January 10,1910
THE MONEY. ALL THAT mattered was the money.
Philip draped two coats on his bedding and looked behind him.
Ruskey was the only other person in the afterhold, but his back was firmly turned.
Philip reached into his footlocker, grabbed bills by the fistful, and began stuffing pockets. First the overcoat. Then the pea coat. Then the tweed jacket he was wearing. From outside to in. When finished, he would don them all.
No one would notice the thickness of three coats. In their winter clothing, the men were all the size of thatched huts anyway — and if the Mystery sank, a chest filled with English pound notes would do little good floating beneath the Antarctic Ocean. Indigestion for the seals, perhaps. Hardly a hospitable thing to do to one’s hosts.
Besides, Philip had a responsibility. The money belonged to the Bank of London. Yes, he’d stolen it (although he’d swear he’d been tricked into it), and no, he had no intention of returning it. But the money was created by hardworking Britons who meant it to be used, not wasted. Giving it up was positively unpatriotic.
The noise upstairs — abovedecks, or whatever grammatical monstrosity they called it — was grotesque. No doubt some mizzen or binnacle or barnacle had broken loose. The men were all afraid the ship would collapse. Nonsense. The hole was small and the hull was thicker than a London fog.
He hated the atmosphere out there. Chop, chop, chop, all day long, until your hands resembled bangers and mash. And for what? Why not leave the poor ice floes alone, let them mix it up and get it out of their systems? That would be the sensible approach.
The next best thing was to remain here as long as possible.
“Westfall?”
Philip slammed the chest shut. “What? I mean … yes, David?”
Ruskey was kneeling by an old wooden crate. He was poring over his photographic plates, holding them up to the light, dropping some into the crate and discarding others on the deck. “Do you think this really captures the aurora australis, or would you go for this shot of the ice shelf?”
“Well … uh …”
Lord, how was he to distinguish one of those black filmy things from another?
Philip was responsible for those photographs. Uncle Horace had made that clear. They were the entire reason for his financing the trip. You can’t make money on glory, he’d said. But a five-cent reproducible image’ll make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. Uncle Horace had joked that he would release Philip’s whereabouts to the British authorities if Philip failed to retain the film.
Uncle Horace was not a joking man.
And Philip was no fool.
The more Ruskey packed, the better. And by the by, if one or two images just happened to end up in Philip’s possession, well, no one would be the worse off for it.
“I’d say just pack them all,” Philip advised.
“Can’t,” Ruskey replied. “I have to weld them into metal containers to waterproof them. Captain Barth will allow only twenty containers. I’ll take my Vest-Pocket Kodak. It takes lousy pictures, but —”
“Twenty! Balderdash. The man has no appreciation of art!”
“This is about weight, not art. If we travel by sledge, we have to keep it light. I learned that the hard way on our South Pole trip.”
“Yes, but we’re heading north, where it’s warmer!”
Footsteps clomped upward from steerage, and Nigel emerged with a bag filled with food. “Anchoo foonfeh yut?”
“Swallow, please?” Philip said.
Nigel gulped hard, then belched. From all indications, he had eaten sardines and chocolate for lunch.
“Ain’t you finished yet?” he asked, winking furiously.
“Almost.”
Wink wink wink wink. “I trust you ain’t forgettin’ to take all yer valuables, if you catch me driftwood.”
“Yes, Nigel.”
Lovely. All the subtlety of a whale among goldfish.
Nigel was a fool. A blinking idiot. What kind of man stowed away on a ship to Antarctica, for heaven’s sake? The same kind of man who would organize a mutiny on a ship locked in ice, that’s who. A British man.
On that October day Philip discovered Nigel in steerage, he should have smitten him with a whale bone. But no, Philip was kind, Philip chose mercy—and his reward? The lout had recognized Philip from the newspaper, from that hideous photo they’d printed under the headline LONDON SCHOOLBOY THEFT. To buy Nigel’s silence, Philip took the blame for smuggling him on board. Nigel, the story went, was Philip’s friend.
The fact that the crew believed him was the greatest insult of all.
One little scandal and you paid for months. The entire arrangement was unfair.
Suddenly Colin Winslow’s voice honked from the hatch:
“EVACUATE SHIP! THE FOREMAST IS BREAKING!”
“Well, fix it,” Philip said under his breath.
Ruskey grabbed his camera. “This I have to see.”
Pulling along his wooden chest, Ruskey headed for the hatch. He left behind an enormous pile of discarded plates — no doubt glorious Antarctic panoramas for which Americans would pay dearly to hang in gilded frames over their fireplaces.
They simply couldn’t be left here.
Philip grabbed six. Six would do. He could easily pack them away without anyone knowing. Once the ship returned, he could move to Chicago under an assumed name and sell them on the black market.
But where to hide them? He glanced around and saw a large half-filled burlap sack marked HARDTACK. Nigel must have dropped it on the way out. Perfect. Hardtack tasted like cardboard and no one in his right mind would bother opening the bag.
SREEEEEEEEE!
The blasted whistle again.
“ALL MEN MOVE AWAY FROM THE SHIP!” Captain Barth thundered.
“Yes, yes, hold your sea horses.…” Philip jammed the photos into the sack. They stuck out the top. He reached into the bottom of the bag and shifted around the stale, wretched biscuits to make more room.
Now for the bills. He’d wasted so much precious time on this, he’d left the coats on the bed — and the bulk of the money still in the trunk.
He stood up, lifted the bag, and lost his balance.
It moved. The ship jumped.
Had it — she — already shaken free of the ice?
A deep sound moaned from above him — and Philip knew in an instant, in his gut, that he had to leave.
He heard the crash a split second before the deck exploded.