Antarctica by Peter Lerangis Read Free Book Online Page A

gave him a half smile, then ran off to breakfast.
    Humanity lived, after all, in Camp Perseverance.
    The penguin pemmican tasted especially foul this morning, the coffee like charcoal. The teams were already hitching their dogs to the sledges, and men had begun slipping into their traces.
    Andrew lay on a cot, alone on the Horace Putney. Lombardo had insisted on skiing.
    “Philip, when you finish dining, take the harness next to Oppenheim,” Mansfield said. “He’s giving it a try today.”
    Philip’s heart sank.
    Oppenheim turned toward him with a wide smile. “I’m going to ride the chariot in the morning, Lord! Oh, I’m getting ready for the Judgment Day. …”
    Three hours of hard labor with a madman.
    Philip took a bite of penguin pemmican and chewed. Slowly.
    The clouds had rolled in again overnight, hiding the sun and the horizon. He wished he could roll away with them.
    Everything of value to him was gone — the money, the photographs, his pride. What was the point of going home? Mum had gotten rid of him. Uncle Horace couldn’t stand the sight of him. The only people who wanted him were the police; they’d be waiting with open shackles.
    Of course, he could escape after landing, as Nigel had proposed — but then what? Hop Argentine freighters … with Nigel ? Pick bananas in Honduras?
    Colin should have let him sink. No one would have shed a tear. For the first time in his life, he’d have brought a little good into the world.
    “’Ay, Philip, whatcher waitin’ for, an engraved imitation?” Nigel yelled. “We need yer sorry carcass!”
    Philip spat out the pemmican, walked to the boat, and picked up his traces.

9
Jack
    February 4, 1910
    “A VAST — HO!” J ACK CRIED out.
    He was exhausted and short of breath. The sweat stung bitterly when it dripped into his eyes, and it left a brackish taste on his lips.
    The air had changed. It was sea air, and he’d smelled it miles away. Anyone who knew the sea could detect its fragrance in the unlikeliest of places — in the grimy industrial air of New York City and the bone-dry California deserts, in the rainy mountains of Washington State and the dusty Texas plains.
    Salt had no odor, and neither did water — but together with the rotting algae, the fish carcasses, and the mold in the air, the scent was unmistakable.
    To a sailor, it was perfume.
    All three teams slowed to a halt. The ice here was crisscrossed with webbed footprints, the distant ridges lined with penguins, gulls, and terns. A lone skua swooped overhead, screaming. In the distance, a gliding bird plummeted from the sky toward its prey below.
    The dogs yapped madly, lurching toward the birds, pulling the sledges in all directions.
    Over the last two days, the pulling had become almost impossible. The wet snow clung to the soles of Jack’s boots, and his team had nearly lost the Raina when its runners caught in a field of hummocks.
    Not far ahead of them were three good leads, long fingers of deep blue water thrusting through the surface. Maybe a half mile farther, the floes broke up into choppy brash ice. Beyond that would be open sea.
    “This is as far as we go,” Jack announced.
    “I could have told you that,” Siegal said.
    Mansfield thrust a fist into the air. “Hip hip—”
    “Feet feet,” Ruppenthal grumbled, “shoulders shoulders, knees knees— they all hurt.”
    The men unhooked themselves and sat on the ice, one by one, as O’Malley and Stimson untied the food bags. A few of the men — Colin, Mansfield, Barth, Siegal, Kennedy — seemed relieved, but most were too tired to react.
    Of the sick men, Kosta and Lombardo were doing the best. Oppenheim, however, was hurling oaths and chunks of ice back in the direction they’d come.
    Jack walked back to the Horace Putney with Captain Barth. “How’s Andrew?”
    “Sleeping,” Colin said.
    Dr. Montfort nodded reassuringly. “The gash is healing well. It wasn’t as deep as I’d feared. No broken bones or torn