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Authors: Peter Lerangis
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starboard. The men crowded to the uplifted port side, their heads now at least six feet higher than Andrew’s.
“Let go!” Oppenheim cried out.
Andrew planted his feet against the inside of the starboard hull, now almost parallel to the water. He tensed his arms, threw his weight back, and pulled with all his strength.
Suddenly he fell back. The port side dropped.
Broken. It was broken.
The men of the Breen were goners.
Andrew sat up and glanced toward the berg.
The line hadn’t sunk into the water. It stretched across the surface, still attached to the Breen.
Trying to tack, Nigel and Robert had lost control of the sail. The Raina had slowed — but the Breen was moving.
“HA! You did it, my boy!” Captain Barth whooped.
Andrew pulled. Lombardo grabbed hold of the line and helped him.
On the other end, Bailey and Nesbit pulled, too. The Breen slowly drew closer. Bucketfuls of water spilled over the side as the other men continued to bail.
“They’re way below the waterline,” Dr. Montfort said.
Nigel and Robert managed to find the right angle to the wind, and the Raina picked up speed.
In all the commotion, Andrew hadn’t noticed where they were heading.
Toward Antarctica.
Andrew turned to Captain Barth. “We’re going the wrong way.”
“We have no choice,” Captain Barth replied.
“But Jack said we had to —”
“We have no rigging. The Breen needs to be patched. We have to make land as soon as possible. If Jack were here, he’d do the same.”
Andrew’s leg began to throb again. His body shook.
If we separate, Jack had said, if one boat is damaged — our return voyage is doomed.
The team had split in half. Two of the four boats were crippled.
And those two were returning.
Andrew felt numb as the men began to shout anew and the dogs sent up a racket.
He turned and saw the Samuel Breen sinking beneath the ocean.
12
Jack
February 5, 1910
T HE ICE WAS LIKE stone.
It clung to the rigging, at least an inch thick. Jack tried to break it but he couldn’t. The sheets were like solid pipes.
They’d set the sail, hoping to tack and return to the Raina and the Samuel Breen, but the storm had come up from nowhere. Now, rigid with ice, the sail was trapping the wind, making the boat heel and pitch violently.
Jack had to hold onto the mast for balance. The Horace Putney was veering crazily. “I need a hammer!”
Colin emerged from below the decking with an ax. “Use this, Father!”
Jack grabbed the hilt and smashed the back of the blade against the ice. One … two … three … A chunk broke off. Then another.
Mansfield pulled the sheet. The sail creaked. Jack pounded.
SNNAP!
With a sudden crash, the ice shattered like glass, and Jack jumped away. “Take ’er in!”
Colin released the sheet, lifted the boom, and lashed the sail. Cranston held tight to the tiller. Mansfield grabbed an oar and gave another to Philip.
“What do I do?” Philip asked.
“Row!” Mansfield replied. “You know how to row , don’t you?”
“Indeed!” Philip dipped the oar into the water and tried to paddle.
“This isn’t a canoe!” Mansfield shouted. “Use the oarlocks! Do what I’m doing. You hold while I back.”
Philip inserted the oar into the lock and sat down. “Hold what?”
Jack took the oar. Submerging the blade, he held fast while Mansfield backed the boat around to face the wind.
“I’ve lost sight of the Iphigenia !” Colin called out.
But Jack’s attention was focused straight ahead. A swell rose on the horizon, spreading like a wide, sloping mountain. The Horace Putney’s bow pointed toward the center of it.
“Cranston, hold the rudder tight,” Jack said. “We’ll face this head-on.”
The center of the swell bulged. At this distance it seemed to be standing still, although the water’s roiling movement suggested great speed.
The wind caught the Horace Putney full blast, sending a spray of ice and spindrift into the men’s faces.
“She’s
“Let go!” Oppenheim cried out.
Andrew planted his feet against the inside of the starboard hull, now almost parallel to the water. He tensed his arms, threw his weight back, and pulled with all his strength.
Suddenly he fell back. The port side dropped.
Broken. It was broken.
The men of the Breen were goners.
Andrew sat up and glanced toward the berg.
The line hadn’t sunk into the water. It stretched across the surface, still attached to the Breen.
Trying to tack, Nigel and Robert had lost control of the sail. The Raina had slowed — but the Breen was moving.
“HA! You did it, my boy!” Captain Barth whooped.
Andrew pulled. Lombardo grabbed hold of the line and helped him.
On the other end, Bailey and Nesbit pulled, too. The Breen slowly drew closer. Bucketfuls of water spilled over the side as the other men continued to bail.
“They’re way below the waterline,” Dr. Montfort said.
Nigel and Robert managed to find the right angle to the wind, and the Raina picked up speed.
In all the commotion, Andrew hadn’t noticed where they were heading.
Toward Antarctica.
Andrew turned to Captain Barth. “We’re going the wrong way.”
“We have no choice,” Captain Barth replied.
“But Jack said we had to —”
“We have no rigging. The Breen needs to be patched. We have to make land as soon as possible. If Jack were here, he’d do the same.”
Andrew’s leg began to throb again. His body shook.
If we separate, Jack had said, if one boat is damaged — our return voyage is doomed.
The team had split in half. Two of the four boats were crippled.
And those two were returning.
Andrew felt numb as the men began to shout anew and the dogs sent up a racket.
He turned and saw the Samuel Breen sinking beneath the ocean.
12
Jack
February 5, 1910
T HE ICE WAS LIKE stone.
It clung to the rigging, at least an inch thick. Jack tried to break it but he couldn’t. The sheets were like solid pipes.
They’d set the sail, hoping to tack and return to the Raina and the Samuel Breen, but the storm had come up from nowhere. Now, rigid with ice, the sail was trapping the wind, making the boat heel and pitch violently.
Jack had to hold onto the mast for balance. The Horace Putney was veering crazily. “I need a hammer!”
Colin emerged from below the decking with an ax. “Use this, Father!”
Jack grabbed the hilt and smashed the back of the blade against the ice. One … two … three … A chunk broke off. Then another.
Mansfield pulled the sheet. The sail creaked. Jack pounded.
SNNAP!
With a sudden crash, the ice shattered like glass, and Jack jumped away. “Take ’er in!”
Colin released the sheet, lifted the boom, and lashed the sail. Cranston held tight to the tiller. Mansfield grabbed an oar and gave another to Philip.
“What do I do?” Philip asked.
“Row!” Mansfield replied. “You know how to row , don’t you?”
“Indeed!” Philip dipped the oar into the water and tried to paddle.
“This isn’t a canoe!” Mansfield shouted. “Use the oarlocks! Do what I’m doing. You hold while I back.”
Philip inserted the oar into the lock and sat down. “Hold what?”
Jack took the oar. Submerging the blade, he held fast while Mansfield backed the boat around to face the wind.
“I’ve lost sight of the Iphigenia !” Colin called out.
But Jack’s attention was focused straight ahead. A swell rose on the horizon, spreading like a wide, sloping mountain. The Horace Putney’s bow pointed toward the center of it.
“Cranston, hold the rudder tight,” Jack said. “We’ll face this head-on.”
The center of the swell bulged. At this distance it seemed to be standing still, although the water’s roiling movement suggested great speed.
The wind caught the Horace Putney full blast, sending a spray of ice and spindrift into the men’s faces.
“She’s
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