Antarctica by Peter Lerangis

anyone on anything.
    And yet the question remained: What happened after the boat was repaired? They couldn’t all fit in. Did they all stay here to die, out of fairness? Or did they draw lots — home for the winners, death for the losers?
    There would be fights. The men would tear one another apart.
    And what about the ones who did leave? What were the odds of sailing to safety over nearly 3,000 miles of treacherous freezing seas, with no food and little shelter, in a jury-rigged rowboat?
    Andrew tried to stop the thoughts. He gazed out over the water, hoping for the thousandth time to see the silhouettes of the Horace Putney and the Iphigenia.
    He heard a rustling behind him and turned. Oppenheim was awake, crawling toward the tent flap. Andrew dreaded this. The babble would be unbearable without anyone else awake to soften the blows.
    But Oppenheim sat quietly next to Andrew and pulled his canvas blanket around him. “They’re coming,” he said.
    In the dusky sky over the sea, the light began to change, its hidden particles of color gathering as a cloud gathers from vapor. They blazed and faded in a diaphanous shimmer of purple, blue, and red, as if a curtain were being slowly drawn across heaven. In the water Andrew saw dancing shapes that transformed into hideous sea monsters, sinking ships, flailing men. He saw Nesbit reaching up, his face bone white. He heard Dr. Shreve’s voice explode in a desperate cry that slowly receded, and the shrill wail of dogs about to die on the ice. He heard Jack and Colin calling for him, asking him to come along. And Mother, singing out his name.
    He felt caught in the moment between death and life, looking forward and backward at the same time.
    Faith, hope, and love — these ideas had sustained him on the South Pole trip. But it was different then. Then he was returning to a ship, a family, the idea of going home.
    Now he had none of the three.
    Without a word, Oppenheim slipped away and went back to sleep.
    Over the water, the aurora australis winked and faded.

16
Jack
    February 7, 1910
    “M ANSFIELD, 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