The “exquisitely researched and deeply engrossing” (The New York Times) true survival story of an early polar expedition that went terribly awry—with the ship frozen in ice and the crew trapped inside for the entire sunless, Antarctic winter
“Deserves a place beside Alfred Lansing’s immortal classic Endurance.”—Nathaniel Philbrick
“A riveting tale, splendidly told . . . Madhouse at the End of the Earth has it all.”—Stacy Schiff
“Julian Sancton has deftly rescued this forgotten saga from the deep freeze.”—Hampton Sides
In August 1897, the young Belgian commandant Adrien de Gerlache set sail for a three-year expedition aboard the good ship Belgica with dreams of glory. His destination was the uncharted end of the earth: the icy continent of Antarctica.
But de Gerlache’s plans to be first to the magnetic South Pole would swiftly go awry. After a series of costly setbacks, the commandant faced two bad options: turn back in defeat and spare his men the devastating Antarctic winter, or recklessly chase fame by sailing deeper into the freezing waters. De Gerlache sailed on, and soon the Belgica was stuck fast in the icy hold of the Bellingshausen Sea. When the sun set on the magnificent polar landscape one last time, the ship’s occupants were condemned to months of endless night. In the darkness, plagued by a mysterious illness and besieged by monotony, they descended into madness.
In this epic tale, Julian Sancton unfolds a story of adventure and horror for the ages. As the Belgica’s men teetered on the brink, de Gerlache relied increasingly on two young officers whose friendship had blossomed in captivity: the expedition’s lone American, Dr. Frederick Cook—half genius, half con man—whose later infamy would overshadow his brilliance on the Belgica; and the ship’s first mate, soon-to-be legendary Roald Amundsen, even in his youth the storybook picture of a sailor. Together, they would plan a last-ditch, nearly certain-to-fail escape from the ice—one that would either etch their names in history or doom them to a terrible fate at the ocean’s bottom.
Drawing on the diaries and journals of the Belgica’s crew and with exclusive access to the ship’s logbook, Sancton brings novelistic flair to a story of human extremes, one so remarkable that even today NASA studies it for research on isolation for future missions to Mars. Equal parts maritime thriller and gothic horror, Madhouse at the End of the Earth is an unforgettable journey into the deep.
“At once a riveting survival tale and a terrifying psychological thriller, Madhouse at the End of the Earth is a mesmerizing, unputdownable read. It deserves a place beside Alfred Lansing’s immortal classic Endurance.”— Nathaniel Philbrick,New York Times bestselling author of In the Heart of the Sea and Valiant Ambition
“ Madhouse is that rare nonfiction gem—an obscure but important history transformed by deep research and note-perfect storytelling into a classic thriller. Reading this book is as much an adventure as the very story it tells." —Walter Isaacson, New York Times bestselling author of Leonardo da Vinci and Steve Jobs
“ Madhouse at the End of the Earth has it all: idealism, ingenuity, ambition, explosives, flimflammery, a colorful cast, a blank map, a three-month-long night, penguins (and medicinal penguin meat). . . . A riveting tale, splendidly told.” —Stacy Schiff,Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Witches and Cleopatra
“A generation before Shackleton’s Endurance, an adventure every bit as bold and dreadful took place at the bottom of the world, led by a band of unimaginably colorful and resolute explorers. Julian Sancton has deftly rescued this forgotten saga from the deep freeze—and given us the next great contribution to polar literature. A wild tale, so well told and immersively researched.” —Hampton Sides,nationally bestselling author of In the Kingdom of Ice
“With meticulous research and a novelist’s keen eye, Sancton has penned one of the most enthralling—and harrowing—adventure stories in years.” —Scott Anderson,New York Times bestselling author of Lawrence in Arabia and The Quiet Americans
“As harrowing an account of a voyage of exploration as I’ve read in years . . . Artfully constructed, written with a kind of dread-filled assurance, it grips from first sentence to last.” —Lawrence Osborne,author of Beautiful Animals and Only to Sleep
“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.” —Library Journal
“With a cast of intriguing characters and drama galore . . . Sancton’s riveting history of exploration, ingenuity, and survival . . . reads like fiction and will thrill fans of Endurance and In the Kingdom of Ice. A rousing, suspenseful adventure tale.” —Kirkus Reviews
Julian Sancton is a senior features editor at Departures magazine, where he writes about culture and travel. His work has appeared in Vanity Fair, Esquire, The New Yorker, Wired, and Playboy, among other publications. He has reported from every continent, including Antarctica, which he first visited while researching this book.
Why Not Belgium?
August 16, 1897
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.