At 56 degrees south, their charted course is well below Australia and heading into ever wilder latitudes. This far south there is no land to interrupt the flow of westerly winds or waylay the enormous waves circling the globe. The rotating motion of the Fram is a firm fixture of shipboard life. The men surrender to it, rolling like marbles whichever way they’re tipped. The table and chairs are lashed to the floor and table manners are a thing of the past. What was once a respectable affair is now a comedy involving grabbing, grappling and stabbing at sliding plates of food. Everyone wishes away the remaining 1500 kilometres of their painfully long voyage.
As Christmas 1910 draws near, the smell of baking fills the cabins below deck. Lindstrøm has plenty of visitors in the galley, and a few cheeky enough to pilfer a tasty treat whenever he turns his back. Lindstrøm decides to lock up the cakes lest there be no finale to the Christmas feast he’s planning.
Cakes are only one element of their celebration. On Christmas Eve Rønne hangs the great lines of colourful flags that he’s made on his sewing machine. Captain Nilsen has helped decorate the wardroom and hung coloured lanterns in the passageways between the cabins. With Madeiro getting under his feet constantly and tangling himself in long strings of bunting, it’s taken longer than planned. Nilsen can be heard by turns scolding the dog for getting in the way and begging for forgiveness when he steps on his paws. The fore-cabin has been thoroughly cleaned up. Helmer polishes the brass until it gleams and tries not to think of his little boy celebrating Christmas without him. His wife is no doubt used to his absences on such occasions. They had three Christmases apart last time he set sail with Amundsen. Helmer can imagine her rolling her eyes and making some comment about Amundsen being her husband’s one true love.
The gramophone has been rigged up to play from Amundsen’s cabin. With nineteen members of the crew making merry, there’ll be little room to manoeuvre. They’d like to have organised a little concert like they had after crossing the equator, but the piano is hopelessly out of tune after months of thumping up and down on the waves.
When evening draws near, the men start to gather in the Fram’s fore-cabin, dressed in the best clothes they have to hand. Gone are the unkempt whiskers. The smooth faces render many of the crew scarcely recognisable. Only one unfortunate soul will remain on his own throughout the evening.
Stubberud is angry. It’s his turn to take the 8 p.m. to 2 a.m. watch while everyone is eating, drinking, smoking and singing. ‘I’m a carpenter, not a sailor,’ he thinks aloud as he listens to the yahooing and cheering from below. He roars his displeasure at the night sky. A few of the dogs around him take up the challenge and give voice to their own complaints in yowling, wavering tones.
‘That’s right,’ Stubberud mutters more to himself than the dogs. ‘Lonely losers, all of us.’
He smells tobacco smoke before he sees Johansen. ‘Sounds like some party down there.’ Stubberud’s words come out a little sourly.
‘I’ve come to relieve you, brother,’ Johansen says, pulling his wool cap down over his head. Gone is the chin strap beard. Johansen has shaved it off.
‘Good grief!’ Stubberud blurts out without fully taking in Johansen’s words. ‘I didn’t recognise you. What have you done to yourself?’
Johansen turns his face first one way then the other. ‘What do you think?’
‘More modern perhaps,’ says Stubberud, thinking what a vast improvement it is.
‘Felt like a change.’ Johansen rubs the soft skin, the small nicks around his jawline where the razor took to its job a little too keenly. ‘Last chance to see what I really look like.’
‘Aye, we’ll all be sprouting beards,’ Stubberud agrees. He’s pretty confident of being selected for the shore crew. With his experience as a carpenter, it would be absurd to remain with the ship. Of course, Johansen is guaranteed a place – after all, he’s Nansen’s man.
‘I’ve come to take over the watch, Stubberud.’
‘But it’s not 2 a.m. yet.’
‘Grub’s still out. Leave it much later and you’ll find crumbs. And drunken sailors snoring on the table.’
Music emanates from below, shouts, laughter.
‘Come on, the offer’s genuine.’ Johansen nudges the carpenter away from the wheel.
Stubberud lingers a moment, not wanting to simply drop and run. ‘You sure?’
‘Get going before I change my mind.’
Stubberud slides down the companionway ladder towards the comforting smells and the rowdy sounds. Everything looks festive. There’s even a Christmas tree aglow with candles. A cheer goes up. Not for Stubberud but for Lieutenant Prestrud, who demonstrates that navigating is not his only skill. The satirical poem he’s written for the occasion spares nobody – not even the chief – and while his performance leaves a few red faces around the table, his humour is well-intended. Amundsen raises a toast to the lieutenant.
‘Good God!’ Nilsen gasps when he sees Stubberud raising a glass. ‘Who’s at the wheel?’
Stubberud tries to calm the captain. ‘It’s fine. Johansen’s up there.’
Nilsen sinks back into his seat. He takes a hearty swig to recover from the shock. A raucous singalong starts up in the corner. Lindstrøm carries in the tray of Christmas cakes. More shouts and whistles. Bjaaland makes space at the table for Stubberud and tops up his glass with aquavit. ‘So Johansen saved the day, did he?’
‘Trying to avoid temptation, I’d say.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stubberud cocks an eye at his glass. ‘Haven’t you heard? The man’s a raging alcoholic.’
CHAPTER NINE
The first icebergs appear like sentries guarding the approach to Antarctic waters. The Fram’s eastward journey around the globe is over. Due south is where they must point the bow now. Obligingly, the wind turns. A stiff northerly breeze fills the sails. Nothing could be better. Not good luck but good planning, Amundsen is keen to point out. Having studied every written account of vessels bound for Antarctica, he believes the best route south extends along the 175th meridian east, cutting a path as quickly as possible through the permanent belt of sea ice into the Ross Sea, which offers open waters during summer. Some vessels have languished for six weeks or more at this point in the crossing, held in the ice’s clenched fists. Amundsen is adamant: no such delay for him.
The sun’s rising, having never really set properly all night. He could go back to bed, but he doesn’t. He’s too excited. For most of the day the chief trains his binoculars on the southern horizon, in search of the telltale white line. How pleasant it will be to be surrounded by white, the ice deadening the ocean swell. They’re due for a change of scene. The months at sea and the relentless daily routine aboard have started to wear thin. While one would never hope for drama, any ocean journey without incident is an exercise in monotony. Tedium can be more damaging to morale than tragedy.
It’s another twenty-four hours before the cry goes out. Anybody not already on deck scrambles up the companionway to see the great white obstacle – the starting line. At first the Fram breaks easily through the loose sheets of ice. Wide spaces open before them like elegant avenues, allowing the boat to delve ever deeper into the white expanse. Eroded icebergs punctuate the horizon but there’s nothing large enough or close enough to cause concern. Amundsen knows the Fram is capable of much. She may have tortured all those aboard with her unpleasant roll while crossing the Southern Ocean, but her incredible strength, rounded shape and slick surface will be more than a match for the extreme pressure of the ice squeezing her hull. Instead of being wedged in place, she’ll more likely pop out of the ice like a shiny rubber ball.
‘Hot soup again,’ says Lindstrøm with a grin. The cook is overjoyed that the abundant supply of ice has solved the fresh water shortage. Ice means wildlife too. Fresh meat for the men. Fresh meat for the dogs to fall upon. The dogs sense movement, suddenly so much more awake to their surroundings. Amundsen dispatches Helmer and Bjaaland in a rowing b
oat across a stretch of water to where a group of seals bask on an ice floe. Both men are a little nervous as they approach one of the creatures. At least three metres long, it’s clearly a bull. It’s a matter of speculation how it will react – lollop towards the safety of the water or turn and attack the little boat and the two men? They’ve only got the one rifle between them. Bjaaland grips his oars, calculating how quickly he’ll need to deploy them as weapons against half a tonne of blubber.
‘Why isn’t he making a break for it?’ he asks as their boat eases closer.
‘If you’d never seen a human before, would you be afraid of us?’
‘One as ugly as you I would!’ Bjaaland laughs uneasily. Unlike Helmer, he has no experience with such formidable beasts.
‘Poor daft creature.’ Helmer aims his rifle. Death is instant.
Amundsen slaps his hands on the railing. ‘Helmer’s a great shot,’ he says to the other spectators on deck. ‘Hard to drop one of those big males with a single bullet.’
The other seals on the floe seem utterly unconcerned. Only when Helmer starts to slice into the two-inch thick blubber around the animal’s neck do the others bother to look up from where they are sunning themselves. Bjaaland’s stomach heaves at the sight of the flensing, the steaming pile of entrails that Helmer scoops from the seal’s stomach cavity with bare hands.
Watching the proceedings from the Fram, Lindstrøm rubs his hands together. Fresh dark meat, so rich in flavour. A mouthful of iron. Years spent in the Arctic with Amundsen have turned Lindstrøm into a master of seal meat cookery. ‘Crocodile beef, we used to call it when we were in the Arctic,’ he says as if reminding himself of long-lost culinary knowledge. ‘You should always under- rather than overcook it.’
Oscar nods but he’s not listening. Utterly absorbed by how red the blood appears against the snow, he’d love to turn away but he can’t. Such purity stained with violence.
At his side Lindstrøm prattles on in his happy monologue.
A word jolts Oscar from his trance. ‘Scurvy?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said. Fresh meat. Best cure. When we were navigating the Northwest Passage, we had no fresh provisions for three whole years. But we had seal meat. The Netsilik eat it raw. In strips. With their fingers. The women scoop up the blood in their hands and drink it straight from the animal.’
Oscar looks at the cook with horror. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘It’s not for us to judge,’ says Lindstrøm plainly. His manner is so disarming – almost childlike – and yet so often his words are the wisest spoken.
After four months of eating a mush of dried fish and cornmeal with the odd feed of butter, the Three Musketeers are initially perplexed by Amundsen’s offering. They sniff warily at the blubber and entrails, give an experimental lick then set to, devouring the oddments in greedy chomps. Afterwards they can barely stand. Flopping on the deck, they succumb to sleep. From now on, the dogs will get meat every day, and not a day too soon. The sea journey has been a physical trial and many have lost condition. With this new diet so rich in fat, their scrawny frames will fill out in no time.
There are still several hundred kilometres to go before they can leave the ship but the thought of getting ashore is occupying everyone’s minds. Amundsen has finally selected his party. There are more than a few men nursing wounded pride. The second mate, Lieutenant Gjertsen, is among them. Despite being desperate to continue with the expedition, the young officer’s skills are needed aboard the Fram for the next stage of its journey. He’s crestfallen to be left off the list especially as the other officer aboard, Kristian Prestrud, has made the grade. Gjertsen watches his fellow officer stuff a duffel bag with personal belongings – pairs of socks, long woollen underwear, a few books and a stiff new notebook that will no doubt record the momentous journey to the pole.
‘Think of the fun you’ll have in Buenos Aires,’ says Prestrud, attempting to break the awkward silence. ‘The food, the wine, the tango dancing.’
Gjertsen grunts. ‘I’d far rather make history at the pole.’
Lindstrøm will join the shore party. Good cooking keeps spirits up and bodies in peak health. But there’s also his cheerfulness, his skills as a cabinet-maker, his mechanical expertise and his famous pancakes. He’d never flaunt it, but he’s one of the more seasoned polar adventurers aboard the Fram, having accompanied Norwegian explorer Otto Sverdrup on his map-making journey around Greenland, and travelled with Amundsen aboard the Gjøa on the first ever sailing of the Northwest Passage. In fact, Lindstrøm can claim the honour of being the first person to circumnavigate the Americas. Not bad for a man they all call ‘Fatty’.
Jørgen Stubberud is in. The carpenter’s an obvious choice. Their hut needs to survive the long polar winter. Olav Bjaaland is also a carpenter by trade but Amundsen has chosen him for his skiing ability, hoping the national champion will pass on skills to the others. Speed is the only thing that will trump the British with their dreaded motor sledges.
‘Hallelujah,’ Bjaaland says. ‘I’ll agree to anything to get off this boat.’
Oscar Wisting is not a strong skier and has never worked a dog sledge. It’s his attitude that has secured his place on Amundsen’s team. He’s good with his hands and can handle working in very cold conditions. Amundsen hopes he’ll go well sitting behind a sewing machine. Conscientiousness is required when it comes to polar clothing and footwear – none of it must fail. It was Prestrud who recommended him for the voyage, and Amundsen has come to view him as a real asset.
Oscar’s mouth drops open when he hears the news. ‘I’ll not let you down, sir.’ His earnestness is touching. Amundsen doesn’t know it yet but the mere fact of selecting Oscar for the shore party has secured the young man’s undying loyalty for life.
Another man utterly devoted to Amundsen is Helmer Hansen, who has already followed Amundsen to the ends of the earth and lived to tell the tale. The Northwest Passage journey has cemented his survival skills and convinced his leader of his single-minded focus. Besides, he is one of the very few men who can meet Amundsen’s steely gaze and not turn away intimidated. The chief values a man whose judgement is sound and opinions forthright.
Another plain-speaking man is the respected dog handler Sverre Hassel. He’s mapped 150,000 square kilometres of Greenland by dog sledge. Nobody has a deeper understanding of the Greenland husky temperament. His expertise, his knowledge, his confidence and strong will are indispensable, particularly when it comes to the wilful and wild dogs.
Johansen will go ashore as well. To exclude him would be an affront to Nansen, and Amundsen must retain Nansen’s support at all costs. Still, he’s reluctant. The man is a liability. It’s not just the alcoholism; Johansen has kept his drinking problem in check thus far. Rather it is the potential for conflict that has put the chief on edge. Johansen is one of Norway’s most notable polar veterans and commands the men’s admiration. Amundsen doesn’t want him to command their loyalty too. Divided leadership is often the cause of failure of expeditions such as this. Amundsen’s supreme command mustn’t be called into question and yet on several occasions, Johansen has expressed his views in rather forthright tones that hint at just that. It’s nothing major though. At this stage anyway.
CHAPTER TEN
Amundsen studies the newspaper article. The ink has rubbed off in the creases. The paper could fall apart in his hands, it’s been folded and refolded so many times. Scott’s words fade in and out of the newsprint like phantoms on the page. It’s pure reflex, looking at the text, trying to get into Captain Scott’s mind. He practically knows the article by heart. His rival appears so confident, this interview with a journalist a mere formality to delight his sponsors and financial backers. Amundsen shakes his head. Such valuable information given away for free! The proposed location of the English base in McMurdo Sound, the date Scott hopes to set out for the pole and the date he hopes to reach it. His means of travel, his provisions, the number of men he’ll take with him – it’s
all there for Amundsen to judge the suitability of his own preparations against.
There’s no room for Norwegians in McMurdo Sound, Amundsen has known that for a long time. The Great Ice Barrier will be their home – if they can find a safe zone. The Bay of Whales is the most likely option. Establishing their base there will place them a whole degree of latitude closer to the pole than Scott at his McMurdo base. One hundred and eleven kilometres closer. It’s not much of a head start when their goal lies over a thousand kilometres to the south, but Amundsen is keen for any advantage they can muster. His biggest concern centres around Scott’s plan to use motor-sledge technology. Untested as it might be, this technology could provide all the advantage Scott’s camp needs to win this race.
Amundsen gets up from his desk and starts to pace back and forth. Does the Bay of Whales still exist? James Clark Ross described it in 1841. It was mentioned again by Ernest Shackleton in 1908. But the Great Ice Barrier is prone to breaking off in large chunks. Amundsen knows that. Anything could have happened in the intervening years. The Barrier rises from the sea like a perpendicular insult 50 metres high and 600 kilometres long. For two whole days the men have scowled at the uninterrupted shoreline, discussing how best to scale the great white fortifications. To land men there is one thing but to haul up all the dogs, the sledges, equipment and provisions for a year? That’s another story.
Stationed atop the central mast, Bjaaland notices the broken uniformity first – a massive harbour extending as far south as the eye can see. The men on deck stare at the sudden opening in the Barrier that Amundsen promised would appear. Uncanny. Even Amundsen is surprised by the fact that the Bay of Whales appears more or less exactly as described in the written accounts.
Amundsen's Way Page 4