Antarctica Escape from Disaster

by Peter Lerangis

  Kennedy worked fast and talked fast. They nailed planks together, fitted joints, reinforced corners. When the contraption was done, Kennedy began drawing curved diagonal lines down the sides of the walls. “Cut along here, so we can fit the thing to the hull.”

  “Aren’t you going to measure the angle against the hull?” Colin asked.

  “Don’t need to,” Kennedy said. “A good doctor knows his patients.”

  CRRRRRRACK!

  The sound was like a cannon shot. The ship jolted sideways. Colin fell to the deck.

  “Evacuate ship!” Father’s voice cried out. “Get Lombardo, Kosta, and Oppenheim out of there!”

  “Aye, aye!” Colin scrambled to his feet. Racing ahead of Kennedy, he went down into the afterhold.

  Kosta was on the floor, grimacing with pain, his cane lying next to him. “Pos épatheh?”

  “Ella!” Colin said. It was one of the few Greek words he knew. Come.

  He helped Kosta up. As they walked haltingly back to the ladder, Kennedy tried to lift the snoring Lombardo.

  Oppenheim, still rocking, let out an explosive cackle. “He sleeps. Yeah, verily, he sleeps while the kingdom burns.”

  “Oppenheim, follow us!” Colin commanded. “You’re the only healthy one here.”

  Sort of, he thought.

  He and Kosta emerged abovedecks into the sun. Robert, the African expatriate they’d picked up in Buenos Aires, reached toward Kosta and lifted him as if he were a basket of fruit, then gently lowered him over the gunwale, into the arms of waiting crewmen.

  Colin turned and helped Lombardo up the ladder. Oppenheim took a little more prodding.

  When the ship was clear, Jack quickly divided the men into three teams. “Mansfield, your men stay here and keep at the ice. Rivera, you’re salvage. Your team unloads all four lifeboats, then grabs whatever it can — spare masts, sails and spars, cofferdam, mess and carpentry equipment, wood, rope, and canvas — just drop it in the snow. Move fast and be ready to bolt if Captain Barth or I give the signal to evacuate. Colin, you get a team to find the tents and cots and set up camp. We’ll stay out here until the pack blows out. Now, go!”

  Within minutes, Colin’s team had unloaded supplies and was hammering stakes in the ice. Robert and Brillman designed new tents on the fly, stretching sailcloth and canvas over two-by-fours because the real tents had been lost by Andrew and his expedition.

  Andrew struggled to help out, but he couldn’t lift anything without wincing.

  “The infirmary tent first,” Colin commanded. “Three cots.”

  “Two,” Andrew said. “I don’t need one.”

  “Just in case.”

  “The worst is behind me, Colin.”

  “It’s not always about you. Three cots. In case of emergencies.”

  The men set to work and finished the cots quickly, two of them especially wide — for Lombardo’s girth and for Kosta’s habit of curling up with his dogs.

  Father poked his head through the tent flap. “Good job on the camp, fellas. What’ll we call it?”

  “Camp … Ice!” Flummerfelt suggested eagerly. “’Cause of all the ice.”

  “Brilliant,” murmured Sam Bailey.

  “Death Valley,” Oppenheim said.

  “Camp Perseverance,” Andrew suggested.

  Father smiled. “Like it, Andrew! You’ve always had a way with words.”

  “Thanks, Pop.”

  Colin set to tightening the lines. He couldn’t bear to look at Andrew’s smug little face.

  Ease up, Colin told himself. Andrew had been through enough. He’d almost died in the snow.

  He deserved compassion and sympathy.

  So why, in the middle of this mess, was it so easy to hate him?

  Because Andrew was so good, that was why. Good at words, at mathematics, at pleasing people. He had read everything and could talk rings around Colin. And why not? He’d grown up with books on his shelves and time on his hands, Andrew Douglas of Beacon Hill in his big brick house near the Boston Common, surrounded by the swells of high society.

  He hadn’t grown up worrying whether there’d be enough heat to last the Alaskan winter. Whether Mother would return from her Arctic journeys.

  Whether life was possible after she didn’t return. After the sea took her.

  Being an Anglo, Father could pack up and return to his land. But Colin would always be away from home. Running from painful reminders of her. Never fitting in.

  Here in Antarctica he was surrounded by reminders — the sky and the snow and the constant summer sun and the icy waters.

  Clever Andrew could never know that.

  Colin left the tent. Outside, O’Malley had set up two stoves and was cooking some blubbery meat with Stimson. Rivera and his crew were dumping enormous piles of rigging and spare wood over the Mystery’s stern bulwark, far from the feverish chopping of Mansfield and his team. The hole was now clear of ice, but the ridge was still thick, pressing hard against the lower part of the hull. Kennedy and Flummerfelt had taken up work on the cofferdam once again.

  It was an act of great optimism, Colin thought.

  Father was helping drag Rivera’s pile away from the ship. Colin ran over to help, grabbing one end of a thick column of polished oak, no doubt a spare mizzenmast.

  Captain Barth approached from the bow, his face grim and furrowed. “We’re going to have to divert men to starboard,” he said. “The pack is blowing in. It’s encroaching again on the other side. The gap’s our only hope, and it’s just about closed —”

  GRRRRROMMM!

  Mansfield jumped away from the hull.

  Kennedy and Flummerfelt stopped work on the cofferdam.

  Colin felt his stomach twist. He looked up toward the source of the noise.

  The Mystery’s foremast wasn’t in its usual place. Not quite. Its crosstrees were angled to starboard, as if it were turning to take a peek at the horizon.

  “God save us,” Captain Barth muttered.

  “GET THE MEN OUT OF THERE!” Father shouted. “NOW!”

  3

  Philip

  January 10,1910

  THE MONEY. ALL THAT mattered was the money.

  Philip draped two coats on his bedding and looked behind him.

  Ruskey was the only other person in the afterhold, but his back was firmly turned.

  Philip reached into his footlocker, grabbed bills by the fistful, and began stuffing pockets. First the overcoat. Then the pea coat. Then the tweed jacket he was wearing. From outside to in. When finished, he would don them all.

  No one would notice the thickness of three coats. In their winter clothing, the men were all the size of thatched huts anyway — and if the Mystery sank, a chest filled with English pound notes would do little good floating beneath the Antarctic Ocean. Indigestion for the seals, perhaps. Hardly a hospitable thing to do to one’s hosts.

  Besides, Philip had a responsibility. The money belonged to the Bank of London. Yes, he’d stolen it (although he’d swear he’d been tricked into it), and no, he had no intention of returning it. But the money was created by hardworking Britons who meant it to be used, not wasted. Giving it up was positively unpatriotic.

  The noise upstairs — abovedecks, or whatever grammatical monstrosity they called it — was grotesque. No doubt some mizzen or binnacle or barnacle had broken loose. The men were all afraid the ship would collapse. Nonsense. The hole was small and the hull was thicker than a London fog.

  He hated the atmosphere out there. Chop, chop, chop, all day long, until your hands resembled bangers and mash. And for what? Why not leave the poor ice floes alone, let them mix it up and get it out of their systems? That would be the sensible approach.

  The next best thing was to remain here as long as possible.

  “Westfall?”

  Philip slammed the chest shut. “What? I mean … yes, David?”

  Ruskey was kneeling by an old wooden crate. He was poring over his photographic plates, holding them up to t
he light, dropping some into the crate and discarding others on the deck. “Do you think this really captures the aurora australis, or would you go for this shot of the ice shelf?”

  “Well … uh …”

  Lord, how was he to distinguish one of those black filmy things from another?

  Philip was responsible for those photographs. Uncle Horace had made that clear. They were the entire reason for his financing the trip. You can’t make money on glory, he’d said. But a five-cent reproducible image’ll make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. Uncle Horace had joked that he would release Philip’s whereabouts to the British authorities if Philip failed to retain the film.

  Uncle Horace was not a joking man.

  And Philip was no fool.

  The more Ruskey packed, the better. And by the by, if one or two images just happened to end up in Philip’s possession, well, no one would be the worse off for it.

  “I’d say just pack them all,” Philip advised.

  “Can’t,” Ruskey replied. “I have to weld them into metal containers to waterproof them. Captain Barth will allow only twenty containers. I’ll take my Vest-Pocket Kodak. It takes lousy pictures, but —”

  “Twenty! Balderdash. The man has no appreciation of art!”

  “This is about weight, not art. If we travel by sledge, we have to keep it light. I learned that the hard way on our South Pole trip.”

  “Yes, but we’re heading north, where it’s warmer!”

  Footsteps clomped upward from steerage, and Nigel emerged with a bag filled with food. “Anchoo foonfeh yut?”

  “Swallow, please?” Philip said.

  Nigel gulped hard, then belched. From all indications, he had eaten sardines and chocolate for lunch.

  “Ain’t you finished yet?” he asked, winking furiously.

  “Almost.”

  Wink wink wink wink. “I trust you ain’t forgettin’ to take all yer valuables, if you catch me driftwood.”

  “Yes, Nigel.”

  Lovely. All the subtlety of a whale among goldfish.

  Nigel was a fool. A blinking idiot. What kind of man stowed away on a ship to Antarctica, for heaven’s sake? The same kind of man who would organize a mutiny on a ship locked in ice, that’s who. A British man.

  On that October day Philip discovered Nigel in steerage, he should have smitten him with a whale bone. But no, Philip was kind, Philip chose mercy—and his reward? The lout had recognized Philip from the newspaper, from that hideous photo they’d printed under the headline LONDON SCHOOLBOY THEFT. To buy Nigel’s silence, Philip took the blame for smuggling him on board. Nigel, the story went, was Philip’s friend.

  The fact that the crew believed him was the greatest insult of all.

  One little scandal and you paid for months. The entire arrangement was unfair.

  Suddenly Colin Winslow’s voice honked from the hatch:

  “EVACUATE SHIP! THE FOREMAST IS BREAKING!”

  “Well, fix it,” Philip said under his breath.

  Ruskey grabbed his camera. “This I have to see.”

  Pulling along his wooden chest, Ruskey headed for the hatch. He left behind an enormous pile of discarded plates — no doubt glorious Antarctic panoramas for which Americans would pay dearly to hang in gilded frames over their fireplaces.

  They simply couldn’t be left here.

  Philip grabbed six. Six would do. He could easily pack them away without anyone knowing. Once the ship returned, he could move to Chicago under an assumed name and sell them on the black market.

  But where to hide them? He glanced around and saw a large half-filled burlap sack marked HARDTACK. Nigel must have dropped it on the way out. Perfect. Hardtack tasted like cardboard and no one in his right mind would bother opening the bag.

  SREEEEEEEEE!

  The blasted whistle again.

  “ALL MEN MOVE AWAY FROM THE SHIP!” Captain Barth thundered.

  “Yes, yes, hold your sea horses.…” Philip jammed the photos into the sack. They stuck out the top. He reached into the bottom of the bag and shifted around the stale, wretched biscuits to make more room.

  Now for the bills. He’d wasted so much precious time on this, he’d left the coats on the bed — and the bulk of the money still in the trunk.

  He stood up, lifted the bag, and lost his balance.

  It moved. The ship jumped.

  Had it — she — already shaken free of the ice?

  A deep sound moaned from above him — and Philip knew in an instant, in his gut, that he had to leave.

  He heard the crash a split second before the deck exploded.

  4

  Jack

  January 10, 1910

  FOREMAST: SMASHED THE DECK. Propped up by the engine room bulkhead. Needs replacement, not repair.

  Main: still standing but cracked. Replacement, but the wood could be salvaged for good use.

  Deck: repair needs at least half the rescued planking.

  Ship: evacuated.

  Crew: on the ice. Count them off … one … two … three …

  It helped to think clearly. Avoid panic. Assess the situation, ask questions. All exploration, all human nature boiled down to one thing — finding the right questions to ask.

  Could she make it? Impossible to know. The damage was severe, yes. But two masts and a stove-in hull did not a ship make. She was still the Mystery, and if any ship could hold, she could.

  Eleven … twelve … thirteen … fourteen …

  Positive thinking. Shackleton made it back under worse circumstances. Nansen would let his ship ice up on purpose — just like this. He knew the moving floe would move the ship. He made a technique of it.

  Twenty-one … twenty-two … twenty-three …

  The men weren’t panicking. That was good. They were a plucky bunch. Nerves of steel. Swarming around, all business, doing the work that needed to be —

  Twenty-nine.

  One short.

  There should have been thirty.

  Colin-Andrew-Barth-Kennedy-Hayes-Robert-Rivera-Flummerfelt-Cranston-O’Malley-Talmadge-Petard-Bailey-Nigel —

  “Nigel, where’s Philip?” Jack blurted out.

  “Who cares?” muttered Ruppenthal.

  Nigel shrugged. “I fought ’e came out.”

  “He did,” Ruskey agreed. “He followed me out of the afterhold.”

  “Then, where is he?” Jack asked. “Is he in any of the tents? Colin?”

  Colin shook his head.

  “Did anyone actually see him climb up that ladder?”

  Ruskey’s face went blank.

  “’E better’a come out,” Nigel said, looking suddenly pale.

  Not another crew member. Not right under his nose.

  Jack sprinted to the Mystery and up the gangplank. The deck was destroyed. The mast lay across it like a fallen larch, its base still tenuously attached, its crosstrees akimbo. Its top rested heavily on the engine casing, just below the surface of the deck. It hadn’t fallen all the way through. Yet.

  “Philip!”

  No answer.

  Jack jumped down into an afterhold that was unrecognizable — the deck covered with splinters and shattered planks, the air thick with sawdust and snow. “Philip, are you down here?”

  “Oh … oh, dear …”

  Under the mast.

  Jack dropped to the deck and saw a bare foot jutting out of a pile of wood. In the shadow of the foremast an arm moved. “I … seem to be having a bit of … difficulty.”

  “Hold on, Philip!” Jack cleared away planks of heavy wood. “Do you think you can walk?”

  Philip was sitting up now, dazed and ashen-faced. “I — I believe I’m all right.”

  “Grab my arm!”

  “My — my coats — they’re on my bunk —”

  “The bunk is destroyed!”

  “It — it can’t be. I must get those coats —”

  “Philip, the mast isn’t stable. The ship’s in trouble. Let’s go!”

  He reached out,
but Philip pulled away. “I also had a bag. It’s filled with … hardtack.”

  “There’s no time for that, Philip —”

  “Here it is!” Philip pulled a burlap sack from under a pile. Directly over his head the foremast twisted, grinding against the steel engine.

  Jack lunged for the boy’s arm. Philip jumped away.

  With a sharp report, the column snapped. Jack scrambled to get out of the way.

  Too late. A broken spar slammed against his thigh, pinning him to the floor.

  He breathed wood. He choked on wood. He saw nothing but white. He tried to yell, but no sound came out. All he could do was reach for Philip. Philip would help.

  But when Jack stretched out his hand, he grasped nothing.

  He coughed and spat. Around him, the dust settled. The room gathered form. The foremast had broken off at the engine room bulkhead, and the crosstree joint rested firmly on the back of Jack’s leg. He twisted around, trying to sit up, but the angle was bad. He couldn’t possibly get enough leverage to lift the thing off.

  Philip was gone. So was the sack of biscuits.

  “Philip!”

  Footsteps rumbled across the remains of the deck above him. “Father?” Colin called down.

  “Down here! Under the mast!”

  Colin leaped down. So did Mansfield, Flummerfelt, and Rivera. In moments they were squatting beside the mast, lifting it upward. And so was Philip.

  Philip hadn’t run away. He’d run to get help.

  The release of the mast seemed to ignite Jack’s leg. He grimaced, clamping his jaw against the pain.

  Colin and Flummerfelt knelt beside him and hoisted him up by the shoulders. “Tell me where it hurts,” Colin said.

  It hurt everywhere. “I’m … okay. Thank you. And you … Philip.”

  Philip nodded uncertainly.

  Colin climbed abovedecks on the slanted foremast, then reached down as Rivera and Mansfield hoisted Jack over their heads. Once on deck, Jack leaned on his son, hobbling down the gangplank to a rousing hip hip hooray from the gathered crew.

  He would have enjoyed it if he hadn’t at that moment seen the starboard side of the Mystery.