The Terra Nova is a mess. Filthy inside and out. Amundsen smiles as the captain of the English ship welcomes him below decks in a show of hospitality. He decides to keep his uncharitable thoughts to himself. The last thing he wants to do is cause offence in a foreign language.
Lunch in the ship’s wardroom is a simple affair. Canned vegetables, mutton and some hard savoury cakes the English call ‘scones’. It’s a friendly gesture, one that Amundsen, Captain Nilsen and Lieutenant Prestrud appreciate. They showed the Englishmen around Framheim that morning. Of the three Norwegians, Nilsen has the best command of English, although Amundsen and Prestrud both speak it well enough to be shocked by the nature of the mealtime conversation.
‘It rained down like mustard!’ laughs Lieutenant Pennell, commander of the Terra Nova. ‘Onto the table, while the men were eating their dinner!’
Lieutenant Victor Campbell shakes his head at the recollection. ‘Absolutely disgusting – it left a frightful mess for the chaps to clean up.’
Amundsen’s mouth twists in distaste. ‘Manure from the ponies onto this table?’
‘Yes, their stalls were directly overhead.’ Campbell points to the brown staining on the white painted ceiling.
Pennell roars with laughter. ‘We had so much water sloshing about up there on deck. The manure seeped down into the men’s sleeping quarters too.’
‘We had our own muck to worry about,’ says Captain Nilsen. ‘One hundred dogs can produce quite a lot. We all had accidents. Our chief included …’
Amundsen waves away Nilsen’s invitation to tell the tale. Such conversation is a waste of precious time. What he really wants to know is, do the English have radio, a way of transmitting news to the outside world. Just thinking of the dreadful consequences of Cook and Peary both claiming victory at the North Pole, he realises it’s a situation remarkably like his own: two men striving for the same goal, winner takes all. Amundsen understands perfectly the advantage access to a radio transmitter would afford Captain Scott.
‘First time in Antarctica?’ Campbell offers Amundsen a cigarette.
Amundsen declines. He stopped smoking back in September in preparation for the polar journey. ‘No, I was here before. With de Gerlache aboard the Belgica.’
Campbell nods. ‘That Belgian expedition?’
‘There were some Norwegians, Polish, a Romanian, an American. But mostly Belgians.’
‘How long were you in Antarctica?’
‘Fifteen months. Our ship was trapped in the ice for most of that.’
‘How ghastly,’ simpers Lieutenant Pennell. ‘I do hope the same does not happen to our vessels.’
Amundsen raises his chin and sucks in his cheeks in an expression neither Englishman can read.
Campbell narrows his eyes. ‘The American you mention. That was Dr Cook – the Arctic explorer? Seems a damn shame, this whole fiasco with Robert Peary. Both men claiming to be first to reach the North Pole. Though goodness knows if Cook even got there.’
Amundsen shakes his head emphatically. ‘I am sorry, I cannot hear bad things of Dr Cook.’
‘Gosh,’ says Pennell, slightly taken aback.
‘Cook is a very courageous man. A good friend.’
‘There you have it, Pennell,’ says Campbell, slapping his thighs with a levity designed to turn the afternoon’s conversation back to more frivolous topics.
After several hours of friendly conversation below deck in the dark interior, the harsh light of day leaves them all blinking at each other, suddenly reminded of their rivalry.
‘Fine vessel, Lieutenant,’ Amundsen remarks to Campbell as they walk the length of the deck. Amundsen shields his eyes against the sun as he glances surreptitiously at the rigging, searching for any sign of a radio aerial.
‘This is where the ponies were housed.’ Campbell points at the filthy stalls that give off a rank odour even though the ponies were offloaded weeks ago.
‘A long journey for such large animals, no?’ Amundsen says mildly. ‘All survived?’
‘We lost two. The result of the storm just after we left New Zealand. We also lost a couple of dogs. One washed overboard, the other hanged on its chain.’
Amundsen nods in silent acknowledgement. Both men know the perils of long sea voyages. ‘How many ponies do you have?’
‘Nineteen,’ says Campbell. ‘And thirty dogs. And three motor sledges.’
‘And how are the motor sledges going on the snow?’ Amundsen hopes not to sound too inquisitive.
‘Extremely well. We have high hopes they’ll prove to be very useful.’ Campbell doesn’t mention that of the three motor sledges, one lies on the bottom of McMurdo Sound and one has already broken down. Instead he changes the subject. ‘And how about you, what’s the extent of your animal contingent?’
‘We have just over a hundred dogs. And twenty puppies born at sea.’
Campbell widens his eyes in interest.
‘They’ll be big enough by the time spring arrives.’
‘So you have placed all your faith in dogs then?’ Perhaps Campbell is fishing for clues as to what the Norwegians have planned. Amundsen is practised at such games of cat and mouse and knows just how much to disclose.
‘Norwegians are good skiers. With skis on our feet and dogs to pull our sledges, we are hopeful of a fast trip to the pole and back.’
Campbell gives a weak laugh. ‘Yes, you certainly have speed on your side.’
Campbell is referring to the morning’s display of sledging prowess. Amundsen is pleased it did not go unnoticed. Campbell will undoubtedly report back to Captain Scott how the Norwegians had blazed down the trail from Framheim to the edge of the bay, the dogs running like a pack of hungry wolves – an impressive sight.
‘What are your plans now?’ asks Amundsen.
The lieutenant breathes in deeply. ‘We had hoped to journey eastward to the furthermost edge of the Great Ice Barrier to reach King Edward VII Land, but sea ice bars the way. With you Norwegians based here at the Bay of Whales, which was to be our Plan B, we shall have to come up with a Plan C and find some other location to explore.’
‘You’re welcome to join us. You could make your base on the barrier as we have.’
‘No, I think we’ll head back west towards McMurdo. We don’t want to cause any more bother.’
Amundsen nods. ‘I understand, you must make the most of your time before leaving for civilisation.’
‘That reminds me,’ says Campbell. ‘Do you have any mail? We could send it when we reach New Zealand.’
‘That is a kind offer, Lieutenant. But we have no major achievements to report. At least not yet.’
Lieutenant Campbell doesn’t respond to Amundsen’s playful remark. Of course it is a huge disappointment to find the Norwegians occupying the Bay of Whales, where he and his six-man team had hoped to base themselves in order to explore the Great Ice Barrier. When the two parties bid farewell, neither feels aggrieved. It’s been more a meeting of colleagues than arch rivals. But the moment he steps off the Terra Nova, Amundsen turns to Prestrud and Captain Nilsen and asks in Norwegian, ‘Any sign the Englishmen have a radio?’
Prestrud glances back at the sailing ship. Nobody is within earshot. ‘None that I saw – and the men guided me over the entire vessel. Could be hidden in a cupboard.’
‘No aerial,’ says Nilsen, pulling his cap down and putting an end to any speculation once and for all.
‘Would they go so far as to hide it? Take down the aerial?’ Amundsen is beginning to sound paranoid. He purses his lips and casts his eyes once more over the Terra Nova. Nilsen is correct. Both the English and Norwegians will have to sail to the nearest inhabited land to convey any official announcement to the world.
Amundsen pauses to reflect on the visit, the conversations, the behaviour of the various crew members they met. ‘They were very nice,’ he thinks aloud. ‘But they seemed far more interested in finding out about our plans than disguising their own.’
Captain Nilsen says, ‘The vessel was rather basic, wasn’t it? Grubby. And as for the pony manure dripping down from the stables – I’m not sure our crew would have put up with that.’
Prestrud mumbles agreement. ‘Enough to put me off Lindstrøm’s pancakes in the morning.’
‘We’re going to miss those when we cast off,’ grumbles Nilsen. ‘We’ll have nothing exciting to look forward to after a night’s watch.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ Amundsen says without a glimmer of pity. ‘My boys will be in need of him most. One thing I’ve learnt over the years is the importance of good food. If men can’t look forward to a fine meal at the end of the day, nothing will keep their spirits up over a long winter. Fatty will be feeding our souls, not just our stomachs.’