by Stephen Bown
For months only a handful of people knew Amundsen’s true destination. Among them were his brother and business manager, Leon; his wealthy American friend Fredrik Herman Gade; his friend from Tromsø Fritz Zapffe, who had planned to join the expedition but pulled out for personal reasons; the oceanographer Bjorn Helland-Hansen; and the commander of the ship, Thorvald Nilsen. Some, if not all, of the expedition’s major financiers probably knew of the public deception as well, particularly the ones whom Amundsen had met through Gade in America. He alluded to the fact that despite his funding for the north polar float drying up, “something had to be done to attract the attention and interest of the public in order to procure the relatively large amount of money still lacking.”
In a letter to Fridtjof Nansen, Amundsen wrote: “The question became how I could raise the necessary funds. Something had to be done to increase the public’s interest. Only one challenge remains in the Polar Regions that can be guaranteed to awaken the public’s interest, and that is to reach the South Pole. I knew that if I could do this, the funds for my planned expedition would be assured.” If the expedition was still in the future, how then did the funds arrive, if their arrival was based upon exciting public interest in an expedition that was supposed to be entirely secret? It is more than likely that key investors were aware of the expedition’s true destination and had provided financing based on this updated but suppressed knowledge.
Luckily, Uranienborg was a secluded spot, ideal for keeping secrets. By June 1910, however, even some of the eighteen crew members were becoming suspicious, particularly about a prefabricated hut that was being stored in Amundsen’s garden. It was a large structure, complete with a kitchen range, a linoleum floor and separate sleeping quarters for nine people—a hut that would have been completely out of place on an Arctic drift. The hut had obviously been a long time in the making. Helmer Hanssen, the second mate on the Gjøa voyage, who would also be aboard the Fram, expressed his confusion: “The house was to be an observatory I was told. But I was very doubtful whether such a large elaborate building would be of any use in the drift ice. I thought our plan was to drift across the Arctic Ocean and I told Captain Nilsen that no power on earth would get me to sleep in that house, built on drift ice. But Captain Nilsen suddenly disappeared and after that he did not seem to want to talk any more about this house.” Some of the other cargo also raised eyebrows: why load piles of timber in Norway, when it could be obtained easily in San Francisco? And why kennel nearly a hundred sled dogs on the deck and cart them around the world to the Bering Strait, when they could be obtained cheaply and without difficulty in Alaska? Amundsen admitted that the faces of many of his men “began to resemble notes of interrogation.”
He felt, however, that secrecy was paramount to his success. Not only was he heavily in debt to his financial backers and morally in debt to his scientific supporters in both the government and scientific societies, but also he knew his career as an explorer would come crashing down if the plans for his voyage, already years in the making, were to collapse. “If at that juncture I had made my intention public, it would only have given occasion for a lot of newspaper discussion, and possibly have ended in the project being stifled at its birth.” He clearly remembered the result of his earlier slip-up with the media, immediately following his Northwest Passage success, when his story was leaked and essentially stolen, costing him a fair amount of lost money in fees and royalties. Never again would he be forthright with the press about his plans. He also recalled the previous year, when he had almost been tripped up by the press’s incessant attempts to get him to take sides in the Cook-Peary controversy in the hope of linking him to the discredited claims of his old friend Dr. Cook. Following the advice and direction of his brother Leon and his friend Gade, Amundsen would feed the press information only as he saw fit—when it was useful to promote his cause. Amundsen the strategist was increasingly aware of how the media worked and how to make it work for him, not against him. The media and publicity were just another detail of the expedition to be planned and controlled.
Amundsen maintained a furtive and reclusive lifestyle. He never answered the telephone; he was rarely ready to receive visitors; and he seldom ventured out in public during the winter of 1910. When not overseeing the acquisition of supplies and provisions, he spent a great deal of time in Uranienborg poring over both old and recent maps, and reading historical accounts of mariners and explorers who had visited Antarctica. He studied all the literature he could obtain, seeking any information that would give him an edge, an advantage over his rivals that might sway the race in his favour or increase his chances of survival. It had worked for him in the Northwest Passage, and he intended that it should work for him at the South Pole.
From his reading, Amundsen determined the precise location to which he wanted to sail the Fram and begin skiing to the South Pole. It was something that had never before been attempted: landing the ship and making a base atop the imposing 30-metre ice wall now known as the Ross Ice Shelf. Amundsen compared the charts of the region made by Ross in 1841 with those made sixty years later by Borchgrevink of the British Southern Cross Expedition (the first to overwinter on the Antarctic mainland), which confirmed that the ice barrier was an almost insurmountable length of cliff that, as Amundsen later said in his lecture to the Royal Geographical Society, was “broken at intervals by bights and small inlets. . . . [The Southern Cross Expedition] found this bay in the same place, where Ross saw it in 1841—sixty years earlier. It is interesting that this expedition succeeded in landing in a little bay—Baloon Bight—some miles to the eastward of the big one, and from here climbed up on the barrier, which up to this time had been considered an inaccessible and invincible hindrance for an advance toward the south.”
The explorer also noted that the Discovery expedition led by Scott in 1901 had steamed along the edge of the ice barrier and confirmed the location of the small bay. In the course of the Nimrod expedition in 1908, Shackleton had observed that the ice had only minimal breaks, and had named the inlet the Bay of Whales, but he did not make a landing because it looked too dangerous. Amundsen concluded that “though some few pieces [of ice] had broken off here and there, this bay had remained constant for about seventy years. It was an obvious conclusion that the bay was no casual formation, but owed its existence to substantial land, banks, etc.” Though he had never set eyes upon it, Amundsen chose this never-before-used bay to launch his land parties. It was about 650 kilometres from Scott’s planned base at McMurdo Sound, and “therefore seemed to us that we were at sufficient distance from the English sphere, and need not fear that we should come in their way.”
Once he had settled on using the Bay of Whales as his base, Amundsen proceeded with his plan of attack. If successful, it would be a logistical triumph that would see him and his chosen men begin the race to the South Pole an entire degree of latitude closer than Scott’s base at McMurdo Sound, at the far western end of the ice shelf. The plan was a closely guarded secret; any leak might give advantage to Scott, who might decide to use the same base before the Norwegians. Amundsen had the advantage of having decided on his expedition before hearing the confirmation of Scott’s expedition, yet being able to read the details of Scott’s plans in the newspapers while refining his own plan.
In April 1910, Scott visited Norway to test the new motorized sleds he planned on taking to Antarctica. The northern plains between Oslo and Bergen would provide a mild version of what to expect in Antarctica. Scott and his wife, Kathleen, met with Nansen and discussed their plans for the South Pole. He also tried to meet with Amundsen, but without success. Certainly Amundsen was busy, but furthermore it is unlikely that he could have met the English naval officer whom he planned to race to the South Pole and still have kept his plans secret.
Amundsen has been criticized for keeping Scott in the dark about his true intentions. It is important, however, to point out that Amundsen and others were already planning their South Pole expeditions when they
read Scott’s announcement, and this detailed and highly public proclamation by Scott was little other than an effort to forestall others from heading south until he had had his chance at the pole. Scott’s tactics were to use publicity to clear the field, to cause any potential rivals to back down, and in effect to lay claim to the pole as his and Britain’s property. His actions were no more honourable or dishonourable than Amundsen’s keeping his plans secret. Amundsen had many reasons for secrecy, not the least of which was his financing and that his ship had been borrowed for a different purpose. He had already been in the Antarctic and knew what the conditions were like. No one on the planet had his set of skills and knowledge, practical and theoretical, learned first-hand from the people who had the most to teach others on the subject—the Inuit. Although Amundsen had learned some of the details of Scott’s expedition, such as Scott’s plan to use motor sledges and ponies, he knew they would not fare well in the harsh conditions of the Antarctic. He found it nearly inconceivable that Scott would not be using dogs and skis for transport. Amundsen knew his business; he was confident of victory and did not fear that Scott would, or could, beat him and his team, which was equipped lightly and efficiently for speed.
At the same time, there was no advantage in keeping the details of his expedition secret from Scott, Amundsen reasoned, since Scott would not have done anything differently in any event. “Scott’s plan and equipment,” Amundsen noted in his autobiography, “were so widely different from my own that I regarded the telegram that I sent him later, with the information that we were bound for the Antarctic regions, rather as a mark of courtesy than as a communication which might cause him to alter his programme in the slightest degree.” This is probably true—it’s hard to imagine the naval officer Scott using dogs and learning to ski. However, if Scott had known he was in a race, he might have set sail earlier; or perhaps the excitement of a race would have helped Scott with his own fundraising.
As things stood, Amundsen could mull over his plan without public scrutiny while Scott had to disclose his plans to the newspapers before he departed—which is how Amundsen knew that Scott would be using McMurdo Sound as his base. He could develop a counter-plan to avoid the British expedition while using his superior skills in dog driving and skiing. In addition, the momentum of Scott’s expedition depended not merely on his desire to attain the South Pole but on a host of other cultural and political foundations that precluded secrecy. As a private adventurer, Amundsen could go wherever he wanted and do whatever he wanted. Not so Scott, who was weighed down by the rigid traditions of the world’s then-greatest empire.
In the spring of 1910, after debating the news of Peary’s and Cook’s competing claims to have reached the North Pole, the Norwegian parliament did what Amundsen had expected: it voted not to provide the Fram polar drift expedition with additional funds. In the wake of this decision, private donations were cancelled as well, promises of free supplies were withdrawn and offers for newspaper rights to the exclusive story were declined. Faced with a shortage of funds, Amundsen put up all his remaining money, mortgaged his home and took on debt wherever possible. Tired and frustrated with the tedium of fundraising—begging, as he thought of it—he signed over the responsibility for all money matters to his brother Leon and devoted himself exclusively to the logistics of the operation. He assumed a financial solution would be found. If he could only get to sea with the Fram and his crew, he would be successful; and if he was successful, he would be forgiven his minor deception, and wide acclaim would be forthcoming.
Cancelling the expedition would result in astronomical financial loss: its provisions, supplies, equipment—nautical and personal—had been ordered and paid for, the crew had been hired and other financial commitments made. It would bankrupt Amundsen, and hurt his friends and family. The loss of financial support from businesses and government agencies also meant that he could easily lose the use of the Fram. It had been refurbished at great expense by the Norwegian government and provided for his proposed serious and scientific endeavour, which would presumably bring respectability and prestige to the new nation; without the Fram Amundsen would be unable to launch a significant expedition. At the same time he knew that the newly independent Norwegian government would take a dim view of any attempt to directly compete with Great Britain in its goal of claiming the South Pole. The diplomatic ramifications were not a small matter, and Amundsen agonized over his secrecy for months.
As a result, even a month before Amundsen’s departure for the South—or the North, as it was still generally believed—he was short a substantial amount of money and had no credible plan to obtain it. Even Nansen was concerned; the money would be needed to keep the ship in repair during the many years of the voyage. Amundsen, while nearly sick with stress, calmly maintained that the money would surely be forthcoming once he arrived in San Francisco. The financial shortfall was his greatest secret: if his many creditors ever found out, they would surely call in their loans and impound the ship. The money was not needed immediately, as Amundsen knew, but it was vital to the success of the expedition; indeed, it was vital to his survival. Once it had navigated the treacherous waters of Antarctica, the Fram was to drop off the polar party and then sail to Argentina to refit, repair, refuel and reprovision before returning to the Bay of Whales to pick them up. The money was essential for the relief expedition; otherwise, the adventurers would be stuck on Antarctica. Certainly a third-party rescue operation could be organized, but it would be an embarrassment and would jeopardize any attempt to capitalize on their success, should they win the race but be unable to return.
A preliminary test of the Fram to gain some experience for the crew was planned for June 7, the fifth anniversary of Norway’s independence from Sweden. The two Amundsens, Roald and Leon, planned to link the voyage to Norway’s independence to defuse any anger from the government or disgruntled creditors. Roald had to reveal his secret plans to two more of his officers; after all, they would be commanding the ship and needed to know where they were going. Fortunately, as was the case with everyone else in whom Amundsen confided, the officers were enthusiastic about the scheme and happy to be taken into his confidence, and they readily agreed to keep the grand secret. Before casting off, Amundsen held a party in the yard at Uranienborg. After a simple supper, the men cleared their throats and “united in [singing] ‘God preserve the King and fatherland.’” Then they climbed into small boats and ferried themselves out to the Fram, which was anchored in the fjord.
One of the officers brought a horseshoe aboard and nailed it to the mast in the ship’s saloon. “In his opinion it is quite incredible what luck an old horseshoe can bring. Possibly he is right,” Amundsen mused. They hauled in the anchor, got the diesel engine running and then, “at precisely midnight,” they set off.
Twice already had a band of stout-hearted men brought this ship back with honor after years of service. Would it be vouchsafed to us to uphold this honorable tradition? Such were, no doubt, the thoughts with which most of us were occupied as our vessel glided over the motionless fjord in the light summer night. . . . [A]mong our bright and confident hopes there crept a shadow of melancholy. The hillsides, the woods, the fjord all were so bewitchingly fair and so dear to us. They called to us with their allurement, but the Diesel motor knew no pity. Its tuff-tuff went on brutally through the stillness.
While making last-minute preparations, including loading the dogs and carrying out some final tweaks to the diesel engine, Amundsen still had to keep some of his creditors in the dark and at bay, just as on the Gjøa expedition, until he was at sea and beyond their reach. Leon maintained a straight face and a calm demeanour, though he privately noted that “the position is no better, and maybe even worse, than when Gjøa sailed.” Neither Leon nor Roald had found a solution to the pressing problem of how to pay for the work done on the Fram in Argentina. Not even the men they had taken into their confidence knew about this looming, show-stopping problem.
Then, with lit
tle more than a week remaining before the final departure for Antarctica, Amundsen received a telegram from the Norwegian Foreign Ministry. It contained happy news: a wealthy and respected businessman in Buenos Aires named Peter Christophersen had offered to provide the Fram with coal and supplies. A Norwegian who had been living in Argentina for decades, where he had made a fortune, Christophersen had heard of Amundsen’s public request for donations—one of his brothers knew Nansen, and another was the Norwegian minister in Buenos Aires. Amundsen must have chuckled with relief: he had always forged ahead on the assumption that things would work out, even when others shook their heads and advised caution. With great relief, he replied right away, requesting oil rather than coal, and was assured that he would have all he needed in Buenos Aires. Fortune again was smiling on him.
After its test voyage from Bergen to Scotland and back, the Fram was shipshape. The real voyage began on August 9, eight weeks after Scott’s expedition had departed from Cardiff. On the voyage south the dogs crowded everywhere, barking and fighting, even on the bridge. Thorvald Nilsen, the captain of the ship, wrote in his brief account of the voyage, “The number of living creatures on board when we left Norway was nineteen men, ninety-seven dogs, four pigs, six carrier pigeons, and one canary.” In photographs of the Fram at sea, the dogs are ubiquitous; they lounge against the railing, sleep on the open deck, look curiously toward the camera, take shelter under awnings and collapse panting in the equatorial heat. The pups play with the men and generally appear to have the run of the ship. The hopes of the expedition depended upon them, and their antics provided respite from the monotony of the voyage. Although all on board were responsible for the welfare of the “four-footed friends,” crew member Oscar Wisting became the official dogkeeper.