Antarctica (3 page)

Why? Why had it happened? She had been alive, happy and laughing, then three days later she was gone. What had she done? What could
he
have done to make things better? For what were they giving thanks today?

He felt the room swirl. The goose seemed to be sliding down the table.

Buck
up,
Andrew told himself.
Steady now. Be positive.

Raising his glass, he bolted up from his seat. “I propose a toast—to—Mother’s memory.”

“Hear, hear!” Jack and Colin chimed in.

Andrew downed his water, then with a smile excused himself to the washroom.

For a long while he stood, looking at his ashen face in the mirror, catching his breath, counting his breaths, wiping his mind clean.

Completely clean. The past is out of your control. What you can’t control can control you if you let it. Better to bury it and move on.

He slapped himself once, twice, until he saw some color in his cheeks. Then he opened the door and walked back toward the dining room.

“Everything all right?” Jack asked.

“Fine,” Andrew said with a smile.

From outside a loud whinny interrupted his response.

“And good riddance to ya!” a hoarse voice shouted.

A hansom cab had lurched to a stop at the curb. The door opened and a young man stepped out. He wore a full-length fur coat, a black bowler, and patent-leather shoes, and as he stood on the sidewalk, he rapped a carved ivory walking stick on the side of the cab.

“My bags?” he demanded.

“No tip, no bags,” the driver replied.

“A gratuity is given as a token of appreciation for service above and beyond—not for surly behavior by louts who can’t find their way around the neighborhood and yet easily manage to locate every pothole therein.”

The driver hopped off his seat and disappeared behind the cab. “Ya want your bags?” his voice called out. “Here’s your bags!”

One by one, four leather suitcases came hurtling over the top of the cab, landing with wet thuds on the sidewalk. One of them opened, spilling out piles of freshly laundered white underwear.

“And keep yer money!” the driver said, tossing down a handful of coins as he leaped back in the seat and spurred on the horses.

“You will hear from my barrister!” the young man shouted, waving his cane. “This is an outrage!”

Jack stood up and moved toward the door. “That,” he said, “will be Philip.”

May 30, 1909

“H
ER EYES ARE LIKE
two stars so bright,

Her face is fair, her step is light,

I’ll go no more a-rovin from you, fair maid:

A-rovin, a-rovin , ’cause rovin’s been my ru-eye-in,

I’ll go no more a-rovin’ from you, fair maid….”

The singing. Anything but the singing.

The personal odor of these men was almost as dreadful as their breath, which reeked of codfish not quite digested. They’d knock you over before walking around you, and their language alone was enough to guarantee their eternal damnation.

But the singing, as far as Philip was concerned, was the worst.

Half of them were tone-deaf. The other half didn’t know the words but joined in nevertheless with peculiar rhythmic grunts. And all sang with such gusto and joy, one would think the
Mystery
were about to sail to some glorious Caribbean island.

In a few months they’d all be fingerless with frostbite, wiping penguin droppings off their boots. How many of them would be singing if they knew that? No more a-rovin,’ indeed.

On the dock, girlfriends and relatives waved tearfully, shouting their undying love. Uncle Horace, of course, was not among them. Philip did not miss him.

The ship itself was a ghastly mess, its floor—
deck—
piled high with coal for the engine.

“Hey, you boy!” called a sailor who was hanging off one of the masts. “You by the taffrail! Go to the fo’c’sle, will you, and tell ’em we’re needing to replace the mainsail sheet!”

“It’s Westfall,” Philip shouted back. “Mister Westfall to you. And I am on security duty.”

“In the stern? What are you guarding against, an attack by the Statue of Liberty?”

Cheeky. They were all so cheeky.

Philip made a show of looking at his clipboard and quickly walked toward the gangplank.

Fo’c’sle.
Philip knew that word. It was short for forecastle, where the sailors lived—just under the deck at the front of the boat. No. Front was
bow.
And it wasn’t a boat, it was a ship—
she
was a ship. You were supposed to call it
she.
The other words—taffrail? mainsail sheet?—were Greek to Philip.

Read up on sailing,
Uncle Horace had said.
I told them you knew what you were doing.

He hadn’t wanted his nephew around. Fine. Then all he needed to do was set Philip up in a bachelor apartment in some genteel neighborhood. They’d never have to cross paths. But this—a voyage to the bottom of the earth—was insanity.

Mum had warned that Horace was strong-willed. But he was more than that; he was treacherous. Threatening to report Philip to the British authorities was below the belt.

That wouldn’t do. Especially since Philip was hiding from them.

So he shut up. And he stayed with the Winslows. And he pretended.

They were odd, those Winslows. The overgrown one, the one who looked vaguely Asian, hardly said a word but ate enough for three. There was something wound-up about him, and Philip knew to steer clear. The glory boy, Andrew the Poet—he’d been running around all morning, battening down hatches or whatever a sailor did. For all his high spirits, you’d think he was going off to war. Detestable.

Did they suspect the truth? Philip wondered. They must. Surely Mr. Winslow suspected. His eyes showed that. And he made certain to give Philip all the easy jobs. Easy and boring.

Today he was to “check attendance” of all the sailors and officers reporting for duty.

As Philip approached the gangplank, a man lumbered up, loaded down with baggage, much more than the allowed amount. “This is not an ocean liner, sir,” Philip said. “Only two bags allowed. Sorry, but I didn’t make the rules. Do you have the proper papers?”

The man had piercing black eyes that became slitted and wary. “The name’s David Ruskey,” he said. “Mr. Winslow will vouch for the luggage—”

“Your papers, please.”

The man dropped two duffel bags and unhooked two more from his shoulders. Leaning over, he opened a bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

The bag was full of camera equipment.

Uncle Horace had told Philip to watch the photographer, to make sure no one stole any of the negatives or film. People would pay good money for the photos and films of this expedition, and Uncle Horace owned all the rights.

“Delighted to meet you, sir,” Philip said genially, taking a five-pound note out of his pocket to hand Ruskey with the papers. “I know you’ll be taking so many photographs that you wouldn’t miss one or two from time to time….”

Ruskey glanced at the money, gave him a baffled look, and stuffed it into his pocket. With a gruff nod, he picked up his equipment and moved on. Philip checked off his name.

The man seemed woefully honest, but you never knew. No reason not to see some personal profit from this torture.

“Hey, P.W., it’s about time!” Andrew’s voice cried out. “Where have you been? The men tell me they’re climbing aboard without anyone to greet them.”

P.W. What an awful sound. Like a reaction to a bad smell.

“And you actually believe them?” Philip said with a haughty laugh. “They’re toying with your mind … A.D.W. They’ll do that to the hopelessly naive. Watch out.”

“But—but—”

Philip turned away. That one was so easy to fluster.

Now another man was climbing the gangplank. Very self-important. Tweed jacket, pipe. He was over six feet tall, trim and broad-shouldered, a salt-and-pepper beard outlining a square jaw. A bit long in the tooth—forty-five or fifty, maybe. Pathetic to be that age and still working the poop decks.

“Papers,” Philip demanded.

“Barth,” the man said, angling to go around Philip. “Elias Barth.”

Philip stood in his way. “Very impressed, I’m sure. But unless you can show me your papers, I must ask you to get off my ship and return to the nearest pub whence you have no doubt come.”

The man trained a pair of icy-blue eyes on Philip.

“Of course,” Philip said, “if you’re willing to part with a five-spot, I could see my way to taking you presently to Mr. Winslow—”

Elias Barth dropped his bag, grabbed Philip’s shirt, lifted him off the deck, and held him like a sack of flour as he walked to amidships.

“Unhand me!” Philip shouted. “Mr. Winslow! Help! He’s going to throw me overboard. I CAN’T SWIM!”

“The sea is too good for you, deck rat.”

Philip felt a cold steel pole against his back, a metal hook poking into his neck.

Barth released him. The hook caught his shirt, causing it to pull up painfully under his arms—and Philip hung over the deck, his legs flailing.

The men were gathering about, laughing. Andrew and Colin, too. Ruskey had taken out a small camera and was snapping a photo.

“Get me down!” Philip yelled. “He can’t do this! Report him! His name is Elias Barth—do you hear me, ELIAS BARTH!”

The men were guffawing now. Doubling over.

“What is so blasted
funny.”
Philip demanded.

“Elias Barth,” said Andrew, “is our captain.”

September 5, 1909

“G
ENTLEMEN, PLEASE, BE QUIET,”
Jack announced.

Off the starboard hull, he could see the port of Buenos Aires slowly come into sight. The sun was strong, raising a sweat on his brow.

The men were rambunctious today. Packing their bags, singing, bragging about the women they intended to meet in port, barely paying him mind.

Jack didn’t blame them. The trip to South America had been a disaster. Half the men had been flattened by gastrointestinal sickness near Panama, and Captain Barth had worked the rest to the bone. Having three boys aboard hadn’t helped matters. Andrew had been trying hard but was only getting in people’s way, Colin had remained sullen and reluctant, and Philip was deadweight. Putney had lied badly about the boy’s age and experience; he was a landlubber, sixteen or seventeen years old at most, and the men hated him. Everyone had been exhausted and short-tempered—and now they believed the trip was over. Of course they were excited.

Captain Barth stepped onto the makeshift lectern, a tackle box, beside Jack.
“Button it, boys!”

“What’s the news, Pop?” cried Sam Bailey, a wiry, fast-talking sailor.

“You bought us bon voyage gifts?” shouted Bruce Cranston, whose dark good looks made him seem more matinee idol than seaman.

Jack smiled wanly. He needed these men. The port would be full of sailors looking for work, but few would be experienced enough to withstand the desolation of Antarctica.

His mind reeled when he thought of how much had to be done in port—dogs loaded, kennels built, food bought. Five crew members had promised to meet them here—a doctor, a veterinarian, a geologist, a biologist, and a dog handler. With them, the total crew would be thirty, including the captain and himself. It was a crucial amount. Enough to do all the work, enough to split into teams.

Jack cleared his throat. “Men, we are moments away from our first port of call on a long voyage. We will dock here for a week and then continue on to our ultimate destination.”

He told them everything, and they listened. As the words flew out of his mouth, Jack felt his voice rising and falling like a preacher’s, and he reminded his men that they were all headed for the earth’s last undiscovered frontier, that their names would go down in history books. That within a few months, Old Glory would be flying on the South Pole.

When he finished, the men were silent.

“A joke, right, Pop?” Pete Hayes finally piped up.

“He’s straight,” Bailey muttered.

“Good of you to tell us!” shouted Vincent Lombardo, a man broad of beam and loud of voice.

Bailey shot back, “You wanted an engraved invitation, Your Highness?”

“Wait. What did he say?” Brillman, the electrician.

“You mean, we can’t leave?” Sanders, a sailor.

“Says who?”

“Shut up and listen to the man!”

It was chaos. They were shouting one another down.

“Quiet, or I will dock your wages for a week!” Captain Barth shouted.

“We will be gone perhaps a year,” Jack said. “We will travel during the Antarctic summer, when the sun is in the sky nearly all day and temperatures may reach as high as thirty degrees Fahrenheit. But it will be dangerous. The sea can freeze around the ship. Even after we land, we will cross much terrain that has never been charted, in weather that can change in an instant. I’ve planned with great care to provide enough stores to last through the bitterest conditions. Sailors, I will pay your commissions even after we have anchored. When that happens, we will split into teams—half the men will stay on board, the other half will journey with dog sledges to the Pole. I will determine the teams when we arrive, based on what I observe during the voyage.

“The choice, gentlemen, is yours. I selected only the best for this trip—men with character, temperament, strength, and the freedom of spirit to succeed. My commitment, above all others, is to do everything in my power to bring my men home alive. I will brook no man too wary to take extraordinary risks—but I will allow no risks foolhardy enough to jeopardize a life. That is my vow.

“Should you choose to disembark, go with our blessing. I am, after all, asking you to commit to something no man has done before. Should you stay, you will earn more than my gratitude. The country will rise up to thank you for the rest of your lives.

“All I ask is that you consider.”

In the quiet that followed, a bell buoy clanged. Seagulls cawed greedily overhead, scoping for food, and distant music sounded from the shore.