With the Roaring Forties behind them, the Norwegians must now face the Furious Fifties and the kind of violent winds and treacherous sailing conditions that their Viking forebears would have welcomed. The west wind belt is living up to its reputation. Foul weather bears down on the Fram with a force that would be frightening if it wasn’t pushing the ship in the right direction. Aided by the gale blowing at her heels, the Fram gallops the remaining distance across the Southern Atlantic, and even running short of sails, the ship is catapulted around the southern tip of Africa. There’ll be no slowing now. Those wishing to admire the Cape of Good Hope will be disappointed; they’re too far south. It is mid-November. The Norwegians are more than halfway to Antarctica. From here on, theirs will be a lonely trek into one of the world’s emptiest stretches of ocean.
Dwarfing the ship, the dark sea gathers off the stern, threatening to swallow it whole or at least wipe clean the deck. Already two dogs have been lost overboard. But the ship’s rounded hull is well suited to riding out the immense waves that loom up in endless procession. Like a lady hoisting her petticoats to step over a muddy puddle, the Fram simply lifts herself up, allowing whatever monster is gathering to pass under her hull. Unfortunately the clever hull design gives rise to a vile side-to-side roll and is responsible for much retching.
Fresh water is still in short supply. They get a thorough soaking at least once a day from the north-west but the downpours don’t last long. Neither does the sleet or hail that charges in on sudden gusts, lashing the decks and pummelling the poor dogs with short-lived fury. The sun reappears just as abruptly, working with a determined westerly to dry the decks and restore some comfort to the animals, who are looking thin and miserable. Regular feeds of butter are deemed the most efficient way of improving their diet. To be of any use in Antarctica, they need fattening up.
Oscar doles out gobs of yellow butter onto the deck. ‘If we keep feeding the dogs like this, there’ll be none left for us humans.’
‘The dogs are more important than you or me.’ Sverre shows his empty hands to a particularly insistent dog. ‘The whole outcome of this expedition depends on them. You want to be successful or eat pancakes?’
Oscar offers Camilla a second helping of butter off his hand. She’s no longer the only mother. Ester had six pups, as did Sara. Eva had seven. Kaisa, Bella, Lola, Katinka and Else also gave birth. Of the forty-six pups, thirty-four have been tossed into the sea, eight have been eaten by other dogs and one was snatched by an albatross.
Unlucky Isak has made a full recovery after breaking his leg and is just as likely to start a fight as any other able-bodied dog at feeding time. Freedom is no longer the novelty it once was. A clear hierarchy has been established among the dogs but every now and then hell breaks loose. Often it’s over a wayward tail. Even a rogue wave can start a brawl. In the dogs’ world, it seems that neighbours must take the blame for the sheer awfulness of shipboard life: the cold, the frightful wind, the constant hateful wetness. Sea water has made them footsore. Many shed great flakes of skin and clumps of fur. The smart dogs slink below deck in search of dry lodgings. Any luxury is short-lived. Recently the chief stoker yanked Camilla from a warm spot between the pistons. If they’d fired up the engines, she’d have been crushed. Such miserable whines could be heard when she was returned to the wet deck with the others; meanwhile her puppy lies warm and dry in the captain’s berth.
Despite his devotion to Madeiro, Nilsen’s patience for the dogs is wearing thin. One dog, Jakob, has the nickname ‘The Murderer’, so often has he snaffled the newly born. Witnessing puppies being eaten alive sends Nilsen into a violent rage. He takes to The Murderer with a chain, applying it with such severity that he almost beats the unfortunate creature to death.
‘Captain!’ Sverre brings Nilsen back to his senses. He takes the bloody chain from the captain’s shaking hand. Everyone knows Nilsen is under enormous stress and dangerously short on sleep. Icebergs are the reason. They may excite some aboard, but for Nilsen there is no greater horror. Easily spotted during daylight hours, the bulbous blocks of ice are much harder to see in the dark and would breach their thick hull as if it were made of butter. Such accidents have been known to sink a ship before the crew can even scramble from their berths. Keeping alert during a six-hour watch through the night requires lots of hot, strong coffee. As an added precaution, Nilsen asks that every two hours the temperature of the ocean be checked – a disagreeable task in a squall, but infinitely preferable to sinking to Davy Jones’ Locker.