‘This is where the ponies were housed.’ Campbell points at the filthy stalls that give off a rank odour even though the ponies were offloaded weeks ago.
‘A long journey for such large animals, no?’ Amundsen says mildly. ‘All survived?’
‘We lost two. The result of the storm just after we left New Zealand. We also lost a couple of dogs. One washed overboard, the other hanged on its chain.’
Amundsen nods in silent acknowledgement. Both men know the perils of long sea voyages. ‘How many ponies do you have?’
‘Nineteen,’ says Campbell. ‘And thirty dogs. And three motor sledges.’
‘And how are the motor sledges going on the snow?’ Amundsen hopes not to sound too inquisitive.
‘Extremely well. We have high hopes they’ll prove to be very useful.’ Campbell doesn’t mention that of the three motor sledges, one lies on the bottom of McMurdo Sound and one has already broken down. Instead he changes the subject. ‘And how about you, what’s the extent of your animal contingent?’
‘We have just over a hundred dogs. And twenty puppies born at sea.’
Campbell widens his eyes in interest.
‘They’ll be big enough by the time spring arrives.’
‘So you have placed all your faith in dogs then?’ Perhaps Campbell is fishing for clues as to what the Norwegians have planned. Amundsen is practised at such games of cat and mouse and knows just how much to disclose.
‘Norwegians are good skiers. With skis on our feet and dogs to pull our sledges, we are hopeful of a fast trip to the pole and back.’
Campbell gives a weak laugh. ‘Yes, you certainly have speed on your side.’
Campbell is referring to the morning’s display of sledging prowess. Amundsen is pleased it did not go unnoticed. Campbell will undoubtedly report back to Captain Scott how the Norwegians had blazed down the trail from Framheim to the edge of the bay, the dogs running like a pack of hungry wolves – an impressive sight.
‘What are your plans now?’ asks Amundsen.
The lieutenant breathes in deeply. ‘We had hoped to journey eastward to the furthermost edge of the Great Ice Barrier to reach King Edward VII Land, but sea ice bars the way. With you Norwegians based here at the Bay of Whales, which was to be our Plan B, we shall have to come up with a Plan C and find some other location to explore.’
‘You’re welcome to join us. You could make your base on the barrier as we have.’
‘No, I think we’ll head back west towards McMurdo. We don’t want to cause any more bother.’
Amundsen nods. ‘I understand, you must make the most of your time before leaving for civilisation.’
‘That reminds me,’ says Campbell. ‘Do you have any mail? We could send it when we reach New Zealand.’
‘That is a kind offer, Lieutenant. But we have no major achievements to report. At least not yet.’
Lieutenant Campbell doesn’t respond to Amundsen’s playful remark. Of course it is a huge disappointment to find the Norwegians occupying the Bay of Whales, where he and his six-man team had hoped to base themselves in order to explore the Great Ice Barrier. When the two parties bid farewell, neither feels aggrieved. It’s been more a meeting of colleagues than arch rivals. But the moment he steps off the Terra Nova, Amundsen turns to Prestrud and Captain Nilsen and asks in Norwegian, ‘Any sign the Englishmen have a radio?’
Prestrud glances back at the sailing ship. Nobody is within earshot. ‘None that I saw – and the men guided me over the entire vessel. Could be hidden in a cupboard.’
‘No aerial,’ says Nilsen, pulling his cap down and putting an end to any speculation once and for all.
‘Would they go so far as to hide it? Take down the aerial?’ Amundsen is beginning to sound paranoid. He purses his lips and casts his eyes once more over the Terra Nova. Nilsen is correct. Both the English and Norwegians will have to sail to the nearest inhabited land to convey any official announcement to the world.
Amundsen pauses to reflect on the visit, the conversations, the behaviour of the various crew members they met. ‘They were very nice,’ he thinks aloud. ‘But they seemed far more interested in finding out about our plans than disguising their own.’
Captain Nilsen says, ‘The vessel was rather basic, wasn’t it? Grubby. And as for the pony manure dripping down from the stables – I’m not sure our crew would have put up with that.’
Prestrud mumbles agreement. ‘Enough to put me off Lindstrøm’s pancakes in the morning.’
‘We’re going to miss those when we cast off,’ grumbles Nilsen. ‘We’ll have nothing exciting to look forward to after a night’s watch.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ Amundsen says without a glimmer of pity. ‘My boys will be in need of him most. One thing I’ve learnt over the years is the importance of good food. If men can’t look forward to a fine meal at the end of the day, nothing will keep their spirits up over a long winter. Fatty will be feeding our souls, not just our stomachs.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A tiny village in the vast shimmering emptiness, that is what Framheim resembles by the first weeks of February. Fourteen tents have sprung up around the main hut like pale-capped mushrooms. Eight provide shelter for the dog teams, somewhere to hunker down at night and escape the penetrating cold. Oscar and Bjaaland have dug out the snow beneath each tent so that the dogs have a sunken lair, which provides additional insulation while protecting the tent canvas from sharp teeth and claws.
Another tent provides storage for the men’s reindeer clothing and sleeping bags, which need to be kept cold and dry; another holds coal reserves and firewood. One tent has been christened the ‘maternity hospital’ and offers a little peace and quiet for any dog expecting a litter of puppies. Keeping newborn pups a safe distance from the other dogs is important now that they all roam free during the day. Hauling sledges is hungry work and they’ve done a great deal in the last few weeks. The dogs are ravenous and will eat anything they find lying around. The tent they use to store the seal meat and dried fish has a wall of snow around it so high it can deter even the most intrepid four-legged thief. There are plenty that will try their luck. Madeiro, Captain Nilsen’s pup, even sneaked into Lindstrøm’s kitchen and stole a side of beef.
Amundsen inspects the layout of the camp with Prestrud, who has taken a break from his navigational tables in the hope that the chill air will clear his mind. For hours he’s sat hunched at the table in the hut, his head swimming with figures, astronomical data, calculations and observations he must make sense of in order to plot the supply depots. Prestrud feels like the only thing he ever does is flick back and forth through the pages of his Nautical Almanac for 1911, which lists the position of the sun and moon and a whole range of celestial bodies for every hour of every day for an entire year. With this information at his fingertips, a chronometer to tell the exact time, and a sextant to measure the angle of the sun from the horizon, Prestrud will be able to establish their position relative to the pole at every stage of their journey. While Amundsen and Johansen have their own navigational experience and Prestrud has attempted to impart some rudimentary knowledge to the others, it is his head on the chopping block should an error occur.
Both men are still fighting off the head cold passed on by the Englishmen during their visit to the Terra Nova. Amundsen stops, his face screwed up as if contemplating a horrible thought. He stays like that, head raised, his hooked nose twitching in expectation. Finally he faces into the sun and releases a loud, satisfying sneeze. ‘Excuse me.’
Staring at the ground, Prestrud barely registers the apology. He has something terrible to own up to and he’s put off telling the chief for weeks. He knows he can no longer keep it to himself. ‘Sir, I’ve got bad news.’
‘Mmmm?’ Amundsen bends down to ruffle the heads of the Three Musketeers, who have bounded over for some attention. Amundsen is temporarily consumed by the task of scratching ears.
Prestrud waits to the side, nudging away other dogs that come looking for a
dose of human kindness. He swallows hard. ‘I forgot to bring the Nautical Almanac for 1912.’
Amundsen doesn’t hear. He’s engaged in conversation with one of the growling dogs. ‘You’re a bit too greedy, aren’t you? Pushing the others out of the way to squeeze closer to me so I’ll give you a rub – don’t you know there’s plenty for all of you? Plenty of rubbing and patting and …’
Prestrud can’t be sure Amundsen heard him. ‘Sir.’
Amundsen straightens up his hood and gives a deep sniff. ‘Yes, the Nautical Almanac,’ he says, suddenly serious and fixing Prestrud with his penetrating gaze. ‘You forgot it.’
‘I left it. It’s back in Norway. I just don’t know how I managed to …’
Amundsen doesn’t speak. He takes a long hard look at the lieutenant without blinking, seemingly without breathing. Finally he says, ‘Then we shall have to reach the pole by the end of the year, won’t we?’
This is not the angry response Prestrud expected. Momentarily confused, he sets off on a tumbling diagnosis of the situation that led to its being left.
The light touch of Amundsen’s hand on his forearm stops Prestrud mid-sentence. ‘It’s alright. I know you’ll make do with what you’ve got. By the way, how many copies of the Almanac for 1911 do you have?’
Prestrud blushes. ‘One.’
Amundsen raises his eyebrows. ‘Then we’ll have to be especially careful with it, won’t we?’
‘I’ve made six copies of the navigational tables,’ the lieutenant says hurriedly.
‘Very good. And how many do you plan to take on the depot-laying journey?’
Prestrud pauses. Is it a trick question? ‘Two?’ he offers sheepishly.
Amundsen shrugs his shoulders. ‘You’re our navigator. If you want two, take two. Frankly I don’t care if you leave all your navigational tables at home and set fire to our only copy of the Nautical Almanac as long as you can guide us to the pole and back in the fastest possible time.’
Prestrud grimaces. Amundsen’s comment is not so much a vote of confidence as a thinly veiled ultimatum.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Amundsen takes a moment to catch his breath. From this vantage point the Fram appears a dark speck, Framheim a slightly larger smudge due to the nearsightedness Amundsen refuses to acknowledge. Turning from the Bay of Whales, he focuses his attention on what lies before him – the unknown continent. His smile is infectious. Prestrud, Johansen and Helmer grin back.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he calls to Prestrud. ‘Lead on!’
Prestrud sets off in a southerly direction, his long narrow skis moving effortlessly across the hard-packed surface. Helmer gives him a five-minute head start before urging his dogs to follow across the empty plain. The other two teams are keen to get going but Johansen is careful to leave a distance of a hundred metres or so between his six dogs and Helmer’s. Any man who has experienced the headache of untangling two dog teams engaged in an all-out war will know that it’s easier to avoid conflict than resolve it. Finally, Amundsen readies his dogs and sets them after the other teams, each of them ably hauling 250 kilograms of supplies towards the unresolved horizon. The chief checks the distance-meter, a wheel extending behind his sledge that will keep count of the kilometres they cover. It turns again and again, its steady accumulation of metres proof of their progress in a banal white landscape devoid of natural features or points of reference. His thoughts travel widely, but his eyes remain trained on the unbroken tracks extending before him. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll need to scoop up some article dropped by somebody up ahead.
‘A little to the right!’ shouts Helmer.
Prestrud alters his course slightly without responding. Nobody envies his job. It is tedious, lonely and psychologically taxing to act as a ‘forerunner’, providing something for the dogs to follow in the otherwise blank scene.
‘A little to the left!’ shouts Helmer.
Prestrud turns abruptly. Even without seeing his expression clearly, Helmer knows the filthy look directed back at him. He points in an exaggerated manner at his compass. How can he help it if Prestrud deviates from their southerly bearing? He should count himself lucky. Keeping an eye on a team of dogs is far trickier, figuring out who’s working and who’s shirking, and keeping the sledge from capsizing on the uneven terrain. Helmer checks his compass and mutters in exasperation. Once again he shouts: ‘A little to the right.’
Prestrud focuses on the rhythmic sound his skis make on the thin layer of loose snow. He is the first ever human being to make tracks here. It’s a nice thought, but is it enough to keep him going over hours, days and weeks of monotony?
The four men proceed at a rattling pace. Snow conditions are perfect and the dogs are performing well. But even though the weather is calm and mild, soon a grey haze settles around them, causing everything to appear flat and the land and sky to merge into blankness. The effect is disorientating and snow goggles provide little relief. With no shadows to indicate contours in the white surface, something as simple as keeping upright becomes a great challenge. Prestrud tips over time and again. He feels foolish, even though the others stumble too, momentarily caught off guard by an imperceptible hump or hollow. At least they’re able to grab hold of a sledge and steady themselves. Prestrud is sick of scrambling to his feet.
The men pitch camp late in the afternoon, satisfied with the 15 kilometres they’ve travelled since their 9.30 departure. Two tents, each accommodating two men, spring up in the white while the dogs settle down in the snow, delighting in their blocks of frozen fish meal and fat.
Inside one of the tents, Amundsen and Helmer start the evening’s food preparations. There’s a knack to lighting the Primus burner and it takes Amundsen a few minutes to get the paraffin flowing in the cold. Meanwhile, Helmer has loaded up the Nansen cooker with snow, whistling a cheerful tune as he works. The cooker has two parts – an inner chamber for cooking the meal and an outer chamber for melting snow to make hot chocolate. Once the snow has melted in the inner chamber, Helmer stirs in a crumbled block of pemmican. Only a few stirs and the dried meat and fat melt into the boiling water. Dinner is served. They won’t all eat together. There’s not enough room. Johansen and Prestrud will need to scuttle into the other tent and eat before the warming effect is lost to the surrounding chill.
The cooker has warmed the air in Amundsen and Helmer’s tent, for a time at least. Both men have removed their boots and stripped off their heavy outer layers, which hasn’t been easy in such a confined space. Dinnertime conversation is confined to tired grunts. Wriggling down into their reindeer sleeping bags feels like the ultimate luxury, despite still being clad in a full set of clothes. Feet and hands are covered and a hood is drawn tight over their heads. The temperature outside is a brisk minus seven.
Amundsen wakes. He lies there blinking for a moment, his eyes trying to focus on the white fabric overhead. All this daylight. Where am I? His breath clouds, complicating things. Helmer is snoring – back to his old tricks. The noise brings Amundsen back to the two-man tent, to depot-laying, to Antarctica.
‘Helmer!’ Amundsen fumbles with the drawstring under his chin, releasing his head. Frigid air floods into his sleeping bag, chasing the remnants of sleep from his system. With the efficiency that comes from years of practice Amundsen pulls his reindeer-skin anorak on over his head, slips his legs from the bag and into his reindeer trousers and guides his feet into his fur kamiks. ‘Helmer Hansen!’ he shouts.
The snoring continues unabated. Amundsen unfastens the tent flap and sticks his head out into the bright sunlight. The almost acid sharpness of the air displaces the stale fug of the tent. He breathes deeply, enjoying the cleansing burn of it in his lungs. A few dogs lift their heads in the direction of the sound. A number spring to their feet as his figure emerges onto the snow and crosses to the second tent. ‘Time to get up!’ Amundsen shakes one of the guy lines. The canvas offers a hollow reply in the stillness but without much delay there’s movem
ent from within, and the ball of a head, pressed against the cloth. Johansen appears a few moments later.
‘Morning,’ he says, nodding at Amundsen. He wanders beyond the dogs, amid much barking, and relieves himself. There’s no shyness among them and certainly no privacy in such wide open spaces. More often than not the dogs will clean up any human mess left on the snow. Hungry dogs are anything but fussy.
‘Helmer!’ bellows Amundsen.
Helmer stirs from sleep. One eye open, he frowns at the daylight. None too delicately, Amundsen throws open the tent flaps and yanks his empty sleeping bag from next to Helmer and slings it onto the closest sledge. Helmer’s punishment will be getting dressed in a wash of cold air.
‘Breakfast,’ Amundsen says, setting up the Nansen cooker as the other man fumbles out of bed and into his outdoor clothing. It’s not a friendly suggestion. Prestrud and Johansen are already folding their bedding away. Helmer needs to pee but there’s clean snow to gather into the cooker, hot chocolate to make, the ration bag to unpack. The hiss of the Primus is another hint. He needs to sharpen up his act.
They’re on the road at 7.45 a.m. More than three hours to break camp and get the dogs organised. It’s too long. Helmer’s dawdling, that’s the only reason. Amundsen casts his eye around the area of trampled snow. Satisfied that they have not forgotten anything, he gives the signal. Once again Prestrud strides out on the Antarctic plain. Helmer turns and salutes like a soldier entering battle. Amundsen cannot stay mad at him – the truth is, with his humour, his knight-like fealty and their years of shared experience, Helmer’s worth a thousand men.
1903 – OGCHOTKU, NORTHWEST PASSAGE
The five men appear from nowhere. Arctic barbarians. Helmer loads his rifle. Amundsen too. But the friendly greeting of ‘Maniktu-mi! Manik-tu-mi!’ puts paid to all threat of hostilities.
Two full winters the Norwegians stay. The Netsilik are good-natured, handsome – families mostly – and curious to see the first white faces to appear in these lonely northern regions in over a century. Soon a whole village of igloos surrounds the Gjøa. Learning to build them takes patience but the Netsilik prove excellent teachers. The Norwegians have a stilted language, strange food and poor clothing. The Netsilik men teach them hunting, survival in deep cold and how to run dog teams. The Netsilik women give them reindeer outfits, loose layers offering warmth and comfort without trapping moisture and sweat. Having experienced the limitations of his woollens, Amundsen needs no convincing about the superiority of the Netsilik clothing. He will come to rely on it. They all will.
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