Antarctica (5 page)

“I was bailing!”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“If you’re such a good sailor, you shouldn’t be bailing. You should be doing the hard jobs, like this one.”

“There are plenty of fools here who want to do this.”

“And you don’t?”

“You want to argue? Here?”

Colin went for the hatch, but Andrew pulled him back. “Why are you dogging it? Why are you letting your shipmates down? To prove a point?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything!”

“You’re trying to sabotage your own father’s trip, because you didn’t want to go!”

“And you did. You were dying to. You thought this was one big storybook adventure. Andrew of the High Seas. Your mother wasn’t even cold in her grave, you heartless little—”

Andrew lunged at him but fell to the deck as Colin ducked away.

Colin tried to keep upright on the slick surface but went down hard. Both of them slid toward the stern, hydroplaning on the water until they crashed against the stern bulkhead.

Colin leaped to his feet. He’d had enough. He hadn’t asked to be in the same family as Andrew. He’d never liked Andrew.

He threw a punch. Andrew scrambled away, kicking out with his leg and clipping Colin’s ankle.

As Colin fell to the deck, he spotted a light glowing in the center of the deck. The hatch was open and Bailey peered out.

“Fight!” he cried.

“Fight!” “Fight!” “Fiiiight!”

The men were filing out of the hatch now, into the storm.

“Five to one odds on Colin!” Lombardo called out.

Hayes piped up, “I give the little guy two to one!”

“Show me the money!”

Like spectators at a cockfight. That’s how they saw this. They dug into their pockets, leaning into the wind and rain, pulling out coins and bills.

“Come on,” Andrew said. “Take the first punch. Get yourself locked up in the brig, Colin. That’s what you want, isn’t it? An excuse to do absolutely nothing!”

That did it. Andrew had stepped over the line.

Colin reared back and prepared to knock his head to Elephant Island.

October 16, 1909

L
ET THEM KILL EACH
other, Philip thought. They both deserve it.

Above him, the men were throwing money around. Thirsting for blood. The Romans. Friday night at the Colosseum. Gladiator against lion. Man against beast. Civilization against chaos.

That’s what it always boiled down to, didn’t it? That was what this trip was all about. What life was about.

Soon they would all be beasts. Every last one.

Chaos always won out.

“Stop this nonsense!”

Ah, the intrepid leader, Winslow the Wise. Still dedicated to the cause, despite the slow breaking apart of his own family.

Winslow ran onto the deck, slipping in the water. He pulled Colin back, wrestling him to the deck.

A few punches had been thrown, all misses.

Pity.

Philip sank back down into the cabin. It was dry there. No use wasting a good warm space during a storm.

The dogs were making a racket, yipping restlessly at the commotion above. A few of the sailors remained, playing cards, recovering from their seasickness.

Philip hadn’t enjoyed the motion much himself. The close quarters and the smell hadn’t helped matters, either. He’d been bedridden through the whole storm.

If “bed” was the correct word for that minuscule wooden box lined with horsehair.

As Philip walked unsteadily across the sloped floor, Ruskey looked up from a game of cards. “Deal you in?” he asked.

“Not for that,” Philip replied.

Ruskey smiled. He caught the hint.

Philip had already slipped him a good bit of change. British, of course, but it could be cashed at any U.S. bank. Then it would make its way into the system, eventually returning to its country of origin, where its history might or might not be discovered, but by then it wouldn’t matter. No one could trace money that closely.

Philip changed into his nightshirt and removed his shoes, then crawled into his bunk and pulled a ratty blanket up to his chin. They’d placed him where he had minimal contact with the other sailors, near the steerage hatch. The indignity of it all.

Quietly he slipped his hand under the bed and slid out his steamer trunk. Pulling it open, he reached under his clothing and flipped up a false bottom.

He pushed aside the newspaper clippings. At this angle, his fingers could just riffle through the pile of money. It felt comforting. He would sleep easier tonight, despite the storm.

He shut the trunk, locked it, and slid it back into place.

The storm seemed to be subsiding now. The weather was like that in the Drake Passage. Easy come, easy go. The men above deck were still noisy, but their utterances sounded happy, relieved.

Philip’s appetite was returning. He eyed the steerage hatch. Below was the food storage. A hundred pounds of chocolate reserved for special occasions.

He’d already helped himself on a couple of sleepless nights. Tonight seemed perfect for another visit. To celebrate surviving the storm, of course.

Philip climbed out of bed, put on his glove-leather slippers, and took a small kerosene lamp from a shelf. Then he tiptoed to the hatch, pulled it open, and descended.

A dim light still shone from the bow, where the engine room was. Philip listened to hear if Kennedy had returned, but apparently he had not.

In the dim lamplight, the sacks looked like carcasses. He stepped closer and read the labels: RICE, FLOUR, MEAT …

A sudden noise made him jump.

A rat, Philip thought.

He held his breath and listened carefully. Now he could hear a scraping sound.

It was larger than a rat.

And it was coming from around the next corner.

“Hello?” Philip squeaked.

He peered around the corner, thrusting his lamp into the darkness.

Something moved. A barrel top.

Philip retreated. He doused his light and clung to the wall. To his right was a supply closet. He tried the knob and slowly pulled it open.

Its shelves were packed with cleaning fluids, but the floor had adequate space. He ducked in and closed the door.

Footsteps now. Walking past the closet.

A sailor. Brillman, maybe. Sanders. Sneaking down for a little nip of the spirits.

The steps faded, then stopped. Philip counted to 243 and then pushed the door open.

The lights were out. The place was pitch-dark.

He crept out into the hold and shut the door behind him.

Shiiiishhh.

A match. Where?

Philip spun around.

The light flared. He made out a face.

He opened his mouth to scream, but a hand closed over it. It wrenched him around, held him tight against a short body.

“Not a word,” a voice said.

It was a British accent. Lower class.

Philip tried to speak, but the hand closed tighter. “I want up.”

“Oob?” Philip said.

The man released his hand. “I’m a sailor. I ain’t got me papers, but I can work. An’ I been dreamin’ of the Souf Pole all me life.”

A lunatic. A certified inmate of Bedlam. “Well, that’s just lovely,” Philip said. “What say we just go upstairs and meet the captain, and you’ll tell him your little story, and he’ll—”

“A countryman, eh?” The man was drawing the match closer to Philip’s face. “You look familiar, too.”

Philip backpedaled. “Odd. You don’t. I daresay our paths have not crossed in the schools. Perhaps your family is in landscaping—private homes, London?”

“Yes. You’re one of those yoofs, aren’t you?”

“Yoofs?”

“Right, the yoofs who took ’at money from the bank—just walked right in an’ ’anded the teller the note, an’ ’em well-dressed and all, like proper gen’l’men. Ten fousand pounds it was.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It was in all the newspapers. Pictures, too. Face just like yours.”

He knew. He knew and he was
here.

Of all the dumb luck.

“I—I didn’t realize I had become such a celebrity,” Philip said.

“Well, not ’ere, maybe. But all the ’oity-toity mums in London is takin’ their sons to school in fear that you’re on the loose.”

“Lovely,” Philip said. “No wonder Uncle wanted rid of me. He hates bad publicity.”

“Uncle?”

“Look,” Philip said. “There are certain things that must not be said, whether they are true or not, which I am not saying they are, you understand”

“I understand.” The man grinned. “Now
you
understand this: You will tell the captain you brought me on board. We’re old friends, like. You will take all the blame. An’ you will get me a nice, big meal.”

Philip nodded numbly. “Yes. Yes, of course. And you are …?”

“Name’s Nigel.” The man stuck out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

October 31, 1909

H
E WAS DREAMING ABOUT
his father, his real father back in Boston, but the face was coming in and out of focus. They were sitting near the river-bank, Papa, Mother, and Andrew, and the boat race was in full swing, the Head of the Charles. Three ladies with parasols walked by and one of them looked at Papa and gave him a smile—just like the smiles Mother used to give Papa, and Andrew didn’t like that, because Mother didn’t have those smiles anymore, and he asked, Who’s she? but Papa answered, Nobody, Andrew, let’s watch the race.

So Andrew was trying to watch the sculls on the river—they scared him because he thought they were made of real skulls—when he saw that Mother was crying and Papa was mad, and Andrew worried it would get bad like the week before, when Mother had to run to the police. So he tried to stop them and all of a sudden Papa turned toward him but he wasn’t Papa anymore—his face had changed into a skull, grinning and chattering, and he lunged toward Andrew, yelling in a muffled voice, striking out with a fist, hitting Andrew in the jaw, and he had to scream.…

The yelling awakened Andrew.

It was real. Not a dream. Coming from above, from the deck. Captain Barth’s voice.

Andrew sat up, gasping for air. Sweat soaked his nightshirt. The dream’s image lingered in his mind.

He rubbed his jaw where it hurt. That was real, too, but it was Colin who’d done that damage, not Papa, not a skull.

Andrew had been thinking a lot about Papa lately. About whether Papa knew what had happened to Mother, whether he’d heard about this trip. Whether he cared.

The whole time Mother had been married to Jack—four years—Papa hadn’t called once. Not once. When Mother died, Andrew had telephoned him twice through the Boston operator. He reached the butler each time and left messages, but you never knew with butlers.

Andrew hoped Papa would come to the funeral, but he hadn’t. Nor had Gram and Gramps. They hadn’t spoken to Mother since she’d left Papa for Jack. Just cut her off, as if she’d never been their daughter.

Andrew shook away the thoughts. No use dwelling on them. You can’t control the past.

He pushed away the flimsy sheet that passed for a curtain across his bunk. Through a nearby porthole he could see hints of the dawn struggling to break through the thick sea mist. Dawn came early in this part of the world. Already they were approaching the Antarctic Circle, tilted toward the sun at such an angle that the darkness fell barely two or three hours. Mansfield, the second in command, had reported seeing chunks of ice in the water.

Andrew threw back his blanket and stood to see the wall clock. Ten after three. He’d been asleep two and a half hours.

Standing up made his jaw throb—but despite the pain, he felt grateful. The punch had only glanced him. Had Colin made full contact, the
Mystery
might have had its first casualty.

He peered into the bunk above him. Colin was still asleep. Just about everyone was asleep, it seemed. The cabin resounded with snores and wheezes, human and canine. On the floor, Kosta slept with the dogs. Next to him was Socrates, a protective paw draped over his rag doll. It was a funny-looking little man wearing a tall red hat with a long tassel, a short puffy white skirt, and shoes with pompons. His name was Evzonos; Kosta proudly claimed that his outfit was standard for Greek soldiers.

Which could explain why the Greeks were no longer a world power.

Andrew tried to doze, but Barth’s yelling was too loud. The man was as good-humored as a porcupine. Hardly anyone was immune to his tongue-lashings, and he never seemed to sleep.

Andrew could make out some claptrap about an “egregious violation of the maritime code.” Barth loved his maritime code. According to Kennedy, he slept with it under his pillow.

Colin peered down from his bunk. “Are you up?”

“I am now,” Andrew replied.

“Who is that up there with Barth?”

“How should I know?” Andrew asked.

“You must know
something.”

“Last night you promised Pop you’d be decent to me.”

“I was decent. I was just stating a fact. You must know something.”

“You haven’t lost any of your hateful qualities overnight.”

“Thank you.”

Colin pulled on some clothes, pulled open his bunk curtain sheet, and climbed out. Without a word to Andrew, he slid down and walked toward the hatch.

No use trying to sleep now. Andrew dressed and ascended the hatch stairs behind his stepbrother.

Jack was abovedecks, too. “I checked the stores,” he said to Captain Barth. “It seems this young man has helped himself for quite a few days down there.”

“In the old days we would throw people like you overboard,” Barth growled. “As excess steerage.”

Andrew closed the hatch behind him, gaping at the scene by the starboard railing.

Jack and Barth were facing two men. One was Philip. But the other was a stranger, short and wiry, wearing loose, disheveled clothing. He had a ruddy, pugnacious face that didn’t flinch under Barth’s verbal assault.

“I assure you, sir,” Philip said, “Nigel is my dear friend. He’s quite … seaworthy and should prove a jolly companion to all—”

“I don’t care if he’s Horace Putney himself,” Barth said. “I hold you accountable for smuggling him in, Westfall. So, Nigel, you want to be part of this voyage? Fine. Henceforth I permanently assign both of you to the following jobs: fetching the fresh water and ice, cleaning the engine, washing the latrine, cleaning up after the dogs—”