‘Well, you should be more than happy,’ Helmer chortles. ‘This is just like the good old days!’
‘Come on, give me a hand,’ Sverre says with his knife poised above the ribcage, ‘once those guts are gone, I’ll be the only thing standing between those dogs and their feed and I’m not quite ready to die.’
Up at the building site, Bjaaland and Stubberud take a moment to admire their handiwork. In just under a week they’ve patched together the hut they originally built then dismantled in Amundsen’s garden in Norway. Attaching the roof and fitting the chimney comes next. They’ve become good mates during the build, sharing confidences, little jokes about this and that, observations about the others. Amundsen has joined the two men in their camp for the last few nights, keen to ensure everything will fit in the confines of their new accommodation. He’s also hoping his presence will keep them to their schedule. Everything must be finished before the Fram leaves.
‘How much longer, lads?’ Amundsen says, shielding his eyes in the sunlight.
There’s a squawk. Then another, this time more insistent. An emperor penguin announces itself from behind their tent. His glossy white chest puffed out, the penguin totters forward on its stumpy legs, taking bow after bow like a slightly nervous salesman making a surprise house call.
Bjaaland delights in seeing the stunning creature in such close quarters. A true South Pole native come to say hello. More bowing. The penguin totters closer. Another squawk. More bowing. Closer. He seems intent on introducing himself to his new neighbours. Bjaaland doesn’t notice Stubberud approach from behind with the hammer in his hand. One swift strike ends it all. The penguin tips over, dead.
Bjaaland gasps. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Look at these flippers – powerful weapons. They’d break a man’s back.’ Stubberud gives the penguin another blow to the head to make sure the job’s done properly. He doesn’t want to skin an animal that’s merely stunned.
‘Good job,’ says Amundsen plainly.
‘But we have food,’ says Bjaaland.
Stubberud shrugs and looks at the chief, hoping he’ll explain the unpleasant stuff.
‘You can’t afford to be sentimental, Bjaaland. Not here,’ says Amundsen. ‘We have 110 dogs and nine men to feed for a year.’
‘I just think it’s …’
Stubberud grins. ‘You didn’t care so much about the seals.’
Bjaaland stares at the penguin, loose necked with the few dots of blood now stark against the snow. ‘But he was just trying to be friendly, to say hello.’
Stubberud snorts. ‘You big softie. What will you think when we have to start killing off the dogs?’
Bjaaland’s jaw drops.
‘Yes well, nothing pleasant about that,’ says Amundsen with a sigh.
‘So why do it?’
‘Necessity. We’re covering such a distance, we won’t be able to carry enough food for both us and the dogs. Even with supply depots. Some of the dogs will have to be sacrificed.’
‘Not willingly,’ murmurs Bjaaland.
Amundsen’s response is blunt. ‘We must be successful. There is no conceivable alternative.’ What he doesn’t say is that if he ventures back to Norway without securing the South Pole victory, his career might well be over, having lied to the king, Nansen and the nation. The men’s reputations will be tainted too. No further philosophising is necessary: either he succeeds or he dies trying.
Back and forth, back and forth. The dogs work in five-hour shifts. The men put in twelve-hour days in order to get everything organised. Nine hundred crates in total, each one stacked with its unique number facing outwards so its contents can be matched against Amundsen’s master list. He’s spent years researching and planning his supplies. How much food will each man need per kilometre of distance he travels? What kind of food – more dry biscuits, or greater quantities of preserved meat? And what will the dogs eat? How much will it weigh and how much energy will it deliver? Will they have enough to last them if bad weather waylays their progress? What’s a reasonable margin of safety? Amundsen’s calculations don’t just revolve around planning meals either. The performance of skis and bindings has been studied and perfected. Sledges have been modified and made as light as possible without compromising their strength. Clothing and sleeping bags and tents have been chosen to withstand the worst wind, lowest temperatures and wear and tear of a southern journey that will last months. Everything has been thought through to the smallest detail and tested once, twice, three times before leaving Norway. All the while Amundsen reads and re-reads the published accounts by Captain Scott and Ernest Shackleton of their time spent in Antarctica. But rather than seeking answers, the Norwegian pores over the texts for lessons in what went wrong. Whatever he can learn from the failure of others might save his life and the lives of his men.
Has Scott taken such a scientific approach to logistics? Amundsen cannot concern himself with how well others have planned. It is utterly out of his control and therefore pointless. He does worry about Scott’s famed motor sledges, however. More than once he’s imagined Captain Scott’s mechanical wonders, chugging all the way to the pole while the Norwegians attempt a world first with a wild pack of dogs and skis strapped to their feet.
1898 – THE BELGICA EXPEDITION
Two men are already dead. Another two have been driven insane by their predicament. Most of the crew are suffering from cramps and lethargy, with the blackened gums, loose teeth and foul breath of scurvy. Few have the energy or mental strength to even leave their bunks. De Gerlache himself has locked his cabin door, surrendering to black thoughts.
First mate Amundsen can see it now. An accident? No. It was always the intention of the commander to trap the ship in the ice, to drift amid the uncharted southern reaches of the Bellingshausen Sea just so he could boast of being the first to overwinter in Antarctica. Like it or not, they are all prisoners of an ice field that extends into hundreds of kilometres of nothingness. In all likelihood they will not survive the ordeal. De Gerlache is an inexperienced fool. Amundsen knows the Belgica is ill-equipped and under-provisioned. Nobody has winter clothes, there is scarcely enough paraffin to burn two lamps and yet several months of darkness are already upon them. Water seeps down the inside of the hull, and a damp cold invades the ship and deprives the crew of even the most modest comforts – a warm bed, dry clothes. Fear gnaws away at the men in the endless night. Might they drift forever with no prospect of rescue? No one has any energy left for fighting. Depression has taken over from aggression aboard the Belgica.
‘You’re my kind of man, Amundsen,’ says the ship’s surgeon Dr Cook, one of the few men aboard with polar experience. Cook is courageous, calm and wise in the ways of survival. He all but assumes control of the ship. Amundsen and Cook busy themselves hunting to supplement rations, making brief forays beyond the ship in the dim light, working tirelessly to improve their inadequate equipment and clothing. Against the commander’s orders, Cook force-feeds the seal and penguin meat to the scurvy-stricken crew. The peculiar flavour offends but ultimately saves lives. De Gerlache finally relents, but only when death is the alternative.
Twenty-six years old and Amundsen’s hair has turned grey. Lucky it didn’t fall out. He has filled five notebooks with his detailed analysis of the expedition’s failings. It’s not for sharing or for seeking damages. It’s for nobody’s benefit but his own. Experience was what he was after; an education is what he received.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Nobody dares mention how tiny their hut is – a mere eight by four metres. It’s certainly roomier than the tents the men have been sleeping in for almost a month. Eight members of the land party cluster around the dining table amid the comforting smells emanating from the kitchen. Lindstrøm is cooking their first meal on his new coal range. The men look scruffy and out of place in the shiny new home they have christened ‘Framheim’. Ruddy faces, chapped lips and crusty cheeks are a natural consequence of weeks spent working in fie
rce wind and bone-dry air. Now would be the time to grow facial hair, the thicker the better, but Amundsen, convinced that a tidy appearance encourages other tidy habits, has decreed that each man must shave once a week.
‘Last time we saw this little house it was sitting in your garden on the Bunde Fjord, surrounded by trees, the air full of birdsong,’ says Prestrud.
‘What’s wrong with ice?’ Stubberud says with mock astonishment.
‘We also have snow,’ suggests Bjaaland playfully.
‘And I’ll give you birdsong.’ Helmer starts to make the loud buzzing squawk of an emperor penguin but he’s soon shouted down by the rest of the party.
‘Here’s to unique beauty, wherever we may find it,’ Amundsen says, raising a toast. ‘To Framheim!’
‘Skål!’ The men pledge their friendship, clink their glasses and brace themselves for the back-of-the-throat sting of the aquavit. Johansen nurses a mug of tea and a grimace but does his best to meet each toast with good grace. Rousing music from the gramophone sets the tone. The men raise a cheer to Framheim, to their leader, to the successful completion of their journey and to the safe return of the Fram once it’s all over. Good humour and optimism unify the men on their first night. The dogs, now fastened to wire ropes stretched in a large open square outside, start their nightly concert. First one, then a couple, then the entire congregation start up in their howling chorus, sitting low to the ground with their heads extended skyward.
‘What makes them do that?’ Oscar asks Amundsen.
‘Ask Sverre. He knows dogs best.’
Sverre blushes, pleased that the chief defers to his superior knowledge. ‘Actually, no one knows why they do that. Why they start up. Why they stop so suddenly. The strangest thing I find is that they all stop at exactly the same time. No stragglers. Not one dog decides to carry on as a soloist.’
‘Well, we know they’re expert communicators,’ says Amundsen. ‘They have different voices for different purposes. One for fighting, one for playing, an entirely different voice when things are wrong, when they see one of their kind breaking the rules. It’s like a child running to teacher to tell on his classmates.’
‘That sound reminds me of wolves howling,’ says Bjaaland.
‘Not far removed from wolves,’ says Sverre. ‘Everything they do is based on the pecking order. They all know their place.’
‘And man needs to be at the top of the pack.’ Amundsen is keen to emphasise this to the novices. ‘If he’s not at the top, then he is actually at the bottom.’
‘I’ve noticed,’ Oscar sighs. Both he and Prestrud have spent the last week coming to grips with the basics of driving a dog team. He hates using the whip but experience has taught him that he must establish himself as leader or face being taken for a ride. Lieutenant Prestrud has encountered exactly the same challenge but is more open to dominating his team through the use of physical force. Everyone assumes he’s the sensible one, the quiet, studious navigational expert, peering at his instruments, taking his readings. But it’s obvious to all who see Prestrud flash by that driving a dog team is more raucous fun than the lieutenant has had in almost a whole decade in the Norwegian Navy.
Amundsen is clearly fascinated by dogs. He wriggles closer to the table. ‘You know I could take the meat from the mouths of my sledge dogs and not one of them would dare bite me. I’d never try that trick on one of my house dogs. I’d likely lose a finger.’
After the laughter dies down Bjaaland looks across the table and asks, ‘How about you, Johansen? What’s your experience of dogs?’
Johansen shifts in his seat, adjusts his grip on his mug of tea and opens his mouth to speak.
However, Amundsen interrupts. ‘Excuse me, Johansen, but I think we need to get down to business.’
Johansen forces a smile. Obviously the time for stories has passed.
‘But dinner is ready,’ Lindstrøm insists. He has extremely high standards of punctuality.
Amundsen looks up at the cook with an indulgent smile and says, ‘I won’t be long, Fatty.’
Lindstrøm nods, wipes his hands on the cloth at his waist and retreats back to the kitchen.
‘Our goal lies at 90 degrees south, approximately 1100 kilometres away. We shall be racing against time and starvation. Now that we have established Framheim at 78 degrees south, it is imperative that we start to lay supply depots along our proposed route. One supply depot for every degree of latitude. That’s roughly 100 kilometres apart, or as far as we can get them before winter sets in. I want to start preparing for this immediately.’
Lindstrøm taps the palm of his hand with a soup ladle in a sign of exaggerated impatience. Amundsen continues, ‘I will need each man to do his part with the dog teams.’
Oscar grimaces self-consciously. ‘I don’t think I …’
Amundsen raises his palms, asking for patience. ‘Four men will accompany three sledges and eighteen dogs. Others can pack and secure the provisions. I’ve calculated 250 kilograms per sledge with each load forming a depot.’
‘I’d like to volunteer,’ says Helmer.
‘And me,’ says Prestrud, eager for some real-life sledging experience.
Johansen slowly puts up his hand, half expecting his offer of help to be dismissed, but it’s not.
‘Excellent,’ says Amundsen.
‘Can I bring in the stew now?’ Lindstrøm asks.
Amundsen gestures at the table. ‘You may.’
There’s a knock at the entrance to the hut.
‘Our first visitor,’ says Lindstrøm, plonking the heavy casserole on the table. ‘Wanting to see where the good smells are coming from.’
In fact it’s Lieutenant Gjertsen from the Fram, looking like he’s over-exerted himself on his dash up the hill. Lindstrøm ushers him in and takes his coat but the lieutenant doesn’t wish to sit. He tries to catch his breath. ‘There’s another sailing ship in the bay. Captain Nilsen says it’s the Terra Nova. Scott’s expedition ship. Sir, it’s the English.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Terra Nova is a mess. Filthy inside and out. Amundsen smiles as the captain of the English ship welcomes him below decks in a show of hospitality. He decides to keep his uncharitable thoughts to himself. The last thing he wants to do is cause offence in a foreign language.
Lunch in the ship’s wardroom is a simple affair. Canned vegetables, mutton and some hard savoury cakes the English call ‘scones’. It’s a friendly gesture, one that Amundsen, Captain Nilsen and Lieutenant Prestrud appreciate. They showed the Englishmen around Framheim that morning. Of the three Norwegians, Nilsen has the best command of English, although Amundsen and Prestrud both speak it well enough to be shocked by the nature of the mealtime conversation.
‘It rained down like mustard!’ laughs Lieutenant Pennell, commander of the Terra Nova. ‘Onto the table, while the men were eating their dinner!’
Lieutenant Victor Campbell shakes his head at the recollection. ‘Absolutely disgusting – it left a frightful mess for the chaps to clean up.’
Amundsen’s mouth twists in distaste. ‘Manure from the ponies onto this table?’
‘Yes, their stalls were directly overhead.’ Campbell points to the brown staining on the white painted ceiling.
Pennell roars with laughter. ‘We had so much water sloshing about up there on deck. The manure seeped down into the men’s sleeping quarters too.’
‘We had our own muck to worry about,’ says Captain Nilsen. ‘One hundred dogs can produce quite a lot. We all had accidents. Our chief included …’
Amundsen waves away Nilsen’s invitation to tell the tale. Such conversation is a waste of precious time. What he really wants to know is, do the English have radio, a way of transmitting news to the outside world. Just thinking of the dreadful consequences of Cook and Peary both claiming victory at the North Pole, he realises it’s a situation remarkably like his own: two men striving for the same goal, winner takes all. Amundsen understands perfectly the advantage access to a r
adio transmitter would afford Captain Scott.
‘First time in Antarctica?’ Campbell offers Amundsen a cigarette.
Amundsen declines. He stopped smoking back in September in preparation for the polar journey. ‘No, I was here before. With de Gerlache aboard the Belgica.’
Campbell nods. ‘That Belgian expedition?’
‘There were some Norwegians, Polish, a Romanian, an American. But mostly Belgians.’
‘How long were you in Antarctica?’
‘Fifteen months. Our ship was trapped in the ice for most of that.’
‘How ghastly,’ simpers Lieutenant Pennell. ‘I do hope the same does not happen to our vessels.’
Amundsen raises his chin and sucks in his cheeks in an expression neither Englishman can read.
Campbell narrows his eyes. ‘The American you mention. That was Dr Cook – the Arctic explorer? Seems a damn shame, this whole fiasco with Robert Peary. Both men claiming to be first to reach the North Pole. Though goodness knows if Cook even got there.’
Amundsen shakes his head emphatically. ‘I am sorry, I cannot hear bad things of Dr Cook.’
‘Gosh,’ says Pennell, slightly taken aback.
‘Cook is a very courageous man. A good friend.’
‘There you have it, Pennell,’ says Campbell, slapping his thighs with a levity designed to turn the afternoon’s conversation back to more frivolous topics.
After several hours of friendly conversation below deck in the dark interior, the harsh light of day leaves them all blinking at each other, suddenly reminded of their rivalry.
‘Fine vessel, Lieutenant,’ Amundsen remarks to Campbell as they walk the length of the deck. Amundsen shields his eyes against the sun as he glances surreptitiously at the rigging, searching for any sign of a radio aerial.
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