stuck bull, it snorted and heaved its bulk high into the air.
It crashed down beside the Horace Putney, sending up a tremendous wake.
The boat’s port side lifted upward. Jack, Colin, and Philip fell to starboard. The lamp flew out of Colin’s hand and into the sea.
All three grabbed onto the boat’s frame and, held on as the whale slammed against the keel, shattering it. Jack felt his fingers slip. He heard Philip shriek. He turned to look for his son, but his back hit the water and he sank fast.
He tried to swim upward but the shock immobilized him. He saw pieces of boat fall around him in slow motion.
Colin. Where was Colin?
He kicked. He swept his arms down to his side and rose. He thought of the word shock — quick, percussive—it really wasn’t like that, was it? It overwhelmed you head to toe then
gradually took away
all
your
energy.
Jack burst above the surface. The two boys were alive. Next to him. They were young. They had a fighting chance. Maybe.
He tried to say good-bye but he had no strength.
Through his heavy eyelids he saw a gargantuan gray shadow come toward them out of the fog.
22
Nigel
February 9, 1910
N IGEL WAS AT THE end of the tie-line — the last person of the team, pushing the stem of the Raina over the ice.
It was the worst place to be when every man’s stomach jittered like a pricked balloon on account of severe gas pains brought about by hunger.
The snow blew in his face so hard that it left pockmarks on his goggles. The wind felt as if it were scraping his cheeks to the bone. His fingers, because they no longer had meat on them, chafed inside thick gloves. His sweat tasted funny, like a medicine, which anyone knew was a sign your body was breaking down. The ice under his boots still looked thin, which meant the team had a long way to go. There wasn’t a seal or penguin in sight. Nigel’s stomach was convulsing.
And on top of all of it was the smell.
It was a bloody torture of all five senses.
“Gen’l’men, kindly refrain from coupin’ le fromage, if you catch me driftwood,” Nigel said. “It breaks me consecration.”
“Drift,” Siegal corrected.
“Concentration,” muttered Robert.
“I don’t care wha’ you call it!” Nigel shot back. “Drift, concentration, crepitation, flatus, cheese cuttin’, wind breakin’, gas warfare — a fart’s a fart. Now just stop it.”
One or two of the traitors were laughing. It took a lot to laugh while you were face into a blizzard, pushing a loaded boat across old, bumpy ice. It took a bloody good joke.
Nigel was not joking.
Everyone was sick. Brillman had scurvy. Probably Oppenheim and Petard, too. Nigel had seen it happen to a hundred sailors. It was nothing a little warmth, relaxation, and fresh lemons couldn’t cure.
They were dead men.
Nigel was a dead man. And Andrew and Barth and the entire crew. None of them wanted to say it, but they couldn’t stop him from thinking it. It was lunatic to be moving into the ice. Even the mightiest seagoing fleet with a crew of thousands could never actually find them here. The idea that they could have met Slappy— or whatever that American mapmaker was called — was absurd. And as for the other two boats — well, if they’d been able to return, they would have. Jack would have seen to it.
They were dead, too.
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
The snow fell like bullets now. The wind screeched, mocking them, mocking their clothing — informing them, Sorry, they’d overstayed their welcome and must be eliminated.
Barth was calling out. “Stay together! I can’t see you — count off!”
Nigel called out his name along with the others, but his voice no longer came from himself. It came from another man, a blighter he’d once known, a fool who had the dunderheaded idea to hide in the storage hold of a barquentine for what he figured would be room, board, and a little adventure.
That man was fading away.
Soon Nigel’s fingers slipped from the boat
It crashed down beside the Horace Putney, sending up a tremendous wake.
The boat’s port side lifted upward. Jack, Colin, and Philip fell to starboard. The lamp flew out of Colin’s hand and into the sea.
All three grabbed onto the boat’s frame and, held on as the whale slammed against the keel, shattering it. Jack felt his fingers slip. He heard Philip shriek. He turned to look for his son, but his back hit the water and he sank fast.
He tried to swim upward but the shock immobilized him. He saw pieces of boat fall around him in slow motion.
Colin. Where was Colin?
He kicked. He swept his arms down to his side and rose. He thought of the word shock — quick, percussive—it really wasn’t like that, was it? It overwhelmed you head to toe then
gradually took away
all
your
energy.
Jack burst above the surface. The two boys were alive. Next to him. They were young. They had a fighting chance. Maybe.
He tried to say good-bye but he had no strength.
Through his heavy eyelids he saw a gargantuan gray shadow come toward them out of the fog.
22
Nigel
February 9, 1910
N IGEL WAS AT THE end of the tie-line — the last person of the team, pushing the stem of the Raina over the ice.
It was the worst place to be when every man’s stomach jittered like a pricked balloon on account of severe gas pains brought about by hunger.
The snow blew in his face so hard that it left pockmarks on his goggles. The wind felt as if it were scraping his cheeks to the bone. His fingers, because they no longer had meat on them, chafed inside thick gloves. His sweat tasted funny, like a medicine, which anyone knew was a sign your body was breaking down. The ice under his boots still looked thin, which meant the team had a long way to go. There wasn’t a seal or penguin in sight. Nigel’s stomach was convulsing.
And on top of all of it was the smell.
It was a bloody torture of all five senses.
“Gen’l’men, kindly refrain from coupin’ le fromage, if you catch me driftwood,” Nigel said. “It breaks me consecration.”
“Drift,” Siegal corrected.
“Concentration,” muttered Robert.
“I don’t care wha’ you call it!” Nigel shot back. “Drift, concentration, crepitation, flatus, cheese cuttin’, wind breakin’, gas warfare — a fart’s a fart. Now just stop it.”
One or two of the traitors were laughing. It took a lot to laugh while you were face into a blizzard, pushing a loaded boat across old, bumpy ice. It took a bloody good joke.
Nigel was not joking.
Everyone was sick. Brillman had scurvy. Probably Oppenheim and Petard, too. Nigel had seen it happen to a hundred sailors. It was nothing a little warmth, relaxation, and fresh lemons couldn’t cure.
They were dead men.
Nigel was a dead man. And Andrew and Barth and the entire crew. None of them wanted to say it, but they couldn’t stop him from thinking it. It was lunatic to be moving into the ice. Even the mightiest seagoing fleet with a crew of thousands could never actually find them here. The idea that they could have met Slappy— or whatever that American mapmaker was called — was absurd. And as for the other two boats — well, if they’d been able to return, they would have. Jack would have seen to it.
They were dead, too.
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
The snow fell like bullets now. The wind screeched, mocking them, mocking their clothing — informing them, Sorry, they’d overstayed their welcome and must be eliminated.
Barth was calling out. “Stay together! I can’t see you — count off!”
Nigel called out his name along with the others, but his voice no longer came from himself. It came from another man, a blighter he’d once known, a fool who had the dunderheaded idea to hide in the storage hold of a barquentine for what he figured would be room, board, and a little adventure.
That man was fading away.
Soon Nigel’s fingers slipped from the boat
Similar Books
