Antarctica (15 page)

“We’ll have to inform their next of kin,” Andrew suggested.

“What will we tell them?” Colin asked.

“That two good men gave their lives in the highest pursuit of their calling,” Captain Barth replied softly.

“Look at them all,” Lombardo said, shaking his head in amazement. “It looks so easy, don’t it — life?”

Mansfield’s eyes were misty. “I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”

“Strange,” Petard said, “it scares me more than that iceberg did.”

“Nothing will ever be the same,” Dr. Riesman said. “Working a job, going to the market, falling asleep at night — how can anything seem important after what we’ve seen?”

“And what we’ve conquered,” said Sanders.

“Conquered what?” Kennedy grumbled. “It conquered us.”

“No,” Colin said gently. “You’re wrong about that.”

“We survived,” Ruskey reminded him. “That’s a victory.”

“Because of
luck,
that’s all,” Kennedy said.

“Is it luck for one man to hope when the rest have given up?” Captain Barth asked, looking pointedly at Andrew.

“For a landlubber to row a boat out of a maelstrom?” Colin said.

“For a father and son to quest for men who’ve almost certainly died,” Philip added, “all the while knowing they’ve missed their rescue boat?”

“Ship,” Mansfield said.

Brillman laughed. “Sounds more like stupidity.”

“There’s a fine line between stupidity and faith,” Petard said.

“If Pop hadn’t been lucky enough to find this whaler,” Kennedy said, “it
would
have been stupidity.”

Jack shook his head. “There is no luck, Kennedy. There is only holding on long enough to outlast death.”

Colin smiled and extended two fists. “Hail the conquering heroes, then.”

“All hail!” Andrew shouted, putting his fists on his brother’s.

The men drew a tight circle and instantly filled it with wiry arms and ragged sleeves.
“HAIL!”

Kennedy shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”

The fists gave way to open arms, and the men began embracing one another, vowing pledges and promises.

Lombardo was blubbering. “You saved my life. I don’t know how I’ll repay you all.”

“Just show us it was worth the trouble,” Kennedy remarked. “Get a job.”

“I want every address,” Ruskey said. “I’ll write you all and send you prints.”

“Lifetime free medical examinations for all of you and your families,” Dr. Montfort offered. “Five-five-five Broadway, sixth floor.”

“We’ll all stay in touch,” Hayes said. “Always. We’re family.”

“Brothers of the
Mystery
!” Cranston shouted. “Forever!”

Colin realized he loved them all. He believed the promises were sincere, and he felt a bond that would be painful to break.

But he suspected that after the landing, after contact with people, the return to routines and schedules and schooling, everything would change. All the promises and memories would gather in a dusty corner like a jewel too cumbersome to wear, only rarely to be brushed off and seen once again in vivid light.

As Colin turned back to the shore, he noticed four uniformed policemen around Mrs. Westfall, looking up sternly at the ship.

He glanced at Philip. “Are they waiting for you?”

“I figured something fishy was up with him,” Talmadge remarked.

Philip nodded. “Yes. I robbed a bank. I took a flier on a stupid prank that went sour. That is why I was sent on this trip. My mother is Horace Putney’s sister. She sent me to him to avoid prosecution. He, in turn, blackmailed your unsuspecting father into taking me on this trip.”

“I knew all of that,” Jack said.

“You
did
?” Philip asked.

“I pieced it together. And you know what? I’ll be ever grateful to your uncle.”

“You redeemed yourself in my eyes … deck rat,” Captain Barth said with a smile.

“Why don’t you just return the money, no hard feelin’s?” Windham asked.

“I can’t,” Philip said. “It went down with the
Mystery.”

“We can throw a block while you break for the open field,” Ruppenthal suggested.

“No,” Philip said firmly. “I couldn’t hide from this in Antarctica. No civilized place will be easier. I will give myself up. What punishment could be worse than what I’ve just been through?”

“Listening to Lombardo sing?” Flummerfelt said.

“Having to look at Nigel every day,” Kennedy chimed in. “Say, where is that two-legged warthog, anyway?”

Nigel was nowhere to be seen. “Probably in the fo’c’sle,” Mansfield said, “flensing money from some poor underpaid whaler in a poker game.”

As the
Nobadeer
was pulled into the dock’s wood pilings, the dockworkers rolled a sturdy, rope-railed gangplank to the hull. The dogs raced down first, followed by Kosta, grabbing tight to the railings and shouting,
“Prosecheh, paithàkia!”

Philip was the next to step onto the plank. “Farewell,” he said. “You are all cordially invited to my execution.”

Colin followed him down, then Jack, Andrew, and Captain Barth. The other sailors nearly pushed themselves overboard trying to crowd onto the steps — all but Ruskey, who’d gone belowdecks to find his camera and film.

At the dock, Philip walked to his mother, who was now crying. He put his arms around her and held her for a long time, whispering into her ear, while the policemen kept a respectful distance.

Finally his mother said, “Philip, these are Constables Mudge, Lamston, and Pickering.”

Mudge was well fed and self-satisfied, with a beard so thick it could hide a small pet. Lamston stood tall and erect, his nervous features twitching a well-waxed handlebar mustache that shone even in the fog. Pickering had a baby face, quizzical and amused, and his hat barely fit atop his thick blond locks.

Philip turned to them with his hands outstretched.

“No handcuffs at your age,” said Constable Mudge. “We trust your mum. The other mums have been very helpful to us.”

“Other mums?”

“Guess you ’aven’t seen the newspapers,” said Constable Lamston. “They pulled your pals by their ears into the police station. Photos made the front page. Not exactly seasoned criminals, you might say. Recovered all the money.”

“Well, you can’t recover my share,” Philip said. “It’s lost.”

“We’ll leave that matter to the magistrate,” Mudge shot back. “’E’ll ’ave some creative way to draw it out of your inheritance — or your wages, presumin’ you ever earn any.”

At the sudden sound of a scuffle aboard the
Nobadeer,
the officers looked upward. On deck, two rough-looking whalers were leading Nigel to Captain Coffin.

“’Ands off!” Nigel shouted. “I ’ave a perfickly good exclamation!”

“We found ’im ’idin’ among the blubber barrels,” one of the whalers said.

“Stowin’ away — on a
whalin’
ship?” Coffin said. “Love ye the hunt so much?”

“My credentials is impregnable, I assure you,” Nigel said. “Whales ’n’ me, we go way back. I can sling me a harpool like the best of ’em— I mean it, Coffing, take me wif you — please!”

The policemen were grinning. “Well, well … what have we here?” murmured Pickering. “If it isn’t Arnold Waxflatter.”

“Arnold?” Philip repeated.

“Waxflatter?”
Colin said.

“Goes under many names,” Lamston said. “Wanted for shopliftin’, bad credit, postal fraud, impersonatin’ a sailor, impersonatin’ just about anybody ’cept a law-abidin’ cit’zen— not to mention cheatin’ old widows and widowers by offerin’ to invest their money and then disappearin’ with it.”

“That’s our Nigel,” Robert said.

“You,” Mudge said to Philip, “is small potatoes compared to ’im.”

Nigel — or Arnold — tried to hide his face as the whalers forced him down the gangplank. “Don’t fink you’ll get away wif this! I know my rights — this ship is neutrical jurisdinction, an’ under international code I claim armistice!”

“Amnesty,” Captain Barth corrected him.

“That, too!” Nigel said.

Lamston took Nigel roughly by the arm. “So, the
Nobadeer
goes out for a whale and comes back with a weasel.”

“It’s all a misunderstanding!” Nigel insisted. “I’m as innocent as the nap on a baby’s cheek!”

“Save it for the courtroom,” Lamston said.

Captain Barth stepped forward. “I can’t speak as to the innocence or guilt of this man, but I will gladly testify as to the strength of his character.”

Nigel’s mouth dropped open. “You
will
?”

“He bagged a few whalefish single ’anded, eh?” Constable Pickering said.

“We are not whalers, sir,” Jack said. “We were Antarctic explorers.”

Mudge let out a guffaw. “And I’m the Archbishop of York.”

“The Cap’n radioed us all about you,” Lamston said. “Tol’ us you was lost on a sloop somewhere off Cape ’orn.”

“What?”
Jack said.

“That’s not true!” Colin exclaimed.

“It ain’t?” Pickering said. “I suppose you reached the South Pole, too.”

Mudge made a mockingly sad face. “Awww, ’at’ll be a great disappointment to Captain Robert Falcon Scott. Too late to tell ’im now. ’E’s somewhere between South Africa and New Zealand. Left ’ere on the first of June.”

“Tell them, Captain Coffin!” Colin said.

Captain Coffin stepped roughly down the gangplank. “The boy has an active imagination. His team’s too embarrassed to admit the truth, which is wha’ I told you. It’s human nature for Yankee rascals. Such as these ain’t fit to eat off the shoes of a hero like Robert Scott. God save the King! Now where’s that reward money ye promised, for me pickin’ up yer bloody criminals ’n’ deliverin’ ’em to port?”

“You liar!” Andrew shouted.

“Coffin, you’ll pay for this,” Jack said.

“’S long’s I collects me due first,” Coffin replied.

The dock erupted with noise, every man of the
Mystery
shouting and advancing on Coffin.

With a grand sweep of his arm, Captain Coffin drew a polished sword. “Avast, ye rogues!”

Constable Mudge rolled his eyes. “My, if we ain’t got Long John Silver in our midst.”

“This is 1910, sir,” Lamston announced. “Buckling swash in public is a criminal offense, punishable to the full extent of the law.”

In the midst of the tumult, a gleaming, well-upholstered automobile purred to a stop just before the dock. The driver jumped out crisply and opened the passenger door.

Horace Putney swiveled his girth, grimacing as he surveyed the dock, and stepped out.

“Putney!” Father shouted. “Just in time.”

“Good day, Uncle Horace, so
much
to tell you!” Philip called out. “But first, please inform these benighted souls where we have been!”

Putney strolled forward, ignoring Philip. He wore a full-length mink coat, and it swayed like a gentle brown sea over his exceedingly broad beam. A fur hat of the Russian style sat like a nest on his head, and he puffed contentedly on a fat cigar. “Just where
have
you been?”

“In Antarctica, exactly as planned, Mr. Putney,” Colin said.

“These scurvy bags o’ bones says they reached the South Pole,” Mudge exclaimed.

“We did not!” Andrew said. “But we tried.”

“Mr. Putney financed the building of our barquentine, the
Mystery,”
Colin said. “He sent supplies to us in Argentina. He’ll vouch for us.”

Putney raised his eyebrow. “Well, that’s a mighty fine yarn, young fella. But I build houses, not boats. I see that my nephew picked his American friends true to form.” He stole a wink at the policemen. “Carry on. I’ll be along to the magistrate’s to clear up this matter.”

As the policemen escorted Philip away, he shouted, “Traitor!” over his shoulder. Captain Coffin followed behind, his flowing cape and clattering scabbard clearing the street.

Father was red. When he spoke, his words hissed through clenched teeth.
“Why,
Putney? Even for you this is despicable.”

“I know why,” Colin said, turning on Putney. “You don’t want to seem like a loser, do you? If we didn’t reach the South Pole, then you’re just another failure. You don’t have the guts to admit the truth.”

“What is the truth?” Putney asked.

“That you financed one of the bravest, most courageous expeditions ever made by Americans,” Andrew replied.

“You didn’t reach the Pole, did you?”

“No,” Jack said. “We couldn’t — we knew enough to cut our losses and turn back. But we reached closer than any American has. And we survived. That’s a victory in itself.”

“Jack, the world isn’t looking for
closer.
They’re looking for results, and now they have Robert Falcon Scott — a bona fide national hero — to hang their hopes on. You could have beaten him, but you didn’t. Time moves on. I took a gamble on you and lost; my money’s invested in Scott now.” Putney shrugged. “I’m just doing what you did. Cutting my losses and moving on.”

“We’ll go to all the newspapers,” Colin vowed. “We’ll tell them what happened — and how you turned your back on us.”

“Be my guests,” Putney said. “See how many are interested, when they have a
real
race for the South Pole going on.”

“Putney, you’ll tell the truth someday,” Jack said. “I won’t stop hounding you until you do.”

Putney chuckled. “Well, you’d be wise to book passage on two rather elaborate voyages, then. Tomorrow I leave on an around-the-world cruise. I arrive back in London in approximately a year and a half.”

“We’ll be right here, waiting,” Jack replied.

“You’ll wait a long time,” Putney said, turning away. “Because shortly thereafter I’ll be steaming back to New York on the most expensive and magnificent ocean liner in history.”

The chauffeur opened the automobile door, and Putney stepped in, muttering impatiently, “To the magistrate at once! I’m running late.”

As the motor started up again, Putney leaned out the window and waved.

“You’ll find us in New York, Putney!” Colin shouted. “At the dock upon your return!”

“Very well,” Putney called out, pulling away in a cloud of cigar smoke. “Look for the
Titanic
.”

T
HE STORY OF THE
Mystery
did not end in London.