The Pole

 

 

PUFFIN CANADA

 

THE POLE

ERIC WALTERS
, a former elementary-school teacher, has written over forty-six acclaimed and bestselling novels, including
War of the Eagles, Trapped in Ice, Sketches, Shattered,
and
Run
. He lives in Mississauga, Ontario.

Also by Eric Walters from Penguin Canada

The Bully Boys

The Hydrofoil Mystery

Trapped in Ice

Camp X

Royal Ransom

Run

Camp 30

Elixir

Shattered

Camp X: Fool's Gold

Sketches

Other books by Eric Walters

Bifocal

Safe As Houses

House Party

Tiger Trap

Boot Camp

Leggan Lard Butts

We All Fall Down

Juice

Off Season

Triple Threat

The True Story of Santa Claus

Grind

Overdrive

I've Got an Idea

Underdog

Death by Exposure

Road Trip

Tiger Town

Northern Exposures

Long Shot

Ricky

Tiger in Trouble

Hoop Crazy

Rebound

Full Court Press

Caged Eagles

The Money Pit Mystery

Three-on-Three

Visions

Tiger by the Tail

War of Eagles

Stranded

Diamonds in the Rough

STARS

Stand Your Ground

The Pole

ERIC WALTERS

PUFFIN CANADA

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published 2008

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

Copyright © Eric Walters, 2008

All rights reserved.Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher's note:This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in Canada.

L
IBRARY AND
A
RCHIVES
C
ANADA
C
ATALOGUING IN
P
UBLICATION

Walters, Eric, 1957

The pole / Eric Walters.

ISBN 978-0-14-316791-4

1. Peary, Robert E. (Robert Edwin), 1856-1920--Juvenile fiction.

2. Bartlett, Robert A. (Robert Abram), 1875-1946--Juvenile fiction.

3. Henson, Matthew Alexander, 1866-1955--Juvenile fiction. 4. Roosevelt (Ship)--Juvenile fiction. 5. Arctic regions--Discovery and exploration-- Juvenile fiction. I.Title.

PS8595.A598P65 2008    jC813'.54    C2007-906653-4

ISBN-13: 978-0-14-316791-4

ISBN-10: 0-14-316791-X

Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at
www.penguin.ca

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The Pole

CHAPTER ONE

JULY 6, 1908

I LEANED
against the railing of the ship and took a deep breath. I could faintly make out the salty air of the ocean drifting up the Hudson River. It mingled with, and was nearly overwhelmed by, the thousand other odours that came from the city. There were fumes from the motor cars that raced through the streets, the smells of dozens of different types of cooked or baked foods from countries around the world wafting through the air, and, always, the stink of sewage.

“Ya got time to be lollygaggin'?”

I spun around. It was Captain Bartlett. “No sir, Cap'n, sir. Cookie ordered me out of the galley, sir,” I exclaimed. “But I'm sure I can find something else I should 'ave been doing or—”

“It's all right, son, we all know ya been workin' hard,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Takin' a break isn't a bad thing.”

“No, sir, it ain't.”

“Ain't
ain't
a word, Danny. Use the King's English the way it was intended.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It's quite a sight, isn't it,” Captain Bartlett said, motioning to the skyline of the city that surrounded us.

The whole horizon was filled with buildings. Some of them weren't much, only a few storeys tall, but others soared skyward, more than twenty storeys high.

“Nothing like this back home, not even in St. John's,” I said. St. John's was the biggest city in Newfoundland and certainly a whole lot bigger than the outport where I was born and raised—a place that had no more than two hundred people, most of them my relatives in one way or another.

“Nothing like this in the world,” Captain Bartlett said. “I heard they have plans to build 'em as high as thirty or even forty storeys.”

“That's hard to believe.”

“If ya believe it, it can be. Especially here in New York City.Ya know what they call those tall ones?”

I shook my head.

“Skyscrapers, because they go so high that they scrape the sky. And this is just the beginning. Seems like every time I blink my eyes there's a new one goin' up. Look long an' hard at that skyline. By the time we get back it'll be different in a dozen ways.”

“How long will it be, sir … 'fore we gets back?”

“God willing, we'll push the nose of our ship back into the harbour in fourteen or fifteen months, if the
Roosevelt
can push free of the ice next summer. If she gets wrecked and we have to come south by sledge it's another year more before we return.”

I patted the rail of the ship. “She can do it.”

“She's a good one,” Captain Bartlett agreed. “One hundred and eighty-two feet in length, twelve feet of solid dead wood in the bow, thick keel, close to fifteen hundred horsepower in the engines to push her along, and a hull shaped special to spring over the ice like a steeplechaser taking a fence. Best ship I've ever commanded.” He paused. “And despite all of that, the last trip up to the Arctic was practically the death of this girl.”

“The
Roosevelt
?” I asked in disbelief.

“Two of the three boilers blew out, we lost our rudder—twice—and the hull was holed. Ran her aground in two places. Should 'ave sunk a dozen times and still managed to limp on back to port in the end.”

“But … but … she looks so strong now.”

“Everythin' has been fixed an' made stronger.”

“Are we going as far north this time?” I asked hesitantly.

Captain Bartlett nodded. “Cape Sheridan, Arctic Ocean, the farthest north a ship has ever been taken.”

“And you took her there the last time,” I said.

“There and back,” he said proudly. “'Course, gettin' there is just the beginnin'. If all goes well, then Cape Sheridan is just one more step toward the true goal. Now, ya better get yourself ready, here come our guests.”

I looked up. Coming down the long pier was a column of cars—big fancy cars. The parade of vehicles slowed down and came to a stop in front of the
Roosevelt
.

Out of the first car stepped Matthew Hensen, our leader's valet and driver. He was a nice man. He was also the first Negro I'd ever met in my life.

He opened up the back door and out stepped Commander Peary, the man leading our expedition. He was wearing the brilliant white uniform of the United States Navy. Free of the car, he placed his hat upon his head. Standing straight and strong and tall, he looked like a hero. Next came Mrs. Peary, the Commander's wife. Following her was their daughter, Marie, who was nearly fourteen—my age. Finally their son, Robert, came bounding out of the car. His shirt was untucked and his legs were in motion the second they hit the pier. He started running—he was always on the go—before his mother called him back and firmly took his hand. It's hard for a five-year-old to act proper, but I knew that was what was expected of him. He was a good little
kid and I talked to him all the time. He was smart as a whip and always asking questions.

Marie stood at her father's side. She was dressed fancy, hat and gloves and all, and she was just about the prettiest girl I ever done seen in my whole—

“Close yer mouth and stop starin',” Captain Bartlett said.

“I wasn't even lookin' at the Commander's daughter!” I protested.

Captain Bartlett chuckled. “If you weren't, how did ya even know I was talkin' about
her
?”

My mind spun trying to come up with an answer. “I've never even talked ta her,” I explained.

That was no lie. I didn't have the nerve to dare say a word, or even look her in the eye. 'Course, she was a good three or four inches taller than me, so I'd practically have to be on my tippy-toes to look her square in the eyes. It wasn't that she was really tall or nothing, just that I was sort of on the small side for my age. Who was I kidding? I was a lot on the small side. People sometimes thought I was twelve, or even eleven.

“Keep them eyes to yourself if you don't want the Commander to feed ya to the sharks.”

“Yes, sir, Cap'n.”

All along the pier people were getting out of their vehicles. There were dozens and dozens, all dressed in fine clothes—fancy dresses and suits and
uniforms. They were coming aboard ship to have a small gathering before we set sail.

“Tell Cookie our guests are here.”

“Yes, Cap'n, sir.”

I rushed across the deck and down the stairs leading to the galley. It was in the middle of the ship, a big room with a table almost as big. I pushed through the swinging door. Cookie was bent over, pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven.

“Cap'n says to tell ya that our guests are 'ere.”

“What does he want me ta do about it, come on up on deck and carry 'em along the gangplank?”

I shook my head vigorously. “I just think he wants ya—” I stopped mid-sentence as Cookie broke into a smile and I realized he was only teasing me.

“An' have ya seen hide or hair of the rest of our fine crew?” Cookie asked.

I shook my head. “No, sir.”

“Not surprising. Probably arrive as the guests leave. The men wanta get a last little taste a New York 'fore we 'ead north. Can't blame 'em none. If I wasn't here cooking I'd be out on the town meself.”

“Me too,” I said.

“You? Only way the Cap'n would let ya out is if ya had yourself a babysitter,” Cookie said. “Tell the Cap'n I'll be topside soon with the biscuits and pemmican.”

“Makes no sense ta me,” I said, “why them fancy folks wanta be eating pemmican and biscuits.”

“You got something against my biscuits?” he asked angrily, and then he broke into a smile before I could get the wrong idea again.