Antarctica Read Online Free

it.
    Twenty-one … twenty-two … twenty-three …
    The men weren’t panicking. That was good. They were a plucky bunch. Nerves of steel. Swarming around, all business, doing the work that needed to be —
    Twenty-nine.
    One short.
    There should have been thirty.
    Colin-Andrew-Barth-Kennedy-Hayes-Robert-Rivera-Flummerfelt-Cranston-O’Malley-Talmadge-Petard-Bailey-Nigel —
    “Nigel, where’s Philip?” Jack blurted out.
    “Who cares?” muttered Ruppenthal.
    Nigel shrugged. “I fought ’e came out.”
    “He did,” Ruskey agreed. “He followed me out of the afterhold.”
    “Then, where is he?” Jack asked. “Is he in any of the tents? Colin?”
    Colin shook his head.
    “Did anyone actually see him climb up that ladder?”
    Ruskey’s face went blank.
    “’E better’ a come out,” Nigel said, looking suddenly pale.
    Not another crew member. Not right under his nose.
    Jack sprinted to the Mystery and up the gangplank. The deck was destroyed. The mast lay across it like a fallen larch, its base still tenuously attached, its crosstrees akimbo. Its top rested heavily on the engine casing, just below the surface of the deck. It hadn’t fallen all the way through. Yet.
    “Philip!”
    No answer.
    Jack jumped down into an afterhold that was unrecognizable — the deck covered with splinters and shattered planks, the air thick with sawdust and snow. “Philip, are you down here?”
    “Oh … oh, dear …”
    Under the mast.
    Jack dropped to the deck and saw a bare foot jutting out of a pile of wood. In the shadow of the foremast an arm moved. “I … seem to be having a bit of … difficulty.”
    “Hold on, Philip!” Jack cleared away planks of heavy wood. “Do you think you can walk?”
    Philip was sitting up now, dazed and ashen-faced. “I — I believe I’m all right.”
    “Grab my arm!”
    “My — my coats — they’re on my bunk —”
    “The bunk is destroyed!”
    “It — it can’t be. I must get those coats —”
    “Philip, the mast isn’t stable. The ship’s in trouble. Let’s go!”
    He reached out, but Philip pulled away. “I also had a bag. It’s filled with … hardtack.”
    “There’s no time for that, Philip —”
    “Here it is!” Philip pulled a burlap sack from under a pile. Directly over his head the foremast twisted, grinding against the steel engine.
    Jack lunged for the boy’s arm. Philip jumped away.
    With a sharp report, the column snapped. Jack scrambled to get out of the way.
    Too late. A broken spar slammed against his thigh, pinning him to the floor.
    He breathed wood. He choked on wood. He saw nothing but white. He tried to yell, but no sound came out. All he could do was reach for Philip. Philip would help.
    But when Jack stretched out his hand, he grasped nothing.
    He coughed and spat. Around him, the dust settled. The room gathered form. The foremast had broken off at the engine room bulkhead, and the crosstree joint rested firmly on the back of Jack’s leg. He twisted around, trying to sit up, but the angle was bad. He couldn’t possibly get enough leverage to lift the thing off.
    Philip was gone. So was the sack of biscuits.
    “Philip!”
    Footsteps rumbled across the remains of the deck above him. “Father?” Colin called down.
    “Down here! Under the mast!”
    Colin leaped down. So did Mansfield, Flummerfelt, and Rivera. In moments they were squatting beside the mast, lifting it upward. And so was Philip.
    Philip hadn’t run away. He’d run to get help.
    The release of the mast seemed to ignite Jack’s leg. He grimaced, clamping his jaw against the pain.
    Colin and Flummerfelt knelt beside him and hoisted him up by the shoulders. “Tell me where it hurts,” Colin said.
    It hurt everywhere. “I’m … okay. Thank you. And you … Philip.”
    Philip nodded uncertainly.
    Colin climbed abovedecks on the slanted foremast, then reached down as Rivera and Mansfield hoisted Jack over their heads. Once on deck, Jack leaned on his son, hobbling down the