Death on the Ice (29 page)

‘He’s here!’ a yell went up. ‘At the front. Next to the loco.’ The mob surged towards one end of train.

The lanky lad who had made the announcement, Helmar Hansen, quickly sprinted towards the rear. ‘Come on,’ he hissed at his young friend. ‘I bribed the porter to tell us where he was. Carriage F, compartment fifteen.’

‘You sure?’ the other asked.

‘I’ll want a refund if not.’

The pair of them entered the second carriage from the brake car and burst through into the compartment. Sir Ernest Shackleton looked up in surprise and his wife let out a small gasp of apprehension. Both of the newcomers found themselves momentarily tongue-tied, as if they hadn’t really expected to come face to face with the celebrated adventurer.

‘Yes? What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ He gave a smile. ‘Is it our tickets you’ll be wanting?’

‘Oh, no. We are from—’ Helmar began.

‘Your names?’

The elder of the two took off his hat. ‘Tryggve Gran, at your service, Sir Ernest, Lady Shackleton. And this is Helmar Hansen.’

The train gave a whistle.

‘We are from the
Verdens Gang
newspaper—’ Gran started.

Shackleton silenced him with a raised hand. ‘I’m sorry, I cannot talk to journalists.’

‘We’re not—’ Helmar began, but Gran elbowed him in the ribs.

‘We have been asked to do a polar map. Of your journey. And there are a few questions we need to ask. Such as where you lost the horses. And we want to put on Mawson’s trip to the Magnetic Pole. And—’

Shackleton shook his head regretfully. ‘Journalists, I have found, print all there is to know about the trip, leaving me precious little to say at my talks. Why would the audience come if they could read all about it in the newspaper? In their own language, to boot.’

Another whistle, longer this time.

‘I have a ship,’ blurted Tryggve.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I have a ship. Ready for a trip South. Roald Amundsen is going to the North Pole, so it is not worth competing with such a great man. But South—’

‘You have a ship?’ Shackleton couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. ‘How old are you?’

‘He’s twenty,’ said Helmar.

‘Twenty-one in a week,’ Gran added huffily.

‘But he has experience at sea. And all his family are sailors.’

And rich, thought Shackleton, if they can fund a boy having a vessel of his own. He suspected the Grans were more than mere Jack Tars. ‘So are you reporters or explorers? Which is it?’

They hesitated. ‘I am a trainee reporter. We really are doing a map. But Tryggve is an explorer,’ said Helmar.

‘Would-be explorer,’ corrected Tryggve, colouring slightly. ‘And skier. A good skier.’

‘A great skier,’ insisted Helmar.

Shackleton looked wistful and turned to his wife. ‘What was I just saying, dear? If we’d had skis and used them like the Scandinavians, we might have made it all the way.’ The train gave a jolt, preparing to move out. ‘Are you coming with us?’

‘No,’ said Tryggve. ‘But I’ll be at Loge Hall tonight for the lecture. Will you see me?’

His wife whispered something in his ear, but he shook his head. ‘Emily is worried that your king takes precedence. I say nobody should get in the way of a fellow explorer.’

Tryggve beamed at being included in such company.

‘Wait till I have finished and shaken a million hands, then perhaps we can talk about this ship of yours.’

Shackleton proved to be a most entertaining speaker, with a clear, resonant voice. He was a born storyteller, breezy, self-deprecating and able to build tension where needed. He was received for the most part in rapt silence, but, because this was a country that knew the cold and ice, there were a few hostile questions at the end, mainly concerning the use of dogs, skis, ponies and the automobile he had taken.

Roald Amundsen, a seasoned iceman and the pioneer of the North-West Passage, was particularly scathing on one aspect. ‘Your clothing of cotton and canvas was a strange choice, Sir Ernest. If furs are so useless, Sir Ernest, as you claim, why did you complain of the cold so much on the journey South?’

Shackleton thought for a moment, a finger on his forehead. ‘Perhaps because it was fifty degrees of frost with a blizzard blowing and we had all but run out of fuel.’

The audience tittered and even Amundsen smiled. ‘But nothing is warmer than fur.’

‘True. If dogs are pulling you. When you man-haul, you sweat, no matter how cold it is. When fur has soaked up sweat and turned to ice, nothing is colder or heavier.’

‘Then next time,’ said Amundsen, gaining the laugh, ‘I suggest you choose your underwear more carefully.’

The great Carsten Borchgrevink, the first man to overwinter in the Antarctic, queried the use of horses over dogs. Shackleton admitted that the Norwegians had the edge when it came to efficient use of the huskies, but said nobody knew horses like the English.

Otto Sverdrup, the captain of Nansen’s legendary Arctic exploration ship, the
Fram
, was allowed the final question. ‘Sir Ernest, how difficult was it to make the decision to turn back when you had the Pole in your grasp?’

‘Not sure we had it quite in our grasp. To keep me going, I kept thinking of Browning: “To feel the fog in my throat, the mist in my face. When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place …”’ He cleared his throat and, for a fleeting moment, his face showed the memory of what that painful decision to abandon the Pole had cost him. ‘“I was ever a fighter. So one fight more.” Yes, we could have gone on, perhaps. But we were living, if you could call it that, on pony maize. Adams had dysentery.’ He looked around the room. ‘I don’t have to tell some of you what it is like to share a march, and a tent, with a man who has dysentery.’

There was a burst of rueful laughter.

‘And you know, a medical thermometer starts at ninety-four degrees. Below that, you are a corpse. For three of us, the mercury did not move. Technically, we had frozen to death. How difficult was it to turn back? It hurt worse than anything the ice did to us. But as I said to Emily upon my return, I am sure she would rather have a live donkey than a dead lion.’

There was applause and Sverdrup led the standing ovation.

Afterwards, once the King had shaken his hand and departed, the audience descended on Shackleton for more questions and autographs. Tryggve Gran hung back, kneading the rim of his hat, wondering how he could possibly get through the crush.

‘I hear you have a ship now, young man,’ said a voice in his ear.

Gran turned and found himself looking up at Fridtjof Nansen, a great Viking of a man, still fit and handsome at close to fifty, with fine blond moustaches and intense, piercing eyes. They had corresponded and Gran had met the older man at lectures, pumping him for information and advice till Nansen begged for mercy. ‘Well, yes, Herr Professor. You gave the
Fram
to someone else.’

Nansen laughed at the boy’s cheek. He had loaned his ship to fellow-countryman Roald Amundsen for his next Arctic venture. He would hardly have given such a prestigious vessel to an untried newcomer. ‘You want to go South?’

‘Yes, sir. Peary having made the Pole.’

Nansen looked doubtful.

‘You don’t think he did?’ There had been rumours that neither Robert Peary nor Frederick Cook—both claimants to having planted the Stars and Stripes Furthest North—had not, in fact, stood at the Pole.

‘Peary, perhaps. Cook, I think, is a fraud. A claim-jumper, like in the Wild West. But that is what Roald will discover, I believe. There is much left to do up there.’ He pointed at the back of the crowd. ‘Shall we go and see the great English explorer?’

‘He’s Irish,’ Gran said, keen to show he had done his homework.

‘Only when it suits him.’ Nansen took Gran’s arm in his huge hand, wrapping his fingers around his bicep. ‘If he had made those last ninety-seven miles, would he have done it as an Englishman or an Irishman?’

Gran thought for a moment. ‘Both.’

‘Aye. Both.’

Nansen, with Gran firmly in his grip, ploughed through the people as though he was the
Fram
nosing through the pack ice and forced them to the front. Gran was introduced to Amundsen. He already knew his brother Leon Amundsen, who was helping him source timber for his ship. After an abortive conversation with the taciturn explorer, he moved back to Shackleton once more. When they had a moment alone, Gran asked him: ‘I know I am young, Sir Ernest, but what would you do in my position? I fear I am not taken seriously, because of my youth.’

Shackleton accepted a glass of cloudberry liquor from one of his hosts. ‘I will neither encourage nor discourage you, Mr Gran. But I would not set out without some experienced polar seamen. An ice pilot, for one. A first-rate dog handler. And sledgers, lots of them, men who have travelled over the ice either north or south. I can provide a list of some recommendations, although Norway has no shortage of good candidates. With old hands around you, your age need not be a handicap, my young friend. How far along is the ship?’

Gran looked down at his feet and mumbled.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘It is but drawings as yet.’

Shackleton laughed and knocked back the cloudberry. He gave a shudder. ‘Not bad.’ He looked around for a refill.

‘I’m no dreamer.’

‘I didn’t say you were. Ah, thank you.’ He accepted a new glass, which he also polished off. ‘But if it’s the Pole you’re after you had better go ahead with your plan and go now. My hut at Cape Royds stands and is full of good things.’

Gran’s jaw dropped. ‘I could use it?’

‘Of course. I think we owe it to each other to co-operate, not to deny our fellow adventurers any possible advantage. That is very small minded. Drink?’

‘No, thank you. I wish everyone thought like you. I tried to engage Mr Amundsen about the South, to ask his advice, but he didn’t seem interested. I asked for an appointment to see him and he said no.’

‘His eyes and mind are on the North. You would be a distraction with your questions. But there are others looking to the South, my boy. You know that.’

‘Scott.’

Shackleton nodded. ‘Amundsen said Scott, too, is seeking an appointment with him. Which can only mean one thing. He wants to co-ordinate their efforts, to run simultaneous experiments North and South.’

‘I suppose he’ll see Scott,’ Gran said sulkily.

‘Oh, I doubt it. Not from the way he was speaking. Amundsen does not like to be beholden to another. He knows Scott will come with a timetable of experiments and a catalogue of instructions. Such a straightjacket is not for Roald. So, when would your ship be ready?’

‘I have employed Skaluren to build it. They constructed the
Fram
. But it will be more modern. Capable of ten knots at least. Sail and steam. If I give the go-head tomorrow, she would be ready in July of next year.’

‘Best hurry, my lad. Best hurry.’ He looked around and saw Nansen towering over Emily, his head bowed as he whispered something to her. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need a cigarette.’

Shackleton moved away and scooped up his wife. Gran went in search of a drink but before he could locate one, Nansen pulled him aside. Gran gave him a summary of the conversation he had had with Shackleton.

When Nansen spoke, he kept his voice down to a low rumble. ‘He’s a brave man, Sir Ernest. And that Farthest South was quite an achievement. There is no doubt about that. But he isn’t always right.’

Gran was well aware that Nansen had thoroughly briefed Shackleton before he went South and that the younger man hadn’t always take the advice. Had he done so, Nansen thought, he might have made the Pole. ‘About dogs, professor?’

‘That. And furs. And skis. But also about hurrying. It’s an English disease. Both the
Discovery
and the
Nimrod
expeditions were put together in haste. It is not the way to prepare for the Pole, son.’

‘What do you suggest?’ Gran feared the old explorer was going to try to dissuade him.

Nansen looked the lad up and down. He was keen, all right, and bright, but not yet the calibre of man who could inspire the hardy Norwegians; he would need to make a decent fist of a polar assault. The boy needed roughening up and he needed experience. And he knew just who could give it to him. ‘Can you come to Fefor in a few weeks?’

This was a village near Lillehammer, north of Christiana. Gran had skied there several times. ‘Yes. Why, sir?’

‘There is a trial of some new-fangled motor sledges. Idiots think they’ll replace dogs over ice. Ha! But there is someone I’d like you to meet.’

‘Who?’

The big man winked. ‘Robert Falcon Scott.’

F
RIDTJOF NANSEN KNOCKED ON
the door of the Scotts’ suite at the Hotel Fefor. Instead of the captain answering, it was his wife, her fingers pressed to her lips.

‘I have just put Peter down. Come in, come in.’

He hesitated. She was wearing a white shift with, as far as he could tell, nothing underneath. A wet patch indicated she had been breastfeeding. Her hair was down, cascading like an auburn river to her waist, and she was barefoot. Kathleen Scott was hardly in a position to receive a gentleman in her bedroom.

‘Come on, come on.’

Nansen walked in and crossed to the crib, where a small bundle of blankets snored softly. ‘Lovely.’

‘He is a very good boy. I was just admiring the lake.’

She moved to the window. Out on the frozen ice were two black shapes, the tractors they had brought for testing.

‘I thought Captain Scott was here.’

She turned and looked at him. ‘You have the most amazing eyes.’

Nansen was taken aback. ‘Thank you.’

‘Con is with that young lad. Gran.’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to him about. Or you.’

‘Move over to the light. Here.’ She grabbed the explorer by the sleeve and manoeuvred him over so the ice-reflected light illuminated his face. ‘Sit.’

He did so.

‘Why did you send him? The boy?’

‘He is a fine young man. He knows skis. He has ambitions to go South, but ideas beyond his years.’