On the Way to the South
The month of May, 1910, ran its course, beautiful as only a spring
month in Norway can be -- a lovely dream of verdure and flowers. But
unfortunately we had little time to admire all the splendour that
surrounded us; our watchword was "Away" -- away from beautiful sights,
as quickly as possible.
From the beginning of the month the Fram lay moored to her buoy
outside the old walls of Akershus. Fresh and trim she came from the
yard at Horten; you could see the shine on her new paint a long way
off. Involuntarily one thought of holidays and yachting tours at the
sight of her; but the thought was soon banished. The first day after
her arrival, the vessel's deck assumed the most everyday appearance
that could be desired: the loading had begun.
A long procession of cases of provisions made its way unceasingly
from the basement of the Historical Museum down into the roomy hold
of the Fram, where Lieutenant Nilsen and the three Nordlanders were
ready to receive them. This process was not an altogether simple one;
on the contrary, it was a very serious affair. It was not enough to
know that all the cases were duly on board; the problem was to know
exactly where each particular case was placed, and, at the same time,
to stow them all in such a way that they could easily be got at in
future. This was a difficult piece of work, and it was not rendered
any more easy by the attention that had to be paid to the numerous
hatches leading down into the lower hold, where the big petroleum
tanks stood. All these hatches had to be left accessible, otherwise
we should have been cut off from pumping the oil into the engine-room.
However, Nilsen and his assistants accomplished their task with
brilliant success. Among the hundreds of cases there was not one that
was misplaced; not one that was stowed so that it could not instantly
be brought into the light of day.
While the provisioning was going on, the rest of the equipment was
also being taken on board. Each member of the expedition was busily
engaged in looking after the needs of his own department in the best
way possible. Nor was this a question of trifles: one may cudgel one's
brains endlessly in advance, but some new requirement will constantly
be cropping up -- until one puts a full stop to it by casting off
and sailing. This event was becoming imminent with the arrival of June.
The day before leaving Christiania we had the honour and pleasure
of receiving a visit from the King and Queen of Norway on board the
Fram. Having been informed beforehand of their Majesties' coming, we
endeavoured as far as possible to bring some order into the chaos that
reigned on board. I do not know that we were particularly successful,
but I am sure that every one of the Fram's crew will always remember
with respectful gratitude King Haakon's cordial words of farewell.
On the same occasion the expedition received from their Majesties
the gift of a beautiful silver jug, which afterwards formed the most
handsome ornament of our table on every festive occasion.
On June 3, early in the forenoon, the Fram left Christiania, bound
at first for my home on Bundefjord. The object of her call there was
to take on board the house for the winter station, which stood ready
built in the garden. Our excellent carpenter Jörgen Stubberud had
superintended the construction of this strong building. It was now
rapidly taken to pieces, and every single plank and beam was carefully
numbered. We had quite an imposing pile of materials to get aboard,
where even before there was not much room to spare. The bulk of it
was stowed forward, and the remainder in the hold.
The more experienced among the members of the expedition were evidently
absorbed in profound conjectures as to the meaning of this "observation
house," as the newspapers had christened it. It may willingly be
admitted that they had good reason for their speculations. By an
observation house is usually meant a comparatively simple construction,
sufficient to provide the necessary shelter from wind and weather. Our
house, on the other hand, was a model of solidity, with three double
walls, double roof and floor. Its arrangements included ten inviting
bunks, a kitchener, and a table; the latter, moreover, had a brand-new
American-cloth cover. "I can understand that they want to keep
themselves warm when they're making observations," said Helmer Hanssen;
"but what they want with a cloth on the table I can't make out."
On the afternoon of June 6 it was announced that everything was ready,
and in the evening we all assembled at a simple farewell supper in
the garden. I took the opportunity of wishing good luck to every man
in turn, and finally we united in a
"God preserve the King and Fatherland!"
Then we broke up. The last man to get into the boat was the second
in command; he arrived armed with a horseshoe. In his opinion it is
quite incredible what luck an old horseshoe will bring. Possibly he
is right. Anyhow, the horseshoe was firmly nailed to the mast in the
Fram's saloon, and there it still hangs.
When on board, we promptly set to work to get up the anchor. The
Bolinder motor hummed, and the heavy cable rattled in through the
hawse-hole. Precisely at midnight the anchor let go of the bottom,
and just as the Seventh of June[3], rolled in over us, the Fram stood
out of Christiania Fjord for the third time. Twice already had a band
of stout-hearted men brought this ship back with honour after years
of service. Would it be vouchsafed to us to uphold this honourable
tradition? Such were, no doubt, the thoughts with which most of us
were occupied as our vessel glided over the motionless fjord in the
light summer night. The start was made under the sign of the Seventh
of June, and this was taken as a promising omen; but among our bright
and confident hopes there crept a shadow of melancholy. The hillsides,
the woods, the fjord -- all were so bewitchingly fair and so dear to
us. They called to us with their allurement, but the Diesel motor knew
no pity. Its tuff-tuff went on brutally through the stillness. A little
boat, in which were some of my nearest relations, dropped gradually
astern. There was a glimpse of white handkerchiefs in the twilight,
and then -- farewell!
The next morning we were moored in the inner harbour at Horten. An
apparently innocent lighter came alongside at once, but the lighter's
cargo was not quite so innocent as its appearance. It consisted
of no less than half a ton of gun-cotton and rifle ammunition,
a somewhat unpleasant, but none the less necessary, item of our
equipment. Besides taking on board the ammunition, we availed
ourselves of the opportunity of completing our water-supply. When
this was done, we lost no time in getting away. As we passed the
warships lying in the harbour they manned ship, and the bands played
the National Anthem. Outside Vealös we had the pleasure of waving a
last farewell to a man to whom the expedition will always owe a debt
of gratitude, Captain Christian Blom, Superintendent of the dockyard,
who had supervised the extensive repairs to the Fram with unrelaxing
interest and obligingness. He slipped past us in his sailing-boat;
I do not remember if he got a cheer. If he did not, it was a mistake.
Now we were on our way to the South, as the heading of this
chapter announces, though not yet in earnest. We had an additional
task before us: the oceanographical cruise in the Atlantic. This
necessitated a considerable détour on the way. The scientific results
of this cruise will be dealt with by specialists in due course;
if it is briefly referred to here, this is chiefly for the sake
of continuity. After consultation with Professor Nansen, the plan
was to begin investigations in the region to the south of Ireland,
and thence to work our way westward as far as time and circumstances
permitted. The work was to be resumed on the homeward voyage in the
direction of the North of Scotland. For various reasons this programme
afterwards had to be considerably reduced.
For the first few days after leaving Norway we were favoured with
the most splendid summer weather. The North Sea was as calm as a
millpond; the Fram had little more motion than when she was lying
in Bundefjord. This was all the better for us, as we could hardly be
said to be absolutely ready for sea when we passed Færder, and came
into the capricious Skagerak. Hard pressed as we had been for time,
it had not been possible to lash and stow the last of our cargo as
securely as was desirable; a stiff breeze at the mouth of the fjord
would therefore have been rather inconvenient. As it was, everything
was arranged admirably, but to do this we had to work night and day. I
have been told that on former occasions sea-sickness made fearful
ravages on board the Fram, but from this trial we also had an easy
escape. Nearly all the members of the expedition were used to the sea,
and the few who, perhaps, were not so entirely proof against it had a
whole week of fine weather to get into training. So far as I know, not
a single case occurred of this unpleasant and justly dreaded complaint.
After passing the Dogger Bank we had a very welcome north-east breeze;
with the help of the sails we could now increase the not very reckless
speed that the motor was capable of accomplishing. Before we sailed,
the most contradictory accounts were current of the Fram's sailing
qualities. There were some who asserted that the ship could not be
got through the water at all, while with equal force the contrary
view was maintained -- that she was a notable fast sailer. As might
be supposed, the truth as usual lay about half-way between these two
extremes. The ship was no racer, nor was she an absolute log. We
ran before the north-east wind towards the English Channel at a
speed of about seven knots, and with that we were satisfied for the
time being. The important question for us was whether we should keep
the favourable wind till we were well through the Straits of Dover,
and, preferably, a good way down Channel. Our engine power was far
too limited to make it of any use trying to go against the wind,
and we should have been obliged in that case to have recourse to the
sailing-ship's method -- beating. Tacking in the English Channel -- the
busiest part of the world's seas -- is in itself no very pleasant work;
for us it would be so much the worse, as it would greatly encroach on
the time that could be devoted to oceanographical investigations. But
the east wind held with praiseworthy steadiness. In the course of a
few days we were through the Channel, and about a week after leaving
Norway we were able to take the first oceanographical station at the
point arranged according to the plan. Hitherto everything had gone
as smoothly as we could wish, but now, for a change, difficulties
began to appear, first in the form of unfavourable weather When the
north-wester begins to blow in the North Atlantic, it is generally a
good while before it drops again, and this time it did not belie its
reputation. Far from getting to the westward, we were threatened for
a time with being driven on to the Irish coast. It was not quite so
bad as that, but we soon found ourselves obliged to shorten the route
originally laid down very considerably. A contributing cause of this
determination was the fact that the motor was out of order. Whether it
was the fault of the oil or a defect in the engine itself our engineer
was not clear. It was therefore necessary to make for home in good
time, in case of extensive repairs being required. In spite of these
difficulties, we had a quite respectable collection of samples of
water and temperatures at different depths before we set our course
for Norway at the beginning of July, with Bergen as our destination.
During the passage from the Pentland Firth we had a violent gale from
the north, which gave us an opportunity of experiencing how the Fram
behaved in bad weather. The trial was by no means an easy one. It
was blowing a gale, with a cross sea; we kept going practically
under full sail, and had the satisfaction of seeing our ship make
over nine knots. In the rather severe rolling the collar of the mast
in the fore-cabin was loosened a little; this let the water in, and
there was a slight flooding of Lieutenant Nilsen's cabin and mine. The
others, whose berths were to port, were on the weather side, and kept
dry. We came out of it all with the loss of a few boxes of cigars,
which were wet through. They were not entirely lost for all that;
Rönne took charge of them, and regaled himself with salt and mouldy
cigars for six months afterwards. Going eight or nine knots an hour,
we did not make much of the distance between Scotland and Norway. On
the afternoon of Saturday, July 9, the wind dropped, and at the same
time the lookout reported land in sight. This was Siggen on Bömmelö. In
the course of the night we came under the coast, and on Sunday morning,
July 10, we ran into Sælbjömsfjord. We had no detailed chart of this
inlet, but after making a great noise with our powerful air-siren,
we at last roused the inmates of the pilot-station, and a pilot
came aboard. He showed visible signs of surprise when he found out,
by reading the name on the ship's side, that it was the Fram he had
before him. "Lord, I thought you were a Russian!" he exclaimed. This
supposition was presumably intended to serve as a sort of excuse for
his small hurry in coming on board.
It was a lovely trip through the fjords to Bergen, as warm and
pleasant in here as it had been bitter and cold outside. We had a
dead calm all day, and with the four knots an hour, which was all
the motor could manage, it was late in the evening when we anchored
off the naval dockyard in Solheimsvik. Our stay in Bergen happened
at the time of the exhibition, and the committee paid the expedition
the compliment of giving all its members free passes.
Business of one kind and another compelled me to go to Christiania,
leaving the Fram in charge of Lieutenant Nilsen. They had their
hands more than full on board. Diesel's firm in Stockholm sent their
experienced fitter, Aspelund, who at once set to work to overhaul the
motor thoroughly. The work that had to be done was executed gratis by
the Laxevaag engineering works. After going into the matter thoroughly,
it was decided to change the solar oil we had on board for refined
petroleum. Through the courtesy of the West of Norway Petroleum
Company, we got this done on very favourable terms at the company's
storage dock in Skaalevik. This was troublesome work, but it paid in
the future.
The samples of water from our trip were taken to the biological
station, where Kutschin at once went to work with the filtering
(determination of the proportion of chlorine).
Our German shipmate, the oceanographer Schroer, left us at Bergen. On
July 23 the Fram left Bergen, and arrived on the following day at
Christiansand, where I met her. Here we again had a series of busy
days. In one of the Custom-house warehouses were piled a quantity
of things that had to go on board: no less than 400 bundles of dried
fish, all our ski and sledging outfit, a waggon-load of timber, etc. At
Fredriksholm, out on Flekkerö, we had found room for perhaps the most
important of all -- the passengers, the ninety-seven Eskimo dogs,
which had arrived from Greenland in the middle of July on the steamer
Hans Egede. The ship had had a rather long and rough passage, and the
dogs were not in very good condition on their arrival, but they had
not been many days on the island under the supervision of Hassel and
Lindström before they were again in full vigour. A plentiful supply
of fresh meat worked wonders. The usually peaceful island, with the
remains of the old fortress, resounded day by day, and sometimes at
night, with the most glorious concerts of howling. These musical
performances attracted a number of inquisitive visitors, who were
anxious to submit the members of the chorus to a closer examination,
and therefore, at certain times, the public were admitted to see the
animals. It soon turned out that the majority of the dogs, far from
being ferocious or shy, were, on the contrary, very appreciative of
these visits. They sometimes came in for an extra tit-bit in the form
of a sandwich or something of the sort. Besides which, it was a little
diversion in their life of captivity, so uncongenial to an Arctic dog;
for every one of them was securely chained up. This was necessary,
especially to prevent fighting among themselves. It happened not
infrequently that one or more of them got loose, but the two guardians
were always ready to capture the runaways. One enterprising rascal
started to swim over the sound to the nearest land -- the object of
his expedition was undoubtedly certain unsuspecting sheep that were
grazing by the shore -- but his swim was interrupted in time.
After the Fram's arrival Wisting took over the position of dog-keeper
in Hassel's place. He and Lindström stayed close to the island where
the dogs were. Wisting had a way of his own with his four-footed
subjects, and was soon on a confidential footing with them. He also
showed himself to be possessed of considerable veterinary skill -- an
exceedingly useful qualification in this case, where there was often
some injury or other to be attended to. As I have already mentioned,
up to this time no member of the expedition, except Lieutenant Nilsen,
knew anything of the extension of plan that had been made. Therefore,
amongst the things that came on board, and amongst the preparations
that were made during our stay at Christiansand, there must have
been a great deal that appeared very strange to those who, for the
present, were only looking forward to a voyage round Cape Horn to San
Francisco. What was the object of taking all these dogs on board and
transporting them all that long way? And if it came to that, would any
of them survive the voyage round the formidable promontory? Besides,
were there not dogs enough, and good dogs too, in Alaska? Why was
the whole after-deck full of coal? What was the use of all these
planks and boards? Would it not have been much more convenient to
take all that kind of goods on board in 'Frisco? These and many
similar questions began to pass from man to man; indeed, their very
faces began to resemble notes of interrogation. Not that anyone asked
me -- far from it; it was the second in command who had to bear the
brunt and answer as well as he could -- an extremely thankless and
unpleasant task for a man who already had his hands more than full.
In order to relieve his difficult situation, I resolved, shortly before
leaving Christiansand, to inform Lieutenants Prestrud and Gjertsen
of the true state of affairs. After having signed an undertaking of
secrecy, they received full information of the intended dash to the
South Pole, and an explanation of the reasons for keeping the whole
thing secret. When asked whether they wished to take part in the
new plan, they both answered at once in the affirmative, and that
settled it.
There were now three men on board -- all the officers -- who were
acquainted with the situation, and were thus in a position to parry
troublesome questions and remove possible anxieties on the part of
the uninitiated.
Two of the members of the expedition joined during the stay at
Christiansand -- Hassel and Lindström -- and one change was made:
the engineer Eliassen was discharged. It was no easy matter to find
a man who possessed the qualifications for taking over the post of
engineer to the Fram. Few, or perhaps no one, in Norway could be
expected to have much knowledge of motors of the size of ours. The
only thing to be done was to go to the place where the engine was
built -- to Sweden. Diesel's firm in Stockholm helped us out of the
difficulty; they sent us the man, and it afterwards turned out that
he was the right man. Knut Sundbeck was his name. A chapter might be
written on the good work that man did, and the quiet, unostentatious
way in which he did it. From the very beginning he had assisted in
the construction of the Fram's motor, so that he knew his engine
thoroughly. He treated it as his darling; therefore there was never
anything the matter with it. It may truly be said that he did honour
to his firm and the nation to which he belongs.
Meanwhile we were hard at work, getting ready to sail. We decided to
leave before the middle of August -- the sooner the better.
The Fram had been in dry dock, where the hull was thoroughly coated
with composition. Heavily laden as the ship was, the false keel was
a good deal injured by the severe pressure on the blocks, but with
the help of a diver the damage was quickly made good.
The many hundred bundles of dried fish were squeezed into the main
hold, full as it was. All sledging and ski outfit was carefully stowed
away, so as to be protected as far as possible from damp. These
things had to be kept dry, otherwise they, would become warped and
useless. Bjaaland had charge of this outfit, and he knew how it should
be treated.
As is right and proper, when all the goods had been shipped, it was
the turn of the passengers. The Fram was anchored off Fredriksholm,
and the necessary preparations were immediately made for receiving
our four-footed friends. Under the expert direction of
Bjaaland and Stubberud, as many as possible of the crew were set to
work with axe and saw, and in the course of a few hours the Fram had
got a new deck. This consisted of loose pieces of decking, which could
easily be raised and removed for flushing and cleaning. This false
deck rested on three-inch planks nailed to the ship's deck; between
the latter and the loose deck there was therefore a considerable space,
the object of which was a double one -- namely, to let the water, which
would unavoidably be shipped on such a voyage, run off rapidly, and
to allow air to circulate, and thus keep the space below the animals
as cool as possible. The arrangement afterwards proved very successful.
The bulwarks on the fore-part of the Fram's deck consisted of an iron
railing covered with wire-netting. In order to provide both shade and
shelter from the wind, a lining of boards was now put up along the
inside of the railing, and chains were fastened in all possible and
impossible places to tie the dogs up to. There could be no question of
letting them go loose -- to begin with, at any rate; possibly, we might
hope to be able to set them free later on, when they knew their masters
better and were more familiar with their surroundings generally.
Late in the afternoon of August 9 we were ready to receive our new
shipmates, and they were conveyed across from the island in a big
lighter, twenty at a time. Wisting and Lindström superintended the
work of transport, and maintained order capitally. They had succeeded
in gaining the dogs' confidence, and at the same time their complete
respect -- just what was wanted, in fact. At the Fram's gangway the
dogs came in for an active and determined reception, and before they
had recovered from their surprise and fright, they were securely
fastened on deck and given to understand with all politeness that
the best thing they could do for the time being was to accept the
situation with calmness. The whole proceeding went so rapidly that
in the course of a couple of hours we had all the ninety-seven dogs
on board and had found room for them; but it must be added that the
Fram's deck was utilized to the utmost. We had thought we should be
able to keep the bridge free, but this could not be done if we were
to take them all with us. The last boat-load, fourteen in number, had
to be accommodated there. All that was left was a little free space
for the man at the wheel. As for the officer of the watch, it looked
as if he would be badly off for elbow-room; there was reason to fear
that he would be compelled to kill time by standing stock-still in
one spot through the whole watch; but just then there was no time for
small troubles of this sort. No sooner was the last dog on board than
we set about putting all visitors ashore, and then the motor began
working the windlass under the forecastle. "The anchor's up!" Full
speed ahead, and the voyage towards our goal, 16,000 miles away,
was begun. Quietly and unobserved we went out of the fjord at dusk;
a few of our friends accompanied us out.
After the pilot had left us outside Flekkerö, it was not long before
the darkness of the August evening hid the outlines of the country
from our view; but Oxö and Ryvingen flashed their farewells to us
all through the night.
We had been lucky with wind and weather at the commencement of our
Atlantic cruise in the early summer; this time we were, if possible,
even more favoured. It was perfectly calm when we sailed, and the
North Sea lay perfectly calm for several days after. What we had
to do now was to become familiar with and used to, all these dogs,
and this was enormously facilitated by the fact that for the first
week we experienced nothing but fine weather.
Before we sailed there was no lack of all kinds of prophecies of the
evil that would befall us with our dogs. We heard a number of these
predictions; presumably a great many more were whispered about, but
did not reach our ears. The unfortunate beasts were to fare terribly
badly. The heat of the tropics would make short work of the greater
part of them. If any were left, they would have but a miserable respite
before being washed overboard or drowned in the seas that would come
on deck in the west wind belt. To keep them alive with a few bits of
dried fish was an impossibility, etc.
As everyone knows, all these predictions were very far from being
fulfilled; the exact opposite happened. Since then I expect most of us
who made the trip have been asked the question -- Was not that voyage
to the South an excessively wearisome and tedious business? Didn't
you get sick of all those dogs? How on earth did you manage to keep
them alive?
It goes without saying that a five months' voyage in such waters as we
were navigating must necessarily present a good deal of monotony; how
much will depend on what resources one has for providing occupation. In
this respect we had in these very dogs just what was wanted. No doubt
it was work that very often called for the exercise of patience;
nevertheless, like any other work, it furnished diversion and
amusement, and so much the more since we here had to deal with living
creatures that had sense enough fully to appreciate and reciprocate
in their own way any advance that was made to them.
From the very first I tried in every way to insist upon the paramount
importance to our whole enterprise of getting our draught animals
successfully conveyed to our destination. If we had any watchword at
this time it was: "Dogs first, and dogs all the time." The result
speaks best for the way in which this watchword was followed. The
following was the arrangement we made: The dogs, who at first were
always tied up on the same spot, were divided into parties of ten; to
each party one or two keepers were assigned, with full responsibility
for their animals and their treatment. For my own share I took the
fourteen that lived on the bridge. Feeding the animals was a manoeuvre
that required the presence of all hands on deck; it therefore took
place when the watch was changed. The Arctic dog's greatest enjoyment
in life is putting away his food; it may be safely asserted that
the way to his heart lies through his dish of meat. We acted on this
principle, and the result did not disappoint us. After the lapse of
a few days the different squads were the best of friends with their
respective keepers.
As may be supposed, it was not altogether to the taste of the dogs to
stand chained up all the time; their temperament is far too lively for
that. We would gladly have allowed them the pleasure of running about
and thus getting healthy exercise, but for the present we dared not run
the risk of letting the whole pack loose. A little more education was
required first. It was easy enough to win their affection; to provide
them with a good education was of course a more difficult matter. It
was quite touching to see their joy and gratitude when one gave up
a little time to their entertainment. One's first meeting with them
in the morning was specially cordial. Their feelings were then apt
to find vent in a chorus of joyful howls; this was called forth by
the very sight of their masters, but they asked more than that. They
were not satisfied until we had gone round, patting and talking to
every one. If by chance one was so careless as to miss a dog, he at
once showed the most unmistakable signs of disappointment.
There can hardly be an animal that is capable of expressing its
feelings to the same extent as the dog. Joy, sorrow, gratitude,
scruples of conscience, are all reflected as plainly as could be
desired in his behaviour, and above all in his eyes. We human beings
are apt to cherish the conviction that we have a monopoly of what is
called a living soul; the eyes, it is said, are the mirror of this
soul. That is all right enough; but now take a look at a dog's eyes,
study them attentively. How often do we see something "human" in their
expression, the same variations that we meet with in human eyes. This,
at all events, is something that strikingly resembles "soul." We will
leave the question open for those who are interested in its solution,
and will here only mention another point, which seems to show that
a dog is something more than a mere machine of flesh and blood --
his pronounced individuality. There were about a hundred dogs on
board the Fram. Gradually, as we got to know each one of them by
daily intercourse, they each revealed some characteristic trait, some
peculiarity. Hardly two of them were alike, either in disposition or
in appearance. To an observant eye there was here ample opportunity
for the most amusing exercise. If now and then one grew a little
tired of one's fellow-men -- which, I must admit, seldom happened --
there was, as a rule, diversion to be found in the society of the
animals. I say, as a rule; there were, of course, exceptions. It was
not an unmixed pleasure having the whole deck full of dogs for all
those months; our patience was severely tested many a time. But in
spite of all the trouble and inconvenience to which the transport of
the dogs necessarily gave rise, I am certainly right in saying that
these months of sea voyage would have seemed far more monotonous and
tedious if we had been without our passengers.
During the first four or five days we had now been making our way
towards the Straits of Dover, and the hope began to dawn within us
that this time, as last, we should slip through without any great
difficulty. There had been five days of absolute calm; why should it
not last out the week? But it did not. As we passed the lightship at
the western end of the Goodwins the fine weather left us, and in its
place came the south-west wind with rain, fog, and foul weather in
its train. In the course of half an hour it became so thick that it
was impossible to see more than two or three ship's lengths ahead;
but if we could see nothing, we heard all the more. The ceaseless
shrieks of many steam-whistles and sirens told us only too plainly
what a crowd of vessels we were in. It was not exactly a pleasant
situation; our excellent ship had many good points, but they did not
prevent her being extraordinarily slow and awkward in turning. This is
an element of great danger in these waters. It must be remembered that
a possible accident -- whether our own fault or not -- would to us be
absolutely fatal. We had so little time to spare that the resulting
delay might ruin the whole enterprise. An ordinary trading vessel can
take the risk; by careful manoeuvring a skipper can almost always keep
out of the way. Collisions are, as a rule, the result of rashness
or carelessness on one side or the other. The rash one has to pay;
the careful one may perhaps make money out of it. Carefulness on our
part was a matter of course; it would have been a poor consolation
to us if another ship had had to pay for her carelessness. We could
not take that risk; therefore, little as we liked doing so, we put
into the Downs and anchored there.
Right opposite to us we had the town of Deal, then in the height
of its season. The only amusement we had was to observe all these
apparently unconcerned people, who passed their time in bathing, or
walking about the white, inviting sands. They had no need to worry
themselves much about what quarter the wind blew from. Our only wish
was that it would veer, or in any case drop. Our communication with
the land was limited to sending ashore telegrams and letters for home.
By the next morning our patience was already quite exhausted, but
not so with the south-wester. It kept going as steadily as ever,
but it was clear weather, and therefore we decided at once to make
an attempt to get to the west. There was nothing to be done but
to have recourse to the ancient method of beating. We cleared one
point, and then another, but more than that we could not manage for
the time being. We took one bearing after another; no, there was no
visible progress. Off Dungeness we had to anchor again, and once more
console ourselves with the much-vaunted balm of patience. This time
we escaped with passing the night there. The wind now thought fit to
veer sufficiently to let us get out at daybreak, but it was still a
contrary wind, and we had to beat almost all the way down the English
Channel. A whole week was spent in doing these three hundred miles;
that was rather hard, considering the distance we had to go.
I fancy most of us gave a good sigh of relief when at last we were
clear of the Scilly Isles. The everlasting south-west wind was still
blowing, but that did not matter so much now. The main thing was
that we found ourselves in open sea with the whole Atlantic before
us. Perhaps one must have sailed in the Fram to be able fully to
understand what a blessing it was to feel ourselves altogether clear
of the surrounding land and the many sailing-ships in the Channel --
to say nothing of constantly working the ship with a deck swarming with
dogs. On our first voyage through the Channel in June we had caught
two or three carrier pigeons, which had come to rest in the rigging
utterly tired out. On the approach of darkness we were able to get
hold of them without difficulty. Their numbers and marks were noted,
and after they had been taken care of for a couple of days and had
recovered their strength, we let them go. They circled once or twice
round the mast-heads, and then made for the English coast.
I think this episode led to our taking a few carrier pigeons with us
when we left Christiansand; Lieutenant Nilsen, as a former owner of
pigeons, was to take charge of them. Then a nice house was made for
them, and the pigeons lived happily in their new abode on the top
of the whale-boat amidships. Now, in some way or other the second
in command found out that the circulation of air in the pigeon-house
was faulty; to remedy this defect, he one day set the door a little
ajar. Air certainly got into the house, but the pigeons came out. A
joker, on discovering that the birds had flown, wrote up "To Let"
in big letters on the wall of the pigeon-house. The second in command
was not in a very gentle frame of mind that day.
As far as I know, this escape took place in the Channel. The pigeons
found their way home to Norway.
The Bay of Biscay has a bad name among seamen, and it fully deserves
it; that tempestuous corner of the sea conceals for ever in its
depths so many a stout ship and her crew. We for our part, however,
had good hopes of escaping unharmed, considering the time of year,
and our hopes were fulfilled. We had better luck than we dared to
anticipate. Our stubborn opponent, the south-west wind, got tired at
last of trying to stop our progress; it was no use. We went slowly,
it was true, but still we got along. Of the meteorological lessons
of our youth, we especially recalled at that moment the frequent
northerly winds off the coast of Portugal, and as a pleasant surprise
we already had them far up in the Bay. This was an agreeable change
after all our close-hauled tacking in the Channel. The north wind held
almost as bravely as the south-west had done before, and at what was
to our ideas quite a respectable rate, we went southward day after day
towards the fine-weather zone, where we could be sure of a fair wind,
and where a sailor's life is, as a rule, a pleasant one.
For that matter, as far as seamanship was concerned, our work
had gone on smoothly enough, even during these first difficult
weeks. There were always willing and practised hands enough for what
was wanted, even though the work to be done was frequently of a not
very pleasant kind. Take washing decks, for instance. Every seaman
will have something to say about what this is like on board ships
that carry live animals, especially when these are carried on deck,
in the way of all work that has to be done. I have always held the
opinion that a Polar ship ought not, any more than any other vessel,
to be a wholesale establishment for dirt and filth, however many dogs
there may be on board. On the contrary, I should say that on voyages
of this kind it is more than ever vitally necessary to keep one's
surroundings as clean and sweet as possible. The important thing is
to get rid of anything that may have a demoralizing and depressing
effect. The influence of uncleanliness in this way is so well known
that it is needless to preach about it here.
My views were shared by everyone on board the Fram, and everything
was done to act in accordance with them, in spite of what may
be considered great difficulties. Twice a day the whole deck was
thoroughly washed down, besides all the extra turns at odd times with
bucket and scrubber. At least once a week the whole of the loose deck
was taken up, and each separate part of it thoroughly washed, until
it was as clean as when it was laid down at Christiansand. This was
a labour that required great patience and perseverance on the part of
those who had to perform it, but I never saw any shortcomings. "Let's
just see and get it clean," they said.
At night, when it was not always easy to see what one was doing,
it might often happen that one heard some more or less heated
exclamations from those who had to handle coils of rope in working
the ship. I need not hint more explicitly at the cause of them,
if it is remembered that there were dogs lying about everywhere,
who had eaten and drunk well in the course of the day. But after a
time the oaths gave way to jokes. There is nothing in the world that
custom does not help us to get over.
It is the universal practice on board ship to divide the day and
night into watches of four hours; the two watches into which the
crew is divided relieve each other every four hours. But on vessels
that sail to the Arctic Ocean, it is customary to have watches of six
hours. We adopted the latter plan, which, on its being put to the vote,
proved to have a compact majority in its favour. By this arrangement
of watches we only had to turn out twice in the course of twenty-four
hours, and the watch below had had a proper sleep whenever it turned
out. If one has to eat, smoke, and perhaps chat a little during four
hours' watch below, it does not leave much time for sleeping; and if
there should be a call for all hands on deck, it means no sleep at all.
To cope with the work of the engine-room, we had from the beginning the
two engineers, Sundbeck and Nödtvedt; they took watch and watch, four
hours each. When the motor was in use for a long time continuously,
this was a rather severe duty, and on the whole it was just as well
to have a man in reserve. I therefore decided to have a third man
trained as reserve engineer. Kristensen applied for this post, and it
may be said in his praise that he accomplished the change remarkably
well. Thorough deck-hand as he was, there might have been reason to
fear that he would repent of the transfer; but no, he quickly became
life and soul an engineer. This did not prevent our seeing him on
deck again many a time during the passage through the west wind belt,
when there was need of a good man during a gale.
The motor, which during the Atlantic cruise had been a constant source
of uneasiness and anxiety, regained our entire confidence under
Sundbeck's capable command; it hummed so that it was a pleasure to
hear it. To judge from the sound of the engine-room, one would have
thought the Fram was moving through the water with the speed of a
torpedo-boat. If this was not the case, the engine was not to blame;
possibly, the screw had a share of it. The latter ought probably
to have been somewhat larger, though experts are not agreed about
this; in any case, there was something radically wrong with our
propeller. Whenever there was a little seaway, it was apt to work
loose in the brasses. This disadvantage is of very common occurrence
in vessels which have to be fitted with lifting propellers on account
of the ice, and we did not escape it. The only remedy was to lift the
whole propeller-frame and renew the brasses -- an extremely difficult
work when it had to be done in the open sea and on as lively a ship
as the Fram.
Day by day we had the satisfaction of seeing how the dogs found
themselves more and more at home on board. Perhaps, even among
ourselves, there were one or two who had felt some doubt at first
of what the solution of the dog question would be, but in any case
all such doubts were soon swept away. Even at an early stage of the
voyage we had every reason to hope that we should land our animals
safe and sound. What we had to see to in the first place was to let
them have as much and as good food as circumstances permitted. As
already mentioned, we had provided ourselves with dried fish for their
consumption. Eskimo dogs do not suffer very greatly from daintiness,
but an exclusive diet of dried fish would seem rather monotonous
in the long-run, even to their appetites, and a certain addition of
fatty substances was necessary, otherwise we should have some trouble
with them. We had on board several great barrels of tallow or fat,
but our store was not so large that we did not have to economize. In
order to make the supply of fat last, and at the same time to induce
our boarders to take as much dried fish as possible, we invented a
mixture which was called by a sailor's term -- dænge. This must not
be confused with "thrashing,"[4] which was also served out liberally
from time to time, but the dænge was more in demand. It consisted
of a mixture of chopped-up fish, tallow, and maize-meal, all boiled
together into a sort of porridge. This dish was served three times
a week, and the dogs were simply mad for it. They very soon learned
to keep count of the days when this mess was to be expected, and
as soon as they heard the rattling of the tin dishes in which the
separate portions were carried round, they set up such a noise that
it was impossible to hear oneself speak. Both the preparation and the
serving out of this extra ration were at times rather troublesome,
but it was well worth it. It is quite certain that our complement of
dogs would have made a poor show on arrival at the Bay of Whales if
we had shrunk from the trouble.
The dried fish was not nearly so popular as the dænge, but to make up
for that there was plenty of it. Not that the dogs themselves ever
thought they could have enough; indeed, they were always stealing
from their neighbours, perhaps more for the sake of the sport than
for anything else. In any case, as a sport it was extremely popular,
and it took many a good hiding to get the rascals to understand
that it could not be allowed. I am afraid, though, that they kept
up their thieving even after they knew very well that it was wrong;
the habit was too old to be corrected. Another habit, and a very bad
one, that these Eskimo dogs have fallen into in the course of ages,
and of which we tried to break them, at all events during the sea
voyage, is their tendency to hold howling concerts. What the real
meaning of these performances may be, whether they are a pastime, or
an expression of gratification or the reverse, we could never decide
to our satisfaction. They began suddenly and without warning. The
whole pack might be lying perfectly still and quiet, when a single
individual, who for that occasion had taken upon himself the part of
leader of the chorus, would set up a long, blood-curdling yowl. If
they were left to themselves, it was not long before the whole pack
joined in, and this infernal din was kept going at full steam for two
or three minutes. The only amusing thing about the entertainment was
its conclusion. They all stopped short at the same instant, just as
a well-trained chorus obeys the baton of its conductor. Those of us,
however, who happened to be in our bunks, found nothing at all amusing
in these concerts, either in the finale or anything else, for they
were calculated to tear the soundest sleeper from his slumbers. But if
one only took care to stop the leader in his efforts the whole affair
was nipped in the bud, and we usually succeeded in doing this. If
there were some who at first were anxious about their night's rest,
these fears were soon dispersed.
On leaving Norway we had ninety-seven dogs in all, and of these no
less than ten were bitches. This fact justified us in expecting an
increase of the canine population on our voyage to the South, and
our expectations were very soon fulfilled. The first "happy event
" occurred when we had been no more than three weeks at sea. An
incident of this kind may seem in itself of no great importance; to
us, living under conditions in which one day was almost exactly like
another, it was more than enough to be an object of the greatest
interest. Therefore, when the report went round that "Camilla"
had got four shapely youngsters, there was general rejoicing. Two
of the pups, who happened to be of the male sex, were allowed to
live; the females were sent out of this world long before their
eyes were opened to its joys and sorrows. It might be thought that,
seeing we had nearly a hundred grown-up dogs on board, there would
be little opportunity for looking after puppies; that this was done,
nevertheless, with all the care that could be wished, is due in the
first instance to the touching affection of the second in command
for the little ones. From the very first moment he was their avowed
protector. Gradually, as the numbers increased, there was a difficulty
in finding room on the already well-occupied deck. "I'll take them
in my bunk," said the second in command. It did not come to that,
but if it had been necessary he would certainly have done so. The
example was catching. Later on, when the little chaps were weaned,
and had begun to take other nourishment, one might see regularly,
after every meal, one after another of the crew coming on deck with
some carefully scraped-up bits of food on his plate; the little hungry
mouths were to have what was left over.
Something more than patience and punctual performance of duty is
displayed in such things as those of which I have been speaking;
it is love of, and a living interest in, one's work. From what I saw
and heard every day, I was certain that these necessary incentives
were present; although, as far as most of the men were concerned,
our object was still the protracted one of drifting for years in
the Arctic ice. The extension of the plan -- the far more imminent
battle with the ice-floes of the South -- was still undreamt of by the
majority of the ship's company. I considered it necessary to keep it
to myself for a little while yet -- until our departure from the port
we were now making for: Funchal, Madeira. It may possibly appear to
many people that I was running a pretty big risk in thus putting off
till the last moment the duty of informing my comrades of the very
considerable détour we were to make. Suppose some, or perhaps all,
of them had objected! It must be admitted that it was a big risk,
but there were so many risks that had to be taken at that time.
However, as I got to know each man during these first few weeks of our
long voyage, I soon arrived at the conviction that there was nobody
on board the Fram who would try to put difficulties in the way. On
the contrary, I had more and more reason to hope that they would all
receive the news with joy when they heard it; for then their whole
prospect would be so different. Everything had gone with surprising
ease up to this time; in future it would go even better.
It was not without a certain longing that I looked forward to our
arrival at Madeira: it would be grand to be able to speak out! No
doubt the others who knew of the plan were equally eager. Secrets
are neither amusing nor easy to carry about -- least of all on board
a ship, where one has to live at such close quarters as we had. We
were chatting together every day, of course, and the uninitiated
could not be deterred from leading the conversation round to the ugly
difficulties that would embitter our lives and hinder our progress
when rounding the Horn. It was likely enough that we should manage
to bring the dogs safely through the tropics once, but whether we
should succeed in doing so twice was more doubtful; and so on to
infinity. It is easier to imagine than to describe how awkward all
this was, and how cunningly one had to choose one's words to avoid
saying too much. Among inexperienced men there would have been no
great difficulty, but it must be remembered that on the Fram pretty
nearly every second man had spent years of his life in Polar voyages:
a single slight hint to them would have been enough to expose the
whole plan. That neither those on board nor anyone else discovered
it prematurely can only be explained by its being so obvious.
Our ship was a good deal too dependent on wind and weather to
enable us to make any accurate estimate of the time our voyage would
occupy, especially as regards those latitudes in which the winds are
variable. The estimate for the whole voyage was based on an average
speed of four knots, and at this very modest rate, as it may seem,
we ought to arrive at the lce Barrier about the middle of January,
1911. As will be seen later, this was realized with remarkable
exactness. For reaching Madeira we had allowed a month as a reasonable
time. We did a good deal better than this, as we were able to leave
Funchal a month to the day after our departure from Christiansand. We
were always ready to forgive the estimate when it was at fault in
this way.
The delay to which we had been subjected in the English Channel
was fortunately made up along the coast of Spain and to the south
of it. The north wind held until we were in the north-east trade,
and then we were all right. On September 5 our observations at noon
told us that we might expect to see the lights that evening, and
at 10 p.m. the light of San Lorenzo on the little island of Fora,
near Madeira, was reported from the rigging.