Amundsen’s hand silences the laughter. ‘Soap will lather just as well in salt water.’
‘What about the water stored in the longboat, sir? Do we have to drink that?’
‘We’ll keep that for the dogs.’
There’s a collective sigh of relief. The water crisis is not yet so bad that they have to drink the rusty water that has turned the dog turds bright red. But it may yet get worse if nature doesn’t deliver. The great downpours, usually so predictable in these latitudes, have failed to show. If it doesn’t rain soon, they’ll have to go ashore in the Americas. A waste of precious time as far as Amundsen is concerned. Progress has already been delayed. The northeast trade winds died out earlier than expected. The stiff breeze that so eased their transit across the Atlantic has now shifted south, making their approach to the equator a true battle of man versus the elements. If the doldrums had lived up to their reputation, the Fram could have quite happily motored across the calm waters, her engines taking up the slack in the sails. As it stands, the final degrees of latitude to the equator have been hard won against a brutal southerly.
‘What about crossing the line?’ asks the carpenter Stubberud. ‘Can we still do that?’
Amundsen invites Nilsen to speak. As captain of the ship, all seafaring traditions are his responsibility. A number of men aboard have not crossed the equator before. Depending on one’s point of view, King Neptune’s initiation ritual can be a laugh or an ordeal.
Nilsen shakes his head. ‘It’s not the water situation. Not enough room on deck, lads.’
There’s grumbling. Mostly from those men who have already undergone the humiliation of being covered in paint, performing in a beauty contest or forced to eat foul substances. It should be their turn to inflict suffering on others.
Stubberud is up for any activity that relieves the boredom of months at sea. He shouts, ‘I was hoping to be tarred and feathered, sir!’
‘The pigeons haven’t left us much in the way of feathers. How about we cover you in dog—’
‘Men!’ Amundsen calls for quiet. Keeping up morale is important; they still have so far to travel. ‘How about a celebratory dinner instead with music, some cigars and liqueurs.’
It is symbolic for Amundsen too, this tipping over the imaginary line from the Northern to the Southern Hemisphere. Has he got away with it? Is Nansen furious? Has he offended the king? Does the Norwegian parliament demand an explanation? Or worse, demand the money they lent the expedition? Now that they are underway, nothing else matters. To assign any importance to these questions is pointless.
Suddenly there’s a loud clattering noise, a yowling from below. One of the dogs has fallen down the stairs. Oscar scrambles down and brings the poor whimpering creature back up on deck. He calls to Sverre.
The dog expert sees immediately. ‘Broken his leg.’
‘How did he break free?’ asks the captain.
Sverre lifts the ragged rope dangling from the dog’s collar. ‘Gnawed his way free. Should be called Houdini.’
‘It’s my Isak,’ says Oscar of the massive creature. ‘I’d know him anywhere. Must have landed with his full weight on that leg. I suppose you’ll want to throw him overboard now,’ Oscar says with cynicism, convinced that this animal will be another casualty of the expedition’s hard line on population control.
Lieutenant Gjertson speaks up. ‘I can set the bone.’
As if sensing salvation, the dog starts to wag its tail, proud of its double achievement – escaping both captivity and walking the plank.
‘We need to let the children loose,’ says Amundsen to the captain. ‘It’s been more than six weeks. Their paws are swollen. Their claws are falling off.’
Captain Nilsen looks doubtful. Puppy killers spring to mind. ‘There’ll be bloodshed.’
‘Entertainment for the men,’ Amundsen says playfully. Unlike Nilsen he trusts the dogs. Most are quite tame now, used to their human handlers and the routine of life at sea. Even the Three Musketeers allow a scratch behind the ears.
‘Not my idea of fun,’ says Nilsen. ‘I like having a full set of limbs.’
Men being mauled isn’t Amundsen’s concern. The problem is with dogs attacking each other. It’s the only fun they know; they’ve been deprived of the pleasure for months. But there’s one way to avoid all-out carnage. Amundsen calls to Sverre, ‘Got those dog muzzles somewhere accessible?’
The next morning everybody is on deck to witness the great untying of the dogs – it’s the closest thing to sport in the mid-Atlantic. Even the men who should be sleeping off night watch prefer to witness the spectacle. Sverre demonstrates how the men should fit the muzzles, allowing for jaw movement but not the use of teeth. Captain Nilsen retreats below deck. So does Rønne, complaining loudly about all the work he has piling up at his sewing machine. Neither man wants to be on the battlefield.
At first nothing happens. The dogs seem perfectly happy to remain on their home patch. The Fram’s bow cleaves through the waves and every now and then a shower of sea spray casts a wide net over the animals. Under the circumstances, the dogs prefer to hunker down than venture forth. Only one dog lifts its nose to the southerly wind and gives a sniff. Amazingly, it’s Isak, the fresh splint on his leg, the only dog to have earned his freedom. Curious perhaps to follow a smell on the ocean breeze, Isak hobbles on three good legs along the rising-and-falling deck among dogs that, despite being at sea together, have remained complete strangers throughout the voyage, thanks to being tied at opposite ends of the ship. There are growls, then a surge, sudden and savage. At least a dozen dogs bring the curious interloper down. Shrieks, wailing and whimpers surround the hash of animals setting to with furious excitement. Other dogs leap to their feet, surprised by their lack of restraints. Other fights break out. Aghast, the men look on, horrified at the carnage they’ve unleashed. Nobody intervenes. To do so would be suicide … or perhaps not.
Amundsen roars with laughter. ‘Perfect!’ he calls to Sverre. ‘Plenty of fur flying but no blood.’ It’s just what the dogs needed, a good scrap. And the men. It looks like everyone’s enjoying the sudden change in the shipboard dynamic.
Helmer rocks back and forth with amusement. ‘I love being back with Amundsen,’ he shouts to nobody in particular. It’s the ocean, heading for the ice, the howling of the wind and the howling of the dogs – all of it music to his ears. ‘This is where I belong – it’s like the Northwest Passage all over again!’
Sverre smiles and nods. His Arctic experiences were with another Norwegian explorer, Otto Sverdrup. He recognises blind loyalty; it’s unmistakable. Helmer would dive to the bottom of the ocean if Amundsen asked. The chief has chosen his team wisely, Sverre concedes. Then again, not everyone aboard is as loyal as Helmer.
CHAPTER SIX
Johansen has a serious set to his face as he works. The calm of the little workshop Bjaaland has set up below decks suits him. Bjaaland is grateful for the help. Adjusting twenty pairs of hickory skis to suit each member of the crew is a fiddly task, made trickier by rough seas tossing equipment every which way. For a time the two men talk about Captain Scott. Nobody ever seems to tire of discussing the British reaction to Amundsen’s plan or the fury they must feel at being unwittingly drawn into a race. Inevitably the conversation turns to their own expectations of success and the various advantages they hope will secure a Norwegian victory.
‘Amundsen did well, getting a man of your calibre to join this escapade,’ says Bjaaland.
Johansen shrugs. ‘Could say the same of you: Norway’s champion skier!’
Bjaaland can’t help smiling. ‘You know it’s funny, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing, I’d rather be someplace else. I met Amundsen in a train station in Germany. I was travelling with the Norwegian ski team to a competition in France. I told him I’d like to ski to the North Pole. He offered to take me with him.’
‘You’re his ticket to a swift victory. That’s what Amundsen wants – speed. To snatch the prize from Scott.
’ Johansen takes off his cap and runs a hand over his close-cropped white hair. He’s slightly older than the rest, or at least he seems to be. The whole nation knows of his adventures with Nansen in the Arctic. He may be only forty-three years old, but Johansen’s already lived a thousand lives.
‘I read your book,’ says Bjaaland, proud to finally have a chance to mention it. Still, he is self-conscious enough around the renowned adventurer to avoid eye contact.
‘Did you like it?’
‘I did. Must have been incredible. Being with Nansen.’
Johansen hums agreement.
‘So what’s he like?’
‘Nansen?’ Johansen rubs his chin. ‘The best. He saved my life.’
‘I thought you saved his life.’
‘I did.’
The two men laugh then retreat into companionable silence.
After a minute Bjaaland asks, ‘So what happened?’ He’s like a child eager for a retelling of a favourite tale.
‘A polar bear struck me on the head. I would have been mincemeat. That big boy was twice the size of a man. Nansen shot him. And then we ate him. I think Nansen probably couldn’t bear the thought of being left alone so far from civilisation.’ Johansen grins.
‘Good thing there are no polar bears where we’re going,’ Bjaaland says.
‘Plenty of crevasses that’ll swallow you whole.’
Bjaaland selects a fresh pair of skis and runs his hand admiringly down their length. ‘Extra long skis are a good idea. Hard to disappear down a crack with these on your feet.’
After a short silence, Bjaaland eases the conversation back to adventure. ‘When I was reading your book, I’d never have imagined that I’d be with the man who set out with Nansen to discover the North Pole.’
‘If only we’d succeeded …’
‘That doesn’t really matter. It was the furthest north anyone had ever been. Before Peary. Or Cook. Whoever reached it!’
‘I’d like to know how they did it,’ Johansen says. ‘Hard to make any progress north, when the ice you’re on is constantly drifting south.’ He remembers the days of frustration all too keenly. After a full day’s march, to end the day in more or less the same place. Ridiculous.
‘Of course failing to wind the chronometers put us at a slight disadvantage …’ Johansen trails off, his understatement left hanging as he recalls the feeling of dread at having no way of determining their position or that of the Fram. Things had progressed from bad to worse with the sea ice breaking up, leaving them to bob about on an ice floe for more than a month. All the dogs were dead by that stage. Thankfully they had the kayaks, although one had been badly mauled by a walrus. They were lucky not to be savaged themselves. What sweet relief to finally reach terra firma. Franz Josef Land. Uninhabited, unfortunately, but a safe place to make a decent shelter from walrus hide and enjoy eight months of waiting for winter to pass so they could get going again. At least they’d had plenty to eat. Walrus, polar bear – they’d exacted revenge on those two species. Johansen sighs. ‘Quite a time we had.’
Johansen steps back from the work bench. For a moment he looks thoughtful. A return to the ice. This is really all he wants. Not the comfortable existence of a husband and father, warming his legs by the fire as his wife, Hilda, bustles about and children squabble. Domestic life – such a brutal disappointment when contrasted with a fight for survival. How close he and Nansen came to death; how alive he felt in its presence.
‘Well, you’re in for another adventure. With another great explorer.’
‘You know, I get the distinct impression that Amundsen does not want me here.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, he hand-picked everyone else himself. I’m quite sure I’m only here because of Nansen.’
Bjaaland snorts in disbelief. ‘You’ve got more experience than anybody. Even Amundsen.’
Johansen sucks in his breath with displeasure. ‘Be careful now. Comments like that …’
Bjaaland blushes. ‘Sorry, I just thought—’
‘Hey, it’s all fine!’ Johansen says, shrugging off his truthfulness with a light-hearted tone. ‘Me? All I care about is getting to the South Pole.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
With the Roaring Forties behind them, the Norwegians must now face the Furious Fifties and the kind of violent winds and treacherous sailing conditions that their Viking forebears would have welcomed. The west wind belt is living up to its reputation. Foul weather bears down on the Fram with a force that would be frightening if it wasn’t pushing the ship in the right direction. Aided by the gale blowing at her heels, the Fram gallops the remaining distance across the Southern Atlantic, and even running short of sails, the ship is catapulted around the southern tip of Africa. There’ll be no slowing now. Those wishing to admire the Cape of Good Hope will be disappointed; they’re too far south. It is mid-November. The Norwegians are more than halfway to Antarctica. From here on, theirs will be a lonely trek into one of the world’s emptiest stretches of ocean.
Dwarfing the ship, the dark sea gathers off the stern, threatening to swallow it whole or at least wipe clean the deck. Already two dogs have been lost overboard. But the ship’s rounded hull is well suited to riding out the immense waves that loom up in endless procession. Like a lady hoisting her petticoats to step over a muddy puddle, the Fram simply lifts herself up, allowing whatever monster is gathering to pass under her hull. Unfortunately the clever hull design gives rise to a vile side-to-side roll and is responsible for much retching.
Fresh water is still in short supply. They get a thorough soaking at least once a day from the north-west but the downpours don’t last long. Neither does the sleet or hail that charges in on sudden gusts, lashing the decks and pummelling the poor dogs with short-lived fury. The sun reappears just as abruptly, working with a determined westerly to dry the decks and restore some comfort to the animals, who are looking thin and miserable. Regular feeds of butter are deemed the most efficient way of improving their diet. To be of any use in Antarctica, they need fattening up.
Oscar doles out gobs of yellow butter onto the deck. ‘If we keep feeding the dogs like this, there’ll be none left for us humans.’
‘The dogs are more important than you or me.’ Sverre shows his empty hands to a particularly insistent dog. ‘The whole outcome of this expedition depends on them. You want to be successful or eat pancakes?’
Oscar offers Camilla a second helping of butter off his hand. She’s no longer the only mother. Ester had six pups, as did Sara. Eva had seven. Kaisa, Bella, Lola, Katinka and Else also gave birth. Of the forty-six pups, thirty-four have been tossed into the sea, eight have been eaten by other dogs and one was snatched by an albatross.
Unlucky Isak has made a full recovery after breaking his leg and is just as likely to start a fight as any other able-bodied dog at feeding time. Freedom is no longer the novelty it once was. A clear hierarchy has been established among the dogs but every now and then hell breaks loose. Often it’s over a wayward tail. Even a rogue wave can start a brawl. In the dogs’ world, it seems that neighbours must take the blame for the sheer awfulness of shipboard life: the cold, the frightful wind, the constant hateful wetness. Sea water has made them footsore. Many shed great flakes of skin and clumps of fur. The smart dogs slink below deck in search of dry lodgings. Any luxury is short-lived. Recently the chief stoker yanked Camilla from a warm spot between the pistons. If they’d fired up the engines, she’d have been crushed. Such miserable whines could be heard when she was returned to the wet deck with the others; meanwhile her puppy lies warm and dry in the captain’s berth.
Despite his devotion to Madeiro, Nilsen’s patience for the dogs is wearing thin. One dog, Jakob, has the nickname ‘The Murderer’, so often has he snaffled the newly born. Witnessing puppies being eaten alive sends Nilsen into a violent rage. He takes to The Murderer with a chain, applying it with such severity that he almost beats the unfortunate creature to death.
‘Captain!’ Sv
erre brings Nilsen back to his senses. He takes the bloody chain from the captain’s shaking hand. Everyone knows Nilsen is under enormous stress and dangerously short on sleep. Icebergs are the reason. They may excite some aboard, but for Nilsen there is no greater horror. Easily spotted during daylight hours, the bulbous blocks of ice are much harder to see in the dark and would breach their thick hull as if it were made of butter. Such accidents have been known to sink a ship before the crew can even scramble from their berths. Keeping alert during a six-hour watch through the night requires lots of hot, strong coffee. As an added precaution, Nilsen asks that every two hours the temperature of the ocean be checked – a disagreeable task in a squall, but infinitely preferable to sinking to Davy Jones’ Locker.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Who will go ashore? It’s one question preying on everyone’s mind. Nobody will ask Amundsen outright. To do so would seem overeager and likely count against whoever is asking. Going ashore means having a crack at the South Pole. Instant fame and wealth, assuming a career can be forged around a victorious outcome. Each man hopes; more than half will know disappointment.
One man definitely not going ashore is Captain Nilsen. The southern winter sets in fast and he’ll need to shepherd the Fram safely out of Antarctic waters before the sea ice weds him to the continent. His duties lie northward in Buenos Aires, where repairs can be carried out on the Fram and fresh provisions taken aboard. It will be a treacherous sea journey, taking on the worst conditions in the world’s most dangerous ocean regions. Many have perished rounding Cape Horn with its infamous wind, enormous waves and hazardous currents. That said, money is Nilsen’s major concern. There’s simply none left. Once the Fram makes port, they’ll need to get out the begging bowl.
A number of the crew intended to leave the Fram in San Francisco. Of course, San Francisco was never actually on Amundsen’s itinerary and these men were taken on as sailors, not polar adventurers. There is little chance of them making the cut. Besides, Nilsen will need experienced sailors to make landfall in Argentina.
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