February 9, 1910
PULL.
Philip felt nothing.
Pull.
His gloves were rigid with ice. His blisters had grown, burst, bled, then given way to new blisters underneath, which had grown, burst, and bled. His backside chafed against the motion of rowing, and he sat in a moving pool of blood. Saltwater clung to his skin through every item of clothing.
Pull.
Since the maelstrom had ceased — by an act of a merciful God or blind luck — the coast and the sea had remained indistinguishable in the fog. Colin and Philip were in constant motion, but it seemed they hadn’t moved a centimeter. Their oars had grown heavy with encrusted ice, but they didn’t dare stop to break it off for fear of collapsing.
Pull.
In the shadow under the decking, Jack shifted positions.
Philip unlocked his frozen jaw and spoke. “Conscious?”
“No,” Colin replied.
Pull.
Pull.
“Colin?”
“Mm.”
“Why are we doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Going back.”
Pull.
“Why do you think, Philip?”
“If they survived, don’t you think they’d have kept on sailing?”
“Yes.”
“Then they would have found us.”
“Maybe.”
Pull.
“Don’t you agree?” Philip insisted.
“Well, what happened to us?”
“Us?”
“Mast damage. Hull damage.”
“Ah.”
Pull.
“We put in,” Colin said.
“Yes.”
“Maybe they did, too. Somewhere else. Another cove.”
“Perhaps.”
Pull.
“You think they’re dead, Philip?”
“Or rescued. That Walpole fellow.”
“Walden.”
“Walden. He may have found them. Perhaps he’s coming back to get us.”
Pull.
Pull.
“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Colin?”
Pull.
“They … weren’t,” Colin said.
“Pardon?”
“Rescued. They weren’t rescued.”
“Oh?”
“He’s gone. Walden.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
Pull.
“I mean, he’s already sailed through here.”
“How do you know?”
“We found his flag in the cave. Matches. A cigarette. Human waste.”
“Are you sure they were his?”
“Can you suggest any other possibilities?”
Pull.
“And that’s why you and your father were so … inscrutable?”
“Sorry.”
“You knew! You knew we were doomed and you didn’t say anything?”
“We thought it would bring down morale.”
Pull.
Philip was stupefied.
The plan had hinged on Walden. The alternative, Defection Island or whatever that bloody place was called, was ludicrous. Even with the Mystery it would be an outside shot.
Pull
Philip felt everything now — the friction, the blisters, the sores, the pain. The excruciating, senseless pain. The realization that every moment, from his humiliating arrival in New York to this slow boat to oblivion, had been the piling on of calamity upon catastrophe that led to only one possible conclusion.
Pull.
“Then why pretend there’s hope of rescue?” Philip demanded. “Why row, Colin?”
“Because.”
“What kind of fool reason is that?”
“Because there is never — never — a good reason to stop trying your hardest.”
Pull.
“Oh, that’s rich, Colin. Lovely. Bloody inspirational. Well, let me try to think of a reason. Ah, I know: We’re three thousand nautical miles from anyplace where Weddell seal is not considered a rare delicacy, our whereabouts are known only to one wretched human being who fouled our cave and sailed off—and, if we’re very lucky, we number thirty men and thirteen dogs in three rowboats! There’s your reason!”
Pull.
“Why are you laughing?”
“To hide the fact that I want to cry!”
Splash.
“Philip?”
“What?”
“That noise? Did you hear it?”
“What noise?”
“The splash!”
“I hear nothing but splashes. Is this some sort of game? Shall we count them, then? Onetwothreefourfive —”
Thump.
Philip shut up.
“Did you feel that, Philip?”
“Of course I did! What is it?”
“I don’t know!”
They stopped rowing.
And slowly, on its own, the Horace Putney started to move. Sideways.
“Colin, something’s underneath us!”
“I’ll get the gun —”
Colin ducked under the decking. His father stirred and opened his eyes.
From the port side came a deep watery bellow like the sudden release of a thousand fire hoses.
Philip was afraid to turn and witness the thing that was now reflected in the eyes of both Colin and his father.
As he peeked slowly over his shoulder, he saw the flank of a humpback whale submerge, and the beast’s tail slap the surface of the water like a gunshot.