A tiny village in the vast shimmering emptiness, that is what Framheim resembles by the first weeks of February. Fourteen tents have sprung up around the main hut like pale-capped mushrooms. Eight provide shelter for the dog teams, somewhere to hunker down at night and escape the penetrating cold. Oscar and Bjaaland have dug out the snow beneath each tent so that the dogs have a sunken lair, which provides additional insulation while protecting the tent canvas from sharp teeth and claws.
Another tent provides storage for the men’s reindeer clothing and sleeping bags, which need to be kept cold and dry; another holds coal reserves and firewood. One tent has been christened the ‘maternity hospital’ and offers a little peace and quiet for any dog expecting a litter of puppies. Keeping newborn pups a safe distance from the other dogs is important now that they all roam free during the day. Hauling sledges is hungry work and they’ve done a great deal in the last few weeks. The dogs are ravenous and will eat anything they find lying around. The tent they use to store the seal meat and dried fish has a wall of snow around it so high it can deter even the most intrepid four-legged thief. There are plenty that will try their luck. Madeiro, Captain Nilsen’s pup, even sneaked into Lindstrøm’s kitchen and stole a side of beef.
Amundsen inspects the layout of the camp with Prestrud, who has taken a break from his navigational tables in the hope that the chill air will clear his mind. For hours he’s sat hunched at the table in the hut, his head swimming with figures, astronomical data, calculations and observations he must make sense of in order to plot the supply depots. Prestrud feels like the only thing he ever does is flick back and forth through the pages of his Nautical Almanac for 1911, which lists the position of the sun and moon and a whole range of celestial bodies for every hour of every day for an entire year. With this information at his fingertips, a chronometer to tell the exact time, and a sextant to measure the angle of the sun from the horizon, Prestrud will be able to establish their position relative to the pole at every stage of their journey. While Amundsen and Johansen have their own navigational experience and Prestrud has attempted to impart some rudimentary knowledge to the others, it is his head on the chopping block should an error occur.
Both men are still fighting off the head cold passed on by the Englishmen during their visit to the Terra Nova. Amundsen stops, his face screwed up as if contemplating a horrible thought. He stays like that, head raised, his hooked nose twitching in expectation. Finally he faces into the sun and releases a loud, satisfying sneeze. ‘Excuse me.’
Staring at the ground, Prestrud barely registers the apology. He has something terrible to own up to and he’s put off telling the chief for weeks. He knows he can no longer keep it to himself. ‘Sir, I’ve got bad news.’
‘Mmmm?’ Amundsen bends down to ruffle the heads of the Three Musketeers, who have bounded over for some attention. Amundsen is temporarily consumed by the task of scratching ears.
Prestrud waits to the side, nudging away other dogs that come looking for a dose of human kindness. He swallows hard. ‘I forgot to bring the Nautical Almanac for 1912.’
Amundsen doesn’t hear. He’s engaged in conversation with one of the growling dogs. ‘You’re a bit too greedy, aren’t you? Pushing the others out of the way to squeeze closer to me so I’ll give you a rub – don’t you know there’s plenty for all of you? Plenty of rubbing and patting and …’
Prestrud can’t be sure Amundsen heard him. ‘Sir.’
Amundsen straightens up his hood and gives a deep sniff. ‘Yes, the Nautical Almanac,’ he says, suddenly serious and fixing Prestrud with his penetrating gaze. ‘You forgot it.’
‘I left it. It’s back in Norway. I just don’t know how I managed to …’
Amundsen doesn’t speak. He takes a long hard look at the lieutenant without blinking, seemingly without breathing. Finally he says, ‘Then we shall have to reach the pole by the end of the year, won’t we?’
This is not the angry response Prestrud expected. Momentarily confused, he sets off on a tumbling diagnosis of the situation that led to its being left.
The light touch of Amundsen’s hand on his forearm stops Prestrud mid-sentence. ‘It’s alright. I know you’ll make do with what you’ve got. By the way, how many copies of the Almanac for 1911 do you have?’
Prestrud blushes. ‘One.’
Amundsen raises his eyebrows. ‘Then we’ll have to be especially careful with it, won’t we?’
‘I’ve made six copies of the navigational tables,’ the lieutenant says hurriedly.
‘Very good. And how many do you plan to take on the depot-laying journey?’
Prestrud pauses. Is it a trick question? ‘Two?’ he offers sheepishly.
Amundsen shrugs his shoulders. ‘You’re our navigator. If you want two, take two. Frankly I don’t care if you leave all your navigational tables at home and set fire to our only copy of the Nautical Almanac as long as you can guide us to the pole and back in the fastest possible time.’
Prestrud grimaces. Amundsen’s comment is not so much a vote of confidence as a thinly veiled ultimatum.