by Jeremy Scott
Ellsworth’s hero in childhood had been the frontier marshall Wyatt Earp – a role model later replaced though never entirely supplanted by Roald Amundsen. As a young man he’d followed Amundsen’s adventures, read every word he wrote. And in those writings read Amundsen’s admission that as a boy he too had been influenced by a role model, Sir John Franklin: ‘Strangely enough the thing … that appealed to me most strongly was the sufferings he and his men endured. A strange ambition burned in me to endure those same sufferings … I, too, would suffer in a cause … in the frozen North on the way to new knowledge in the unpierced unknown.’ A rich boy estranged from the rich life and a masochist, Ellsworth wanted to experience the same.
At the present moment Amundsen was in Pisa, Italy, obtaining the aircraft for their projected polar flight. There was a whole history attached to these planes, Ellsworth had come to realise with gathering dismay, but the story had emerged gradually and in bits for Amundsen had not offered it up himself. It seemed that three years before he’d become involved with a business manager in Seattle, a Dane named Hammer. Amundsen described the man as ‘a criminal optimist’, though when he’d first met him he’d welcomed the relationship. Hammer, a shipbroker, had been very helpful in the repair of Amundsen’s boat, the Maude, in which he was at that time planning to drift, locked in the ice, across the polar sea from Alaska to Spitsbergen, taking an aeroplane with him to try for the Pole. Hammer’s ace skills as a hustler had obtained a large seaplane at no cost from the Junker factory in Berlin, but the aircraft proved unsuitable when fitted with skis. Undeterred, the Dane then came up with an ingenious scheme to finance the transpolar flight. He and Amundsen would design and order thousands of postcards printed on the thinnest paper. People would buy them in order to delight their friends by sending them a personalised greeting card which had been carried for the first time across the North Pole by air. Sold on the plan, Amundsen had cheerfully given Hammer his power of attorney and left him to arrange matters while he himself went to Oslo to persuade the Norwegian government to issue a special commemorative stamp to go on the cards. It took a while for the government to agree but at last they did so, selling Amundsen the entire issue with permission to retail them at whatever price he and Hammer could get.
Amundsen’s retelling of this history to Ellsworth was intermittent and in some ways unsatisfactory. Ellsworth suspected that Amundsen himself did not understand the full extent of what the Dane had got up to in his name, but it appeared that the man had then gone to Dornier in Copenhagen and ordered three flying boats at a cost of $40,000 each. He’d put down a nominal deposit – money he’d received from the sale of postcards – and Dornier had proceeded to design and construct the aircraft in Pisa, Italy; the terms of the Peace Treaty meant the company was not allowed to build planes of that size in Germany.
It was two of these amphibians that Amundsen was at this moment inspecting and trying out in Italy, and the cable which Ellsworth is finding hard to compose this winter morning contains a plea that Amundsen should not conclude their purchase until he and Ellsworth are able to discuss the price Dornier is asking. The wording is tricky, for Ellsworth knows well how peremptory and autocratic Amundsen can be if he thinks his decisions are being questioned. Yet Amundsen is on his own admission an inept businessman, and also it would appear a poor judge of character. Ellsworth has an uneasy suspicion other complexities may lie in the explorer’s recent past and threaten inconveniently to emerge in the not too distant future.
Ellsworth’s cable was never sent. While he was still engaged in drafting it the maid came in bearing a yellow envelope on a silver tray. It was from Pisa. Worded in English but transmitted in Morse by an Italian operator, it took Ellsworth a few moments to decode the scrambled text and realise with dismay that its message was that Amundsen had completed the purchase of two flying boats for $80,000.
By Ellsworth’s calculation – and the arithmetic is starkly simple – that leaves $5,000 to charter and equip a ship, hire a crew, set up a base at the top of the world, and fly to the North Pole. Ellsworth has no capital of his own and there is no way, no way at all he can now go back to Father. He can already hear the old man’s derisive jeer, I told you so!
4.
ANGELS WANTED
The next scene in this story is set in the north, in a snow-covered landscape impossible to recreate on stage. To continue, it now becomes necessary to adopt the form of a movie and to run the narrative before you as a film. Why not a book, the reader may ask. Because in the course of this story you will come to form an opinion on the characters and ultimately to judge them, praising some and censuring others. Such judgement is not the job of this writer, but for you the reader. And at this early stage in the tale a degree of separation is desirable, a watchful detachment from the players and the action.
It’s a bleak landscape that is revealed before us, the habitat of Roald Amundsen. Bleak in appearance but also in mood. He’s endured a grim hard-pressed winter and his situation shows no sign of improving. Although he owns, or rather co-owns, two aeroplanes (still in Italy and for the moment safe from the duns), those are all he possesses. As before, he is on his uppers. For the moment he still has the house where he waits today – but for how long? Even this is under threat of repossession from his creditors.
It’s a wretched afternoon, the air is chill, dank with the smell of tide-wrack. Amundsen’s house, located fifty yards from the dark waters of the fjord in a landscape blanketed by snow, resembles a large Swiss chalet with projecting eaves hung with icicles. A stand of silver birch grows beside the building, backed by a forest of fir trees with frosted branches that spreads up the flank of the mountain. There is no colour in the view, the scene could be an engraving in a book of grim Nordic fairy-tales set by the sea. And the interior of the house reinforces the marine association for it is decorated and furnished like a ship, sombrely in dark wood. The main bedroom and dressing room, which form the owner’s quarters, are fitted up like a ship’s cabin.
In his study beneath the eaves Amundsen stands erect at the window, hands behind his back, waiting. At this moment he is waiting for Major Sverre to arrive with news of the meeting of the Aero Club and how his appeal for funds has been received, but he is used to waiting. That is an explorer’s life: bouts of strenuous dangerous activity interspersed by long periods of waiting. Waiting held fast in the ice or, more often, trapped at home waiting for money.
As now. He was in dire straits, the situation was far worse than he’d told Ellsworth. The business with Hammer had turned out very badly. While back in Oslo arranging for the purchase of the commemorative stamps, Amundsen had learned of all sorts of wild stories the man had been telling. Hammer was bragging that he personally had made numerous reconnaissance flights over the pack ice north of Spitsbergen and that he himself would pilot one of the aircraft on the Polar attempt. Total fantasy! Hammer didn’t know how to fly and was ignorant as a grocer about aeroplanes and even more ignorant, if that were possible, about navigation. Furthermore, he knew nothing whatever of the Arctic, he’d never even been there. In fury Amundsen had fired him, and booked space in Norwegian and US newspapers to publish the news that he’d severed all connection with Hammer.
A man more experienced in worldly affairs than Amundsen might have foretold the inevitable result. Every supplier Hammer had dealt with descended on him demanding settlement for the commitments made in Amundsen’s name, while Hammer himself fled the consequences, scarpering to Japan.
‘To me, to whom business has always been a mystery, the situation was nothing short of appalling,’ Amundsen writes. ‘I was humiliated beyond my powers to express because Hammer, by making commitments far beyond any resources I could possibly muster, had placed me in a position in the eyes of the world of being a financial scoundrel.’
Creditors presented themselves from all sides. Including, to Amundsen’s dismay, his own brother Leon, who had managed his personal business and looked after his earnings since the start
of his career in exploration. On the books Amundsen owed him $25,000. Amundsen believed that under normal circumstances Leon would have been happy to let the debt ride until he was able to repay it from writing and lecture fees, but now his brother panicked and tried to recover his money ahead of the other creditors. Amundsen was used to setbacks but this action by his own brother was particularly dispiriting; could no one be relied on? Amundsen’s only asset was his home, the house in whose study he was waiting at this moment. Leon had demanded it in settlement. On consulting a lawyer (rather late in proceedings), Amundsen learned that this constituted an attempt to defraud the other creditors and, on advice, demanded access to Leon’s books. His brother refused to hand them over. There were two choices – either obtain a court order for examination of the accounts or go into bankruptcy. Amundsen chose the second; the court would then sub poena the books and Leon would be forced to produce them.
‘I viewed the prospect of public bankruptcy proceedings with inexpressible shame,’ Amundsen writes. He’d been respected and honoured in Norway, now he was reduced to penury; barely did he retain a roof over his head. The Norwegian press, which twelve years earlier had welcomed him as a hero after winning the South Pole for his nation, turned and savaged him. He was charged with deviousness, conspiracy and fraud. Amundsen was bewildered, humiliated and hurt by what had happened. After thirty years of arduous labour and endeavour, after a life of the utmost sexual probity devoted to a strict code of honour and dedicated to his country’s glory, that this should come down on him was an intolerable humiliation. His good name had been taken from him; he felt mortified and deeply wounded by the ingratitude of his own countrymen. In all Norway only one man had publicly and steadfastly stayed loyal to him: the King. King Haakon’s confidence sustained Amundsen; it maintained his troth to his country and his own ideal. Amundsen was a man of extraordinary fortitude. With the weight of these disastrous events bearing down upon him he’d nevertheless found it in himself to summon the will for one final endeavour to redeem his reputation and recoup his fortune. Six months earlier, in a last throw of the dice from an empty hand he had, as we know, sailed to New York to raise the money for a North Pole flight – and met Ellsworth.
Goethe has a poem:
Money gone, something gone
Honour gone, much gone
Courage gone, all gone.
Now, as Amundsen stood at the window of his study looking out at his snow-covered garden and the bleak waters of the fjord while he waited for Major Sverre to arrive with news of the Norwegian Aero Club’s decision, he was two down on that list. Money and honour were lost, but courage remained to him. He had a plenitude of courage. And this he knew: through courage, honour and even wealth could be regained, through one last venture on the ice.
In the bleak snow-covered vista revealed from the window, already fading to twilight in the afternoon, Amundsen glimpsed a solitary moving figure. A man on skis, poling with long gliding strides up the lane leading to the house: Major Sverre. Though Amundsen’s home was backed by forest and mountains, it stood on the outskirts of Oslo; his visitor had chosen to make the short trip on skis.
The Aero Club of Norway – which had existed only for the last couple of years and had few members – was the brainchild of one of the country’s few capitalists, the owner of Tidens Tegn, its largest newspaper, but the Club was run by Major Sverre. Knowing Sverre slightly, Amundsen had elected to make his approach for funds through him. Ellsworth’s money was already spent on the aeroplanes for the flight. Little remained, nowhere near enough to finance the attempt on the Pole. Ellsworth had made it clear he could come up with no more, and the appeal to the Aero Club – no, not appeal, even in extremis Amundsen would never appeal for help – his request to the Club for further funding was a last recourse. He knew nowhere else to go. He had no great expectation of success. The Tidens Tegn had slandered and maligned him along with the rest of the country’s papers, and the only reason its owner might consider supporting the polar flight was if he saw some advantage in personal PR and involvement in the news story. Yet Amundsen’s heart did not stir with hope as he watched Sverre ski up the track to the house’s porch, stop and bend to undo his bindings; nor did his leathery face alter its stern expression even by a flicker.
Never complain, never explain, never apologise. He lived by a rigid code: in failure and success, in prosperity and adversity, he was always the same man. Turning from the window and its empty view, he went downstairs to greet his visitor and learn his news. He did not flinch from Fate. On many occasions he had challenged her, putting his own and the lives of others on the line, to find in those mortal confrontations that Fate backed off – as she did now. For, contrary to what he had imagined, Amundsen heard from Sverre that he had the money. The flight to the Pole could go ahead. He might be bankrupt, discredited and regarded as a has-been, but he was not finished. He was still in the race.
5.
STAGECRAFT
The screen is filled by an image of man-made grandeur, a neo-classical façade of a monumental palace designed mightily to impress with its tall marble columns, architrave, frieze and confident imposition. An imperial sweep of broad white steps ascends to its base – to the portico of the Capitol building in Washington, which opens into the cockpit of worldly power.
Illuminated by spring sunshine a single character, Richard Byrd, is climbing the steps across our view, and although a few distant figures are visible in the background it is he who commands our attention. Dressed in trim Naval uniform and peaked cap fringed with gold, the brass buttons of his tunic catch the light as he ascends that imposing sweep of steps, and the picture he forms is so emblematic it might be an ad for Valour or a brand of Virtue – for no imperfection can be spotted in its composition. While mounting upward Byrd’s limp is not detectable.
The reasons why many of his senior officers disliked Byrd varied – he was too individualistic, not a team player, too pushy, too well dressed, too Goddamn southern snooty etc. – but basically their cause was jealousy. He was very capable, he could get things moving because he could promote, he possessed an entrepreneurial ability the armed forces do not esteem. What was particularly galling was that he had access; his job in Washington as the Navy’s liaison officer to Congress was a fine position of influence. Of course it helped that his brother was the respected senator from Virginia. It opened doors, and one of the doors it opened led into the office of the Navy Secretary, who was no longer the man who had denied Byrd’s solo transatlantic flight, but Curtis D. Wilbur, appointed by the newly elected President Coolidge. Byrd was after aircraft, and they needed to be for free. Also he wanted the US government’s official endorsement of the expedition he was planning. He wanted it to be clear to the nation that he was representing America. It was an auspicious moment to pitch such a venture, the nation was in the mood for it. The US was on a roll so hectic it was breathtaking. America’s was now the leading economy in the world; the US dominated Europe’s markets, and constituted the overriding cultural force around the globe (95 per cent of English-language movies were American, as were three-quarters of all films shown worldwide). The US was flush with cash and brimming with assurance – confidence in the future was an article of faith. The country had become a capitalist utopia enjoying the highest standard of living ever known; there was much to celebrate. The nation had an urge for self-expression, and the myriad of tabloid newspapers starting up had need of stories to match that expectation. With increasing wealth and leisure, people were demanding more of life. Citizens were shareholders in progress and prosperity, they felt entitled to a slice of this liberty and booty. The nation was in gung-ho mood, and so it seemed was its Navy Secretary.
Wilbur listened closely as Byrd outlined his project: to sail with Captain Bartlett to Etah, the most northerly human outpost on the globe; from there to use aircraft to establish a forward base and refuelling depot still further north; then from that site fly long probes north and north-west into the unknown
in search of territory. To Secretary Wilbur, as he had to Edsel Ford, Byrd spoke of undiscovered land which might lie between Alaska and the top of the world and its strategic importance. Who knew what natural resources that frozen territory might contain? Who could guess at its commercial possibilities? Or, even more crucially, its military significance to some future global conflict? In a pitch which subtly evoked greed, fear and hope for glory, those triple springs of human endeavour, he sold the same dream he’d sold to Edsel. And with the same success. He got the three planes he wanted, big Loening amphibians which could land on water, snow or ice, together with crew and a support team from the Navy. Also a ship, the Peary. Secretary Wilbur cleared the plan with President Coolidge, who gave it his enthusiastic blessing.
All these elements of materiel and personnel Byrd acquired at no cost to himself. Around an undeclared purpose – his ambition to be first to fly to the North Pole – he had assembled a major Arctic expedition. And, remarkably, the one aspect it occurred to no one to question was its author’s capability to lead it. He had no Arctic experience whatever. Though perhaps the deficiency did occur to Secretary Wilbur when later he re-examined in the sober light of day the epic adventure Byrd had represented to him. For Wilbur informed Byrd that he knew of another American expedition preparing to sail for the Arctic with the same intention of discovering new lands. He proposed that Byrd and it join forces.
The expedition he referred to belonged to Professor MacMillan, who had made three journeys to the Arctic in the past decade. This one to Greenland was sponsored by the National Geographic Society but financed by E. F. McDonald, Jnr, a Chicago radio manufacturer and millionaire. A successful tycoon, he was looking for new fields to conquer and the kudos that goes with. He’d spoken of finding a new continent and ‘blazing a land trail across a frozen Sahara’, for the expedition planned to employ the traditional method of travel, using sledges and dogs.
