Amundsen recognises it as a failing, a weakness in his character, but he cannot take part in the slaughter. They’ve already christened this camp ‘the Butcher’s Shop’. It is too awful. His dogs. They have demonstrated unstinting loyalty, applying their vigour day after day for weeks on end to accomplish the selfish whim of man. Surrendering every ounce of energy hauling the provisions up the glacier, they have nothing left to offer up but their own flesh. If he and his men are to reach the South Pole, much will be due to the dogs.
Inside the tent Amundsen pumps the Primus to ease the flow of fuel. Even though he’s expecting it, the first gunshot makes him flinch. The abrupt violence of the sound seems out of place in the gloom of early evening, in such pristine surroundings. Echoing off the mountains, other shots ring out in quick succession. There is no need to count. Amundsen knows there will be twenty-four such reverberations, all eventually absorbed by the whistling of the wind and the howling of the survivors.
Feasting on the entrails of their former companions, most of the remaining dogs do not care where their latest meal comes from. For them, loyalty to fallen comrades cannot compete with desperate hunger. A few are reluctant at first, sniffing the bloody mounds suspiciously, then licking them, before eventually tucking in with gusto. The effort of the last few days has taken a lot out of them. Requiring more sustenance than their daily rations of pemmican deliver, the dogs will eat anything left lying on the snow and will happily stoop to thievery if an opportunity presents itself. Several days ago Amundsen had to wrestle one such villain to the ground and make him return the morsel he so brutally tore from another dog’s mouth. It was a brave, if somewhat foolhardy, action on Amundsen’s part. Viciousness has become a common trait. Among the eighteen strongest dogs who have been spared, another six will eventually be sacrificed to the cause – which ones is yet to be determined, but this is now very much a dog-eat-dog world.
When it comes to raging hunger, the men are little better off than the animals, and fall on their rations at the end of the day with single-minded focus and little in the way of conversation. Tonight should be no different. Having gone through the motions of lighting the stove and warming the tent, Amundsen surrenders all dinner preparations to Oscar.
‘It’s blowing out there now,’ says Sverre. The last one to enter the tent for the evening, he removes his boots and peels back the multiple layers of stinking woollen socks. Nobody complains. Over the weeks, the men have grown more tolerant of the rich spectrum of odours emanating from their companions.
Amundsen looks up from his diary. ‘Prevailing winds are from the south. The northerly slopes are all iced up. The ones facing south are completely free of snow.’
Helmer sighs, knowing they’re going to get the same treatment. ‘A southerly wind full in the face.’
‘Well, we can pick up the pace now. Lighter sledges, better surface.’ Amundsen offers what he hopes is an accurate assessment. He can’t afford for the men to lose heart in the face of the most challenging section of their journey.
‘I don’t like our chances of setting off on schedule if these gales continue.’ Sverre peers over Oscar’s shoulder at the contents of the bubbling pot of pemmican.
‘Well, let’s hope it settles in the next forty-eight hours,’ says Amundsen. ‘The dogs need a chance to digest the good feed they’ve just had.’
‘A good feed,’ says Sverre. ‘Just what I’m looking forward to.’
Oscar nods absent-mindedly as he considers the plate of what he assumes are the choicest cuts. As the evening’s chef he has the special job of figuring out how to cook dog. He’s never eaten it, let alone had to take responsibility for turning it into something palatable. Should he try to disguise its flavour? Cut it in small cubes so it’s easy to swallow without too much thought as to what the poor creature’s name was? Camilla? Madeiro? Oscar knows they’ll not be eating those particular dogs tonight – but their turn could easily come somewhere down the line.
‘I’d like to see Scott eating his motor sledges!’ scoffs Helmer.
‘What does dog taste like?’ Oscar asks.
‘Like meat.’
‘Does it have a flavour, I mean?’
Helmer shrugs. ‘Meat flavour.’
It may have been a source of anguish to kill the dogs, but now that the evil deed is done, nobody seems fussed about eating them. For Helmer, Sverre and Amundsen, tonight’s stew is just another of many dog-meat dinners consumed over their years conducting business in polar regions. It will be a first for Bjaaland, but the skier appears not the least bit squeamish about the prospect. He’s just as fixated on filling his empty belly as the dogs themselves.
Oscar doesn’t enjoy handling the meat. He’s already had a hand in the killing and the ghastly job of skinning the poor brutes. Now he wants rid of it. Chopping the flesh roughly, Oscar drops it from thumb and forefinger into the pot of bubbling pemmican.
‘Soup,’ he says, trying to convince himself that the dish has nothing to do with the animals that carried them up the steep glacier.
‘You don’t need to cook it forever,’ Helmer says gruffly. ‘Dish up, I’m starving.’
Oscar gives the pot another stir. ‘It’s barely cooked. It’ll be tough as old shoe leather.’
‘Chewy’s fine.’ Amundsen extends his cup in the direction of food.
‘I’m ready,’ adds Bjaaland, freeing up his utensils from the bag.
Oscar can see that the urging will not cease until each man cradles his serving of dog stew under his nose. Carefully he ladles out steaming spoonfuls.
‘Where’s all the meat?’ Helmer complains. ‘You’ve only given me pemmican with all the dried veggie bits.’
‘Hold your horses. It’s down the bottom.’ Oscar fails to hide his exasperation. ‘Drink your soup, then you can let loose on the meat.’
The sounds of slurping are followed by immediate feedback of the sort any chef would welcome.
‘This is delicious.’
‘Mmmm, outstanding.’
‘Such rich flavour.’
‘Just like my wife’s, only better!’
‘Your wife cooks dog?’ Bjaaland asks Helmer incredulously.
It’s nice to share a laugh after many weeks of stress and sniping. Amid the uncharacteristic jocularity, Oscar takes his first tentative sip. The flavour is indeed rich with a gamey intensity that is otherwise lacking in their usual pemmican suppers. It’s just protein, Oscar tells himself. His mouth responds with a rush of saliva. Spooning tasty mouthfuls from his cup with enthusiasm, he assesses the others. Amundsen and Helmer are already finishing up their serving with one eye on the pot. Helmer reaches in and skewers a chunk of meat. Amundsen follows suit. Both men gnaw their way through two, three bits, drawing in the cool air of the tent to whisk away the dense heat of the tasty morsels.
‘Hey, leave us some,’ howls Sverre.
‘Chewy,’ says Helmer, his mouth full and issuing steam as he speaks.
Amundsen gives a crooked smile as his teeth peel the meat back from a sliver of bone that has found its way into the pot.
Helmer dives in for a fourth time. Bjaaland grabs his sleeve. ‘Learn your table manners from the dogs?’
Helmer seems genuinely surprised at the rebuke. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘How many bits of meat have you had?’
Sverre uses the opportunity to secure a few cuts for himself. He points to the pot and raises his eyebrows at Oscar in silent invitation.
‘Five pieces each,’ Oscar says, lifting his cup to his mouth and sucking in the savoury dregs of his first course. The taste lingers pleasantly. His tongue explores every nook and cranny for shreds of meat. Now for the scary part.
‘I’m done,’ says Amundsen, sitting back and drawing his sleeping bag up around his shoulders. ‘If anyone decides he doesn’t want his share, I’ll help him out.’
Muffled sneers give him an indication of his luck in that department.
Oscar closes his eyes and takes his first bite. Judging it out of ten, Oscar thinks maybe a six would be in order. The meat seems rather tough and in need of salt. It’s certainly lacking the kind of melt-in-the-mouth quality he would find appealing in a meat dish back home. But ultimately he must admit it’s very satisfying to be chewing something for once. He may yet grow to love it.