‘How many is that now?’ Sverre rolls the four seal carcasses off the sledge while the dogs tug and jerk at their chains in anticipation of the still-warm meat being dished out.
‘Probably a hundred or so,’ says Helmer. ‘The chief wants at least two hundred to see us through the winter. We’ve got plenty of penguin. We can probably stop the slaughter of those poor devils.’
‘What does penguin taste like anyway?’ Sverre asks as he cuts into the seal’s belly, releases the innards, and tosses them to the waiting pack of dogs.
Helmer frowns. ‘Dunno. Never tasted it. Must be like duck or goose. There’s a fair bit of meat on a penguin. And fat.’
The snow has turned a deep red around the carcasses. Sverre screws up his mouth as he pries open the ribs. ‘It doesn’t matter how many times you do it. This job is still disgusting,’ he grumbles.
Helmer shakes his head. ‘I could tell you about disgusting.’
‘You don’t think I’m a good judge of disgusting? I’m up to my elbows in blood and guts. How about we swap places. I’ll stand with my arms crossed and you come and butcher these carcasses.’
Helmer stares into the distance. ‘How’s this? A Netsilik woman scooping up congealed seal’s blood and slurping it from her hands like it’s a bowl of cream – that’s disgusting. Or children fighting over the fermented fish from the seal’s stomach – that’s disgusting. How about …’
‘Helmer, you’re not the only one with incredible tales from the Arctic. Remember, I’ve travelled around Greenland with Sverdrup for three years eating nothing but seal.’
‘Well, you should be more than happy,’ Helmer chortles. ‘This is just like the good old days!’
‘Come on, give me a hand,’ Sverre says with his knife poised above the ribcage, ‘once those guts are gone, I’ll be the only thing standing between those dogs and their feed and I’m not quite ready to die.’
Up at the building site, Bjaaland and Stubberud take a moment to admire their handiwork. In just under a week they’ve patched together the hut they originally built then dismantled in Amundsen’s garden in Norway. Attaching the roof and fitting the chimney comes next. They’ve become good mates during the build, sharing confidences, little jokes about this and that, observations about the others. Amundsen has joined the two men in their camp for the last few nights, keen to ensure everything will fit in the confines of their new accommodation. He’s also hoping his presence will keep them to their schedule. Everything must be finished before the Fram leaves.
‘How much longer, lads?’ Amundsen says, shielding his eyes in the sunlight.
There’s a squawk. Then another, this time more insistent. An emperor penguin announces itself from behind their tent. His glossy white chest puffed out, the penguin totters forward on its stumpy legs, taking bow after bow like a slightly nervous salesman making a surprise house call.
Bjaaland delights in seeing the stunning creature in such close quarters. A true South Pole native come to say hello. More bowing. The penguin totters closer. Another squawk. More bowing. Closer. He seems intent on introducing himself to his new neighbours. Bjaaland doesn’t notice Stubberud approach from behind with the hammer in his hand. One swift strike ends it all. The penguin tips over, dead.
Bjaaland gasps. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Look at these flippers – powerful weapons. They’d break a man’s back.’ Stubberud gives the penguin another blow to the head to make sure the job’s done properly. He doesn’t want to skin an animal that’s merely stunned.
‘Good job,’ says Amundsen plainly.
‘But we have food,’ says Bjaaland.
Stubberud shrugs and looks at the chief, hoping he’ll explain the unpleasant stuff.
‘You can’t afford to be sentimental, Bjaaland. Not here,’ says Amundsen. ‘We have 110 dogs and nine men to feed for a year.’
‘I just think it’s …’
Stubberud grins. ‘You didn’t care so much about the seals.’
Bjaaland stares at the penguin, loose necked with the few dots of blood now stark against the snow. ‘But he was just trying to be friendly, to say hello.’
Stubberud snorts. ‘You big softie. What will you think when we have to start killing off the dogs?’
Bjaaland’s jaw drops.
‘Yes well, nothing pleasant about that,’ says Amundsen with a sigh.
‘So why do it?’
‘Necessity. We’re covering such a distance, we won’t be able to carry enough food for both us and the dogs. Even with supply depots. Some of the dogs will have to be sacrificed.’
‘Not willingly,’ murmurs Bjaaland.
Amundsen’s response is blunt. ‘We must be successful. There is no conceivable alternative.’ What he doesn’t say is that if he ventures back to Norway without securing the South Pole victory, his career might well be over, having lied to the king, Nansen and the nation. The men’s reputations will be tainted too. No further philosophising is necessary: either he succeeds or he dies trying.
Back and forth, back and forth. The dogs work in five-hour shifts. The men put in twelve-hour days in order to get everything organised. Nine hundred crates in total, each one stacked with its unique number facing outwards so its contents can be matched against Amundsen’s master list. He’s spent years researching and planning his supplies. How much food will each man need per kilometre of distance he travels? What kind of food – more dry biscuits, or greater quantities of preserved meat? And what will the dogs eat? How much will it weigh and how much energy will it deliver? Will they have enough to last them if bad weather waylays their progress? What’s a reasonable margin of safety? Amundsen’s calculations don’t just revolve around planning meals either. The performance of skis and bindings has been studied and perfected. Sledges have been modified and made as light as possible without compromising their strength. Clothing and sleeping bags and tents have been chosen to withstand the worst wind, lowest temperatures and wear and tear of a southern journey that will last months. Everything has been thought through to the smallest detail and tested once, twice, three times before leaving Norway. All the while Amundsen reads and re-reads the published accounts by Captain Scott and Ernest Shackleton of their time spent in Antarctica. But rather than seeking answers, the Norwegian pores over the texts for lessons in what went wrong. Whatever he can learn from the failure of others might save his life and the lives of his men.
Has Scott taken such a scientific approach to logistics? Amundsen cannot concern himself with how well others have planned. It is utterly out of his control and therefore pointless. He does worry about Scott’s famed motor sledges, however. More than once he’s imagined Captain Scott’s mechanical wonders, chugging all the way to the pole while the Norwegians attempt a world first with a wild pack of dogs and skis strapped to their feet.