There was a man named Sverdrup—Otto Sverdrup. Yes, we all of us know him now! But then he was an unknown Nordland youth, inured to hardship on sea and land, an excellent sailor, a skilful ski-runner, firm of purpose; one to whom fatigue was a stranger, physically strong and able in emergency, unyielding as a rod of iron, firm as a rock. A man chary of words in fine weather, but eloquent in storm: possessed, too, of a courage that lay so deep that it needed almost a peril involving life to arouse it. Yet, when the pinch came Sverdrup was in his element. Then would his light blue eyes assume a darker hue, and a smile creep over his hard-set features; then he would resemble a hawk that sits on a perch with ruffled feathers, bidding defiance to every one who approaches it, but which, when danger draws nigh, flaps its pinions, and soars aloft in ever widening circles, increasing with the force of the tempest, borne along by the storm.
This man accompanied him.
Otto Sverdrup.
Number two was Lieutenant, now Captain, Olaf Dietrichson. He, too, hailed from the north. A man who loved a life in the open air, a master in all manly exploits, elastic as a steel spring, a proficient on ski, and a sportsman in heart and soul. And added to this, a man possessed of great knowledge in those matters especially that were needed in an expedition like the present. He, too, was enrolled among the number.
Number three was also from Nordland, from Sverdrup’s neighborhood, who recommended him. His name was Kristian Kristiansen Trana—a handy and reliable youth.
These three were all Nordlanders. But Nansen had a great desire to have a couple of Fjeld-Finns with him, for he considered that, inured as they were to ice and snow, their presence would be of great service to him. They came from Karasjok.[7] The one a fine young fellow, more Qvæn[8] than Lapp; the other a little squalid-looking, dark-haired, pink-eyed Fjeld-Finn. The name of the first was Balto; of the other, Ravna. These two children of the mountains came to Christiania looking dreadfully perplexed, with little of the heroic about them. For they had agreed to accompany the expedition principally for the sake of the good pay, and now learned for the first time that their lives might be endangered. Nansen, however, managed to instil a little confidence into them, and as was subsequently proved, they turned out to be useful and reliable members of the expedition. Old Ravna, who was forty-five, was a married man,—a fact Nansen did not know when he engaged him,—and was possessed of great physical strength and powers of endurance.
Nansen now had the lives of five persons beside his own on his conscience. He would, therefore, make his equipment in such manner that he should have nothing to reproach himself with in case anything went wrong, a work that he conscientiously and carefully carried out. There was not a single article or implement that was not scientifically and practically discussed and tested, measured and weighed, before they set out. Hand-sleighs and ski, boats and tent, cooking-utensils, sleeping-bags, shoes and clothes, food and drink, all were of the best kind; plenty of everything, but nothing superfluous—light, yet strong, nourishing and strengthening. Everything, in fact, was well thought over, and as was subsequently proved, the mistakes that did occur were few and trifling.
Nansen made most of the implements with his own hands, and nothing came to pieces during the whole expedition saving a boat plank that was crushed by the ice.
But one thing Nansen omitted to take with him, and that was a supply of spirituous liquor. It did not exist in his dictionary of sport. For he had long entertained the opinion—an opinion very generally held by the youth of Norway at the present day—that strong drink is a foe to manly exploit, sapping and undermining man’s physical and mental powers. In former days, indeed, in Norway, as elsewhere, it was considered manly to drink, but now the drinker is looked down on with a pity akin to contempt.