Who will go ashore? It’s one question preying on everyone’s mind. Nobody will ask Amundsen outright. To do so would seem overeager and likely count against whoever is asking. Going ashore means having a crack at the South Pole. Instant fame and wealth, assuming a career can be forged around a victorious outcome. Each man hopes; more than half will know disappointment.
One man definitely not going ashore is Captain Nilsen. The southern winter sets in fast and he’ll need to shepherd the Fram safely out of Antarctic waters before the sea ice weds him to the continent. His duties lie northward in Buenos Aires, where repairs can be carried out on the Fram and fresh provisions taken aboard. It will be a treacherous sea journey, taking on the worst conditions in the world’s most dangerous ocean regions. Many have perished rounding Cape Horn with its infamous wind, enormous waves and hazardous currents. That said, money is Nilsen’s major concern. There’s simply none left. Once the Fram makes port, they’ll need to get out the begging bowl.
A number of the crew intended to leave the Fram in San Francisco. Of course, San Francisco was never actually on Amundsen’s itinerary and these men were taken on as sailors, not polar adventurers. There is little chance of them making the cut. Besides, Nilsen will need experienced sailors to make landfall in Argentina.
At 56 degrees south, their charted course is well below Australia and heading into ever wilder latitudes. This far south there is no land to interrupt the flow of westerly winds or waylay the enormous waves circling the globe. The rotating motion of the Fram is a firm fixture of shipboard life. The men surrender to it, rolling like marbles whichever way they’re tipped. The table and chairs are lashed to the floor and table manners are a thing of the past. What was once a respectable affair is now a comedy involving grabbing, grappling and stabbing at sliding plates of food. Everyone wishes away the remaining 1500 kilometres of their painfully long voyage.
As Christmas 1910 draws near, the smell of baking fills the cabins below deck. Lindstrøm has plenty of visitors in the galley, and a few cheeky enough to pilfer a tasty treat whenever he turns his back. Lindstrøm decides to lock up the cakes lest there be no finale to the Christmas feast he’s planning.
Cakes are only one element of their celebration. On Christmas Eve Rønne hangs the great lines of colourful flags that he’s made on his sewing machine. Captain Nilsen has helped decorate the wardroom and hung coloured lanterns in the passageways between the cabins. With Madeiro getting under his feet constantly and tangling himself in long strings of bunting, it’s taken longer than planned. Nilsen can be heard by turns scolding the dog for getting in the way and begging for forgiveness when he steps on his paws. The fore-cabin has been thoroughly cleaned up. Helmer polishes the brass until it gleams and tries not to think of his little boy celebrating Christmas without him. His wife is no doubt used to his absences on such occasions. They had three Christmases apart last time he set sail with Amundsen. Helmer can imagine her rolling her eyes and making some comment about Amundsen being her husband’s one true love.
The gramophone has been rigged up to play from Amundsen’s cabin. With nineteen members of the crew making merry, there’ll be little room to manoeuvre. They’d like to have organised a little concert like they had after crossing the equator, but the piano is hopelessly out of tune after months of thumping up and down on the waves.
When evening draws near, the men start to gather in the Fram’s fore-cabin, dressed in the best clothes they have to hand. Gone are the unkempt whiskers. The smooth faces render many of the crew scarcely recognisable. Only one unfortunate soul will remain on his own throughout the evening.
Stubberud is angry. It’s his turn to take the 8 p.m. to 2 a.m. watch while everyone is eating, drinking, smoking and singing. ‘I’m a carpenter, not a sailor,’ he thinks aloud as he listens to the yahooing and cheering from below. He roars his displeasure at the night sky. A few of the dogs around him take up the challenge and give voice to their own complaints in yowling, wavering tones.
‘That’s right,’ Stubberud mutters more to himself than the dogs. ‘Lonely losers, all of us.’
He smells tobacco smoke before he sees Johansen. ‘Sounds like some party down there.’ Stubberud’s words come out a little sourly.
‘I’ve come to relieve you, brother,’ Johansen says, pulling his wool cap down over his head. Gone is the chin strap beard. Johansen has shaved it off.
‘Good grief!’ Stubberud blurts out without fully taking in Johansen’s words. ‘I didn’t recognise you. What have you done to yourself?’
Johansen turns his face first one way then the other. ‘What do you think?’
‘More modern perhaps,’ says Stubberud, thinking what a vast improvement it is.
‘Felt like a change.’ Johansen rubs the soft skin, the small nicks around his jawline where the razor took to its job a little too keenly. ‘Last chance to see what I really look like.’
‘Aye, we’ll all be sprouting beards,’ Stubberud agrees. He’s pretty confident of being selected for the shore crew. With his experience as a carpenter, it would be absurd to remain with the ship. Of course, Johansen is guaranteed a place – after all, he’s Nansen’s man.
‘I’ve come to take over the watch, Stubberud.’
‘But it’s not 2 a.m. yet.’
‘Grub’s still out. Leave it much later and you’ll find crumbs. And drunken sailors snoring on the table.’
Music emanates from below, shouts, laughter.
‘Come on, the offer’s genuine.’ Johansen nudges the carpenter away from the wheel.
Stubberud lingers a moment, not wanting to simply drop and run. ‘You sure?’
‘Get going before I change my mind.’
Stubberud slides down the companionway ladder towards the comforting smells and the rowdy sounds. Everything looks festive. There’s even a Christmas tree aglow with candles. A cheer goes up. Not for Stubberud but for Lieutenant Prestrud, who demonstrates that navigating is not his only skill. The satirical poem he’s written for the occasion spares nobody – not even the chief – and while his performance leaves a few red faces around the table, his humour is well-intended. Amundsen raises a toast to the lieutenant.
‘Good God!’ Nilsen gasps when he sees Stubberud raising a glass. ‘Who’s at the wheel?’
Stubberud tries to calm the captain. ‘It’s fine. Johansen’s up there.’
Nilsen sinks back into his seat. He takes a hearty swig to recover from the shock. A raucous singalong starts up in the corner. Lindstrøm carries in the tray of Christmas cakes. More shouts and whistles. Bjaaland makes space at the table for Stubberud and tops up his glass with aquavit. ‘So Johansen saved the day, did he?’
‘Trying to avoid temptation, I’d say.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stubberud cocks an eye at his glass. ‘Haven’t you heard? The man’s a raging alcoholic.’