Nobody dares mention how tiny their hut is – a mere eight by four metres. It’s certainly roomier than the tents the men have been sleeping in for almost a month. Eight members of the land party cluster around the dining table amid the comforting smells emanating from the kitchen. Lindstrøm is cooking their first meal on his new coal range. The men look scruffy and out of place in the shiny new home they have christened ‘Framheim’. Ruddy faces, chapped lips and crusty cheeks are a natural consequence of weeks spent working in fierce wind and bone-dry air. Now would be the time to grow facial hair, the thicker the better, but Amundsen, convinced that a tidy appearance encourages other tidy habits, has decreed that each man must shave once a week.
‘Last time we saw this little house it was sitting in your garden on the Bunde Fjord, surrounded by trees, the air full of birdsong,’ says Prestrud.
‘What’s wrong with ice?’ Stubberud says with mock astonishment.
‘We also have snow,’ suggests Bjaaland playfully.
‘And I’ll give you birdsong.’ Helmer starts to make the loud buzzing squawk of an emperor penguin but he’s soon shouted down by the rest of the party.
‘Here’s to unique beauty, wherever we may find it,’ Amundsen says, raising a toast. ‘To Framheim!’
‘Skål!’ The men pledge their friendship, clink their glasses and brace themselves for the back-of-the-throat sting of the aquavit. Johansen nurses a mug of tea and a grimace but does his best to meet each toast with good grace. Rousing music from the gramophone sets the tone. The men raise a cheer to Framheim, to their leader, to the successful completion of their journey and to the safe return of the Fram once it’s all over. Good humour and optimism unify the men on their first night. The dogs, now fastened to wire ropes stretched in a large open square outside, start their nightly concert. First one, then a couple, then the entire congregation start up in their howling chorus, sitting low to the ground with their heads extended skyward.
‘What makes them do that?’ Oscar asks Amundsen.
‘Ask Sverre. He knows dogs best.’
Sverre blushes, pleased that the chief defers to his superior knowledge. ‘Actually, no one knows why they do that. Why they start up. Why they stop so suddenly. The strangest thing I find is that they all stop at exactly the same time. No stragglers. Not one dog decides to carry on as a soloist.’
‘Well, we know they’re expert communicators,’ says Amundsen. ‘They have different voices for different purposes. One for fighting, one for playing, an entirely different voice when things are wrong, when they see one of their kind breaking the rules. It’s like a child running to teacher to tell on his classmates.’
‘That sound reminds me of wolves howling,’ says Bjaaland.
‘Not far removed from wolves,’ says Sverre. ‘Everything they do is based on the pecking order. They all know their place.’
‘And man needs to be at the top of the pack.’ Amundsen is keen to emphasise this to the novices. ‘If he’s not at the top, then he is actually at the bottom.’
‘I’ve noticed,’ Oscar sighs. Both he and Prestrud have spent the last week coming to grips with the basics of driving a dog team. He hates using the whip but experience has taught him that he must establish himself as leader or face being taken for a ride. Lieutenant Prestrud has encountered exactly the same challenge but is more open to dominating his team through the use of physical force. Everyone assumes he’s the sensible one, the quiet, studious navigational expert, peering at his instruments, taking his readings. But it’s obvious to all who see Prestrud flash by that driving a dog team is more raucous fun than the lieutenant has had in almost a whole decade in the Norwegian Navy.
Amundsen is clearly fascinated by dogs. He wriggles closer to the table. ‘You know I could take the meat from the mouths of my sledge dogs and not one of them would dare bite me. I’d never try that trick on one of my house dogs. I’d likely lose a finger.’
After the laughter dies down Bjaaland looks across the table and asks, ‘How about you, Johansen? What’s your experience of dogs?’
Johansen shifts in his seat, adjusts his grip on his mug of tea and opens his mouth to speak.
However, Amundsen interrupts. ‘Excuse me, Johansen, but I think we need to get down to business.’
Johansen forces a smile. Obviously the time for stories has passed.
‘But dinner is ready,’ Lindstrøm insists. He has extremely high standards of punctuality.
Amundsen looks up at the cook with an indulgent smile and says, ‘I won’t be long, Fatty.’
Lindstrøm nods, wipes his hands on the cloth at his waist and retreats back to the kitchen.
‘Our goal lies at 90 degrees south, approximately 1100 kilometres away. We shall be racing against time and starvation. Now that we have established Framheim at 78 degrees south, it is imperative that we start to lay supply depots along our proposed route. One supply depot for every degree of latitude. That’s roughly 100 kilometres apart, or as far as we can get them before winter sets in. I want to start preparing for this immediately.’
Lindstrøm taps the palm of his hand with a soup ladle in a sign of exaggerated impatience. Amundsen continues, ‘I will need each man to do his part with the dog teams.’
Oscar grimaces self-consciously. ‘I don’t think I …’
Amundsen raises his palms, asking for patience. ‘Four men will accompany three sledges and eighteen dogs. Others can pack and secure the provisions. I’ve calculated 250 kilograms per sledge with each load forming a depot.’
‘I’d like to volunteer,’ says Helmer.
‘And me,’ says Prestrud, eager for some real-life sledging experience.
Johansen slowly puts up his hand, half expecting his offer of help to be dismissed, but it’s not.
‘Excellent,’ says Amundsen.
‘Can I bring in the stew now?’ Lindstrøm asks.
Amundsen gestures at the table. ‘You may.’
There’s a knock at the entrance to the hut.
‘Our first visitor,’ says Lindstrøm, plonking the heavy casserole on the table. ‘Wanting to see where the good smells are coming from.’
In fact it’s Lieutenant Gjertsen from the Fram, looking like he’s over-exerted himself on his dash up the hill. Lindstrøm ushers him in and takes his coat but the lieutenant doesn’t wish to sit. He tries to catch his breath. ‘There’s another sailing ship in the bay. Captain Nilsen says it’s the Terra Nova. Scott’s expedition ship. Sir, it’s the English.’