Antarctica by Peter Lerangis

Author:Peter Lerangis [Lerangis, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-4532-4519-4
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media LLC
Published: 2012-09-08T04:00:00+00:00

16

Jack

February 7, 1910

“MANSFIELD, HOW LONG’S IT gonna take you to step that mast?” Kennedy barked. “An’ what, pray tell, are you doin’ with that seal’s blood, Westfall — paintin’ a still life? Smear it on, boy!”

Kennedy, who’d never been known for patience and flexibility, was losing what little he had of each. The repair to the Horace Putney hadn’t been minor at all. In sawing the wood around the hole to make a neater fit for the new planks, the hull had caved in. The wood had dry rot. It had probably been rotting for months, escaping notice back in New York. And in repairing that, Kennedy had discovered “structural flaws” in the boat, things that could prevent it from sailing true.

Jack hadn’t understood a word of his explanation, but you didn’t contradict Kennedy on matters of carpentry or design.

They had worked straight through, taking shifts. Some of the men had slept in the cave, despite the darkness and the atrocious stink. Others had taken shelter under the overturned boat, managing to sleep soundly despite the noise of repairs. Kennedy had been awake for at least seventy-two hours.

“She should be ready to sail in a few hours, as soon as the caulk sets,” Dr. Riesman said.

Jack shook his head. “We’ll leave her overnight. We need rest, all of us — especially the ones sailing back.”

Flummerfelt peeked out from the starboard side, where he was helping sand down the hull. “You got that right.”

“I could sleep like a hedgehog hidin’ in the canebrakes,” Kennedy murmured.

“He’s human after all,” Ruppenthal grumbled.

Kennedy whirled around and grabbed Ruppenthal by the collar. “Repeat that?”

“At ease, gentlemen!” Jack said, pulling them apart.

They would need the cave. No doubt about it. Without shelter, without a sense of a home base, the men would be at one another’s throats.

He’d have to explore. Despite the smell.

“Who has the matches?” Jack asked.

“I do,” Colin said.

“Come with me to the cave and bring a lamp.”

Colin reached under the decking and pulled out a small kerosene lamp. “Sorry, Kennedy, I won’t be gone long.”

“I won’t miss you,” Kennedy replied. “Stumblebum — Flusterfield — whatever your name is — up here on the double.”

Colin climbed down from the boat and walked with Jack toward the cave. “Who’s going? Tomorrow. With you.”

“You are,” Jack replied. “Only one other. We need speed and flexibility.”

“Who’s the other?”

“Philip.”

Colin gave him a tenuous look.

“I’m serious.”

“But why?”

“I can’t leave him here, Colin. The men’ll make mincemeat out of him.”

“Father …”

Colin fell silent. He couldn’t argue that.

The smell of organic waste came out to greet them from the cave opening. Colin covered his nose. Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out Walden’s flag to use as a handkerchief.

The rocks outside the opening were smooth and slick, like the ones below, no doubt from centuries of seal visitations. Among them, Jack saw three tiny white slivers.

Burned matches.

“Who left those?” he asked.

Colin shrugged. “Not me.”

“Has anyone else been using the matches?”

“Nope. I’ve had ’em since we left Camp Perseverance. Robert has the only others, and he’s on the Raina.

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