Captain Barth replied. He turned to amidships and shouted, “Heave to, men!”
“Are we stuck?” Colin asked.
“Don’t ask that,” Captain Barth snapped. “Don’t ever ask that.”
“Elias, it’s a legitimate question,” Father said.
“Negativity lowers morale,” Barth replied, glowering at Colin. “I gave the command to heave to, Master Winslow.”
Colin met his imperious glance but didn’t move.
“Colin, help out,” Father said.
Help out? What had he been doing? Who saw the iceberg and the pressure ridge first?
“Aye. Aye. Sir,” Colin replied and turned away.
He had no use for either of them.
11
Philip
November 7, 1909
T HE SHIP WAS ICED in. Iced in, for goodness’ sake, and they hadn’t even reached land, or reached ice, or whatever they called it.
No one was admitting the predicament. They called it “young” ice. Which was not as dangerous as old ice, presumably—although how you told the difference was beyond Philip. At any rate, they were all crowded in the hold, officers and sailors. Since the ship had hove to, there really wasn’t much to do, which was just fine. Working side by side with Nigel had little appeal, and now, at least, Philip could do what he liked best, lying prone.
Everyone was playing. At the long table in the center of the hold, Drs. Montfort and Riesman, the people doctor and the veterinarian, brooded over a game of chess, oblivious to the loud poker game next to them.
Jacques Petard, the trim and pious physical instructor/chaplain, had brought a phonograph. He was playing music of the vile, syrupy Gabriel Faure, while the Greek sat to the side and wept, no doubt reminded of the howl of some beloved long-lost sheepdog.
Closer to Philip’s bunk, Lombardo entertained with stories of his boyhood in Sorrento.
“And, of course, this part I will not go into on account of the age of some of the individuals present,” Lombardo said for about the twentieth time, “but I’m sure the grown-ups among you will catch my drift.”
As always, Philip understood exactly what he was saying, and, as always, it was a ridiculous, over-inflated story of romance with some young signorina who in reality would never have the slightest thing to do with the likes of Lombardo.
“Thank you, Mr. Lombardo, for protecting my innocence,” Philip said.
“I don’t care about you, it’s out of respect for Pop’s sons,” Lombardo said.
“And also, no doubt, out of respect for truth.” Lombardo bolted to his feet. “Why, you little—”
Philip was gone before he could finish the sentence.
The next morning Philip awoke cramped, sore, and itchy. He was certainly allergic to the horsehair on the bed, but Captain Barth had ignored his pleas for different padding.
His stomach, however, which had been perpetually upset over the last few weeks, now felt calm. It took a moment for him to figure out why.
The ship was still. Not moving, not swaying or listing or heeling or whatever they called it. It was as if it had suddenly run aground.
Just as he feared, they were locked in the ice.
Already the troops were bustling about. Stimson, the cook, was grilling bacon and eggs and percolating the tarlike sludge he called coffee. Philip pulled on his clothing, called out a cheerful good-morning that was not answered, and celebrated his calm tummy with a large heap of scrambled eggs. Flummerfelt barreled past him, taking two buckets of coal from abovedecks to the engine room.
Nigel was sitting at the table, swilling the coffee. “Eat up,” he said. “We have pick duty.”
“Pick duty?”
“Unless you want to use a saw.”
“What on earth are you babbling about?”
The relative silence was broken by a monstrous GRRRROMMMM as the ship jerked forward. Nigel’s coffee flew across the table, landing on Philip’s lap.
“Blasted fool!” Philip said, bolting upward. “This is my only decent pair of trousers!”
“It was a decent cup of coffee, too.”
“If you two are
“Are we stuck?” Colin asked.
“Don’t ask that,” Captain Barth snapped. “Don’t ever ask that.”
“Elias, it’s a legitimate question,” Father said.
“Negativity lowers morale,” Barth replied, glowering at Colin. “I gave the command to heave to, Master Winslow.”
Colin met his imperious glance but didn’t move.
“Colin, help out,” Father said.
Help out? What had he been doing? Who saw the iceberg and the pressure ridge first?
“Aye. Aye. Sir,” Colin replied and turned away.
He had no use for either of them.
11
Philip
November 7, 1909
T HE SHIP WAS ICED in. Iced in, for goodness’ sake, and they hadn’t even reached land, or reached ice, or whatever they called it.
No one was admitting the predicament. They called it “young” ice. Which was not as dangerous as old ice, presumably—although how you told the difference was beyond Philip. At any rate, they were all crowded in the hold, officers and sailors. Since the ship had hove to, there really wasn’t much to do, which was just fine. Working side by side with Nigel had little appeal, and now, at least, Philip could do what he liked best, lying prone.
Everyone was playing. At the long table in the center of the hold, Drs. Montfort and Riesman, the people doctor and the veterinarian, brooded over a game of chess, oblivious to the loud poker game next to them.
Jacques Petard, the trim and pious physical instructor/chaplain, had brought a phonograph. He was playing music of the vile, syrupy Gabriel Faure, while the Greek sat to the side and wept, no doubt reminded of the howl of some beloved long-lost sheepdog.
Closer to Philip’s bunk, Lombardo entertained with stories of his boyhood in Sorrento.
“And, of course, this part I will not go into on account of the age of some of the individuals present,” Lombardo said for about the twentieth time, “but I’m sure the grown-ups among you will catch my drift.”
As always, Philip understood exactly what he was saying, and, as always, it was a ridiculous, over-inflated story of romance with some young signorina who in reality would never have the slightest thing to do with the likes of Lombardo.
“Thank you, Mr. Lombardo, for protecting my innocence,” Philip said.
“I don’t care about you, it’s out of respect for Pop’s sons,” Lombardo said.
“And also, no doubt, out of respect for truth.” Lombardo bolted to his feet. “Why, you little—”
Philip was gone before he could finish the sentence.
The next morning Philip awoke cramped, sore, and itchy. He was certainly allergic to the horsehair on the bed, but Captain Barth had ignored his pleas for different padding.
His stomach, however, which had been perpetually upset over the last few weeks, now felt calm. It took a moment for him to figure out why.
The ship was still. Not moving, not swaying or listing or heeling or whatever they called it. It was as if it had suddenly run aground.
Just as he feared, they were locked in the ice.
Already the troops were bustling about. Stimson, the cook, was grilling bacon and eggs and percolating the tarlike sludge he called coffee. Philip pulled on his clothing, called out a cheerful good-morning that was not answered, and celebrated his calm tummy with a large heap of scrambled eggs. Flummerfelt barreled past him, taking two buckets of coal from abovedecks to the engine room.
Nigel was sitting at the table, swilling the coffee. “Eat up,” he said. “We have pick duty.”
“Pick duty?”
“Unless you want to use a saw.”
“What on earth are you babbling about?”
The relative silence was broken by a monstrous GRRRROMMMM as the ship jerked forward. Nigel’s coffee flew across the table, landing on Philip’s lap.
“Blasted fool!” Philip said, bolting upward. “This is my only decent pair of trousers!”
“It was a decent cup of coffee, too.”
“If you two are
Similar Books
