Antarctica by Peter Lerangis Page A

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 .”
    Jack picked one up. It was whole.
    Matches were priceless. Only a half box remained. Jack had strictly ordered the men to use them only if absolutely necessary — and to cut them in half, to double their lives.
    “Looks as if someone’s hiding something from us,” Jack said.
    “But why?” Colin asked. “Why keep something like that secret when it could help us all?”
    “As we get further into this mess, Colin, I understand more about how to manage men but less about their motives.”
    Colin pulled out his pocketknife. He took a match and laid it on a flat rock. With a firm but delicate stroke he sliced the match in half, taking care not to crumble the head.
    As Jack cupped his hand around it, Colin struck the match and quickly ignited the blubber in the lamp. Crouching in the cave entrance, he held it forward.
    The light played dimly against the smooth walls of ice. Shadows formed by long icicles danced a hoedown. The floor was cluttered with odd-shaped objects.
    “Bones,” Jack murmured.
    “It’s the seals’ chophouse and mausoleum,” Colin said.
    “The seals’ outhouse is more like it,” Jack remarked. “Let’s clean it.”
    “The shovel was in the Iphigenia.”
    “We’ll use oars then.”
    “You dropped something.” Colin knelt to pick something off the ground. He held out a small American flag to Jack.
    Jack took his hand away from his mouth. “I didn’t drop it.”
    “Then … where’d this come from?”
    Jack held his flag side by side with the other.
    They were identical.

17
Andrew
    February 8, 1910
    “H EY, FELLAS, THE OLD man’s alive!” Lombardo shouted.
    He and Petard had been saying daily prayers by Captain Barth’s side. Apparently they’d been answered.
    The men crowded into the makeshift infirmary. Barth was turning his head slowly. “I’m not old, you nitwit,” he mumbled.
    “Yeeee-HAAAAH!” Lombardo cried out.
    “How are you feeling?” Dr. Montfort asked.
    “Dandy,” Barth drawled. “Just prop me up and point me to the banquet table.”
    “Hungry!” Oppenheim threw his head back and laughed. “Imagine that. As if he’s the only one starving here.”
    “Oppenheim, have some respect,” Lombardo snapped.
    “Respect for what?” Oppenheim replied. “Barth? If he’d had a lick of sense he’d have died and decreased the surplus population.”
    “Enough, you blaspheming lunatic!”
    “Sticks and stones may break my bones — and no one cares but Davy Jones!”
    Lombardo bolted upward from his crouch, and Oppenheim darted out of the tent.
    “You better run if you know what’s good for