‘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 recommend 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.’