‘I have deceived you,’ says Amundsen flatly. ‘We will not be heading round the Horn and up through the Bering Strait towards the North Pole. We are in fact heading due south. To Antarctica. To the South Pole.’
Amundsen examines the men’s faces. This is shattering news and they’re clearly dumbfounded. Except Johansen, of course, who has a grin spreading from ear to ear. Johansen elbows Helmer in the ribs. He too starts to smile. They’re going to race Captain Scott to the South Pole. No wonder Amundsen had to keep his true intentions a secret.
‘Anyone who wishes to be released from his contract must leave the Fram by tomorrow morning and return to Norway with my brother Leon. I will cover all the costs of your return travel.’
The smiles prove contagious. Each man turns to his neighbour and starts to talk. Several crewmen draw closer to Nilsen’s chart and point at the big black dot at the centre of the continent, drawing a line with their fingers out to the coast.
Captain Nilsen’s voice rises above the hubbub. ‘We need you each to signal your commitment to the new plan.’
Amundsen is already circulating among the men. He’s noticed Johansen, read his enthusiastic expression. ‘Up for adventure, Johansen?’
‘Never been readier.’
Amundsen nods mildly at the man Fridtjof Nansen insisted he bring on the expedition, practically made it impossible to refuse. The fact still irks him.
Adolf Lindstrøm doesn’t wait to be asked. ‘You’ll need a cook,’ he says, clasping Amundsen’s shoulders and planting a kiss on each cheek.
The familiarity doesn’t bother the chief – not from Lindstrøm, his beloved Northwest Passage cook. ‘Good on you, Fatty,’ he says.
‘And you, Helmer?’ Another veteran of the Northwest journey, Helmer is a restless spirit with unstinting loyalty. Amundsen barely needs to ask. Oscar Wisting is swept along by the excitement. He’s suddenly laughing with the national ski champion, Olav Bjaaland, at the boldness of the plan, at what’s being asked of them. Both lack experience and yet both are quick to offer their support.
Jørgen Stubberud squeezes in to shake Amundsen’s hand with his strong carpenter’s grip. ‘You’ve got me hook, line and sinker, sir.’
Relief eases the knot in Amundsen’s chest as more men pledge themselves to the expedition. For a whole year he’s held his secret so close. Now, with so many hands to shake, so many agreeing to accompany him, Amundsen allows the tension to leave his body. Who would have thought that revealing his hand would be so freeing?
‘Looks like you’ll be going home on your own,’ Amundsen says to his brother. ‘I’ll get the men to write to their families – tell them of the change in plan. You can take the letters with you.’ He reaches into his pocket and retrieves two envelopes. ‘Two from me to deliver. One to Nansen. One to the king.’
Leon swallows hard.
Amundsen ignores the feeble gesture and proffers a slip of paper. ‘You’ll need to send a telegram too.’
Leon looks down. The wording is simple and direct:
CAPTAIN SCOTT TERRA NOVA CHRISTCHURCH
BEG INFORM YOU FRAM PROCEEDING ANTARCTICA. AMUNDSEN.
‘This is it, Leon,’ says Amundsen with obvious delight. ‘Whether Scott likes it or not. The race is on.’
DECEMBER 1887 – BUNDE FJORD, NORWAY
The fifteen-year-old shivers as he wedges his bedroom window open with a rag. Even if the wind picks up, it won’t slam shut. He hopes it will snow in the night, forcing the temperature in his bedroom well below zero. The colder the better. Suffering is part of the pleasure. Tucked under his bedclothes, Roald waits until his breath turns white. Only then does he reach for his book.
Sir John Franklin’s men are starved. On the Coppermine River there is no game to hunt. They’ve covered a thousand kilometres and mapped a small section of the Arctic coast. Fort Enterprise lies a week’s march away, but they are exhausted. They have nothing to eat. They make do with foraged lichen and boil up the leather from their spare boots. Two men find a maggot-ridden carcass abandoned by a pack of wolves. It’s a hearty meal for dying men.
‘What are you doing?’ Roald’s mother exclaims, bustling into the room. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold.’
‘Leave it open, I like the fresh air,’ Roald says from behind the cover of Journey to the Shores of the Polar Sea.
‘Nonsense.’ Roald’s mother wrenches the rag free and snaps the window shut. ‘I’ve just lost your father. I don’t want to lose a son.’
Roald does not need reminding that his father is dead and his older brothers have all left home. ‘Leave me please, Mother,’ he says with tenderness. ‘I’m enjoying my book.’
‘Sir John Franklin,’ Roald’s mother muses, tilting the cover of the book. ‘Is that the Arctic explorer?’
‘The very same,’ says Roald distractedly, his gaze once again glued to the text.
‘Don’t you get any ideas now,’ she says, heading for the door. ‘You’re going to go to medical school.’
Roald doesn’t want to be a doctor; he would rather become an Arctic explorer and be hungry, frozen and close to death. Roald slips out of bed and once again wedges his window open.
CHAPTER THREE
‘So where have these books been hiding?’ asks Johansen, his tone implying slyness on the part of the chief.
‘Hiding in plain view.’ Amundsen’s reply is curt. ‘They’ve been on the bookshelf since we left Norway. You just didn’t notice them.’
Johansen picks up a copy of The Voyage of the Discovery, Captain Scott’s account of his first journey to Antarctica and his attempt to push as far south as possible. Judging by its dog-eared appearance it’s been pored over. Other books are scattered across the dining table. All great men, these pioneers of Antarctic exploration – James Clarke Ross, Borchgrevink, Armitage, Ernest Shackleton, and of course Robert Falcon Scott. Johansen gives a half laugh. He’s written his own book. With Nansen in the North was the title. A written account of an epic journey. Maybe not a classic of polar literature. But who knows, maybe he’ll chronicle his Antarctic adventures and call it: With Amundsen in the South.
Since learning of their true destination, the men have behaved like schoolboys, joking, singing and debating their prospects of being first at the southernmost point of the globe. Unlike schoolboys, they’re motivated to do their homework. They all feel ill-equipped.
Settled into the corner of the wardroom, Helmer has his nose in the first volume of The Heart of the Antarctic, which chronicles Shackleton’s journey to 88 degrees south – so far, the world record. Clothing, travel and food, dog driving and survival in conditions of almost unbearable severity – there’s not much Helmer doesn’t know after spending so many years exploring the Arctic. He’s always hungry for adventure, but he’s troubled by how little he knows about the great white continent.
‘You’ll have to hurry through that Shackleton,’ says Stubberud to Helmer. ‘No point me starting the story at Volume Two.’
‘Easy now, big boy. We’ve got months yet,’ Helmer scoffs.
‘Well, I’ll need months. I’m not much of a reader,’ says Stubberud. ‘I prefer to smoke my pipe of an evening.’
There’s one book on the table that should be of particular interest. Belgica Diary: The First Scientific Expedition to the Antarctic. Nobody has noticed but the name of the author is stamped on the spine as plain as day – Roald Amundsen.
Amundsen picks up the book he wrote almost fifteen years ago. Serving as first mate on a Belgian expedition to Antarctica was his big break, working without pay to get his foot in the door. Securing a place on any kind of polar expedition was nearly impossible without experience. As a lad he’d ventured out on his own in and around Norway, but claiming to be well-organised, a strong skier and an able seaman counted for little. To be taken seriously he’d had to climb up from the bottom and prove himself in many surprising ways. Working amid the appalling filth and butchery of the Norwegian sealing fleet had little to recomme
nd it, but in so doing Amundsen had obtained the necessary qualifications to command his own boat. That had been his ticket to Antarctica, and while the Belgica expedition was hellish in all respects, it did mark the beginning of an illustrious career. Amundsen closes the book. Some of the memories are still painful. He’s invested much in his Antarctic ambitions. Now it’s time to bring it all to bear.
Up on deck Captain Nilsen stands firm at the wheel and glances intermittently at the sails. Nilsen follows the old Portuguese shipping route that will initially take them out across the Atlantic Ocean and towards Brazil. From there, they’ll meet the south-east trade winds which will whip them back towards South Africa where their journey will tend ever southward. Human civilisation dissolves into the eastern horizon. The dogs indulge in a chorus of celebratory howling.
‘We’re nothing but a floating kennel,’ sighs Nilsen as he scans the sky. He’s got other concerns – sailing the Fram all the way to Antarctica with two sails instead of four on the foremast and two where there could be three on the jib-boom. He’d love a full set, but the budget wouldn’t stretch. He checks the hour. Time for Sverre Hassel to take over the next watch. The captain looks forward to being relieved of his duties by the dog handler. He stretches his neck first one way then the other, waiting for the reassuring click as he watches Sverre argue his way along the deck with tender-hearted Oscar cradling something in his jacket.
‘What’s the fuss, you two?’
Oscar looks annoyed. ‘My dog, Camilla, she had her puppies – four of them. Last night.’
‘And?’ The captain yawns.
‘A couple of other dogs got hold of them. Ate three. Only this one left.’ Oscar peers into his jacket.
‘Nature’s a cruel mistress …’ The captain feels no pity. His own pigeons met a similar fate.
‘Sverre wants to toss it overboard,’ Wisting says suddenly. ‘Because it’s female.’
Captain Nilsen gives a shrug.
Oscar draws his jacket in tighter. ‘How can you do that to an innocent creature?’
‘We’ve got more than enough bitches,’ Sverre says. ‘It’s a shame it was the three male pups that were eaten. I would have liked to keep them.’
‘Don’t go arguing with our resident dog expert.’ The captain offers Sverre the wheel.
‘More like resident monster. Just look …’ Oscar opens his jacket to reveal the tiny bundle. ‘Imagine throwing this beautiful creature overboard.’
The captain’s gaze is temporarily waylaid by the tiny silken puppy. He finds himself reaching out to touch its impossibly soft fur. A murmur escapes. Not from the pup but from the captain. ‘The others eaten, really?’
Sverre gives a sniff of indifference. ‘Happens all the time. And I can guarantee you it is a hundred times more traumatic for the pup and the poor mother than a swift drowning.’
‘Give him here,’ Nilsen says suddenly.
Oscar looks unsure. ‘You’re not going to chuck her over the side, are you?’
‘Course not – I’m no monster!’
Oscar hands the pup over. It roots under the captain’s arm, its pinkish nose seeking a mother. The captain coos.
Sverre and Oscar swap amused looks. With his bellowing dislike of the dogs, the captain is the least likely of anyone to be taken in by their cuteness. But he has obviously fallen suddenly and deeply in love. ‘You’ve got it wrong, Sverre,’ he says airily. ‘This dog is a male.’
Sverre snorts. As if the captain would know. He hasn’t even looked at the business end!
‘He can doss down in my cabin. He’ll be safe with me. Won’t you boy? You’ll be safe with Cappy.’ Without another word, Nilsen heads away with the pup sheltering in his upturned shirt. A few of the dogs lunge at him as he passes.
‘Back off, puppy killers!’ Nilsen taunts.
In the charthouse Martin Rønne sits at his Singer sewing machine just as he does all day every day, turning out endless orders for his shipmates – repairs, duffle bags, clothing, shoes, leatherwork.
‘Do you have any offcuts? Something for a little bed?’
Rønne stops sewing and looks up.
‘My new friend.’ Nilsen gestures at the puppy in his arms.
Rønne’s eyes widen.
‘He’s called Madeiro,’ Nilsen says proudly.
‘I didn’t think you liked dogs.’ Rønne hands the captain a length of canvas.
The captain gives a fulsome laugh. ‘I do like this fellow. I snatched him from the jaws of death. His three brothers got eaten alive.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Rønne grunts, pumping the treadle to get the sewing machine back up to speed. ‘Give them half a chance, those beasts would eat a man.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Back in Norway, Fridtjof Nansen is annoyed. It’s servants’ work, tending fires. But having allowed the fire in the grate to burn itself out, he is once again cold. ‘Do not disturb me,’ he had told them, ‘I have important work.’ And now look at the important work I am to do, he thinks, kneeling in front of the fireplace and blowing the cinders until they redden.
Nansen grasps the corner of his desk and heaves himself to his feet. He’s thought of a title at least – for the history of early Arctic exploration he’s been writing. It will be two volumes by the time he’s shared everything he has to say on the topic. Again the thought occurs to him that it’s the closest he’ll come to polar adventures now that he’s past the age of playing an active role. Lucky Johansen, to be back in the fray. His trusted polar companion is heading to the ice. A chance at redemption. He’s got himself into a sorry state in recent years. Hopefully he can swap his personal troubles for another adventure. Nansen sighs at the prospect of an old age spent in committee rooms, listening, talking, but never doing.
The housekeeper appears at the door. ‘Sorry sir. I know you asked not to be disturbed, but there’s a visitor. Says it’s urgent. Mr Amundsen.’
‘Good grief! Is it his ghost?’
‘He looks real enough to me,’ the housekeeper says. ‘Shall I show him in?’
‘By all means!’ Nansen swings his chair expectantly to the door as the housekeeper disappears. He prays that nothing has happened to his ship. Lending Amundsen the Fram was a symbolic gesture. Time to hand him the reins. Was it too soon? What could possibly have happened? The door to the hall creaks open again.
‘Here’s Mr Amundsen,’ the housekeeper says as she hurries over to the dying fire.
Nansen raises his eyebrows in sudden comprehension. ‘Ah, the other Mr Amundsen.’
The visitor extends his hand. It is clammy, unpleasant to the touch. Nansen draws his hand away and sits down, wiping his palm on the arm of the chair as he pulls it closer to his desk. ‘Any news of your brother?’
Leon clears his throat. ‘Actually I have quite a lot to report.’
Nansen peers around at the housekeeper, assessing her progress with the fire. His tone is tentative. ‘All well?’
‘Fine. I’ve just got back from Madeira. The Fram set sail from there three weeks ago. I’ve got a letter for you. One also for the king.’
Nansen’s cheeks are flushed as he accepts the envelope and fumbles his glasses on. ‘Let’s see. Important news for me and the King of Norway. Well, well, let’s see now …’
Three swift strokes and it’s open. Nansen’s eyes slide over the handwritten page, his expression growing increasingly stern.
Dear Professor Nansen
It has not been easy to write you these lines, but there is no way to avoid it, and therefore I will just have to tell you straight …
Amundsen has left nothing out – his crushing disappointment when the North Pole was conquered and his own dreams of securing that prize were shattered; his desire to accomplish something truly worthwhile with all the preparations he had already made towards achieving that victory; his decision to strike out for the South Pole and the need for absolute secrecy to avoid giving Captain Scott the upper hand. Acutely aware of the friendship that e
xists between Nansen and Captain Scott and the close ties his mentor has with Great Britain, Amundsen is keen to demonstrate his remorse.
There have been many times I have almost confided this secret to you, but then turned away, afraid that you would stop me. I have often wished that Scott could have known my decision, so that it did not look like I tried to get ahead of him without his knowledge. But I have been afraid that any public announcement would stop me …
I am currently sending the king the same message, but nobody else. A couple of days after you receive this message, my brother (Leon Amundsen) will make a public announcement.
Once more I beg you. Do not judge me too harshly. I am no hypocrite, but rather was forced by distress to make this decision. And so, I ask you to forgive me for what I have done. May my future work make amends for it.
Respectfully yours,
Roald Amundsen
Nansen shakes his head wearily and gets to his feet. There’s a shriek as Nansen’s chair tips backwards onto the housekeeper tending the fire. He doesn’t seem to notice and he fails to apologise to the poor woman. He inhales deeply. ‘That idiot.’
Embarrassed and a little scared, Leon draws his head in like a turtle.
With a sudden show of rage, Nansen grasps Roald’s letter in his fist and cries, ‘Why didn’t he tell me he was going to race Scott to the South Pole?’
For some time Leon has imagined Nansen’s fury at Roald’s bald-faced lies. Now all he wants is to shrink from view. Leon starts to apologise but Nansen cuts him off.
‘That bloody fool! If only I had known about his plan, I could have helped him!’
CHAPTER FIVE
No more soups. No more washing in fresh water. Captain’s orders.
‘We’ll just have to bathe in rum,’ somebody shouts.
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