Antarctica (7 page)

Captain Barth scowled. “Don’t become too fond of them. Someday soon they may be your breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“I believe I am about to become sick,” Philip muttered.

Nigel backed away. “Again?”

“Always looking on the bright side, eh, Cap’n?” said Talmadge, the balding, genial meteorologist.

“Back to your posts,” Barth grumbled.

As the men returned to work, Lombardo began a sea chantey, in which Colin did not join. He kept his eye on the sea, which was changing rapidly as the
Mystery
neared its goal. The stream ice was breaking up into small but densely packed chunks, covered with patches of snow. The ice parted smoothly before the ship’s prow, with the consistency of thick custard.

Colin could not stop thinking of Captain Barth’s comment. Surely things would never become so dire that they’d have to eat penguins. Seals, perhaps. They didn’t taste wonderful, but the meat was rich, and the blubber could be used as cooking fuel.

But penguins were not meant to be consumed. It would be as bad as eating the dogs.

Even the Norwegians wouldn’t do that.

Colin had begun to doze off, standing up, when he felt a firm pat on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go to sleep?”

At the sound of Father’s voice, Colin tensed. “I was.”

“I mean in your bunk. It’s close to midnight.”

The sky was dim but still sunlit. The sky was always sunlit, round the clock. Colin should have been used to it from his years of Alaskan summers, but he wasn’t. At least there you had
some
darkness at night. Here, every day felt like a long three in the afternoon, followed by a couple of hours of near-sunset.

The sun was not visible through the mist, but the clouds were tinged red-orange. The temperature had dropped, and Colin felt an icy chill through his Burberry parka.

He was aware of a faint tinkly sound now, like the rustling of glass beads in a gentle breeze. It seemed to come from nowhere in particular, and yet it was everywhere at once, port, starboard, fore, and aft.

Then, in the dim twilight, Colin saw falling ice crystals, delicate gossamer needles, like wings shed by a million fairies. They winked and glistened, nestling finally in the pillowy pudding ice that surrounded the
Mystery.

“What is this?” Colin asked.

“An ice shower, Colin. Frozen mist. The water particles crystallize and fall to the earth.” Father’s eyes were distant, moist. “I’d heard of these but never imagined they were as exquisite as this.”

It was like nothing Colin had ever seen. Such fragile beauty in a landscape so harsh.

“Now are you happy you came?” Father asked.

Colin felt himself fold right up. “Happy?”

“Captain Barth says we’ve done two hundred miles today.”

“Bully for Captain Barth.”

“Bully for you, Colin. Your sailing skills helped make this possible.”

“Only because you forced me to do more work.”

“Oh. And here I thought you’d turned over a new leaf.”

Colin didn’t hear the comment. His attention had fixed on a dark shape emerging through the mist—an iceberg, far more massive than even the blue whale. “I—I think we’re in trouble, Father.”

“Tack!”
he commanded. “
All hands on deck! Take her around hard!”

Colin and his father scrambled for the mainsail sheet. Bailey and Sanders went for the mizzen, and Hayes and Lombardo trimmed the foresail. Captain Barth flew out of the hatch, grabbing the sheet from Colin.

The ship heeled abruptly to starboard and Colin lost his balance. He slid along the ice-slicked deck, jamming his shoulder into the hull.

Without warning, the ice shower had thickened into a full-fledged storm, the crystals into haillike pellets. Colin pulled his hood over his head and headed back to the mainsail. Father and Captain Barth had already been joined by two more sailors—and Andrew.

The
Mystery
was heading due south now. She’d been sailing in a strong crosswind and in a small amount of time had come close to another iceberg. It was at least a hundred feet tall, dense with snow and pocked with deep hummocks.

The ship was going to make it. Father had called it just in time.

The ice around the
Mystery
was changing now. No longer a soupy slush, it rammed the ship’s hull in thick, odd-shaped chunks.

Through the pounding storm, Colin heard a deep, violent groan directly ahead of them, like the sound of an iron wall being torn open. The rumble could be felt through the planks of the decking.

All the sails were now set. Colin couldn’t climb the mast, so he leaped on top of the deckhouse. Shielding his eyes, he looked into the distance beyond the bow. From this vantage, he could see movement—an upward thrust, like a giant fist emerging from the ice.

Pressure. He had learned about this from Father. It happened close to the land, wherever there was pack ice—giant ice islands that traveled with the currents until they collided. The force would cause the floes to tent upward, pushing inexorably against each other until one finally gave. A high, jagged pressure ridge formed where one floe pushed over the top of the other.

It was no place for a wooden ship, even one clad in greenheart.

“Look at this!” Colin called out.

Barth climbed up beside him, squinting out over the pack ice. “Come about slowly, men!” he shouted.

Both of them hopped off and helped the crew slacken the sails. The
Mystery
edged slowly forward. Its prow was cutting through solid ice now, ripping it apart easily.

Father looked concerned. “It’s young ice,” he remarked. “Soft and thin. We’re probably safe here for a while, but I don’t want to head into the pack until the weather clears.”

“Agreed,” Captain Barth replied. He turned to amidships and shouted, “Heave to, men!”

“Are we stuck?” Colin asked.

“Don’t ask that,” Captain Barth snapped. “Don’t ever ask that.”

“Elias, it’s a legitimate question,” Father said.

“Negativity lowers morale,” Barth replied, glowering at Colin. “I gave the command to heave to, Master Winslow.”

Colin met his imperious glance but didn’t move.

“Colin, help out,” Father said.

Help out? What had he been doing? Who saw the iceberg and the pressure ridge first?

“Aye. Aye. Sir,” Colin replied and turned away.

He had no use for either of them.

November 7, 1909

T
HE SHIP WAS ICED
in. Iced in, for goodness’ sake, and they hadn’t even reached land, or reached ice, or whatever they called it.

No one was admitting the predicament. They called it “young” ice. Which was not as dangerous as old ice, presumably—although how you told the difference was beyond Philip. At any rate, they were all crowded in the hold, officers and sailors. Since the ship had hove to, there really wasn’t much to do, which was just fine. Working side by side with Nigel had little appeal, and now, at least, Philip could do what he liked best, lying prone.

Everyone was playing. At the long table in the center of the hold, Drs. Montfort and Riesman, the people doctor and the veterinarian, brooded over a game of chess, oblivious to the loud poker game next to them.

Jacques Petard, the trim and pious physical instructor/chaplain, had brought a phonograph. He was playing music of the vile, syrupy Gabriel Faure, while the Greek sat to the side and wept, no doubt reminded of the howl of some beloved long-lost sheepdog.

Closer to Philip’s bunk, Lombardo entertained with stories of his boyhood in Sorrento.

“And, of course, this part I will not go into on account of the age of some of the individuals present,” Lombardo said for about the twentieth time, “but I’m sure the grown-ups among you will catch my drift.”

As always, Philip understood exactly what he was saying, and, as always, it was a ridiculous, over-inflated story of romance with some young
signorina
who in reality would never have the slightest thing to do with the likes of Lombardo.

“Thank you, Mr. Lombardo, for protecting my innocence,” Philip said.

“I don’t care about you, it’s out of respect for Pop’s sons,” Lombardo said.

“And also, no doubt, out of respect for truth.” Lombardo bolted to his feet. “Why, you little—”

Philip was gone before he could finish the sentence.

The next morning Philip awoke cramped, sore, and itchy. He was certainly allergic to the horsehair on the bed, but Captain Barth had ignored his pleas for different padding.

His stomach, however, which had been perpetually upset over the last few weeks, now felt calm. It took a moment for him to figure out why.

The ship was still. Not moving, not swaying or listing or heeling or whatever they called it. It was as if it had suddenly run aground.

Just as he feared, they were locked in the ice.

Already the troops were bustling about. Stimson, the cook, was grilling bacon and eggs and percolating the tarlike sludge he called coffee. Philip pulled on his clothing, called out a cheerful good-morning that was not answered, and celebrated his calm tummy with a large heap of scrambled eggs. Flummerfelt barreled past him, taking two buckets of coal from abovedecks to the engine room.

Nigel was sitting at the table, swilling the coffee. “Eat up,” he said. “We have pick duty.”

“Pick duty?”

“Unless you want to use a saw.”

“What on earth are you babbling about?”

The relative silence was broken by a monstrous
GRRRROMMMM
as the ship jerked forward. Nigel’s coffee flew across the table, landing on Philip’s lap.

“Blasted fool!” Philip said, bolting upward. “This is my only decent pair of trousers!”

“It was a decent cup of coffee, too.”

“If you two are finished dining,” Captain Barth said acidly, “perhaps you can join us abovedecks before the crème brûlée is served.”

Such a sarcastic soul.

“Captain,” Philip said, “begging your pardon, but you see, my trousers are wet from coffee and I must—”

“Not my problem, Westfall. In case you haven’t noticed, the engines have been turned on—and I am ordering you both abovedecks to help free the
Mystery
.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Nigel piped up, clearing his plate and scampering upstairs.

As Captain Barth lumbered up after Nigel, Philip returned his plate to the sink. He grabbed a pile of dry dish towels, shoved them into his trousers to sop up the coffee, and went to get his pea coat and overcoat.

Moments later, Philip was sliding down a canvas chute that had been draped over the side of the ship. At the bottom, Andrew handed him a large instrument that resembled an overgrown hammer whose head tapered to blunt points at either end.

“What am I expected to do with this?” Philip asked.

“It’s a pick,” Andrew replied. “To chop the ice.”

He gestured toward the bow of the ship. Three men, including Nigel, were already hacking away. Two others were using an outsized saw. The
Mystery,
despite the great sound of its engine, was barely moving.

Philip followed Andrew to the bow. He stood over a solid section of ice, lifted the pick over his head, and fell backward.

Nigel burst out laughing. “You’re a fine sight better at robbin’ banks, ain’t you?”

The loudmouth. The simpleminded, lower-class twit.

Philip glared at Nigel, but no one seemed to have heard the comment. They, were laughing, too, and Philip smiled tolerantly until they got back to work.

He began to chop at the ice, imitating Nigel. Soon his back hurt. His arms screamed with pain. The sun beat down, making the frigid weather seem downright balmy.

But before long, the
Mystery
picked up momentum and was blasting through the ice as if it were glass.

November 11, 1909

“S
TEADY AS SHE GOES …”

Jack spoke the command almost to himself. Already the
Mystery
was traveling at little more than a float. The entire crew was awake—standing at the port railing, wearing dark goggles, not saying a word.

The coast of Antarctica rose out of the sea, sheer and blinding. It towered over the ship and stretched in both directions like the rampart of a great ice city. Parts of the wall had fallen away, exposing bright blues and greens like broken quartz.

Someday, if they survived, they would find a way to describe this. But now all they could do was gawk.

“Shelf ice,” Jack said. “The edge of the slab that covers the continent. It keeps slowly pushing out to sea, under the pressure of its own weight. Eventually it breaks off and calves part of itself into the sea.”

“Icebergs,” Sanders remarked.

“The colors show where the shelf split,” Shreve explained.

Robert squinted intently. “Looks like emeralds are inside it.”

“Sapphires,” said Windham.

Shreve shook his head. “Ice looks white because of the air bubbles trapped inside it. What you see now is compressed ice. The air has been squeezed out—you’re looking right through to the algae trapped inside. The green and blue.”

“Algae,” Philip said. “How poetic.”

“It’s like a bloody fortress,” Nigel said. “’Ow are we supposed to get in—climb?”

No one answered.

The
Mystery
—its square and gaff-rigged sails, its small city of men, its thick hide—seemed tiny and fragile. One swipe of an iceberg and it would all be splinters and bone.

Anchoring the ship looked impossible. Nothing remotely resembled an inlet here.

Andrew thought of what lay over the wall. Ice mountains and snow gullies, deep crevasses, and long, sharp ridges of ice called
sastrugi,
shaped like the waves of the sea. Back home, it had seemed so exciting.

Now he wasn’t sure.

Jack and Captain Barth had been huddling in the deckhouse for a long time. Through the window Andrew saw them gesturing over a pad of paper covered with cross-outs.

They were choosing teams. One to stay with the ship, the other to trek to the South Pole. Divide and conquer. If one group didn’t survive, the other could bring news home.