Only a week has passed but their old tracks have disappeared. Nevertheless, Prestrud manages to spot the first flag at the 10-kilometre mark. Shortly after he comes across the first of the dried-fish markers. His gaze latches to the dark shape in his otherwise monotonous field of vision. He grabs and throws the fish to one side for Helmer to stash on the sledge before any of the dogs can snap it up – it’ll be needed to feed them later that afternoon.
The snow is deep and porridge-like. ‘Corn snow’, according to Amundsen. It’s heavy, sweaty work to break through it hour after hour, with the granular texture offering a gluey resistance to their skis and sledge runners. Helmer shouts at Prestrud to alter his course this way or that. The lieutenant’s mood darkens. By the third day Prestrud is spoiling for a fight. Not only must he cut a trail for everyone but at the end of the day he’s expected to cook too. Throughout the day his rage builds, his ill humour stoked by a crippling gale from the south-east that buffets his body and savages his face with a barrage of tiny ice particles. The dried fish have disappeared from view, obscured by the wind that churns the surface into a white slurry and turns everything to a blur. The shouting from behind grows in intensity.
‘Left, I said!’
This time there are four tents, with cooking taking place in two. Stubberud has dinner well underway in his tent before Prestrud can even make a start on his preparations. He is freezing cold but has nothing to cook and nowhere to cook it. He shelters in the lee of one of the other tents while he waits for Johansen to arrive with the stove and their tent. His muttering is almost comical.
‘Don’t be a martyr. Come in,’ yells Stubberud through the canvas.
‘I’ll just get my boots off and he’ll arrive,’ Prestrud yells back. ‘He does it on purpose, I swear! Making me wait every bloody time.’
‘His dogs are useless, that’s why he’s last,’ Oscar says as he slips into the tent, pleased to have discharged all his duties for the day.
Johansen’s outline materialises from the white whirl of windblown snow, his snow hood encased in a layer of ice. His dogs fall out of rhythm with each other as they sense an end to their toil. Johansen tosses his whip onto the sledge. Its shaft is broken in two places. Overuse is the cause. He’s going to have to repair it tonight if he’s to get these miserable curs going in the morning.
Prestrud strides towards him, lips tight. ‘Where have you been?’ he demands.
Johansen unstraps his skis. ‘Antarctica. You?’
‘I’ve been waiting an hour in this wind. Everybody else is warm, eating their supper. I can’t do a thing until you arrive with our tent and the stove.’
Johansen gestures at his dogs, their paws matted with blood. ‘What do you make of that? Sunday picnic? You go merrily on your way, out in front.’ Johansen flails his hands in a mocking dance. ‘Do you have any idea what it takes to keep these creatures going? Here you are, impatient and bad-tempered. You’re not the only one with chores at the end of a long day. I’ve got to feed my dogs, unload the sledges, sort the harnesses.’ Johansen rips off his gloves to retrieve the cooking equipment. He shoves it at Prestrud’s belly and begins the task of uncoupling his dogs from the traces, his fingers increasingly clumsy as the freezing air begins to sink its teeth into his exposed flesh.
There’s little conversation that evening in their cramped two-man tent even with Amundsen and Sverre joining them for the meal. Each man is sucking down his pemmican with grim focus.
‘These tents are not big enough,’ Johansen observes between mouthfuls.
Amundsen eyes him over the rim of his bowl. He has little patience for grumbling. He’s already heard more than enough from Prestrud. The men are all tired, brimming with petty complaints – they’ve all got something to gripe about. But Johansen is right. If they’re to avoid conflict then they’d better rethink their sleeping arrangements.