Free Antarctica by Peter Lerangis

boys!”
    “Yeeaaaaaaa!”
    POW!
    Another shot from the Mystery. A cheer across the sea, echoing their own.
    “Stay within each other’s sight at all times,” Jack said. “We will use tie lines during snowstorms. Go slowly and alert each other of depressions of snow that might mask crevasses. If your toes and fingers lose sensation, stop immediately and let me know—frostbite is to be avoided at all costs. And if you get lost in a storm, for God’s sake, keep yourself awake. Sleep will set in and try to lull you out of your misery—it’s called the polar sleep, and it is the precursor of death.”
    “Right!” Siegal exclaimed. The others piped up in agreement.
    Jack then led a prayer. As he intoned the twenty-third psalm— The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want— Andrew’s heart was beating so hard he could see the motion through his coat.
    He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t.
    All he could see was the face of his mother.
    And she was smiling.

13
Nigel
    November 14, 1909
    S WEEPING THE STORAGE HOLD . The storage hold. Of all the insulting, menial tasks.
    Nigel drew his broom across the wooden planks, sending up a cloud of dust. “D’yer understand wha’ this means? D’yer realize wha’ they’re doin’ to us?”
    The boy’s back was to Nigel. He was leaning over a barrel, no doubt eating. Or daydreaming. Or both. The only things he could do well, the pampered brat. “Hmm?”
    “It’s storage, Philip. What’ll they have us do next—put up a little festive buntin,’ ’old a little dance—perhaps invite a few of the more attractive seals?”
    Now he was turning around, the lazy imbecile.
    “My good man,” Philip said, “what on earth are you talking about?”
    “I’m talkin’ about an attempt by the upper classes to depress the workin’ man—”
    “I am not,” Philip said, “nor do I ever intend to be, a workingman.”
    “I can see that—”
    “Nigel, we are in a quiet place. We’re surrounded by food. Two feet of solid lumber insulate us from the outside. Where are the others? Outside, chopping ice. Count your blessings.”
    “Exactly wha’ they want you to say, Philip! That’s ’ow it works—they numb you. Wear you down. Convince you it’s all right.”
    “Nigel, you are a stowaway. I am a runaway. I don’t see that we have any leverage here.”
    Nigel slammed his broom on the floor. “Of course you don’t. You fink like they do. You fink they’re so bloody smart. Well, consider this. Wha’ sort of animal ’ave they taken wif ’em?”
    “Dogs.”
    “And wha’ else?”
    Philip considered this a moment. “More dogs?”
    “Right! Now, wha’ does that tell you? It tells you they’re fools. Now, if you follow the finkin’ of Robert Scott—the best bleedin’ explorer wha’ ever lived—you know you’re supposed to take ponies. Why? Because they’re built for ’eavypullin.’ Because one of ’em can pull wha’ free or four dogs can pull—plus, they eat grain, so you don’t have to worry about spoilin’ meat.”
    “It’s well below freezing out there. The meat is frozen.”
    “You’re ignorin’ my point. It’s the stupidity of it. Fink, Philip. They split the crew into two teams, an’ they don’t tell us until the last minute—very bad for morale. The team wha’ leaves, they don’t ’ave the right animals. So they’re doomed. They can’t contact us. Wha’ ’appens to us if they don’t return?”
    “We go home, I suppose.”
    “And ’ow long d’yer suppose they’re goin’ to wait before they decides to do that? Six monfs? A year? While we sit ’ere an’ mop the floors an’ scrub the water closet an’ say yes sir no sir to Barf?”
    “Unless we freeze to death first.”
    “Exac’ly!” At last. The light of understanding. “’Ow long do you fink these men will last under Barf?”
    Philip laughed. “They hate him.”
    “They’ll ’ang ’im, they will. String ’im up from the riggin’, like