EARLY SEPTEMBER 1910 – MADEIRA
Flies gather in their thousands, a vibrating black swarm animating the air. A man might jump overboard to escape but the dogs don’t mind. They rip into the chunks of flesh carved off the horse carcass, savouring the succulent meat and gnawing on bone fragments. It’s the second such feast this week and a welcome respite from the usual ration of dried fish they’ve been getting on the four-week sea voyage from Norway.
Captain Thorvald Nilsen regards the scene with a sour expression. ‘Yet more muck to clean up.’
Twice a day the decks of the Fram are sluiced with buckets of salt water. Necessary toil for the twenty men aboard when travelling with a cargo of ninety-seven sledge dogs. Fouling is only one issue. The fighting has been more or less constant. Not surprising given they’re occupying every available space on deck. Until accustomed to living in such close quarters, the dogs will remain chained. They’re a vicious lot. Already they’ve attacked the Madeira official who attempted a health inspection the evening of their arrival on the Portuguese island; and all of Captain Nilsen’s carrier pigeons have disappeared, leaving only feathers. The captain scarcely needs a reason to deliver a swift kick to the unlucky dog that gets under his feet.
‘Mind your manners,’ he bellows when growled at.
The dogs have been divided up, with men assigned to each group. Among Roald Amundsen’s dogs are three inseparable friends that he has christened ‘the Three Musketeers’. United in their hatred of the chief, they snarl whenever he approaches. Amundsen considers it safest to deliver the horsemeat on a long stick, which he also uses to offer a back scratch. ‘You’ll come around,’ he says soothingly. ‘All in good time.’
Captain Nilsen scoffs.
Amundsen appreciates the reason for the captain’s dark mood. He too is unsettled by what lies ahead. There is still much uncertainty. But the time is fast approaching when the whole affair will be resolved.
One by one Amundsen’s dogs flop onto their sides, their bellies full to bursting. Not a bad spot to sleep off a feeding frenzy, in the shade of the tarpaulins that have been rigged up against the powerful sun. Here, off the coast of north Africa, the heat is cruel punishment for creatures with such an overabundance of fur. Just as well they won’t be staying long in Madeira, their only port of call on the five-month sea journey to Antarctica. Of course the dogs don’t know they’re heading to Antarctica. Neither does the crew.
Captain Nilsen is getting tired of keeping Amundsen’s secret. For months he’s perpetuated the lie that the Arctic is their final destination, that they will round the bottom of South America and sail up the other side, all the way to the Bering Strait, where they’ll enter the Arctic Ocean and drift in the sea ice across the North Pole. The crew, the expedition sponsors, Fridtjof Nansen (Amundsen’s mentor and the owner of the ship), even the Norwegian parliament and the king and queen have been sold the same lie. But why head north now when the prize has already been seized by not one but two men – Peary and Cook both claiming to have reached the North Pole.
‘You better be lucky down there at the South Pole. Because you’ll be thrown into prison if you’re not! And probably me too.’ Captain Nilsen finds it increasingly hard to hold his tongue when it’s just the two of them.
‘Luck has nothing to do with it,’ is Amundsen’s cool reply.
The captain knows Amundsen well enough to realise he will achieve his aim; but he won’t make any friends in the process. Least of all Captain Scott, the English polar explorer who has made clear his intention to be the first person to reach the southernmost point on the globe. He’s already on his way.
Several of the crewmen are suspicious by now. The more experienced ones have voiced the opinion that it would be madness to erect a hut on the Arctic sea ice, yet the hut they built in Amundsen’s garden and then took apart was loaded into the ship’s hold. Still others have questioned the logic of bringing sledge dogs all the way from Norway, when they’ll supposedly be passing Alaska, home of the finest huskies.
‘Now that we’re in Madeira,’ Nilsen’s tone softens, ‘do you think it might be time to let the cat out of the bag?’
Amundsen smiles. ‘Well of course. That was always the plan. Get to Madeira, figure out who wants to join us. Whoever doesn’t can return to Norway with my brother.’
Leon. Captain Nilsen does not envy that hapless man. He’ll be the one to notify Fridtjof Nansen that Amundsen has absconded with the Fram – Nansen’s precious vessel, the first ship purpose-built for polar research. Leon will also have to tell the king about Roald Amundsen’s radical change of plan. He alone will shoulder the burden. They’ll be long gone by then. Not even a king’s decree will reach the Fram once it leaves Madeira.