all around her, shone.
Seamie had quite forgotten about the promise he’d made. “Actually, Miss Wilcott, I came to give you this,” he said, pulling an envelope from his breast pocket. “It’s from Fiona and Joe. It’s a donation.”
“Oh. Oh, I see,” Jennie said, disappointment in her voice. “Forgive me, Mr. Finnegan, I thought . . .”
Twenty-four little faces, upturned and eager, suddenly fell.
“Is he not going to talk to us, miss?” one boy asked.
“Miss, won’t he stay?”
“Won’t he tell us about Ann Tartika?”
“Now, children. Mr. Finnegan is very busy and—” Jennie began to say.
“Of course I’ll stay,” Seamie said hastily, finding that he couldn’t bear the disappointment in the children’s faces. Or Jennie Wilcott’s.
He hastily stuffed the envelope back into his pocket, then sat down among the children. One boy stood to give him his seat, which was close to the stove, but Seamie told him to sit down again. The child was poorly dressed for a March day.
Seamie began by telling them about his first expedition. He’d gone to the Royal Geographical Society one night to hear Ernest Shackleton speak about his upcoming trip to Antarctica, and his quest to find the South Pole. He’d been so impressed with Shackleton, and so determined to be a part of his expedition, that he’d followed the man home and stood outside his house for thirty-three hours, never moving, never so much as flinching, not when night fell, not when it poured rain, until Shackleton invited him in. He’d impressed the explorer with his enthusiasm and his steadfastness, and Shackleton had taken him on.
The children’s eyes grew wide as Seamie told them what it had been like to set off for the South Pole at the age of seventeen. He told them of the endless seas, the vast night skies, the lashing storms. He told them of life on board the Discovery —Shackleton’s vessel—and of the hard work, the discipline, and the tedium of being cooped up for months in such a small space with so many men. He told them about his more recent journey to the pole with Amundsen. He told them what it was like to finally feel the air turn frigid and see ice in the water. To be watched by seals and penguins and whales. To work at twenty below zero, to set up camp, run dog sleds, take measurements and readings, to trek over treacherous pack ice, to force the body to perform miracles of physical endurance when it hurt just to breathe.
And he told them that it was worth it. The long voyage, the loneliness, the bad food, the agony of cold—it was worth every second of pain and doubt, just to stand where no one had ever stood before, in a pristine wilderness of snow and ice. To be the first.
He talked to the children for nearly two hours. He didn’t notice the time passing. He never did when he talked about Antarctica. He forgot time, and he forgot himself. He was aware of only one thing—his desire to make his audience feel the passion he felt for Antarctica and to see—if only in their imaginations—the beauty he’d seen there.
When he finished, the children applauded loudly. Seamie smiled at their enthusiasm, at the curiosity and excitement in their faces. They had a million questions for him, and he did his best to answer them. But suddenly it was four o’clock and time for them to go home. They thanked him and begged him to come back, and he said he would. They readied themselves to leave, and as they did, Jennie said, “There’s one more thing, children. One thing Mr. Finnegan forgot to tell you. Do any of you know where Mr. Finnegan was born?”
They all shook their heads.
“Who can guess?”
“Buckingham Palace!”
“Blackpool!”
“Harrods!”
“He was born in East London,” Jennie finally said. “Just like you. He lived with his sister and brother in Whitechapel.”
There were expressions of disbelief, then searching glances and shy smiles—all evidence of some small, secret hope held in each
Seamie had quite forgotten about the promise he’d made. “Actually, Miss Wilcott, I came to give you this,” he said, pulling an envelope from his breast pocket. “It’s from Fiona and Joe. It’s a donation.”
“Oh. Oh, I see,” Jennie said, disappointment in her voice. “Forgive me, Mr. Finnegan, I thought . . .”
Twenty-four little faces, upturned and eager, suddenly fell.
“Is he not going to talk to us, miss?” one boy asked.
“Miss, won’t he stay?”
“Won’t he tell us about Ann Tartika?”
“Now, children. Mr. Finnegan is very busy and—” Jennie began to say.
“Of course I’ll stay,” Seamie said hastily, finding that he couldn’t bear the disappointment in the children’s faces. Or Jennie Wilcott’s.
He hastily stuffed the envelope back into his pocket, then sat down among the children. One boy stood to give him his seat, which was close to the stove, but Seamie told him to sit down again. The child was poorly dressed for a March day.
Seamie began by telling them about his first expedition. He’d gone to the Royal Geographical Society one night to hear Ernest Shackleton speak about his upcoming trip to Antarctica, and his quest to find the South Pole. He’d been so impressed with Shackleton, and so determined to be a part of his expedition, that he’d followed the man home and stood outside his house for thirty-three hours, never moving, never so much as flinching, not when night fell, not when it poured rain, until Shackleton invited him in. He’d impressed the explorer with his enthusiasm and his steadfastness, and Shackleton had taken him on.
The children’s eyes grew wide as Seamie told them what it had been like to set off for the South Pole at the age of seventeen. He told them of the endless seas, the vast night skies, the lashing storms. He told them of life on board the Discovery —Shackleton’s vessel—and of the hard work, the discipline, and the tedium of being cooped up for months in such a small space with so many men. He told them about his more recent journey to the pole with Amundsen. He told them what it was like to finally feel the air turn frigid and see ice in the water. To be watched by seals and penguins and whales. To work at twenty below zero, to set up camp, run dog sleds, take measurements and readings, to trek over treacherous pack ice, to force the body to perform miracles of physical endurance when it hurt just to breathe.
And he told them that it was worth it. The long voyage, the loneliness, the bad food, the agony of cold—it was worth every second of pain and doubt, just to stand where no one had ever stood before, in a pristine wilderness of snow and ice. To be the first.
He talked to the children for nearly two hours. He didn’t notice the time passing. He never did when he talked about Antarctica. He forgot time, and he forgot himself. He was aware of only one thing—his desire to make his audience feel the passion he felt for Antarctica and to see—if only in their imaginations—the beauty he’d seen there.
When he finished, the children applauded loudly. Seamie smiled at their enthusiasm, at the curiosity and excitement in their faces. They had a million questions for him, and he did his best to answer them. But suddenly it was four o’clock and time for them to go home. They thanked him and begged him to come back, and he said he would. They readied themselves to leave, and as they did, Jennie said, “There’s one more thing, children. One thing Mr. Finnegan forgot to tell you. Do any of you know where Mr. Finnegan was born?”
They all shook their heads.
“Who can guess?”
“Buckingham Palace!”
“Blackpool!”
“Harrods!”
“He was born in East London,” Jennie finally said. “Just like you. He lived with his sister and brother in Whitechapel.”
There were expressions of disbelief, then searching glances and shy smiles—all evidence of some small, secret hope held in each
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