A number of dogs grow too weak to continue. Rasmus falls dead in his tracks, signalling the end of the Three Musketeers. Another collapses mid-stride. When not on the move they repeatedly lift their paws off the snow in a display of frozen anguish. There is no need of the whip; the remaining dogs instinctively flee from the perilous south in the direction of home.
‘My watch has stopped,’ says Sverre.
‘My foot’s so swollen,’ Stubberud says, fear ringing in his voice. ‘I think I’ve got frostbite.’
A closer inspection reveals even more damage than he thought.
‘My heel’s come off,’ says Helmer with detached fascination. He holds up the wad of waxy flesh, a grisly curio. It’s a horrifying sight, particularly for Stubberud and Prestrud who wonder if that is what is in store for them.
Amundsen is horrified it has come to this. The next morning they rise at five and are away by seven. The weather is fast deteriorating. They must make Framheim in one stretch. The group splits in two. Helmer, Oscar and Amundsen lead off, setting a cracking pace with their largely empty sledges bouncing across the snow. Soon the only sign of them is their tracks, which Stubberud follows diligently. But the carpenter’s pace soon slows until his dogs simply refuse to advance. The aching cold stiffens his limbs; his frostbitten foot feels dead in his boot. He sits on his sledge and considers his predicament – no food, no tent, no fuel – while the weather thickens around him like a boiling cauldron of white. For some time he waits, hoping for Sverre, Bjaaland or anyone else behind him to help. But when a man finally arrives, he shoots past in a blur.
‘Alright?’ Bjaaland yells backwards, rattling past at speed.
‘What the heck!’ he yells back. To not even consider stopping to help – Stubberud’s mightily offended. But the sight and scent of Bjaaland’s dog team whizzing by has enlivened his own dogs and suddenly they’re on their feet and keen to mount a pursuit. It’s a minor miracle and they do not stop until they reach home.
Sverre covers distance as best he can, well behind Bjaaland and Stubberud. Slow and steady, he blocks out all thoughts of the two men trailing behind him. With this beastly cold strangling us, it’s each man for himself, he reasons. Johansen is strong, more experienced than anyone. And Prestrud, well … frankly, he’s the lucky one on skis without a dog team to worry about.
In truth, Prestrud has fallen over 20 kilometres behind the others. Bent almost double against the wind, he is close to giving in.
Sverre hears the cries off in the distance but he doesn’t want to believe his ears. He doesn’t want to turn around, even though he knows it’s Johansen. Mostly he doesn’t want to stop, so he ignores the cries and carries on.
For the past six hours Johansen has driven his team like a maniac intent on squeezing every last drop of life from their bodies. His own body is nearing its limits. He’s severely dehydrated, frozen to his core and exhausted beyond measure.
‘Sverre!’ he shouts.
Sverre slows his team even though he might not be able to get them going again. ‘Don’t make me wait,’ he implores Johansen. ‘I don’t want to die out here.’
‘And Prestrud?’ comes the angry reply from the iced-up hood of Johansen’s anorak. ‘He’s on his own. He won’t make it if we don’t wait for him.’
‘You wait. Why do you need me?’ Sverre can’t believe how unreasonable Johansen is becoming.
‘We don’t have anything! No tent, no food. They’ve left us with nothing,’ Johansen is shouting into the wind now.
Sverre fumbles a tent free from his sledge and thrusts it at Johansen. ‘This is all I’ve got,’ he states. He whips his dogs into renewed escape and the whiteness swallows them whole.
‘Where could they be?’ Oscar’s question hangs in the air. They’d all like an answer, if only to assuage their own guilt. Having secured their own safe retreat to Framheim, covering 64 kilometres in nine hours, the men’s thoughts now dwell on their two missing companions.
‘They’ve got a tent, at least.’ Sverre takes a sip of hot chocolate even though it will not sit well in his churning stomach.
All around them are untidy piles of iced-up clothing, hurriedly cast off and now in varying stages of thaw. The air is thick with the earthy smell of wet fur and the acrid stench of stress. Nobody makes an effort to clean it up. What’s the point? There’ll be more mess to tidy once the others arrive home, assuming they do – eventually.
‘Cold enough to catch your death out there,’ says Lindstrøm amid the hush that lingers over the table. For once there are no smiles. His comment has captured the mood and crystallised their worst fear: that Johansen and Prestrud are dead and it is entirely their fault.
‘Time to turn in, I think,’ says Amundsen crisply.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Winter menaces the two stragglers. It is a heartless beast. Tooth and claw, it will fight to claim their last breaths; but Johansen is every bit its match. Drawing on the blackness inside himself, the empty bits where love and hope and glory once lived, he fights on. Bitterness and hate swell in his chest; they’ve struggled to find expression until now.
Leaving us to die out here. Johansen’s resentment nestles deeper into his core.
Johansen knows one thing: he must get Prestrud to shelter. It’s clear his feet are badly frostbitten. The man can hardly propel himself forward. His staggering, his mumbling avowals – it all points to hypothermia.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he slurs in waves of contrition that are totally out of character.
‘Keep moving,’ Johansen urges.
They’ve had their moments, Prestrud and Johansen. The deep division that occurred during depot-laying has never had a chance to mend. None of it matters out here. Only Johansen’s dark loathing for their leader matters. It drives him ever onward, head bowed against the squalls of driving snow.
After midnight the temperature stabilises at minus 51 degrees. They are getting close, but other perils lie in wait for the two men.
‘Why are we stopping?’ moans Prestrud.
‘No tracks.’
Johansen knows they’re fast approaching the barrier edge and that it’s so dark they’ll likely miss the narrow path to lead them down safely. A 50-foot drop cannot be negotiated, he knows that for sure. And yet where is the way down? The fog is at its thickest. The compass is useless. Framheim lies somewhere on the edge of this oblivion.
‘Devil take you, Amundsen,’ he fumes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The fire’s lit, the kitchen door opens. The cook flings down the plates and cutlery on the table before rounding off his performance with his customary finale – the dropping of spoons from a height into each of the men’s enamel mugs.
‘Quit it, Fatty.’
‘Of all mornings. We deserve a sleep-in.’
‘Why you softies, I was up until one last night waiting for the boys. You don’t hear me complaining.’ Lindstrøm retreats to the kitchen to do battle with the coffee mill.
There’s movement in the bunks. Some groaning. A little slower than normal, the men emerge and set about their various morning rituals – washing, dressing and heading outside for a minute or two to guess the temperature – it’s just like any other morning except there is a heaviness in the air and hardly a word is spoken. Stubberud is limping badly. So is Helmer. There is no laughter or small talk or joking as they sit down.
Amundsen takes a sip of his coffee and regards Johansen over the rim of his mug. ‘What took you so long?’
‘WHAT TOOK US SO LONG?’ Johansen shouts. ‘You left us for dead!’ Hatred gushes forth unabashed. ‘Call yourself a leader? You’re nothing but a coward. Save yourself! To hell with anyone else.’
The men shrink from the table. Such vehemence directed at the chief – it’s unthinkable.
‘No leader should ever abandon his team!’ Fine specks of spittle fly in Amundsen’s direction. Johansen pauses, mustering his thoughts, his mouth working, his eyes fixed on the mask of the
chief ’s face. He starts anew, ‘Prestrud was left. Neither of us had anything. It was madness. Blundering like idiots out there. We lost our bearings in fog. We’d lost the light. We’re only alive because we heard the dogs barking outside the hut. We had to follow the bloody howling of dogs to get home. Clearly no one was coming to look for us. It’s a disgrace.’ There’s a pause. ‘You’re a disgrace.’
A profound silence descends. Johansen is right. But the hut is so small and his voice is so loud. Embarrassment prevents anyone from speaking up. Prestrud simply looks at his plate and wishes for it all to be over.
‘It was madness to set out so early in the season. You’re going to kill us all with your plans. You don’t have a clue what you’re doing.’ Johansen’s words trail off. He shakes his head.
Amundsen takes it all, his eyes resting on Johansen’s weather-beaten complexion with studied indifference. To be thus challenged, and with an audience. Does Johansen really think he’ll get away with this? Mutinous. It’s a defining moment. His authority must not be called into question.
‘How dare you?’ Amundsen’s voice is even but forceful. ‘I’ll have no more of your slanderous talk. It is nobody’s fault other than your own. You failed to keep pace with the rest of the group. It is your failing, sir. It was not my priority to ensure you had a tent on your sledge. I had men who required medical attention. As far as I was concerned that took precedence over checking on the likes of you, Hjalmar Johansen. That was my priority.’
Johansen scoffs. ‘You and your so-called priorities be damned.’
Johansen has let humiliation and bitterness and a whole raft of other ugly feelings he cannot define get the better of him. Yes, he was opposed to setting out so early, yes he had the weakest dog team, yes he had no provisions, but to say things that cannot be unsaid – that is far from prudent. This was his time – to make his name shine once more, to bask in the fame that was once his, to rehabilitate himself, to move beyond the unhappiness of losing his wife, his kids, and his self-control. This was his time to prove his worth, to the world and to himself.
Amundsen’s words are unhurried. ‘Hjalmar Johansen, you have overstepped the mark. Given you hold my leadership in such low regard and have been so forthright in your criticisms of this expedition, you leave me no option but to remove you from our journey to the South Pole.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
5 OCTOBER 1911 – BUENOS AIRES
‘Back to the bergs,’ says Captain Nilsen, passing his callused hands down the front of his shirt and surveying the muddy waters of the Rio de la Plata for the last time. Spring is already upon them and summer will surely follow on its heels, but where they’re heading, he’ll need his woollens, waterproofs and reindeer-skin anorak.
Much has been left to Nilsen’s discretion once they set sail from the Bay of Whales in mid-February. Amundsen’s only request is that the ship be back as early as possible in 1912.
It was never meant to be a pleasure cruise. With barely enough men to sail the ship, the crew have battled waves that reach the sky, hurricane winds, snow squalls and fog while navigating around more than 500 icebergs on their journey across the Southern Pacific to Cape Horn and up the coast of South America to Buenos Aires. A full set of her sails completely worn out, the Fram had shuddered into port, with the direst challenge still ahead.
‘We arrived as paupers and leave as princes,’ says Lieutenant Gjertsen cheerily.
‘I feel more like Noah,’ says Nilsen, looking rather forlornly about him at the sheep and pigs. Housed in a weatherproof hut on deck, the animals communicate their confusion about their new surroundings in a far more muted fashion than the dogs on the voyage from Norway, and leave a lot less mess to clean up.
Nilsen does not need the crew to remind him of the agony of their arrival in Buenos Aires two months after leaving the ice. It wasn’t so much that they were paupers – they were more like beggars, with barely enough provisions to feed themselves and certainly no money to purchase even a side of beef. To make matters worse, the expedition funds that should have been waiting for them had not arrived.
‘I do hope Amundsen has found a mighty mountain in Antarctica that he can name in honour of our beloved compatriot and benefactor.’
Gjertsen agrees. ‘God bless Don Pedro.’
Don Pedro Christophersen, Norwegian businessman and diplomat, had certainly answered the call in their hour of need, not only supplying provisions and fuel but also generously covering the costs of repainting the ship, refurbishing her engine and repairing the damage that is inevitable when a ship travels such immense distances around the globe without dropping anchor.
Don Pedro has also offered to send a rescue mission should the Fram not reappear with her full contingent by a certain date. Well, we won’t let it come to that, thinks Nilsen, thrusting out his jaw.
Their course is set. They’ll travel back along their original westward route, doing battle with the Roaring Forties and Furious Fifties yet again, rounding the Horn and passing within sight of the Kerguelen Islands, where they will yet attempt to land.
Nilsen is impatient. He’s fulfilled his end of the bargain and even completed the oceanographical cruise in the South Atlantic that Amundsen asked for. A total of 891 water samples and temperature readings have been collected at various locations, as well as countless phials of sand and silt from the seabed and over 190 specimens of plankton. They’ve already been packaged up and sent to Norway. Whoever wants them is welcome to them thinks Nilsen. I’ve done my part.
The captain hopes that Amundsen has done his part.
‘He’ll be thinking of setting out, I should think,’ Nilsen says to Gjertsen. ‘Amundsen needs to prove himself for all our sakes. I don’t much like the idea of returning home empty-handed. Not with Amundsen’s little change of plan to explain to the nation.’
‘Touch wood, it all works out,’ Gjertsen says.
Nilsen grasps the wheel with enthusiasm. He has no desire to take sole responsibility for the expedition. But that is what will happen if Amundsen has perished during his quest for glory. Nilsen gives an involuntary shudder. Of course, a worse scenario would be if Framheim (and all who have made it home these past nine months) has crumbled into the sea. The captain quickly steers his thoughts away from possible catastrophes.
‘I wonder how my little friend Madeiro is getting on,’ he says suddenly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
After September’s false start and the uncomfortable atmosphere that has persisted in the hut since Johansen’s outburst, it’s a relief to be in the fresh air and on the move again. Helmer, Oscar, Bjaaland and Sverre are the chosen ones; Prestrud, Stubberud and Johansen will stay behind with Lindstrøm.
Despite being the only man (aside from the chief) to escape the debilitating effects of frostbite on the abortive September journey, Johansen is firmly on the outer. Offering his best wishes to the departing men and shaking Amundsen’s hand in farewell, he suppresses all feelings of resentment. The irony of being 100 per cent healthy and yet left behind with the invalids is not lost on him. What would Nansen say?
To add insult to injury, Johansen is now under the command of Lieutenant Prestrud. It’s a move designed to punish and humiliate him. Everyone knows his knowledge and experience are far superior. Together they will undertake a pre-Christmas excursion to the as-yet-unexplored King Edward VII Land, while the others take on the South Pole. Stubberud’s been assigned as their third man. He is bitter but can do little to change his fate. His frostbitten heel still gives him trouble. To be excluded is a blow to his pride and his ambitions – he has put his entire heart and soul into readying the team for victory, and his life has been on hold for more than a year.
A strong southerly headwind and thick driving snow characterise the polar party’s first days. With no features to fix on, no hints as to their position, each man drifts in and out of his thoughts. The hours dissolve into white nothingness, mile after mile after mile. They’ve made this journey t
hree times already and yet there is nothing familiar about their route. Old tracks show up from time to time but never with enough conviction to offer definitive guidance. Helmer commands the leading sledge with one eye on his compass and the other on the sledge-meter. Twice they’ve strayed off course. Once into the treacherous eastern crevasse field encountered during the third depot-laying journey. A superstitious man would say it is Johansen’s revenge.
Sheltering at their 82 degrees depot, the five men are at the boundary of their knowledge. Beyond the tent is an unknown land full of peril. The extreme physical challenges they will face in the months ahead will test the limits of their endurance and mental grit. Everyone is aware that death could claim one or all of their number, but nobody is going to deny the excitement they each feel; there’s a race to win.
With their sledges stocked up with enough provisions to last ninety-nine days, the long road ahead seems not so daunting. The ‘road’, such as it is, has been plotted on the map and is represented by a heavy line, straight as an arrow, pointing south. Should any obstacles lie in the way – mountains, valleys or impassable glaciers – they’ll only find out en route. It’s the men’s unspoken hope that their chosen line will rise in a gradual fashion all the way to the polar plateau without offering much resistance. Amundsen knows that even though Scott will be sticking to the route taken by Shackleton up the Beardmore Glacier, he will face his own fair share of risks. It’s likely that the Norwegians will have to navigate similar terrain to pierce the Transantarctic Mountains. They’ve got alpine ropes, but any obstacles requiring serious mountaineering skills will put an end to their dreams.
‘We’ve been lucky,’ says Oscar.
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