Amundsen braces himself for the torture of sitting down on his crippled behind. He expects to have a full debrief on all aspects of their latest depot journey, but he’d like to enjoy his first meal back at Framheim in peace before launching into detail. ‘Okay, I think we all agree that the tent situation must be improved so everyone can enjoy the heat from the Primus, a hot meal and a chance to dry their socks and boots.’
Johansen murmurs his approval. The others look up from their meals but are too focused on enjoying real food after their month of pemmican to offer any opinion on expedition logistics.
‘Only vegetables for me,’ says Amundsen, refusing Lindstrøm’s plate of seal steaks. The return journey has been pure agony, with his haemorrhoids worse than ever. Lindstrøm’s plentiful preserves, tinned fruit and vegetables will aid his recovery, he hopes. Neither scurvy nor constipation exist in Lindstrøm’s vocabulary.
The sounds of eating, cutlery clinking, enamel cups of coffee clanking, snorts, coughs and the occasional burp echo around the table.
‘The dogs need hardening up,’ says Amundsen suddenly.
‘Two of mine died. Waited till we arrived back here,’ says Stubberud. ‘Can you believe that?’
‘That’s eight dogs we’ve lost during the depot-laying.’
Sverre looks up. ‘Is that counting Odin? You know he didn’t make it.’
Amundsen nods grimly.
‘He was so weak, even a ride on the sledge wasn’t …’ Sverre’s voice trails off. ‘How on earth are they going to make it to the pole?’
‘You mean how are we going to make it to the pole?’ snorts Bjaaland.
Silence meets his comment. Voicing doubt is reckless in the presence of the chief.
‘It’s just the cold,’ says Johansen. ‘If we’d had reasonable temperatures they’d have come through fine.’
‘I agree,’ says Amundsen, pushing his plate away and resting his pale forearms on the table to relieve some of the pressure on his rear end. ‘And food. They’ll need more food.’
‘More food means heavier sledges,’ says Helmer in a dispirited tone. ‘Heavier sledges means more food – it’s a bloody joke.’
‘Unless we lighten the sledges,’ says Bjaaland, keen to make up for his earlier negativity. ‘Stubberud and I could easily take to them with the plane, trim down the other components without weakening the structure. And the packing cases too could be shaved down to save on weight.’ He turns to the carpenter. ‘What do you think?’
‘We got the tools,’ Stubberud agrees.
‘And a long winter ahead of us,’ adds Bjaaland.
Amundsen purses his lips. ‘Good. I think we could overhaul a lot of our equipment. But we’ll still need more food.’ He pauses in thought. ‘One more depot trip. Just to 80 degrees. Before winter arrives properly. If we stockpile as much seal meat as we can there, then the dogs’ll be in the best possible shape.’
A murmur of agreement swells from the table.
‘You’ll lead,’ Amundsen says, pointing his chin in Johansen’s direction. ‘I’ll wait this one out with Fatty.’
Amid the rowdy conversations that ensue, Johansen squeezes his nose between his thumb and forefinger to disguise his grin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
What was once pristine white landscape around Framheim is a now a minefield of excrement. The dogs are on the prowl, all seventy of them. Big and small, they range about in twos and threes, nosing in drifts of snow for whatever remains of the seals that were butchered for meat. Nothing in the Norwegian camp escapes their interference. Boxes are overturned. Ropes are gnawed at. The tents are layered with wild maps of yellow ice, the result of the dogs’ never-ending quest to mark as much territory as possible while their comrades are away. Everywhere they go, they leave mess. Little can be done, as there’s no longer any other reason to keep the dogs chained up. Lindstrøm stretches barbed wire around Framheim to keep them from clambering up the steadily accumulating snow and onto the roof while Amundsen builds a perimeter wall from blocks of snow to barricade the tent used to store precious meat supplies. But the dogs are persistent and have learnt that if they jump high enough they can steal into the store. Soon Amundsen is unfurling barbed wire as well.
With the exterior dog-proofed, Lindstrøm turns his attention to the hut’s interior. It’s in a filthy state. Nine men sleeping, eating, working and drying sodden clothing and footwear has made a mockery of the strict order he had established during their previous absence.
‘Good grief,’ he mumbles as he examines a box full of dirty, worn-out reindeer kamiks found lurking under a bunk. ‘This place is a rat’s nest.’ He flings the box and its contents out through the open door of the hut. The kamiks scatter on the snow and are immediately snapped up by a pack of excited dogs. The trouble is there are too few to go around. Some dogs tear off with a prize in their jaws. The less fortunate follow in hot pursuit. A fight erupts over the remaining spoils but not one dog gets to enjoy a smelly bootie in its entirety. Within minutes, they’re torn to shreds. Clumps of reindeer fur and clumps of dog fur litter the snow.
‘We’ll have to go through the same filthy stage when the others get back,’ sighs Amundsen, hefting another pot of boiling water off the coal range and into the washing tub on the kitchen floor. ‘We have to maintain order in here or we’ll go mad. We’ll kill each other.’
Amundsen heads outside and scans the surrounding area for snow that’s clean enough to melt for cleaning. When he returns, Lindstrøm is furiously wiping down the walls. ‘Fat,’ he says by way of explanation, ‘from all the frying.’
The pot of snow is again on the heat. Another one and the washing tub will be sufficiently full for his purpose. Amundsen dips a cloth in the hot water and joins Lindstrøm at his task.
‘A means of escape, that’s what each man needs. Somewhere to get away from others,’ Lindstrøm says. ‘Do you remember on the Gjøa, when we were caught in the ice over winter? That was a bloody small boat. It didn’t take long for us to figure out it was better to learn how to make an igloo from the Netsilik and get a bit of space from our shipmates. Pity they never gave us a moment’s peace though – always visiting!’ Lindstrøm laughs at the memory.
‘Shall I suggest that then, Fatty? That we each construct an igloo to see out the winter?’
Lindstrøm groans. ‘Oh no, we’d all go mad from loneliness.’
Amundsen smiles. He feels fortunate to have a man so good-natured, so positive in his outlook on his team once again. Just like the old days.
The cook continues his train of thought, ‘It’s almost as if we all need to head out to work in the morning and come back together in the evening to share a meal, play cards or listen to the gramophone. If we’ve all been busy during the day, we’d have something to talk about.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean. There’s certainly lots to do ahead of our polar journey. Problem is, it’s winter. Working outside is just not possible.’
‘Well, I’ve got my larder carved out of the snow beside the hut but I don’t fancy sharing that space with the dust and muck of the carpenters or with the constant whirring of Oscar’s sewing machine.’ Lindstrøm straightens his jacket and takes a moment to admire the fresh appearance of the hut’s degreased walls. ‘Your water’s boiling.’
‘I’m going to close the door now,’ says Amundsen. ‘Any more cold air circulating in here and the water in my tin tub will freeze.’
‘Can you spare some?’ Lindstrøm asks as he watches the chief tip the last pot of steaming liquid into what has become an otherwise lukewarm tub. ‘You won’t need all of that to wash your clothes.’
Amundsen swirls his hand through the water. It’s pleasingly hot, but given the chill still pervading the hut, he doesn’t have long before it will start to cool to the point of unpleasantness. Deftly sliding out of his kamiks, he pulls his pants and woollen underwear off. He wrestles off his jacket, sweater, wool shirt and undershirt. His socks he leaves until last.
; The washing tub’s not big and the chief is a very tall man. The sight of Amundsen dipping his pale rear end into the water sets Lindstrøm giggling like a schoolboy.
Amundsen frowns comically. ‘You did say you wanted to thoroughly clean everything in the hut.’
Lindstrøm hands the chief a cloth and some soap. Then, still chuckling, he grabs his hat and heads outside for a walk. Allowing a bit of privacy is the least he can do to ensure full enjoyment of this momentous event – Amundsen’s first proper wash in seven months.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Fresh dogs, fat and keen, scamper forward towing their heavy loads over the uneven surface in a display of unbridled enthusiasm. They’re a far cry from the dogs that returned from the last depot-laying journey, limping and harassed by the whip. It will take those dogs some weeks to regain their condition. This time a number of the older puppies have entered the fray, interspersed among the mature dogs so any youth and inexperience can be held in check.
Matching their momentum, Johansen skis in smooth, confident strides like an insect on the surface of a pond. He feels liberated. The alcohol abuse, his failed marriage, the children he hasn’t seen in years – none of it weighs so heavy anymore. The only thing that counts is where he is now – the majesty of this boundless arena, welcoming him into its forgiving embrace. This is where he belongs. He will achieve greatness at the pole. He will be a national hero again. Redemption awaits!
You’re the leader, that’s what Amundsen said and everybody heard him say it. For the first time since setting sail aboard the Fram, Johansen has received official recognition of his polar credentials. After experiencing the fame associated with being Fridtjof Nansen’s right-hand man, it’s been a struggle reverting to being just one of the men, constantly deferring to Amundsen and his judgement when he has just as much to offer. And on board the Fram, taking orders from young officers who have not yet proven themselves. More than once, while scrubbing dog turds off the decking, he’d considered dousing Lieutenant Prestrud with a bucket of salt water.
The fog is sly in its approach. Nobody notices its slow strangulation of the sky. The brilliant blue becomes faded, then briefly grey before surrendering to an impenetrable dullness. The flat light is disorientating. The men continue regardless, but in a direction further west than anyone realises.
Johansen calls to Stubberud. ‘Remember, one flag every kilometre.’
The carpenter signals he’s understood. The flagpoles are taller than a man and are indispensable now that they’re losing the light. Shorter days, dark nights, foul autumn weather. Disagreeable.
‘There’s nothing out here. No markers, no frozen fish,’ says Helmer, pulling level with Johansen. ‘Stubberud can forget about laying his flags. This is not our old route. We’re lost.’
‘We’re not lost,’ says Johansen, annoyed at Helmer’s unhelpful comment, but he halts the team and hollers to Prestrud.
Prestrud is clear on their last known coordinates and he’s thankful that it was not his navigating that led them astray. ‘Do you want a compass heading?’ he asks Johansen.
Johansen nods. ‘And the sledge-meter. What distance have we covered, Oscar?’
‘Last time I saw one of our old broken-up markers was about an hour ago,’ offers Helmer.
Johansen tips back his head and squints into the glare. Flat light. There’s no telling the position of the sun and therefore no possibility of taking angles with a sextant. But he continues to stare at the possibility of the sun’s disc, using some mysterious past knowledge to determine their next course of action. ‘By my reckoning we’ve travelled too far west. We need to carry on in a south-easterly direction to correct. We’ll come across our old tracks or the markers soon enough.’
There’s plenty of grumbling, and backchat that they’d never engage in with the chief. Two days into a route that they have already successfully navigated twice and they’re lost. Still, it’s nobody’s fault. It’s easy to veer off course with such poor visibility.
‘Halt!’ shouts Johansen, diving onto his sledge. Two dogs are already gone.
Helmer, Sverre and Stubberud bring their dogs to heel. Prestrud, Bjaaland and Oscar appear from the gloom, unsure what the commotion is all about.
Thankfully Johansen keeps his head. He inches forward on his skis and peers down the crevasse, assessing the situation. ‘Damn it,’ he hisses in exasperation. ‘Both gone.’
Some way off Oscar hears a curious thud. Suddenly a gap stretches open behind him, unzipping the surface with one smooth stroke. Snow tumbles in like a waterfall. His eyes widen in horror.
Sverre shouts obscenities as another gap opens up under his sledge with a loud hollow boom.
‘Crevasse field,’ calls Johansen to the others. ‘Nobody move.’
The dogs are working themselves into a frenzy on the spot. The tension, the uncertainty underfoot, the confused arrangement of the various teams – all of it puts them on edge.
Helmer asks, ‘What now?’
Johansen has already freed up some alpine rope from his sledge. With grim focus he ties a series of knots at equal intervals along its length. ‘You and Sverre. You’re going to rope up. I need you to check to the east. Make sure you move in parallel. And keep the rope taut. The knots will stop the rope from cutting in too deeply if one of you falls.’
Picking a way forward, Helmer and Sverre determine a safe route and double back for the sledges. For hours they work in tandem, applying the method suggested by Johansen. The danger lies in the ground appearing solid. But all it takes is one man’s misstep and large pieces of the surface fall away, revealing bottomless crevasses that would swallow not just dogs but men and sledges too. Progress is slow but Johansen refuses to take chances. Just as the light is fading, Johansen deems their location sufficiently safe to set up camp. It’s a relief after spending the best part of a day on tenterhooks, barely daring to breathe lest it trigger the collapse of the delicate snow bridges underfoot.
They’re trialling new, larger tents: two sewn together, thanks to Oscar’s skill with the sewing machine. With four men in one and three in the other, there’s ample room for undressing, preparing food, and drying clothing and footwear.
Johansen examines his fur clothing, how worn it has become in parts. The seat of his trousers is utterly bare, now a bald expanse of leather devoid of any insulation. No wonder his rear end is frozen solid. The others have similar complaints with the deteriorating state of their clothing. Looks like a whole winter of repairs.
‘Not a bad test for the dog harnesses,’ says Oscar, dishing up the pemmican stew.
Stubberud snorts. ‘I’m not sure Johansen would agree. He’s lost his two leading dogs.’
Johansen jerks his head in agreement.
Oscar continues, ‘The fact that the dogs are each individually attached to the sledge is a great idea, isn’t it? Being fanned out like that. If the dogs had been two by two in those Alaskan harnesses, Johansen would have lost all his dogs – and the sledge too, probably.’
‘That Amundsen,’ says Stubberud admiringly. ‘He knows his stuff.’
‘Sure does,’ Oscar is quick to agree. ‘Everything has a clear purpose.’
Well, it wasn’t Amundsen who led you out of trouble today, was it, lads? Johansen thinks sourly. And not a word of thanks or acknowledgement of my skill. Without another word, he licks clean his bowl and places it beside him, ready for the morning meal. Perhaps next time, I’ll let them blunder their own way out of danger.
APRIL 1895 – ARCTIC CIRCLE
Johansen’s trousers are sodden, his boots waterlogged. He hauls himself back from the jagged edge where the ice has given way to rippling water. Fridtjof Nansen watches on. Neither man speaks. Words do nothing to lighten the gravity of their situation. They are far from land. How far, neither of them dares suggest. The sea ice is no longer sure underfoot. Great rents appear in its surface as wind and currents conspire, forming wide avenues of open sea that stretch for miles.
&nb
sp; Johansen’s wet trousers adhere to his skin. Within minutes the outer layer has frozen to a hard shell and his boots clench to his feet. He wiggles his toes to establish a line of communication with his extremities. It’s futile. His body will soon disavow all knowledge of these feet, so numb on the ends of his legs as to feel like they belong to somebody else.
‘Shall we try that way?’ he mumbles to Nansen.
Nansen signals his agreement. It’s the same either way. Far from land, with dwindling food supplies and no idea of their precise location, the men hold it together with a grim determination that belies their wretched fate. It feels like the days never end. Trudging forth, his frozen lower half in denial, Johansen adds ‘exposure’ to his growing list of ways to die – by drowning, by starvation, by polar bear.
The dog that struggles to keep up is earmarked for supper. A bullet to the brain would be best but their rifle has other duties – hunting, protection against predators. Strangulation will have to do. The dog whines as the rope is wound around its neck. Positioned on either side of the timorous creature, the two men take up the slack. Pulling mightily on either end of the rope, Johansen and Nansen bellow in guttural distaste. It is a beastly task.
‘I can’t,’ Johansen says finally, releasing the rope.
Without a word, Nansen reaches for a knife. Holding the dog’s shoulders between his knees, he slits its throat. It’s a messy business. The blood courses down his legs and over the snow. Johansen feels a pang of jealousy. Death appears as an easy end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Amundsen's Way Page 10
