Antarctica (8 page)

No one knew who would be chosen. Jack had not made up his mind until now. That had been part of his plan.

Smart decision, Andrew realized. Teams meant sides. Haves and have-nots. The men who hadn’t been chosen for the South Pole might resent those who had. Morale would have been destroyed.

Jack knew what he was doing.

Andrew envied the men who would be chosen. Surely Lombardo, for his toughness. Siegal, for his quick wits. Kosta, to tend the dogs.

He wished he were older. He wished, in a way, that the men would fail—not die, not be hurt, just
not make it.
Follow the wrong path, realize they didn’t have enough food, something. Maybe Scott and Amundsen would fail, too. The South Pole would remain unclaimed until, oh, maybe 1914 or so, when Andrew would be old enough for consideration.

The morning passed slowly as the
Mystery
meandered along the coast. A southwesterly wind had blown much of the pack ice out to sea, and the weather was clear enough to plot a safe course through the leads.

Just before the lunch hour, Jack and Captain Barth emerged. Mansfield immediately blew the meeting whistle. The men filed onto the deck, and Jack began his speech.

Both of the groups, he said, would be equally important. The trekkers faced greater glory, but they risked their lives. The men remaining aboard the
Mystery
had a solemn responsibility; without them the trip could not succeed. They could enjoy day expeditions safely close to the ship.

Andrew glanced around him. The faces told a story. Everyone knew the trekkers would have the better deal.

“I will lead the Pole exploration,” Jack announced. “And I will need the following thirteen men …”

Kosta. Of course.

Petard, for his skiing expertise.

Dr. Riesman, the vet.

Dr. Shreve, the geologist.

Ruskey, the photographer.

O’Malley, who could cook.

The sailors Siegal, Lombardo, Rivera, Ruppenthal, Cranston, and Oppenheim.

“What about Barth?” shouted Hayes.

Jack looked up from his list. “The captain will be in charge of those who remain on the
Mystery.”

Kennedy howled, falling to his knees. “Please, let me go with you!”

Some of the men laughed—mainly the ones who didn’t have to stay; the others weren’t so amused.

Andrew didn’t blame them. Without Jack, Captain Barth would be hard to take.

Without Jack, Colin would be impossible.

“Andrew,” Jack called out.

“Yes?” Andrew answered.

Jack looked at him quizzically. “You’re going.”

“Going where?”

“You’re the thirteenth name,” Jack said. “You’re going to the South Pole.”

Calm. He had to stay calm. This was a misunderstanding. A mental trick. Brought on by fatigue. It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t. The look on his father’s face was steady, but it would break when he realized what he’d said.

“Unless,” Jack said with a shrug, “you don’t want to.”

Now everyone was looking at Andrew, bewildered, expectant, waiting for a reaction, waiting to hear what on earth a sixteen-year-old would say upon learning he would be among the first people since the dawn of time to set foot on the South Pole.

And a sound burst forth, a bellow so loud and sudden and overwhelming that it took Andrew a moment to realize that it was coming from himself.

The next morning Andrew was jolted awake by the sound of Captain Barth’s voice.

The men were racing about the cabin, the dogs yowling.

“Drop anchor! All hands on deck!”

Anchor. They were dropping anchor. That meant they’d found a port.

If they found a port, it was time to leave.

To the South Pole.

The South Pole!

Andrew leaped out of bed. He pulled on his clothes and raced above deck.

The
Mystery
had jibed south, directly into a cove. Here, at the base of a sloping ice shelf, was a shoreline. Not much, really: a few acres of gray-black rocks, covered with snow and guano—and a squadron of curious seals that one by one slid into the water as the ship approached.

“Lower the lifeboats and load ’em on out!” shouted Captain Barth.

The ship flew into motion. Bailey, Hayes, and Sanders pulled halyards, releasing the lifeboats. Andrew fell into a conveyor line hauling up supplies from the galley and the stores—whale meat and pemmican for the dogs, chops and canned food for the men. A large stove and two small wire Primus stoves. Coal, wood, matches, lanterns. Skis and snowshoes. Extra dry clothing, extra traces for the dogs. Medical supplies. Books. Three sledges and grease for the sledge treads. Photography and film equipment. Picks, saws, shovels, and a microscope. Clubs and rifles for hunting.

All of it had to be slid down canvas chutes into the four lifeboats. There wasn’t enough room for anything else, so Lombardo, Hayes, Rivera, and Ruppenthal boarded the boats by themselves and rowed them to shore. There they would unload, then return to pick up the men and dogs.

The two teams shared a giddy tangle of embraces, backslaps, and handshakes.

“Good luck, men,” Captain Barth said. “I envy you.”

Kennedy threw him a dubious glance. “So do we.”

Colin had wandered to the other end of the ship. He was examining the rigging as Andrew approached him.

“Well …” Andrew began.

“Yeah,” Colin mumbled.

“Don’t leave without us, okay?”

Colin smiled wanly. “It’s not in the plan.”

Andrew extended his hand and his stepbrother took it.

“Bon voyage,” Colin said.

“No hard feelings—about me going?”

“Nope. I wanted to stay.”

Andrew nodded.

The lifeboats were returning now, and soon everyone—men and dogs—was sliding down the chutes. Somehow Lombardo ended up in the water, but Andrew believed he did it on purpose. To keep them laughing to the last possible minute.

As they sailed to shore, a wet snow began to fall. It clung to the oars and their clothing, and when Andrew looked back, the
Mystery’s
rigging was a glistening white web.

Andrew’s boat was called the
Horace Putney,
and it had the appropriate size of its namesake, if not the luxurious trimmings. When it bottomed out on rocks close to the shore, they all climbed out into the shallows.

Andrew’s knees buckled. He felt a brief wave of nausea.

“Lord, I’d forgotten what terra firma felt like,” O’Malley said.

Andrew tried to walk, but his legs had a life of their own, as if he’d never stepped on solid land in his life.

But that’s where he was—solid land. The land at the bottom of the world. Where no one had stood before. Ever.

The dogs tore off like a shot. Barking giddily, they dived into snowdrifts, rolled on rocks, ran in circles, and yapped at the seals, which were now watching from a safe distance.

“Socrates! Plutarchos! Taki!” Kosta shouted.
“Ella tho!”

Ella tho.
Come here. Andrew was beginning to pick up some of this. He’d have to. The dogs seemed to obey Greek more than English.

Ruppenthal had fallen to his knees and was kissing the earth. Dr. Shreve danced a crazy-looking jig.

As the lifeboats returned, a musket shot echoed off the sea, then another, the
Mystery
sending the men a farewell salute.

Lombardo, whose clothing had nearly frozen solid, was changing into dry togs. The others went to work loading the sledges.

They’d packed too much onto the boats. No one had thought to measure the provisions against the capacity of the sledges. Fully loaded, the sledges were nearly six feet high.

This was it, then. These were to be their moveable homes for the next few weeks.

“The temperature is twenty-one degrees Fahrenheit,” Jack said. “This is about as warm as it gets. If we time this right, we’ll make it back before the summer is out. Are we ready?”

“READY!”

“Then let’s go, boys!”

“Yeeaaaaaaa!”

POW!

Another shot from the
Mystery.
A cheer across the sea, echoing their own.

“Stay within each other’s sight at all times,” Jack said. “We will use tie lines during snowstorms. Go slowly and alert each other of depressions of snow that might mask crevasses. If your toes and fingers lose sensation, stop immediately and let me know—frostbite is to be avoided at all costs. And if you get lost in a storm, for God’s sake, keep yourself awake. Sleep will set in and try to lull you out of your misery—it’s called the polar sleep, and it is the precursor of death.”

“Right!” Siegal exclaimed. The others piped up in agreement.

Jack then led a prayer. As he intoned the twenty-third psalm—
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—
Andrew’s heart was beating so hard he could see the motion through his coat.

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t.

All he could see was the face of his mother.

And she was smiling.

November 14, 1909

S
WEEPING THE STORAGE HOLD
.
The storage hold.
Of all the insulting, menial tasks.

Nigel drew his broom across the wooden planks, sending up a cloud of dust. “D’yer understand wha’ this means? D’yer realize wha’ they’re doin’ to us?”

The boy’s back was to Nigel. He was leaning over a barrel, no doubt eating. Or daydreaming. Or both. The only things he could do well, the pampered brat. “Hmm?”

“It’s storage, Philip. What’ll they have us do next—put up a little festive buntin,’ ’old a little dance—perhaps invite a few of the more attractive seals?”

Now he was turning around, the lazy imbecile.

“My good man,” Philip said, “what on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talkin’ about an attempt by the upper classes to depress the workin’ man—”

“I am not,” Philip said, “nor do I ever intend to be, a workingman.”

“I can
see
that—”

“Nigel, we are in a quiet place. We’re surrounded by food. Two feet of solid lumber insulate us from the outside. Where are the others? Outside, chopping ice. Count your blessings.”

“Exactly wha’ they want you to say, Philip! That’s ’ow it works—they numb you. Wear you down. Convince you it’s all right.”

“Nigel, you are a stowaway. I am a runaway. I don’t see that we have any leverage here.”

Nigel slammed his broom on the floor. “Of course you don’t. You fink like they do. You fink they’re so bloody smart. Well, consider this. Wha’ sort of animal ’ave they taken wif ’em?”

“Dogs.”

“And wha’ else?”

Philip considered this a moment. “More dogs?”

“Right! Now, wha’ does that tell you? It tells you they’re fools. Now, if you follow the finkin’ of Robert Scott—the best bleedin’ explorer wha’ ever lived—you know you’re supposed to take ponies. Why? Because they’re built for ’eavypullin.’ Because one of ’em can pull wha’ free or four dogs can pull—plus, they eat grain, so you don’t have to worry about spoilin’ meat.”

“It’s well below freezing out there. The meat is frozen.”

“You’re ignorin’ my point. It’s the stupidity of it. Fink, Philip. They split the crew into two teams, an’ they don’t tell us until the last minute—very bad for morale. The team wha’ leaves, they don’t ’ave the right animals. So they’re doomed. They can’t contact us. Wha’ ’appens to us if they don’t return?”

“We go home, I suppose.”

“And ’ow long d’yer suppose they’re goin’ to wait before they decides to do that? Six monfs? A year? While we sit ’ere an’ mop the floors an’ scrub the water closet an’ say yes sir no sir to Barf?”

“Unless we freeze to death first.”

“Exac’ly!” At last. The light of understanding. “’Ow long do you fink these men will last under Barf?”

Philip laughed. “They hate him.”

“They’ll ’ang ’im, they will. String ’im up from the riggin’, like whale meat. Then who calls the shots? No one. They’ll all be fightin’ to take over—Mansfield, Hayes, Kennedy. We’ll be lucky if they don’t slit each other’s froats!”

“Lovely, then. You and I can sail home together.”

“They’ll kill us, too! Unless we act first, Westfall.”

“Act? What do you mean,
act?”

Nigel leaned into Philip, lowering his voice. “I mean, we take the ship from Barf an’ sail it ’ome now.”

Philip stared back, uncomprehending, as if Nigel had just spoken in Swedish. “You’re joking, of course.”

“They ain’t comin’ back, Philip. All them blizzards an’ winds an’ crevasses an’ such? Not to mention they ain’t got enough food. An’ if those don’t get ’em, the yeti will.”

“The
yeti
?”

“’Uge, ugly, ’airy fing. Lives in the snow, ’ides in caves. Freezes your blood and eats you ’ole. I ’eard about ’em from the Sherpas in Nepal, back two or free years ago when I been there—”

“You can’t possibly believe in—”

“Face it. Winslow, Lombardo, all of ’em—it’s a fool’s mission. No one’s ever done it in all of ’istory. You fink an amateur explorer, a Greek truck driver, a teenage boy, an’ a few flunkies is goin’ to succeed where Scott failed? We ’ave to take the
Mystery
before the weather takes us.”

“You’re insane. You’re totally barmy. You think you and I are going to—”

“Not just me an’ you. The others, too. I been doing some listenin’, Philip. A few of these fellows is feelin’ the same as me—what’s the point in waitin’ ’ere? This is
summer,
for goodness’ sake, and it’s freezin’. What’s autumn like—or winter? Listen, Philip, to the picks an’ saws out there. The ship’s locked in. They’re workin’ to free it—for wha’? To stand still until it freezes again?”

“But—but this is mutiny, Nigel!”

“That’s your name for it. I call it survival. We start slowlike. Plant the seeds, if you will. I can count at least four men will join us right away, I’m sure—free more I know will turn. So, we leave little ’ints ’ere an’ there, an’ before you know it, we’ll be the majority.”

“Fine. Try it. But don’t cry to me when Barth banishes you to the penguins.”

“’Ave it your way, Philip. If you’re not in, it’s all right by me. But if you ain’t one of us, you’re one of ’em. An’ when we’re in control, we do the banishin’. I understand the brig is none too comfortable. An’ when we arrive ’ome, there’s plenty of press contacts’ll be very interested to ’ear who you are.”