‘It’s possible,’ Hjalmar said, and Lillemor thought he was avoiding her eyes. ‘But we don’t know where she is yet, so it depends on her course.’
Lillemor walked away and found herself a chair by the windows. The jostling icebergs surrounded the ship and she could see snow blowing horizontally across them, as if flung from the ice continent itself. It was too dark for photographs, so she opened her diary and jotted down the day’s activities. As she finished, she found herself doodling.
A chance to go on Norvegia was a chance to look for the mainland. The smaller ship would have a much better chance of getting close to it. Close enough to make a landing perhaps, and without Lars on board to make sure Ingrid stepped ashore first.
The snowstorm blew itself out as the short Antarctic night ended and dawn came, but the light was still gloomy as people began to gather on the bridge for their approach to the first factory ship. Coffee was served as Thorshavn nosed slowly through the ice, leaving a twisting wake of broken ice stretching out for miles behind them.
Lillemor scanned the dim sea for the first glimpse of Solglimt. Ahead, a pale glimmer reflected from the underside of the clouds, an indication, according to Horntvedt, that the Antarctic pack ice was close. The wireless crackled and the distinctive sound of Vestfold Norwegian rang out across the bridge. Though they couldn’t see a ship ahead, the conversations buzzing on the wireless left no doubt that they’d entered the whaling grounds.
Restless with excitement, she stationed herself next to Mathilde and Ingrid. Lillemor was sure Mathilde would have preferred to stay in her cabin; she was emanating distaste already and they hadn’t even seen a ship.
‘Mast light,’ the first mate said, pointing.
Horntvedt followed his stare, nodded and adjusted his course slightly. Lillemor peered until she could make out what looked like a low-lying star, twinkling. It brightened and grew until she saw the outline of a ship in the distance illuminated by powerful searchlights. As they chugged closer she understood the perspective and realised the factory ship was huge, bigger even than Thorshavn. Dark, oily smoke was rising from a funnel on its deck. Lillemor heard the distant clanking of winches above the throb of the engine. A stench filled the bridge, in which she could pick out blood, rancid oil and a powerful fishy smell. The overall effect was like a punch. Down on the forecastle the huskies barked furiously.
Ingrid pressed her face close to the glass. ‘What’s that?’
No one answered. The shape of the factory ship was clear now and Lillemor could see men moving about. The searchlights glistened off a huge red shape hanging high above the deck. She squinted and then realised what they were seeing. It was the carcass of a whale, pulled up with giant winches and half stripped of its blubber. The flensing deck was dark crimson with blood, heaped with entrails and flesh.
Lillemor heard Mathilde swallow hard beside her and felt her sway. Good God, surely she wasn’t a fainter? She turned and saw that Mathilde’s face was pale and her top lip beaded with sweat. An expression of horror was spreading over her face. Lillemor remembered Mathilde’s hands on her forehead the first night on the ship and felt sorry for her.
‘Your first whale, ladies,’ Horntvedt said. Lillemor reached out and took hold of Mathilde’s hand behind her back, where Horntvedt couldn’t see. Mathilde started at the contact.
‘Quite a sight, Captain,’ Lillemor said lightly. Don’t faint, she urged Mathilde silently.
‘Fenders ahead,’ Nils called.
Horntvedt drew back on the throttle, slowing Thorshavn so it could draw alongside the factory. He turned on the searchlights, throwing huge black shapes in the water into silhouette. Lillemor saw the bulging bellies of three inflated whales floating upside down between them and Solglimt.
The wireless hissed and the voice of Solglimt’s captain blared out. ‘Welcome, Thorshavn and crew; welcome, Consul Christensen and guests.’
Lars picked up the handset. ‘Thank you, Captain Bull. Captain Horntvedt advises me that your men can start coupling the pipes for the oil transfer as soon as we’ve made fast to you. And we have the mailbags standing by.’
‘Excellent,’ Bull replied. ‘One of our catchers is on its way back with a couple of blue whales, so if you’d like to come across, Consul, you can soon see us in action.’
Horntvedt blew the ship’s siren in three short deep blasts that shook the decks beneath their feet. On the factory, a crowd of men gathered, waving at them. Lillemor lifted a hand and waved in return.
The men were grinning furiously, their faces streaked dark with blood and oil as they raised their tools in the air, the searchlights glinting off the blades. Lillemor felt a surge of adrenalin in her body. She hadn’t felt it since she and Anton had gone hunting in Africa and she’d almost forgotten the thrill of the chase. Shooting a rhino was something, but these ships hunted the biggest creatures on earth.
CHAPTER 22
Ingrid watched Captain Horntvedt in action as the two ships came together and the men began the complex process of making them fast. He glanced in their direction and she hated the triumphant curl of his lip as he looked at Mathilde. The sight of the factory was repulsive, but she was determined not to prove him right.
‘Coming over, ladies?’ Lars asked.
‘We wouldn’t miss it,’ Ingrid said.
‘Excellent. Can you cross the way the men do, or do you need to wait till we have something more civilised set up?’
‘We’ll cross like the men,’ Lillemor said.
By unspoken agreement, Ingrid and Lillemor bustled Mathilde out of the bridge between them. The stench was stronger outside and Ingrid began to breathe through her mouth as they went single file down the catwalk. At the cabin door, Mathilde turned to her.
‘Please don’t make me go there,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear it. I’ll vomit. Or faint.’
Ingrid looked at Mathilde’s sweaty, pale face and thought she could easily make good on that promise. What would be more satisfying to Horntvedt, she wondered – for one of them to swoon at the sight of the whales, or for them not to go at all?
‘We’ve a duty not to be weak, Mathilde,’ she said. ‘Don’t give Horntvedt the satisfaction.’
Mathilde’s skin glistened with a greenish pallor. ‘Do you really think it right for a woman to go on that ship and watch what they do there? Can you do it without feeling ill?’
Ingrid drew herself up and set her face. ‘Of course.’
Mathilde looked to Lillemor. ‘And you? You’ve got a weak stomach, I seem to remember.’
‘My stomach’s fine,’ Lillemor said. ‘For God’s sake, Mathilde, don’t tell me you’ve never killed something.’
Mathilde shook her head. ‘Never.’
Ingrid was surprised. ‘What, no fish? No rabbit?’
‘Jakob always did that.’
Ingrid looked at Lillemor, who shrugged. Ingrid always hunted with Lars and was nearly his equal in skill, if not enthusiasm. She’d never shied away from the reality of it, though for many years she’d had servants to do the bloody work of butchering once the beast was shot.
‘Myself, I adore hunting,’ Lillemor said. ‘I’m hoping to shoot a whale. What a trophy!’
Mathilde clasped the door handle as though it were the only thing holding her up. ‘Don’t you feel sorry for the whales?’
Lillemor laughed. ‘Why should I be any sorrier for them than for the cattle and chickens we slaughter every day? I notice you’re happy enough to eat them.’
‘That’s enough,’ Ingrid said. ‘Mathilde, the smell is disgusting, I know. But in a day or two you’ll scarcely notice it.’
Mathilde shook her head. ‘I don’t want to get used to it.’
Ingrid felt a rush of irritation. ‘This is how the men of Sandefjord make their living, and their wives and children eat. Lots of industries aren’t so lucky.’
Mathilde raised her head. ‘I still don’t have to like it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go inside.’
Ingrid spread
her hands. ‘I can’t force you to come with us.’
‘That makes a nice change.’ Mathilde wrenched the door open and stumbled into her cabin.
Lillemor rolled her eyes, then reached over and linked her arm in Ingrid’s. ‘Come on. Unlike Madam Squeamish, I can’t wait to see the factory.’
Ingrid dressed in her heavy coat, laced on her stoutest boots and pinched her cheeks hard to cover any pallor of her own before she gathered Lillemor and went to meet Lars. She was determined to be strong when she stepped up to see the workings of her husband’s enterprise, born from his intelligence, resources and courage. She didn’t want to flinch from it.
As she came back up on deck, she could see the whale catcher returning, towing two upended whale carcasses through the water by their tails. Ingrid had never seen a living blue whale, but the size of these dead ones, distorted by their inflated bellies, was hard to comprehend. They were almost as long as the catcher dragging them.
The effect of the mailbag on Solglimt’s crew had been electrifying, and as the catcher drew close, the flensers leaned over Solglimt’s tall sides, shouting down news from home to their mates.
‘Listen to that,’ Lillemor said. ‘Fatty’s wife has had twins. It’ll be a while until he sees them, poor man.’
Lars offered Ingrid his arm and though his face was solemn, she could see a small smile beneath his moustache. ‘At least it’s good news,’ he said. ‘Nothing worse than bad news arriving down here by mail. It can ruin a man’s whole season. Are we ready?’
He led Ingrid to the railing. Lillemor was close behind and the three of them looked down to see a whale carcass floating upside down, wedged between the two ships. A line of men stood on it with their flensing hooks.
‘So that’s how we get across?’ Lillemor said. ‘Excellent. What an adventure.’
Lars turned to them both. ‘Are you sure you can manage? We can have you lifted over in a basket if you like, but we’ll lose time getting the crane ready and we might miss seeing them bring those whales in.’
‘I’ll walk,’ Lillemor said eagerly.
Alone, Ingrid might have opted for the basket, but Lillemor’s determination pushed her on. ‘Of course we’ll walk.’
‘You first then, my dear,’ Lars said, gesturing.
Ingrid climbed down the ladder slung over the side of the boat, with Nils reassuring her from a few steps below and Lars encouraging her from above. She landed on the floating whale carcass with a thud. The flensers were waiting on either side of her, having cut a series of footholds with their long-handled blades. Ingrid breathed through her mouth while Lars and then Lillemor came down the ladder. The smell seemed almost enough to carry them across to the factory ship without human agency. But, in fact, she had to balance and walk several steps across the body of the whale, then climb another ladder up Solglimt’s side.
Ingrid stood still for a moment. She was standing on a whale’s belly in the Antarctic. Disgusting as it was, the smell made the experience real.
She could hear Lars climbing down the ladder, and bizarrely she had a vivid memory of their wedding, the moment after they had made their vows and turned to walk out of the church together, husband and wife for the first time, the long aisle lined with expectant faces.
Here, the crewmen lined the railing of the factory ship and blood-spattered men hovered alongside, poised should one of them slip. The pathway was laid out before them across once-living flesh, each foothold oozing blood and oil, freezing as it met the cold air. As he had twenty years earlier, Lars stood by her side, steady and rock-like.
She reached out, took his hand and then stepped into the first hole, her boots crunching through the frozen surface into the squelching blubber below. The watching men began to cheer. Their voices rose as Ingrid and Lars crossed the whale, step by greasy step, Ingrid’s smile fixed on her face as surely as it had been on her wedding day, her misgivings buried hard and deep. Lars Christensen was the right man for her, she’d repeated to herself with every step. Amundsen had never been a contender for marriage. So why had his face haunted her as she walked down the aisle?
She reached the ladder and stopped, her boots standing in pools of oily blood as she reached up and clasped a rung. She had boarded Solglimt before, when the ship lay at dock in Sandefjord, scrubbed down and gleaming in the summer sun. It felt a world away.
Ingrid started to climb. She looked quickly over her shoulder to see Lars behind her and then Lillemor, Horntvedt, Nils and some of the other officers following their tracks across the whale. Hjalmar, she noticed, wasn’t among them.
Captain Bull was waiting at the top of the ladder to help her up and onto the deck. Ingrid skidded slightly as her boots hit the oily metal and he put out a hand to steady her as Lars clambered up behind. When they were standing together, he gave a little bow.
‘An honour to have you on board, Consul,’ he said. ‘And a double honour to have you, Mrs Christensen.’
Lars regarded the gleaming remains of the whale hanging high above their heads in the searchlights, and laughed.
‘Captain,’ he said, ‘I tell you, it’s one thing to know what the factory ships are doing, but another altogether to see it myself. I wish my father could have seen this too.’
‘He’d be very proud,’ Captain Bull said, stepping forward to help Lillemor, who’d reached the top of the ladder and was fumbling with the strap of her camera. The men clambered up behind her until they all stood in a small group.
‘I’ll show you how we deal with a whale right from the start,’ Captain Bull said. He led their group over the bloody deck to the rear of the ship where they could see down the slipway to the water. The little catcher ship chugged up to the factory, dragging two whales, their pleated bellies distended so they floated high in the water. It cast off the whales at the edge of the slipway and steamed away.
Men scrambled down the slipway and attached a cable around the tail of the first whale. With a metallic groan the electric winches started up. The cables straightened and rose from the deck, and Ingrid could feel the moment when the winches took the dead whale’s weight. The chains went taut and droplets sprayed onto the deck. Tail first, the whale started to slide up towards them.
‘The slipway is a major breakthrough,’ Captain Bull said. ‘It wasn’t a decade ago that men still got down on the whale in the water to do the flensing, and you can’t imagine a colder and more miserable job. Follow me.’
As they walked, the captain explained how the whales were processed. After each was winched up the slipway, the flensers descended with their long-handled, razor-sharp knives and stripped away the blubber as if peeling a thick-skinned banana. They used a hoist to lift the carcasses in the air and enlisted gravity’s help, pulling the blubber off with hooks and winches. They sliced the strips of blubber into chunks and pushed them through holes in the flensing deck so that the pieces fell into the trying pots below. There they were boiled until the oil separated from the blubber and rose to the surface, where it was skimmed off.
Meanwhile, the carcasses still had plenty to offer. They were dragged with pulleys and winches to the boning deck, where the crewmen handled the massive saws as though they were toys, cutting the whales into chunks for the boiling pots. Whatever remained went into the meat meal cookers, where it was minced, cooked and dried for pet food.
‘Every part of the whale is used,’ Captain Bull finished proudly as they completed the tour. ‘The new factories are the most efficient method of whaling known to man. From an average blue whale we can extract more than one hundred barrels of oil, not to mention the meat meal. It’s a revolution, Consul.’
The colour of the blood on the deck was vivid under the slowly lightening grey sky. Ingrid could feel Lars’s satisfaction. His vision of a modern efficient fleet, devised so far away in Norway, was a reality.
Ingrid saw a small grey mass lying on the flensing deck as the last chunks of blubber were being hooked and thrown down into the trying pots. She squinted but
couldn’t make it out.
‘Captain, what’s that?’
‘Come and look,’ he said. ‘Walk carefully; the deck’s very slippery here.’
They all followed, stepping flat-footed. Lars was holding her arm hard and Ingrid sensed his hesitation.
‘This,’ Bull said with a flourish, ‘is a blue whale in miniature.’ He called out an order and the searchlight swung around. Ingrid stared, uncomprehending, at the tiny whale lying on the deck.
‘We often find foetuses during processing,’ Bull said. ‘It’s excellent news. Pregnant females hold the most oil. We can get one hundred and twenty barrels or more from them.’
‘I must take a photograph,’ Lillemor said, reaching for her camera. ‘How extraordinary.’
Ingrid had watched all the stages of processing the whale with a fixed smile, but she felt a lurch in her stomach looking at the lines of the little creature. Its mother had been reduced to blood, bone and blubber, boiled in the vats beneath their feet.
‘What do you do with them?’ Lillemor was staring down into the viewfinder.
‘There’s not much blubber on the young, so we just slice them up and put them into the meat boilers. The real value is in their mothers.’
Beside her Ingrid could feel Lars silently begging her to be all right, to approve, to not undermine him. She felt it through the pressure of his fingers on her arm, the silent language of marriage. She took a last quick glimpse of the baby whale, swallowed, and faced the captain.
‘You’ve done better than either of us could have imagined. What a feat of modern production.’
Beside her she felt Lars relax. ‘You’ve achieved much,’ he agreed.
Captain Bull smiled. ‘Thank you, Consul.’ He glanced at Lillemor. ‘Since you have a camera, and we have another blue whale on deck, why don’t you come over for a photograph? You can fit six men in the mouth.’
‘That will show the size beautifully,’ Lillemor said. ‘Shall we?’
Lars was still holding Ingrid’s arm as they approached the whale, and she halted, automatically baulking.
Chasing the Light Page 17