They are well into their descent of the Axel Heiberg Glacier, enjoying the exhilaration of skiing down the slopes that had so taxed them on their journey south. The long skis aren’t designed to turn, even for a champion skier like Bjaaland, and there are a few spectacular crashes along the way. Even the crevasses fail to strike fear in the hearts of men who, not so long ago, exercised such caution. Recent days have seen them steer around any obstacle or pitfall at speed, yahooing with little regard for personal safety. The two dog drivers watch the fun with a hefty dose of envy – they’d far rather be testing their technique than facing the stress and strain of getting the dog sledges down in one piece.
Down on the barrier once again, Amundsen glowers. A nasty thought has just occurred to him, one that increases his sense of urgency. The Norwegian route up the Axel Heiberg Glacier was short and steep but enjoyed the massive advantage of being a whole degree of latitude closer to the pole by the time they hit the high-altitude plateau. The Beardmore Glacier by comparison may have disadvantaged the British by forcing them onto the oxygen-deprived atmosphere of the plateau earlier than the Norwegians, but coming down again Captain Scott and his men will benefit from the relative ease and speed of a longer descent and find themselves out on the barrier more than 100 kilometres closer to their base.
‘What time is it?’ asks Sverre.
‘Six.’
‘What day is it?’
‘No idea.’
‘I know it’s 1912,’ says Bjaaland, yawning.
They laugh.
Sverre restates his original question: ‘So is it six in the morning or at night?’
‘Does it really matter?’ Amundsen asks.
Perennial daylight makes keeping conventional hours a pointless exercise; a rhythm of eating, sleeping and skiing marks their progress. That said, time is all they think about. A speedy return is once again their single unifying focus.
Has the Fram arrived to collect them? It’s already the second week of January. Amundsen was clear in his instructions to Captain Nilsen – make haste. That assumes nothing untoward has happened either to the ship or the crew. So many unknowns could still unseat their well-laid plans.
Warmer temperatures greet them closer to the coast. Minus 8 degrees feels tropical compared to the hard white prison of minus 50, but it is not cause for celebration. The heavy snow that falls on them melts on contact before turning to ice. It clings to the dogs’ fur, encasing their bodies in a semi-transparent carapace that splinters like candy when the harnesses are strapped tight.
‘Well, look who’s here!’ says Oscar, pointing with his ski pole at two skua gulls playing a lazy game of tag against a sky feathered with clouds.
‘They’re far from home,’ marvels Helmer. ‘The sea must be more than 350 kilometres away.’
The seabirds are the only life they’ve seen in months. Goodness only knows what they survive on in this wasteland, where lonely eddies of ancient snow twist like ghosts from the surface of the barrier.
‘No doubt Lindstrøm would see it as a sign,’ says Amundsen a little wistfully.
‘Favourable, I hope,’ says Sverre.
Bjaaland celebrates with two shots of his rifle. Neither bird falls from the sky. He swears. It would have been great to eat something other than pemmican and dog.
There are other signs of life as they approach 82 degrees. It’s almost like coming home, laying eyes on this depot, the last one they managed to lay in the autumn. How remote its location had seemed when they first set it up, like the last outpost of civilisation. Now it seems far from civilised. Boxes have been dragged off, upturned, gnawed open and emptied of much of their contents. The two carcasses that were slung atop the depot have disappeared without a trace. Judging by the paw prints, a marauding band of dogs has been through here in recent days. But from where? Could it be the dogs that went missing from Framheim over winter? It’s an intriguing thought.
Familiarity boosts confidence. Nothing can blacken their mood. They’ve made the journey to 82 degrees so many times before that this final stage of their journey home would feel like a backyard dawdle were it not for the atrocious weather. The line of flags spaced out at 1-kilometre intervals offers a surprising degree of comfort when the weather presses in and visibility is reduced. The dark flags troop forward like a marching band, announcing the men’s victorious arrival home with the rhythmic beating of fabric in the wind.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Lindstrøm loves nothing more than a grand parade. The city positively ripples with bunting and streamers. Leaning from windows, children wave Norwegian flags while the hands of parents clutch them tight. A crowd, twenty deep, lines the street. The sound of cheering travels in hypnotic waves across the park and unites with the church bells, which ring out in celebration. Lindstrøm cranes his neck to see the action but his gaze is intercepted by the gentle sway of spring leaves in the oak trees. So green – he has never seen a more exquisite colour. Another cheer rises from the crowd. Now he sees what all the fuss was about. It is a magnificent marching band, its imminent arrival announced by the thump, thump, thump of the big bass drum.
Lindstrøm’s eyes flicker open momentarily. He buries his head in the pillow, desperate to catch the tail of his dream before it escapes. Thump, thump, thump-thump. Ha-ha, got you, he thinks, snuggling deeper under his blanket.
Heavy boots sound on the wooden floor.
‘Good morning, my dear Lindstrøm. Have you any coffee for us?’
Such a familiar voice. Lindstrøm’s eyes flick open at the sound of it.
Stubberud is first out of his bunk. ‘Welcome,’ he says, rubbing his eyes.
‘Good God, is it you?’ Lindstrøm stares from his bunk, for a moment confused by this early morning arrival, more than a week ahead of schedule. Despite it being 4 a.m., and despite being robbed of two hours of sleep, he is quick to offer some sorely needed hospitality.
Prestrud appears, then Johansen. A slightly awkward reunion ensues – handshaking that quickly turns to bear-hugging, laughter and wild slapping on shoulders and backs. Finally somebody asks the question: ‘Have you been there?’
‘Yes, we have been there,’ is the reply that sends everyone into a renewed frenzy of bear-hugging and backslapping.
Stubberud hands Bjaaland a creased newspaper and gestures excitedly at the date. ‘Feel like reading what’s been happening in the real world?’
Bjaaland grasps the paper in both hands, his bloodshot eyes widening with disbelief.
‘We’ve been reading all about the scandal we caused back in Norway,’ says Stubberud with a grin. ‘Quite nice to make headlines.’
‘We’re going to make even bigger headlines now,’ Helmer says.
‘So the Fram’s back then,’ says Amundsen as he wriggles out of his reindeer skins.
‘Arrived on the ninth of January,’ Lindstrøm calls from the kitchen.
Prestrud can’t resist telling them, ‘And there’s the oddest little band of Japanese men in a tent down on the sea ice. Their leader’s a fellow named Shirase. Says he wants to make a dash to the pole – can you believe that?’
Amundsen frowns. ‘Well, I must tell him not to bother – we’ve checked it out and there’s absolutely nothing there to justify such a fool’s errand.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The door to the chartroom is closed. Captain Nilsen and Amundsen have much to discuss. A stack of mail tied neatly with twine awaits the explorer’s attention on the table, along with a year’s worth of newspapers – another indulgence to savour in the weeks ahead. Much has happened since they turned their backs on the outside world. Finally, Nilsen asks the question that has hovered in the air between them since the first moments of their reunion.
‘Naturally, you’ve been to the South Pole?’
‘Ninety-nine days, a distance of almost 3000 kilometres.’
Captain Nilsen whistles in admiration.
The two men stare at the map on the chartroom table. The same one Nils
en unfurled before the stunned crew way back in October 1910, when Amundsen revealed his true intentions.
‘I must admit, I did have my concerns,’ Amundsen says with surprising candour.
‘Well, covering a distance like that, anything could happen,’ Nilsen agrees.
Amundsen gives a snort. ‘There was never any doubt in my mind that we’d succeed. I was concerned about you and your challenges. Getting to Buenos Aires. Securing the necessary funds.’ His eyes bulge comically. ‘And coming back here to get us!’
Nilsen assumes a philosophical air. ‘Don Pedro Christophersen – that’s who we need to thank. He answered our prayers.’
‘Well, there’s a mountain with his name on it. And … one for you also.’
‘You’re joking.’ Nilsen’s face is transformed by an enormous grin.
‘Actually not a mountain, more a plateau at around 86 degrees south. Sort of around here.’ Amundsen swirls his index finger above an empty spot to the left of where the Axel Heiberg Glacier would butt up against the Antarctic Plateau, had any of it been marked on the largely blank map.
Nilsen puffs out his chest. ‘How very grand.’
‘Mount Olav Bjaaland, Mount Sverre Hassel, Mount Oscar Wisting, Mount Helmer Hansen. You’re in good company,’ Amundsen says with genuine warmth.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Lieutenant Gjertsen, sporting a wild beard and dirty overalls. Despite not being the least impressed by his slovenly appearance, Amundsen accepts the generosity of his congratulatory handshake. He can tell the lieutenant is desperate to hear every last detail of their journey. He and Lieutenant Prestrud will have their heads together for hours.
‘Sir,’ he says to Nilsen. ‘When should we expect the others?’
‘Right away, I think.’ Nilsen looks to Amundsen for confirmation.
Amundsen nods. ‘They’ve started packing up Framheim already. I’ve instructed them to take anything of value. The rest they can leave. Half a dozen sledge-loads of supplies at most.’
‘Make the necessary space available, Gjertsen, and ready the crew. We’re going to have a very busy few days.’
Once Gjertsen leaves, Amundsen fixes his friend with a stern gaze. ‘We have to leave here as quickly as possible. I want to be the one to report the news to the world.’
‘So I should set a course to Lyttelton? It’s the closest port.’
‘New Zealand?’ Amundsen eyes flash and he shakes his head. ‘No. That’s Scott’s patch. We won’t be welcome there. Make for Hobart.’
‘Hobart, Tasmania eh? I’m not so sure you’ll get a warm welcome there either. Those British colonies …’ Nilsen’s voice drifts off. ‘I’m afraid you’re not a very popular man, Roald.’
Amundsen’s nostrils flare as he breathes in deeply.
‘Even in Norway.’ Nilsen shakes his head. ‘People were bent out of shape over what you did. Parliament wanted to order you home.’
Amundsen huffs. ‘Which the king refused to do!’
Nilsen sighs. ‘Diplomatically it has been awkward. With the British, I mean. Especially after we had such strong support from them for Norwegian independence. It’s a bit of a slap in the face, to be honest, to beat their man to the South Pole. It’s been viewed as a breach of “etiquette”.’
‘Are those people mad? Is the quest for the pole exclusively given to Scott to achieve?’ Amundsen’s suddenly riled. ‘I couldn’t care less what they think, those idiots.’
Nilsen forces a smile. ‘Nice to have support where it matters though. From what I heard from Don Pedro, Nansen calmed them all down.’
‘Yes. It appears so. He understands. And we have the confidence of the King of Norway. And Don Pedro of course. When everyone turned their backs on me, they extend their hands. I owe them more than I can ever say.’
Over the next two days, sledges trundle back and forth to the edge of the sea ice with an odd assortment of clothing and equipment, items of sentimental value and those deemed too expensive to abandon. Framheim, their haven of warmth and companionship, is mostly empty. Lindstrøm packs away a few favoured items into a crate – his lucky ladle, the cursed handheld coffee grinder, the clockwork acrobat with an old woman’s face that provided him with such amusement on countless evenings alone in the hut. Pots and frying pan, buckets, mops, plates and cutlery, the trusty coal range – they will all stay.
Towards the end of the day, Amundsen’s flustered face appears at the door. ‘Time’s up, Fatty.’
Lindstrøm nods. He’s looked over the odds and ends that remain in the dug-out pantry around the side of the hut. It’s a jumbled mess down there and he decides against going through every single can and jar of preserves. He tucks two wheels of Dutch smoked cheese under each arm and heads for the door. However, there is one last thing he would like to do before sealing up their home and setting sail.
There is a pleasing smell of carbolic soap within the hut. Back and forth, back and forth he guides his trusty mop, making sure to chase its foamy head of string into all the corners. The table and chairs have been scrubbed and the mattresses have been dragged outside and beaten soundly in the sunshine. Satisfied that he has left everything in order, Lindstrøm closes the door behind him. He hesitates a moment, keen to fasten the door somehow, but there’s no key and no lock. He sighs in resignation. After battling their way to the bottom of the globe, those Japanese are welcome to anything they might find here.
While the others are loading the ship, Oscar goes in search of the captain. He’s a hard man to pin down. Twice Oscar has called to him on deck only to have Nilsen raise a hand for patience. More than once he’s said, I’ll be with you shortly, only to disappear below decks.
Oscar knocks firmly on the captain’s cabin door.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Oscar. Permission to enter?’
Nilsen turns wearily from his desk. Whatever the issue, he hopes it will be quickly resolved. His door swings open but it’s not Oscar, it’s a black and white mass of fur. A dog’s wet snout collects his chin, licks his ear. A large head squeezes itself under his hands in wild greeting. Papers fly as dog paws land on the captain’s desk and a sniffing investigation gets underway.
‘Madeiro?’ he says incredulously.
Oscar’s head appears around the door, beaming. ‘Recognise this mutt?’
‘Not sure I would have,’ says Nilsen, who is now standing with his arms over his head while the dog leaps about him. ‘He’s a good deal larger than when I last saw him.’
‘Come here,’ Oscar growls, grabbing at the dog in an effort to subdue his exuberance. ‘Made it to the pole and back. With his mother, Camilla, you remember?’
‘I do,’ says Nilsen a little reservedly, his hands still above his head.
‘Well, just thought I’d let you know.’ Oscar yanks the dog towards the door. ‘They’re all on deck now – all thirty-nine of them – if you want to say hello.’
‘Good for you, Madeiro.’ Nilsen gives the dog’s head a tentative pat; nothing too enthusiastic, he doesn’t want to encourage more jumping. How like the others he’s become, the captain thinks. Huge, out of control and oh, so smelly! He looks at Oscar. ‘Not quite pet material, is he?’
Oscar laughs. ‘No! And he doesn’t need your protection anymore. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, I think he’s pregnant.’
It’s 10 p.m. on 30 January when the Fram finally motors away from the mooring it so briefly occupied on the edge of the Bay of Whales. Lindstrøm points to where the Framheim hut would be, if visibility weren’t so poor. None of the others have had a chance to say goodbye, deprived of a last glimpse of their cherished home by the arrival of a thick bank of fog. There are mixed emotions up on deck as nine men contemplate their year on the ice. Nobody says anything. No words are necessary.
Finally, Bjaaland turns his back on the scene of whiteness. He leans his elbows on the railing and sets his ravaged face northward. ‘Good riddance,’ is his laconic send-off.
EPILOGUE
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Nothing remains of ‘Framheim’, Roald Amundsen’s Antarctic base on the Ross Ice Shelf, formerly known as the Great Ice Barrier. It has completely and utterly disappeared. Amundsen’s Framheim was never meant to be a permanent home, or an enduring monument to the Norwegian explorer’s astonishing achievement. Amundsen was in Antarctica to achieve one thing, and one thing only – to be the first man to reach the southernmost point on the planet.
The ice was thick where the Norwegians built their winter hut in the summer of 1911. Amundsen’s men dug deep into the ice, carving out a series of underground rooms connected by tunnels so they could move about freely even as the fiercest Antarctic blizzards raged overhead. But the Ross Ice Shelf does not stand still. This great floating plate of ice, locked in the frozen embrace of the Antarctic continent and fed continually by the mighty glaciers squeezing forth from the interior, is prone to breaking off in huge chunks. Gone is Amundsen’s simple hut, the sledges, the underground rooms, the ghosts of the Norwegians’ restless dogs. In May 2000, whatever remained of Framheim fell into the sea.
If he were alive, Amundsen would shrug his shoulders. ‘Good thing we were not having breakfast at the time,’ he might reply.
Having secured his victory at the South Pole, Amundsen up and left. No sentimental tears, no regrets. He was pleased to leave the windswept plains of Antarctica for his next big adventure – whatever that might be. Besides, the world was waiting for news. His news.
Three months later in Hobart, Amundsen was able to successfully send word of his achievement to Fridtjof Nansen and the King of Norway. After dodging the clamouring questions of the Tasmanian newsmen desperate for a scoop, Amundsen was able to honour his agreement with the New York Times, Daily Chronicle and London Times for exclusive rights to his story, thanks in large part to the efforts of his brother Leon in negotiating them.
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