Madhouse at the end of the Earth The Belgica's journey into the dark Antarctic night

Review by Choice Review

This well-written, entertaining account of the Belgian Antarctic Expedition (1897--99), rooted in primary sources, is the first to appear in English since Through the First Antarctic Night (1900), written by the expedition's surgeon, Frederick Cook. In contrast to an unflattering portrait of expedition leader Adrien de Gerlache, the book gives Cook, then soon to be infamous, and Roald Amundsen, the ship's second officer and later world-famous explorer, top billing. Although in his note on sources, Sancton, a journalist, openly questions Cook's accounts' credibility, the narrative leans heavily on Cook's published book as well as his very dubious later recollections. Amundsen's voice is heard mostly through his contemporaneous diaries. Perhaps to justify its hyperbolic title, the volume maintains a novelistic straining for effect, resulting in passages with a precise level of detail that could not possibly be gleaned from the original sources. In fact, the most interesting new bits of information contained here cannot be verified from published primary accounts either, and the complete absence of specific citations detracts from this title's value to academic library collections. A reprint of Cook's classic, colorful, and equally literary eyewitness account remains a viable alternative. Summing Up: Optional. General readers and undergraduates. --Robert M. Bryce, independent scholar

Copyright American Library Association, used with permission.

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Review by Booklist Review

In the grand tradition of such devastating polar histories as Andrea Pitzer's Icebound (2021) and Hampton Sides' In the Kingdom of Ice (2014), journalist Sancton provides a hair-raising study of Belgium's Belgian Antarctic Expedition of 1897--99. Best-known for being the first crew to winter in the forbidding, uninhabited region, the group included later-to-be-famous Roald Amundsen and Frederick Cook. As Sancton graphically describes, however, the journey was also significant for its reported cases of polar madness, which afflicted some of the men while their ship, Belgica, was trapped in the ice. Drawing on an impressive array of materials, the author shows how the Belgica endeavor was yet another example of careful planning that quickly went awry as physical illness, natural disaster, and a breakdown in command derailed every good intention. The miracle here is that anyone survived, which was due in no small part to Amundsen and Cook. Sancton smartly focuses on these two men who would go on to legendary (in ways both good and bad) careers. This compelling narrative of an overlooked expedition is a sure-fire winner for armchair explorers.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Journalist Sancton debuts with a riveting account of the first polar expedition to spend the winter south of the Antarctic Circle. Setting out from Antwerp in August 1897 with plans to reach the magnetic south pole, the Belgian steam whaler Belgica ran aground and nearly sank in the Beagle Channel, lost a sailor overboard, and narrowly avoided a mutiny--all before reaching Antarctica. During the Antarctic summer, the expedition's scientists collected more than 100 previously unknown specimens and discovered unmapped features of the Antarctic coast line. Running far behind schedule, the ship's commandant, Adrien de Gerlache, decided to push farther south as winter approached, entrapping the Belgica in ice with the intention of resuming the journey once temperatures warmed. Vividly recreating the crew's boredom, disorientation, fatigue, depression, and hysteria during their 13-month ordeal, Sancton focuses on the expedition's American doctor, Frederick Cook, whose prescription of daily seal or penguin meat helped the crew stave off scurvy, and Norwegian first mate Roald Amundsen, who became a legendary polar explorer thanks, in part, to the lessons he learned on the Belgica. Though the prose occasionally tips over into the melodramatic, this is a well-researched and enthralling portrait of endurance and escape. Agent: Todd Shuster, Aevitas Creative Management. (May)

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Review by Library Journal Review

The Belgian Antarctic Expedition (1897--99) carried the first humans to ever spend the winter in Antarctica. The expedition's research vessel Belgica was trapped in polar ice for over a year, forcing the multinational crew of sailors and scientists to withstand crushing pack ice, subzero temperatures, and extreme isolation. During the months-long polar night, they fended off scurvy by scarfing raw penguin meat. Stuck in their claustrophobic quarters, they bickered, scribbled letters to each other, and battled mental and physical deterioration. Most--but not all--overcame the odds and survived. Sancton (editor, Departures) gives this extraordinary saga its first book-length treatment. Blue-blooded Adrien de Gerlache battled guilt over his men's plight and his own shortcomings as leader of Belgium's first polar expedition. Stoic Norwegian first mate Roald Amundsen (eventually the first explorer to visit the North and South Poles) befriended American physician and ethnographer Frederick Cook. With mock solemnity, Cook and Amundsen formed the Order of the Penguin, to which they invited the expedition's caring but firm Belgian second-in-command, Georges Lecointe. VERDICT Belying its sensational title, this detail-rich account is a sober and humane chronicle of relationships among the explorers and their struggle for survival in the long polar night. Armchair travelers will enjoy.--Michael Rodriguez, Univ. of Connecticut, Storrs

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A harrowing expedition to Antarctica, recounted by Departures senior features editor Sancton, who has reported from every continent on the planet. On Aug. 16, 1897, the steam whaler Belgica set off from Belgium with young Adrien de Gerlache as commandant. Thus begins Sancton's riveting history of exploration, ingenuity, and survival. The commandant's inexperienced, often unruly crew, half non-Belgian, included scientists, a rookie engineer, and first mate Roald Amundsen, who would later become a celebrated polar explorer. After loading a half ton of explosive tonite, the ship set sail with 23 crew members and two cats. In Rio de Janeiro, they were joined by Dr. Frederick Cook, a young, shameless huckster who had accompanied Robert Peary as a surgeon and ethnologist on an expedition to northern Greenland. In Punta Arenas, four seamen were removed for insubordination, and rats snuck onboard. In Tierra del Fuego, the ship ran aground for a while. Sancton evokes a calm anxiety as he chronicles the ship's journey south. On Jan. 19, 1898, near the South Shetland Islands, the crew spotted the first icebergs. Rough waves swept someone overboard. Days later, they saw Antarctica in the distance. Glory was "finally within reach." The author describes the discovery and naming of new lands and the work of the scientists gathering specimens. The ship continued through a perilous, ice-littered sea, as the commandant was anxious to reach a record-setting latitude. On March 6, the Belgica became icebound. The crew did everything they could to prepare for a dark, below-freezing winter, but they were wracked with despair, suffering headaches, insomnia, dizziness, and later, madness--all vividly capture by Sancton. The sun returned on July 22, and by March 1899, they were able to escape the ice. With a cast of intriguing characters and drama galore, this history reads like fiction and will thrill fans of Endurance and In the Kingdom of Ice. A rousing, suspenseful adventure tale. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter 1 Why Not Belgium? August 16, 1897 ANTWERP The river Scheldt wound languidly from northern France through Belgium, taking a sharp westward turn at the port of Antwerp, where it became deep and wide enough to accommodate oceangoing ships. On this cloudless summer morning, more than twenty thousand people flocked along the city's riverfront to salute the departure of the Belgica and exult in its glory. Freshly painted steel gray, the 113-foot-long, three-masted steam whaler, fitted with a coal-powered engine, was headed to Antarctica to chart its unknown coasts and collect data on its flora, fauna, and geology. But what drew the crowds today was not the promise of scientific discovery so much as national pride: Belgium, little Belgium, a country that had declared its independence from Holland sixty-seven years earlier and was thus younger than many of its citizens, was staking a claim to the next frontier of human exploration. At ten o'clock, the vessel weighed anchor and sailed at a regal pace in the direction of the North Sea, so freighted with coal, provisions, and equipment that her deck floated just a foot and a half above the water. Escorted by a flotilla of yachts that carried government officials, well-wishers, and press, the Belgica paraded before the city. She glided past the flag-bedecked townhouses lining the waterfront, past the flamboyant Gothic cathedral that dominated the skyline, past Het Steen, the fortress that had loomed over the river since the Middle Ages. From a pontoon, a military band played "La Brabançonne," Belgium's national anthem, a theme as grand as the country was small. Cannons fired in tribute, from both banks of the river. Vessels from around the world blew their foghorns and hoisted Belgium's black, yellow, and red flag. Cheers rippled across the crowd as the Belgica sailed by. The entire town seemed to vibrate. Gazing back at this roiling sea of banners and hats and handkerchiefs from the bridge of the ship was the expedition's commandant, thirty-one-year-old Adrien de Gerlache de Gomery. His face betrayed little emotion, but behind his heavy-lidded eyes he burned with excitement. Every detail of his appearance had been meticulously attended to in preparation for this moment, down to the twist of his mustache, the crop of his beard, and the knot of his cravat. De Gerlache's dark, double-breasted greatcoat was too warm for this August morning, and not nearly warm enough for the frigid ends of the earth, but it lent him a dashing air befitting a man in the process of making history. Now and again, basking in the acclamation, he pulled off his Belgica-emblazoned cap by its patent-leather brim and waved it at the jubilant multitude. He had long hungered for these cheers. The starting point felt to him like the finish line. "My state of mind," he wrote, "was that of a man who has just reached his goal." In a way, he had. That the ship was leaving at all was a personal triumph. Despite the heartfelt patriotism on display this morning, the Belgian Antarctic Expedition was less a national endeavor than the manifestation of Adrien de Gerlache's steadfast will. He had spent more than three years planning, staffing, and raising funds for the journey. His determination alone had won over skeptics, loosened purse strings, and rallied a nation behind him. Now, though he remained ten thousand miles from his destination, he was already enjoying a taste of glory. But on this euphoric day, with his countrymen hip-hip-hooraying him, it was easy for de Gerlache to forget that this glory was on credit. To earn it, he would have to survive one of the most hostile environments on earth, a continent so inimical to human life that no man had yet spent more than a few hours on its shores. Belgium's border with Holland stretched across the Scheldt a dozen miles northwest of Antwerp. Before crossing it, the Belgica docked at Liefkenshoek quay to attend to one last order of business. Even as the merriment continued on deck and aboard the yachts that swarmed around the vessel, the crew shuttled between the quay and the Belgica's hold in order to load a half ton of tonite, an explosive believed to be more powerful than dynamite. The tonite sticks, which took up several large crates in the ship's hold, were de Gerlache's insurance policy. He didn't know what to expect from the Antarctic ice, only that a continent that had succeeded in staving off humanity until the nineteenth century demanded respect. He could imagine several ways the ship could be destroyed: she could slam into an iceberg or an uncharted reef. But perhaps the most dreaded possibility was that the Belgica would be caught in the ice and either crushed by the pressure or kept captive indefinitely, leaving her men to starve to death. Several notorious expeditions to the northern polar regions had met such fates. De Gerlache presumed that a half ton of tonite would more than suffice to break the grip of the sea ice. It was the first time he underestimated the power of Antarctica, but it would not be the last. As the crew packed tonite into the hold, a gaggle of dignitaries left one of the accompanying yachts and boarded the Belgica to wish de Gerlache and his men good luck. A sailor to his core, the commandant was far more comfortable at sea than in a crowd, and over the last three years he had grown weary of glad-handing. He had spent more time scrounging for funds than he expected to spend in Antarctica. As he exchanged pleasantries with government ministers, wealthy patrons, and the wise old men of the Royal Belgian Geographical Society, which had sponsored the expedition, he felt the weight of his obligations to them. If it can be said that he didn't fear the frozen continent enough, then he feared the judgment of these men too much. If he failed in his mission, he would shoulder the disappointment of an entire country. Far worse, in his mind, was the dishonor it would bring to his illustrious family. The de Gerlaches were one of Belgium's oldest aristocratic dynasties, able to trace their origins to the fourteenth century. A relative, Baron Etienne-Constantin de Gerlache, had been among the founders of the Belgian nation, a principal author of its constitution, and its first prime minister (though his tenure lasted just eleven days). Both Adrien's grandfather and father had been decorated military officers. The public expected greatness from a de Gerlache. In the press and in Brussels high society, Adrien's family had made a show of support for his Antarctic project, wagering their good name on his success. This only added to the pressure the commandant felt. Adrien's parents, sister, and brother--a promising army lieutenant--had also come aboard the Belgica, and remained there after the dignitaries returned to their yacht. The only patron allowed to stay was the socialite Léonie Osterrieth, the expedition's most dedicated and passionate backer. The plump, fifty-four-year-old widow of a prominent Antwerp trader, she treated de Gerlache like her own son. He, in turn, called her "Maman O." and considered her his most trusted confidante. (For her generous contributions to the expedition, the men would nickname her "Mère Antarctique," which means "Mother Antarctica," but is also a homophone of "Mer Antarctique," or "Antarctic Sea.") When it came time for goodbyes, Adrien's patrician father, Auguste, embraced every member of the expedition, from the lowliest deckhand to the scientists, and with a tremor in his voice called them all his "dear children." The commandant's mother, Emma, sobbed inconsolably, as if she'd had a premonition that she would never see her eldest boy again. The Belgica's twenty-eight-year-old captain, the short and scrappy Georges Lecointe, vowed that he and the rest of the men would devote themselves entirely to her son. He was not the type of man to break a promise. Lecointe then led the crew in three rousing cheers of "Long live Madame de Gerlache!" While the last cry was still echoing down the Scheldt, the captain shouted out orders to the crew. "Now, everyone back to his post!" The de Gerlache family left the ship and boarded a yacht named the Brabo, which turned back in the direction of Antwerp. Waving his cap from the deck of the Belgica, the commandant managed to hold back tears, but in the words of one observer, "A violent emotion seized his face." "Vive la Belgique!" he yelled across the water as the Brabo pulled away. He scurried up the rigging with the agility of an acrobat. It took him fewer than fifteen seconds to climb to the crow's nest--a repurposed barrel--where he continued to wave his cap until the vessel carrying nearly everyone he loved disappeared beyond the river bend. De Gerlache had never lived anywhere other than Belgium, yet in many ways he felt more at home in the cabins of ships, wherever they happened to bring him. He was born in Hasselt, Belgium, on August 2, 1866. Unlike his brother, father, grandfather, and a long line of de Gerlache men going back centuries, he had no interest in a military career. A pacifist at heart, he dreamed of a life at sea, an unusual fascination for a boy growing up in Belgium, which, after its secession from Holland in the 1830 revolution, was left with a virtually nonexistent navy, a bare-bones merchant marine, and only forty miles of coastline. Excerpted from Madhouse at the End of the Earth: The Belgica's Journey into the Dark Antarctic Night by Julian Sancton All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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