No more soups. No more washing in fresh water. Captain’s orders.
‘We’ll just have to bathe in rum,’ somebody shouts.
Amundsen’s hand silences the laughter. ‘Soap will lather just as well in salt water.’
‘What about the water stored in the longboat, sir? Do we have to drink that?’
‘We’ll keep that for the dogs.’
There’s a collective sigh of relief. The water crisis is not yet so bad that they have to drink the rusty water that has turned the dog turds bright red. But it may yet get worse if nature doesn’t deliver. The great downpours, usually so predictable in these latitudes, have failed to show. If it doesn’t rain soon, they’ll have to go ashore in the Americas. A waste of precious time as far as Amundsen is concerned. Progress has already been delayed. The northeast trade winds died out earlier than expected. The stiff breeze that so eased their transit across the Atlantic has now shifted south, making their approach to the equator a true battle of man versus the elements. If the doldrums had lived up to their reputation, the Fram could have quite happily motored across the calm waters, her engines taking up the slack in the sails. As it stands, the final degrees of latitude to the equator have been hard won against a brutal southerly.
‘What about crossing the line?’ asks the carpenter Stubberud. ‘Can we still do that?’
Amundsen invites Nilsen to speak. As captain of the ship, all seafaring traditions are his responsibility. A number of men aboard have not crossed the equator before. Depending on one’s point of view, King Neptune’s initiation ritual can be a laugh or an ordeal.
Nilsen shakes his head. ‘It’s not the water situation. Not enough room on deck, lads.’
There’s grumbling. Mostly from those men who have already undergone the humiliation of being covered in paint, performing in a beauty contest or forced to eat foul substances. It should be their turn to inflict suffering on others.
Stubberud is up for any activity that relieves the boredom of months at sea. He shouts, ‘I was hoping to be tarred and feathered, sir!’
‘The pigeons haven’t left us much in the way of feathers. How about we cover you in dog—’
‘Men!’ Amundsen calls for quiet. Keeping up morale is important; they still have so far to travel. ‘How about a celebratory dinner instead with music, some cigars and liqueurs.’
It is symbolic for Amundsen too, this tipping over the imaginary line from the Northern to the Southern Hemisphere. Has he got away with it? Is Nansen furious? Has he offended the king? Does the Norwegian parliament demand an explanation? Or worse, demand the money they lent the expedition? Now that they are underway, nothing else matters. To assign any importance to these questions is pointless.
Suddenly there’s a loud clattering noise, a yowling from below. One of the dogs has fallen down the stairs. Oscar scrambles down and brings the poor whimpering creature back up on deck. He calls to Sverre.
The dog expert sees immediately. ‘Broken his leg.’
‘How did he break free?’ asks the captain.
Sverre lifts the ragged rope dangling from the dog’s collar. ‘Gnawed his way free. Should be called Houdini.’
‘It’s my Isak,’ says Oscar of the massive creature. ‘I’d know him anywhere. Must have landed with his full weight on that leg. I suppose you’ll want to throw him overboard now,’ Oscar says with cynicism, convinced that this animal will be another casualty of the expedition’s hard line on population control.
Lieutenant Gjertson speaks up. ‘I can set the bone.’
As if sensing salvation, the dog starts to wag its tail, proud of its double achievement – escaping both captivity and walking the plank.
‘We need to let the children loose,’ says Amundsen to the captain. ‘It’s been more than six weeks. Their paws are swollen. Their claws are falling off.’
Captain Nilsen looks doubtful. Puppy killers spring to mind. ‘There’ll be bloodshed.’
‘Entertainment for the men,’ Amundsen says playfully. Unlike Nilsen he trusts the dogs. Most are quite tame now, used to their human handlers and the routine of life at sea. Even the Three Musketeers allow a scratch behind the ears.
‘Not my idea of fun,’ says Nilsen. ‘I like having a full set of limbs.’
Men being mauled isn’t Amundsen’s concern. The problem is with dogs attacking each other. It’s the only fun they know; they’ve been deprived of the pleasure for months. But there’s one way to avoid all-out carnage. Amundsen calls to Sverre, ‘Got those dog muzzles somewhere accessible?’
The next morning everybody is on deck to witness the great untying of the dogs – it’s the closest thing to sport in the mid-Atlantic. Even the men who should be sleeping off night watch prefer to witness the spectacle. Sverre demonstrates how the men should fit the muzzles, allowing for jaw movement but not the use of teeth. Captain Nilsen retreats below deck. So does Rønne, complaining loudly about all the work he has piling up at his sewing machine. Neither man wants to be on the battlefield.
At first nothing happens. The dogs seem perfectly happy to remain on their home patch. The Fram’s bow cleaves through the waves and every now and then a shower of sea spray casts a wide net over the animals. Under the circumstances, the dogs prefer to hunker down than venture forth. Only one dog lifts its nose to the southerly wind and gives a sniff. Amazingly, it’s Isak, the fresh splint on his leg, the only dog to have earned his freedom. Curious perhaps to follow a smell on the ocean breeze, Isak hobbles on three good legs along the rising-and-falling deck among dogs that, despite being at sea together, have remained complete strangers throughout the voyage, thanks to being tied at opposite ends of the ship. There are growls, then a surge, sudden and savage. At least a dozen dogs bring the curious interloper down. Shrieks, wailing and whimpers surround the hash of animals setting to with furious excitement. Other dogs leap to their feet, surprised by their lack of restraints. Other fights break out. Aghast, the men look on, horrified at the carnage they’ve unleashed. Nobody intervenes. To do so would be suicide … or perhaps not.
Amundsen roars with laughter. ‘Perfect!’ he calls to Sverre. ‘Plenty of fur flying but no blood.’ It’s just what the dogs needed, a good scrap. And the men. It looks like everyone’s enjoying the sudden change in the shipboard dynamic.
Helmer rocks back and forth with amusement. ‘I love being back with Amundsen,’ he shouts to nobody in particular. It’s the ocean, heading for the ice, the howling of the wind and the howling of the dogs – all of it music to his ears. ‘This is where I belong – it’s like the Northwest Passage all over again!’
Sverre smiles and nods. His Arctic experiences were with another Norwegian explorer, Otto Sverdrup. He recognises blind loyalty; it’s unmistakable. Helmer would dive to the bottom of the ocean if Amundsen asked. The chief has chosen his team wisely, Sverre concedes. Then again, not everyone aboard is as loyal as Helmer.