Antarctica (14 page)

Flummerfelt was glancing at him. Something was up.

Colin counted Nigel’s gang. Six, including Flummerfelt.

Bailey was missing.

Now Stimson was stepping away, disappearing behind the prow. Talmadge, Hayes, Nigel, and Philip remained.

Their plan was starting. Colin hoped Flummerfelt had remembered what to do.

Stimson returned, agitated. He whispered something to Flummerfelt. With a questioning look, Flummerfelt pantomimed climbing a ladder.

He was sending Colin a signal. They had a ladder on the other side. They were going back up to the ship for the other weapons.

Stimson, Flummerfelt, and Nigel disappeared around the ship. Four gone now.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Colin broke off an enormous chunk of ice, opening a crack that spread down the hull, toward the prow.

The
Mystery
righted itself, sending a swell of water up through the ice. It was free.

One by one, the crew turned to Colin. Two or three started applauding. What had this boy eaten for breakfast? Windham asked. Let him pull the ship himself, Robert said.

But Colin kept his eye trained on the prow.

In the commotion the last two slipped away—Philip and Hayes.

Seven men were on Nigel’s team altogether.

Barth, Mansfield, Dr. Montfort, Windham, Kennedy, and Colin were left. Only six.

Colin unbuttoned his parka. The temperature was barely above zero, but he was sweating. Any moment now …

“All right, drop the picks—everybody! Put your ’ands in the air!”

Dead silence.

Nigel stood at the prow, a rifle in hand. Bailey, Hayes, and Brillman were on his right; Stimson, Talmadge, Flummerfelt on his left. All armed.

“This is a mutiny!” Philip cried out, elbowing his way out from behind Nigel.

“I fink they caught that already,” Nigel murmured.

Only Dr. Montfort dropped his pick. The rest of Barth’s men were staring, stunned.

“Drop ’em, I told you!” Nigel shouted.

Kennedy was the first to laugh, a sudden explosive guffaw. Mansfield’s shoulders began to quiver, and soon he, too, was laughing. Then Windham and Dr. Montfort.

Captain Barth strode toward the mutineers, his fists clenched. “What the hell is this, your idea of a joke?”

“Stay back, I’m warning you!”
Philip shrieked. He held out a pistol that vibrated along with his hand.

Flummerfelt raised his rifle to the sky.

The sharp crack of the shot stopped Barth in his tracks. The laughter stopped, and all the men finally dropped their shovels and picks.

Colin swallowed hard.

“Captain …” Mansfield said cautiously.

Barth backed away. “You bastards.”

“No, not us, Cap’n,” Nigel said. “Ask your men who the villain is. Ask their opinion of you.”

“Who’s the leader of this circus—you?” Barth glanced from Nigel to Philip. “Or Little Lord Fauntleroy?”

“Not funny!” Philip blurted out.

“Shoot us,” Mansfield said. “Go ahead. Then what’ll you do? What’ll you tell the others?”

“There are no others,” Nigel replied. “The
Mystery
is going ’ome, gen’l’men, where she belongs.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Barth said through clenched teeth.

“I don’t believe you have the authority to determine that anymore.” Philip stepped forward, gesturing toward the ladder with his pistol. “After you … Elias.”

Captain Barth hauled back his fist but Dr. Montfort caught him by the arm. “Do what he says, Captain,” he said gently. “Please.”

Yes,
Colin thought.
Do it.

Captain Barth walked stiffly up the ladder. Philip followed behind, grinning.

Nigel and his men forced the others up afterward. Colin was last. He felt the barrel of a gun against his back. “We can use the likes of you,” Talmadge said. “Think about it.”

Colin said nothing.

The men were facing amidships, their hands in the air. Philip pointed his gun at Barth’s head.

“You imbecile!” Nigel called out. “Don’t kill nobody yet!”

Philip ignored him. “Dress left!” he shouted to Barth. “And march!”

Captain Barth turned slowly and walked to the mainmast.

Philip kicked a wooden barrel toward him. “Climb it—keep your back against the mast.”

Slowly Barth stood on the stool. Above his head, a halyard hung low, swinging in the wind.

Now Philip was climbing another barrel, next to Barth. With one hand on his pistol, he carefully attached the back of Barth’s coat to the metal hook.

Then, stepping down, he kicked away both barrels.

Barth dropped.

His coat caught, and he hung from the hook, swinging above the deck.

“Happy New Year, deck rat,” Philip said.

December 31, 1909

H
E HADN’T BEEN ABLE
to sleep. It was too cold. He was worried. And now there was a smell. A hideous, powerful, human-waste kind of smell.

Andrew’s eyes opened. The smell was coming from Lombardo. Lombardo had relieved himself but nobody had noticed it, they were all asleep like dead men.

He looked around, squinting at the still-lit sky through the cave.

A body was slumped in the opening.

“Jack!”
Andrew leaped across the floor and pulled his stepfather back in, brushing off the snow, slapping his face. “Dr. Riesman! Somebody!
Help me!”

Jack’s skin was cold. He was breathing, but slowly.

Andrew threw the parka around him. He grabbed the nearest sleeping bag, Oppenheim’s, and wrapped that around Jack, too. Oppenheim didn’t flinch, didn’t grumble.

They were immobile. All of them.

It was a mass polar sleep. A slaughter.

“Jack, wake up!
Somebody help me!”

No answer.

Andrew set Jack down, tucking the sleeping bag around him, and ran outside to get the stove. He would heat up water—heat up something to keep Jack warm.

The dogs were gone.

The dogs were gone.
How were the men going to get back now?

He ran for the supply tent. His foot jammed against something hard and he went sprawling.

Socrates lifted his head out of the snow. Nearby a tail popped out.

Of course. The dogs were buried. They were keeping warm.

“Good boy,” Andrew said. “Stay. Just … stay.”

He took the stove and ran back into the tent. Jack’s head was moving now. He let out a moan, barely audible.

“Jack! Can you hear me?”

“Andrew?” Jack’s eyes fluttered. “Andrew, go to sleep. Please. It’s okay. I’ll take the shift.”

“Shift?”

“The night watch. I’ve got it under control. Just leave me. I’m fine. I’m feeling pretty good …” Jack’s eyes began to close.

“There’s not going to be a night watch. Get up, Jack. We’re leaving.”

“What?”

“Everybody up!”
Andrew shouted.
“O’Malley, cook us something!”

He was screaming now. He had no choice. This was not the place to sleep. It was not the time. They would die here, all of them. They needed to eat. The food stores were low, but rationing made no sense. They needed to eat it all, eke out what energy they could and move on—farther north, closer to the water, closer to the seals and penguins. Food.

“Will someone shut him up?” Cranston mumbled.

Ruppenthal yawned. “What stinks?”

“Come on, we’re moving,” Andrew said. He ran around the tent, shaking the men, glancing over his shoulder at Jack. “Move! Pop’s orders—right, Pop?”

Jack wrapped himself tighter in his coverings. “Yes. Right.”

Cranston was the first up, then Ruppenthal. Andrew kept shaking the others, one by one—all except Lombardo. He would have to be wrapped up and loaded onto a sledge, along with Kosta.

Soon the men were mobilizing. There was little protesting. Lombardo’s stench was unbearable now. Thank goodness for Lombardo.

Just outside the cave, O’Malley set up his stove. The meat supply was low. He threw some pemmican to the dogs and cooked up the remaining steaks and chops for the men.

The sun was on its upward swing now, the clouds clearing. From the stove, smoke snaked into the cave, warming it quickly. Everyone was awake now, eating as much as his stomach could hold. Dr. Riesman fed himself and Lombardo.

Andrew kept Jack warm, bringing him food and hot coffee. They had plenty of coffee. It looked like bilge and tasted like gunpowder, but there was enough for the trip and more.

Jack’s color returned slowly, but he was drowsy and weak. He would be in no condition to lead for a while.

“Siegal, Rivera,” Andrew said. “Can you get a reading on our location? Petard, Ruskey, Cranston—harness the dogs and let’s be ready to move.”

“Yeah,” Siegal muttered, shambling outside to find the sextant.

“Ruppenthal, Oppenheim, Dr. Riesman—let’s strap Kosta and Lombardo on the sledges,” Andrew said. “Jack?”

“I’ll move on my own steam,” Jack replied. He stood, propping himself up against the wall.

Soon Rivera called out, “We’re due south of the ship, maybe eighty miles.”

“A good week’s travel and we’ll be back,” Siegal added. “If the weather holds.”

“That’s a laugh,” Oppenheim said.

They wouldn’t have a week. Andrew knew that in his bones. One more week of this, and they’d all be dead.

They’d have to cover twenty miles a day, at least. And find some food on the way.

They prepared quickly, packing the sleeping bags, the stove, and the meager store of food.

Kosta protested that he could walk, but on his first attempt he fell into the snow with a howl, upsetting the dogs.

He would remain sledgebound, like it or not.

Lombardo had lapsed back into unconsciousness.

The men strapped the two invalids onto sledges. Jack took the reins of Lombardo’s sledge, Andrew the other.

The dogs seemed refreshed by the sleep and the meal, but they still moved slowly.

Jack was falling asleep at the reins of the other sledge. The men were sliding along listlessly, stooped over their skis.

To the north-northwest a low, dense white cloud was sweeping toward them across the plain.

“Heeyah!” Andrew shouted, pulling on the reins.

Eighty miles.

December 31, 1909

“W
HAT IN THE BLAZES
do you think you’re doing?”

Mansfield was spitting mad. Ignoring the circle of rifles, he grabbed a barrel, climbed up, and unhooked Captain Barth.

The Captain fell to the deck.

Nigel reared back and swung the butt of his rifle at Mansfield. It hit the back of his head with a loud crack, and he crumpled beside Barth.

“That’s
wha’ we’re doin,’” Nigel said. “An’ we’ll do it to anyone wha’ stands in our way. Don’t matter who it is. New rules of the sea, gen’l’men. Survival of the fittest. These is neutrical waters, an’ Captain Barf has no jurisdiction.”

Barth was cradling Mansfield’s head in his lap. “What do you suppose will happen when we arrive home, Nigel?” he said bitterly. “They’ll let you go scot-free?”

“I won’t be on board,
Elias,”
Nigel replied. “Because the ship will be makin’ a few stops first. Australia, I figure, would be just the right place for my good friend Philip and me to set up a new life. My mates ’ere will keep the officials busy wif stories of their ’eroism while we slip away. Eventually someone will find you—if you’re still alive. Then you can give your side of the story and see who listens, let the world judge your American imperialist propagan—”

“Nigel, will you shut up and throw them in the brig!” Philip blurted out.

“Right,” Nigel snapped. “Line ’em up, Brillman.”

“Aren’t we going to give ’em a chance to join us?” Brillman asked.

“Let
me
do the finkin’, will you?” Nigel said.

Brillman gestured meekly with his rifle. “Sorry about this, guys. Go on, now. Get down there.”

“Not like that,” Nigel said with disgust. “Like this.”

He gave Kennedy a swift kick in the pants. Kennedy flew across the deck, nearly falling down the hatch stairs.

Windham lunged for Nigel. “You sniveling little—”

Flummerfelt grabbed Windham by the scruff of the neck and threw him across the deck.

Colin shot him a glance. He hadn’t expected this. Not at all.

Flummerfelt looked away uneasily.

“Right,” Nigel said. “Now get into the brig, all of you!”

Colin fell into line. He followed the other men down the ladder, across the afterhold, and then down into the storage hold.

Abaft, in a dark corner of the ship, were three closetlike rooms with barred doors.

“You first, Elias.” Philip prodded Captain Barth in the back with his pistol.

Colin eyed Flummerfelt. He was scowling, his eyes darting around the room.

His gun was loaded, but he wouldn’t shoot down here. Not belowdecks, in close quarters. Especially not in a place where a bullet could cause a leak.

Captain Barth was stepping toward the brig, his face sagging with the humiliation.

It was time.

Colin stepped in front of Barth. Calmly he faced down the barrel of Philip’s pistol. “I’m afraid you’ll have to shoot me first, Philip.”

“Winslow, don’t be a fool!” Barth tried to push him aside, but Colin held his ground.

The men were all shouting, warning Colin to move aside. For his own good.

Philip pointed the pistol at Colin’s head. “Feeling brave? Do you think I wouldn’t shoot you?”

“Is that what you said to the bank officers?” Colin replied.

“The
who?”

“At the Bank of London?”

Philip blanched. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s in all the newspapers—right, Nigel? The ones that call Philip an upper-class thief, considered armed and dangerous because he stole ten thousand pounds from the bank? You know, the papers you found in Philip’s footlocker?”

Philip shot a glance at Nigel. “You—you looked in my
footlocker?
You showed them to
him?
Those are my intimate possessions!”

“Rot!” Nigel yelled. “I did no such a fing!”

Slowly Flummerfelt backed into the shadows.

“What did Nigel promise you, Philip?” Colin said. “He’d keep your dirty secret if you went along with him? How much is he in for, thirty percent? Fifty? And you really think he’ll follow through? You think he won’t turn you in the minute you set foot on shore?”