his hands warm, he put them in his trouser pockets. And he felt a small, unfamiliar object there and pulled it out.
It was a flag. The cartographer—Walden—had given it to him in Argentina. Jack was supposed to have given him something in return—for good luck. But he hadn’t. What did that mean? Was it bad luck not to return the gesture? Was that why the trip had failed?
Stop.
It was only a superstition. He had to block it out.
He began running in place to keep the circulation up.
Run, he told himself. Keep those eyes open. Try not to shake. Ignore the cold. Think straight, don’t let yourself sleep, think about lists, about the ship, about debts, the Bond Street house mortgage, the dry goods shop around the corner, don’t let yourself sleep, that idiot Horace Putney, Lowell the old college roommate who turned his back on financing the trip, the green grass of Harvard Yard and the excitement of sneaking into the boathouse—with Lowell, as a matter of fact—it was his fault, really, stealing the oar and sawing off the paddle, attaching wheels to the bottom so they could skate with it, oh was that fun, and if Lowell had been caught
he’d
have been expelled instead of me and I wouldn’t have gone to the Yukon and married Raina and had Colin and none of this would have happened….
In the distance Jack spotted an unusual, languid movement. A long, dark object was gliding toward him fast.
He recognized the shape, the rhythm, and he smiled.
It was a kayak. Raina’s kayak. She was in it. Smiling. Surrounded by light. Light and warmth.
I’ve been expecting you,
he said.
She stopped paddling but the kayak was still going … rising now … upward… . She called his name and told him to come. She had new places to show him.
Jack stepped forward, into the wind.
The snap of the cold made him gasp—and the image was gone.
Raina was gone.
Not Raina. A dream. A waking dream. A death dream.
The cold was taking him. He needed warmth. He needed dry clothes, a sleeping bag.
No. He couldn’t take from the men. He could hold out until after his shift. Let the men rest. That was the most important thing.
Two hours. That was all. He just had to keep his eyes open for two hours. Then he could switch. Then he’d be all right.
Maybe he didn’t have to stand the whole time.
He squatted and felt his legs creak. They hurt, so he sat.
All he had to do was keep his eyes open. Stay awake.
It wasn’t Raina. Not really.
She was gone.
Like Iphigenia.
And Shreve.
Their faces appeared before him now, all three of them, and he suddenly felt warm, head to toe, toasty and comfortable and surrounded by light and love. It thrilled him to know that they were so close, and he wanted to thank them, ask them how they’d been, but all they did was beckon.
Come. Come with us, Jack. Don’t suffer.
They were phantoms, this wasn’t real. But the warmth was. He had stopped shaking and he felt no snow, no chunks of flying ice, no bitter cold. Lord knows he needed that, and so what harm would it be to stay this way a little longer, to give in for a moment.
It wouldn’t hurt.
Jack let his eyes close.
And he gave in.
December 31, 1909
“I
THINK
I
FOUND
it! The barrel’s empty.” Flummerfelt called out from the hold. “It says
G-U-N-P-O-W-”
“Yes. That’s it,” Colin said. “Hurry up!” Captain Barth’s voice shouted from above deck: “What are you two waiting for, an engraved invitation?”
“Aye, aye, right away!” Colin replied. “Done!” Flummerfelt said. He scrambled out of the hold with two rifles, a sledgehammer, and a harpoon.
Colin pulled open his bunk curtain sheet and helped Flummerfelt hide the arms under the horsehair.
Grabbing the hammer and harpoon, they ran upstairs. Flummerfelt went over the gunwale first, carrying both implements in one hand.
Colin leaped atop the kennels. Below, the men hacked away at the ice that now encroached on the
Mystery
from all sides.
From behind the ship’s stern, he heard Nigel’s voice.
Nigel was supposed to be at the bow. All the men were.
Colin slipped back down onto the deck. Quietly he walked abaft and crouched low.
It wasn’t just Nigel.
“By all means, let’s be quick about this. No tedious speeches about the condition of the workingman.” Philip’s voice. Naturally.
Raising himself slowly, Colin peered over the ship. Nigel and Philip were digging a shallow trench directly beneath him.
Fifty feet away, Talmadge emerged from behind a pressure ridge. In his arms were three rifles and a pistol.
“Catch us a lot of seals wif that, won’t we, mate?” Nigel said.
Talmadge dumped the guns in the trench, then clapped his hands like a seal and croaked quietly,
“Barth! Barth! Barth!”
“Just get on with it!” Philip pleaded.
The three kicked snow over the weapons, enough to hide them from sight.
Just as Flummerfelt had said. They’d brought some of the weapons out earlier and hidden them from sight. Now they were stashing them closer to the ship for quick retrieval when the mutiny began.
“What about the rest?” Philip asked.
“Stumblefelt is bringin’ ’em up,” Nigel said. “If ’e can find ’em.”
“Fine,” Philip said. “Let’s do this before Barth finds out and hangs us.”
Colin sneaked back to the kennels. He climbed over the hull and onto the ice.
Talmadge, Bailey, Hayes, and Stimson were chopping ice at the prow, looking guilty as sin. Soon Philip and Nigel joined them, along with Flummerfelt.
“The picks are all in use, Winslow,” Captain Barth said, approaching out of the darkness. “Take a chisel and use that sledgehammer, will you?”
“What’s the plan, Captain?” Colin asked.
“I think we made a mistake anchoring here. My fault. For the last few days there’s been a water sky to the northeast. Chances are, if we move there we’ll be free of the ice—and in position to move farther away when the weather turns.”
“Any good leads through the pack?”
“About a hundred yards away. If we break the ship loose, I think we can make it at full steam. It’s really our only choice.”
“Otherwise, the currents will pull us the other way, clockwise,” Colin said.
“Exactly, sailor.” Barth’s lips curled up in what undoubtedly was a smile. “I’m glad someone besides Mansfield is using his head on this ship. Now get to work.”
Colin set the wedge into the ice and began to smack it with the hammer.