by Chris Turney
Working ferociously on his return to the northern hemisphere the same year, Amundsen wrote The South Pole and delivered it to his Norwegian publishers. Within two days of the announcement of Amundsen’s success, William Heinemann, founder of the esteemed Heinemann Press, had tried to secure a deal for the English translation of this much-anticipated title—previous polar exploration books had sold well, and Amundsen’s account was expected to prove highly profitable. Heinemann asked Nansen to act as an intermediary. But by 18 March he had revoked his offer. The publisher was shocked by a second interview in the Daily Chronicle, writing to Nansen: ‘I must say I am so disappointed with the want of imagination he displays and the blindness he seems to have for a pictorial attraction in even so thrilling a thing as his achievement that I have decided not in any circumstances to compete for his book…I cannot help feeling that however great Amundsen’s feat is, he is not likely to write a good book; and even if he were, it has been so seriously hurt by the wretched cable interview that it is pretty certain to be a disappointment.’
Fortunately for Amundsen, others were willing to take the risk. In Amundsen’s English version the weather observations made at Framheim were included for the first time and the units converted from metric to imperial measurements, so they could be understood by the English-speaking scientific community. And when Amundsen returned to Norway he submitted his latitude observations to an astronomer, to be independently checked. The calculations proved correct: Amundsen had made it to the pole, and the report was included as an appendix.
Sales of The South Pole were disappointing and reviews were mixed. In the appendices was also a report of the oceanographic cruise made by the Fram. During July and August 1911 the vessel had sailed thousands of kilometres, from Buenos Aires to Africa and back again, taking temperatures and salinity measurements as it went. ‘Valuable as they are,’ wrote one reviewer, ‘we feel it somewhat disappointing that a ship like the Fram did not do this work in higher southern latitudes in the South Atlantic where the work is even more required, and where the ordinarily constructed ship could not work with the same safety and success as the Fram.’ The RGS review was positive but expressed amazement that Amundsen had not taken any medical support—it was ‘extremely fortunate that the necessity for surgical assistance did not arise’. Dr Harry Edmonds, the American doctor who had missed the journey, appears to have kept quiet.
Other comments were more comical. The Observer remarked: ‘One is struck by the wealth of infernal nomenclature in Captain Amundsen’s narrative. He arrived, he tells us, at “The Devil’s Glacier”; and a particularly difficult corner he named “The Devil’s Dancing Room.” But perhaps, in the Antarctic Circle, the most illicit suggestion of warmth is welcome.’
Amundsen had included a map of his route, drawn up shortly after the polar party had returned to the ship. Commenting on the mountains ascended by the Norwegians, a reviewer remarked, ‘Amundsen made the most important discovery that the main line of peaks from there is continued not towards Graham Land [the Antarctic Peninsula], but towards Coats Land [the eastern edge of the Weddell Sea], in the range named after Queen Maud, while in about 86°S., 160°W., another range strikes away to the north-east: this bears no name on Amundsen’s map, but in the text it is called Carmen Land.’ Amundsen was nervous about whether Carmen Land was real and preferred to describe it as having the ‘Appearance of Land’. The reviewer was not sympathetic. ‘Such caution is admirable, but it will likely enough result in some explorer in the future taking unto himself the credit for the discovery of this land.’
But Amundsen was right to be careful. Tricks of light are common in the south, giving the appearance of land. The best known are mirages, where light is refracted through the atmosphere, causing a range of unusual effects. Most of us are familiar with movies showing thirsty, desperate explorers seeing images of oases in the desert, the result of a rapid drop in air temperature above the surface. When the opposite happens, with the air cooling towards the surface, objects on the horizon can appear to float above the ground.
Antarctica has an impressive record of claims for new coastlines and mountain ranges caused by this effect, exaggerated by the exceptionally clear skies and low levels of dust in the air. Images can be thrown up above the horizon, frighteningly clear and seemingly closer than where the object is located. Importantly, in exploration stakes, it is not considered a true observation unless you have a direct line of sight; it is not enough to claim a new discovery from a mirage, as some have been shown to appear as far away as 450 kilometres from their true locations, causing much subsequent confusion. So, when Amundsen and his team thought they had seen a mountainous region they called Carmen Land about one hundred kilometres away, they rightly voiced their doubts. And whether this land was real or not would have major implications for our understanding of the make-up of Antarctica.
Amundsen was the hero of the day, and many wanted to bask in his reflected glory. One of the first was his former Antarctic colleague Frederick Cook, who was visiting Europe in the summer of 1912 in a final attempt to convince the public that he had been the first to reach the North Pole. He asked Amundsen if they might meet and be photographed together, billed as the discoverers of both poles. Amundsen dared not risk it: Cook was falling from grace, and it would not do to be seen publicly with him during his long and bitter argument with Peary; it risked detracting from Amundsen’s achievement and drawing comparisons to the Norwegian’s decision to compete with Scott. Cook was on his own, and shortly afterwards went into hiding.
What had happened to Scott at the time of Amundsen’s return remained unclear. Some newspapers questioned whether both teams had reached the pole and not seen each other. Others wondered when news would be received from Scott. Privately, many connected to the expedition expressed their frustration. Sir Clements Markham’s journals were typical of the feeling in Britain. On 12 March 1912 he wrote, ‘News that Amundsen had got to Hobart, asserting that he had been to the south pole. We shall hear the truth when the “Terra Nova” arrives.’ Markham referred to Amundsen scornfully as a ‘gad fly’ and his actions as a ‘dirty trick’, and resolutely refused to acknowledge what the Norwegian had done beyond stealing Scott’s thunder.
Other colleagues were more supportive. Scott Keltie of the RGS expressed his relief that the pole had been claimed. Nansen concurred: ‘it is a blessing that both Poles have at last been conquered. Now has the time come for solid scientific work in the Polar regions, and there is indeed much to be done both in the one way and the other.’ There was some concern over the manner in which it had been conducted, but Nansen was magnanimous. ‘I gave up my South Polar expedition (planned exactly as Amundsen’s expedition has been now carried out) in order to let Amundsen have the “Fram” for his North Polar expedition,’ Nansen later wrote to Keltie. ‘This fact may also have made it a little difficult for him to speak to me about it before he left, as I had told him that I considered his North Polar expedition more important than any attainment of the South Pole, and that I therefore gave up the “Fram” to him.’
Nansen would not let Amundsen forget that he was still committed to reaching the North Pole, and insisted his protégé make an attempt. Most financial backers had invested in a Norwegian expedition for a scientific study of the Arctic, after all, and not its southern equivalent. On their return journey Amundsen approached the Fram crew to see if they wished to join him for an assault on the original objective. Most were desperate to get home and not enthusiastic. The explorer had to use all his powers of persuasion to talk each individual round—save Bjaaland, who was not having any of it.
Meanwhile, the relationship with Johansen was now irreparable. Amundsen described him in correspondence as a ‘rascal’ and, on reaching Hobart, Nansen’s old friend had left the Fram and made his own way home. At the time of public celebrations of the Norwegian success, Johansen went to Solli Park in Oslo and shot himself—a tragic end to the life of one of the great polar explorers.
Reassured, Amundsen went ahead with the visit. In anticipation of his RGS talk he wrote a report on his findings that would be published in the society’s journal, variations of which were reproduced around the world. There were concerns over Amundsen’s writing and doubts raised about some of his unit conversions. The manuscript was in a ‘somewhat colloquial style’, prompting Keltie to suggest Amundsen ‘omit all mention of what he calls the “butchery” of the dogs’; and, later, observe: ‘I suppose he has a right to name part of the Plateau after King Haakon although it is really a part of King Edward Plateau.’
The RGS lecture was not the great success it might have been. In wrapping up the event, after hearing Amundsen’s praise for his canine transport, Lord Curzon, the former viceroy of India, allegedly concluded his speech with, ‘Therefore, I take the liberty to propose three cheers for the dogs’—while at the same time gesturing to Amundsen to keep calm. Whether the story is real or apocryphal is unclear. At the time, most of the comments concerned the quality of Curzon’s delivery, with one journalist complaining that the lord ‘mumbled’ and ‘did not utter a single sentence I could quote in my reports’, his report concluding: ‘It might have done in India; it actually does in the House of Lords, but it won’t do before great meetings of the R.G.S.’
It is difficult to tell whether Curzon’s comment about the dogs was a pointed joke or misunderstood, but Amundsen took it as a public insult. In his 1928 memoirs he wrote, ‘I feel justified in saying that by and large the British are a race of very bad losers.’ Certainly Amundsen was sensitive about the lecture, even going to the length of taping over one half of the Polheim slide, hiding the four Norwegians facing the flag. It was probably a relief for all concerned when the night was over.
Beyond disgruntled rivals, and uneven book and lecture reviews, there was widespread recognition that Amundsen’s was one of the great achievements in world exploration. He had done more than just claim a pole. Through meticulous planning and innovative ways of exploring the south he had revealed profound insights into Antarctica.
William Speirs Bruce, in thanking Amundsen for his RGS lecture, singled out ‘the valuable scientific work Captain Amundsen has done in the South Polar regions…Most important is it that he has found the mountain range that Shackleton discovered extending to the south-east as far as 80°S., and also that from a point in 86°S. he has found a range stretching to the north-east.’
Carmen Land was fast becoming a major outcome of the expedition. It was more than just a curiosity, for it appeared to resolve an important problem. Bruce explained: ‘there are two theories of the Antarctic continent which have been advocated in recent years. The one is that there is one land-mass, and the other that there are two land-masses divided by a barrier running from the Ross sea to the Weddell sea…now Amundsen has thoroughly cleared up the matter, for he found the great mountain range bounding the inland Plateau to the north continuing north-east to Edward Land, thus shutting the Ross Barrier into a bight. That is a scientific result of the greatest possible importance.’
Bruce seemed more convinced than Amundsen, but the question remained: was Carmen Land real?
CHAPTER 5
THE DASH PATROL
Nobu Shirase and the Japanese South Polar Expedition, 1910–1912
Each sacrifice on the altar of science has driven man onwards in the wake of his philosophy, until science has conquered the pioneer work of the last terra incognita on the Globe.
CARSTEN BORCHGREVINK (1864–1934)
Cook’s and Peary’s 1909 claims in the Arctic did more than cause the Norwegians to switch their sights south. They also inspired another team—one largely forgotten today—to set out for Antarctica. But, unlike the Norwegian effort, this expedition came from a nation that had almost no tradition of exploration. The planned Japanese attempt on the North Pole, led by Nobu Shirase, was quickly derailed by the announcements of the two American explorers on their return to civilisation. And with Shackleton just falling short of the southern counterpart, Shirase turned his attention to Antarctica, deciding to seek scientific discovery and adventure there. The result was one of the most extraordinary of all Antarctic ventures.
Shirase prepared for his expedition with a determination and zeal that impressed the harshest of critics. Unlike the other teams of 1912, the Japanese had almost no contact with other explorers, gleaning what little they could about Antarctica from books and news reports. Reports of their impending effort went largely unnoticed outside Japan—so much so that the rest of the world was blithely ignorant of their plans until the Japanese suddenly turned up in New Zealand late in 1910. Perhaps most amazingly of all, save for Shirase, the team had no polar experience. The team assembled comprised sailors, enthusiasts, military men and one scientist: all said to have vowed to reach the South Pole or die.
Born in the small town of Konoura, northwest Japan, in 1861, Nobu Shirase was the eldest son of a Buddhist priest. Konoura is now part of the city of Nikaho, and the birthplace of the technology giant TDK, but at the turn of the twentieth century it was a backwater in Japanese affairs, best known for a thousand-year-old temple and a popular annual fish festival celebrating the local cod. And yet, even here, tales of early European explorers, particularly Franklin and his search for the Northwest Passage, reached the young Shirase’s ears, inspiring a lifelong passion that would lead to his own expedition.
Like Amundsen, however, Shirase was destined to first follow a different career path, leaving school in 1879 and training to become a Buddhist priest. He soon decided that it did not fit with his plans to be an explorer. Leaving the temple, Shirase signed up to become an officer in the army, and the honour of becoming a priest fell to the family’s second son. Shirase’s military experiences, while horrific, led directly to his later Antarctic journey.
Shirase’s proposal to reach the South Geographic Pole came during a momentous period in his nation’s history—a tumultuous time, politically and intellectually. Four decades earlier the Meiji Restoration of 1868 had overthrown the Tokugawa government, ending centuries of self-imposed Japanese isolation. For more than two centuries under the Tokugawa leadership, the Sakoku Edict had made it illegal to go overseas and return to Japan.
To the Tokugawa shoguns the outside world offered only uncertainty, which would lead to internal instability, benefitting overseas powers. With the advent of the Meiji Restoration, Japan decided the best way to deal with the rest of the world was instead to open itself up. Although some saw the new era as threatening—understandable, after such a long period of isolation—others considered it an unparalleled opportunity. Western science was of particular interest: Japanese intellectuals argued that the nation should take science more seriously if the country was to talk to the rest of the world as an equal. Dedicated research institutions were established and progress was swift. The country had its first Nobel Prize nomination by 1910—the same year that Nobu Shirase proposed his expedition.
Shirase was determined that his exploration of the south would help show that Japan was a world power: it could compete for the last unexplored continent. Success in Antarctica would announce that Japan had rejoined the global community.
Shirase came to Antarctica by a circuitous route. In 1875 Japan had acquired the Chishima Islands from Russia in return for recognising their neighbour’s rights elsewhere. Now known as the K
uril Islands, this archipelago stretches from the northern coast of Japan’s second-largest island, Hokkaido, all the way up to southern Kamchatka, in far-east Russia. Four years after joining the military, Shirase found himself in the Chishima Islands on his first polar expedition, led by one Naritada Gunji. Between 1883 and 1885 the party would explore the new territory and establish an all-Japanese colony. Poor planning, though, led to the deaths of ten of its members during the first winter, and the following summer Gunji left to fight in the First Sino-Japanese War, leaving Shirase to spend the second winter with five new expedition members.
Things did not improve. Of the six men, three died from scurvy and the survivors pulled out the following August. Shirase was incensed at Gunji’s disorganisation; they had achieved little, at the cost of many lives. He wrote a stinging attack, publicly accusing the former expedition commander of poor leadership. Yet Shirase stayed in the army, and became a veteran of the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905. He was one of the few Japanese figures who could claim significant polar experience, invaluable for his planned Antarctic expedition.
Shirase petitioned the government in early 1910 to support his proposed South Pole venture. ‘I believe it is the proper course of action to boldly accept this challenge [of polar exploration],’ he wrote. ‘The powers of the world ridicule the Empire of Japan, saying we Japanese are barbarians who are strong and brave in warfare, but timid and cowardly when it comes to the realm of science. For the sake of bushido [loosely translated, honour] we must correct this regrettable situation.’
It was time to use science to show how progressive Japan was. ‘For this reason, from July or August of this year, I humbly propose to…set out to explore the Antarctic accompanied by scientists of various specializations. In addition to scientific contributions, within three years I vow to raise our Japanese Imperial flag at the South Pole and to solve this most formidable challenge of the world’—and to ‘expand the nation’s territories and become a rich and powerful nation’.