The politely undulating ground has given way to peculiar lumpen formations, erupting from the surface like hay stacks. Prestrud picks a line and tries to keep to it, but in this field of strange features, deviations are inevitable. So too the loud criticisms from Helmer whenever he thinks the forerunner’s deviations are too aggressive. For this reason Prestrud assumes the shouting is directed at him. It’s not. The shouting is because Helmer’s three leading dogs have disappeared. There one moment, gone the next.
Helmer hefts the sledge over onto its side to keep it from slipping further, should the other dogs be dragged into the crevasse by the weight of their colleagues. The barking of the remaining dogs sends spikes of sound into the still air; lower howls issue from below the snow. Helmer plants his skis over the ragged fissure and peers down. Dangling in their harnesses, the dogs are clearly distressed, nipping and growling at each other in confusion while they knock and jostle against slick ice walls.
‘It’s reasonably narrow, but deep,’ he says when Amundsen pulls level with his team.
Amundsen scans the surroundings. They’d all remarked on the change in the landscape over the last day or two. He sees it now for what it is: a clear indication of danger lurking below. Prestrud must have passed right over the hazard, his long skis distributing enough of his weight that the snow bridge below him did not collapse.
Oscar arrives on the scene, then Johansen, who settles his team some way back and skis towards the assembled party. ‘They alive?’
Helmer nods. ‘We’ll need to be careful pulling them back up though. They could easily slip their harnesses and I can’t see the bottom.’
‘Rotten surface,’ Johansen says, pointing out the hummocks. ‘We’re clearly in a crevasse field. Someone should’ve told Prestrud.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Amundsen nods impatiently. ‘Fine to say that now.’
One by one the dogs are pulled to the surface. First Helge, then Mylius, then Ring. They’re not heavy, but each dog wriggles and bucks as it tries to get free, unwittingly endangering its safe passage to the surface. None of them show any signs of injury but in manhandling them, Helmer gets a fresh appreciation of their woeful skin-and-bone condition under the deceptive volume of fur. Again Sverre’s words rise to confront him. How many dogs do you think you’ll lose?
‘Can they still pull?’ asks Amundsen.
‘For now,’ Helmer says cautiously, checking their legs.
‘My team’s almost completely …’ Johansen starts to speak.
‘Yes, yes, I know. Mine too,’ Amundsen snaps in irritation. The emaciated dogs weigh heavy on his conscience. With the intense cold pressing in, it’s hard to think straight. Then there’s the bad surface, his damp feet, the constant, throbbing pain of his haemorrhoids – all of it has conspired against his plans to reach 83 degrees.
Amundsen takes a deep breath before giving his verdict. ‘Let’s continue to 82. We’ll leave everything there and turn back. I think it best.’
They face a terrible battle. Another two days of wind and drift, overcast skies and, now they’ve passed through the hummocks, hauntingly empty vistas. Cracking the whip has little effect. The dogs bow their heads under its savage sting but have nothing more to give their masters, no fire in their stride or vigour in their shoulders. Often the men themselves must push the sledges from behind to deliver momentum to the exhausted cavalcade. Onward they crawl, amid shouts, howling and the dry shriek of the wind.
Two weeks they’ve been out in the wild. March 8 marks the end of their southward journey. It’s a remarkable achievement, bringing over half a tonne of supplies 260 kilometres closer to the pole. It will take them a few hours to organise the depot at 82 degrees south, which consists mainly of dog pemmican. The weather is clear and calm. They pitch their tents and enjoy a day of rest, satisfied that they can finally head home.
By the time they’re ready to leave the temperature has plunged to minus 32 degrees and the wind has picked up. Long strips of dark blue fabric flap in angry salute atop Amundsen’s sledge, which has been positioned on its end to further accentuate the location of their precious supplies. The 12-foot depot mound signals victory of a sort, but not one that anyone feels inclined to celebrate. Several of the dogs must be lifted to their feet and warmth massaged into their frozen limbs before they can even stand on their own. Resentful of the brutality that was required to get the dogs this far, each of the men shudders at the dark effort of returning to Framheim. The homeward journey is sure to exact a heavy toll.
Two days later the temperature hovers around minus 39 degrees. A storm bursts in from the south-east. Their best course of action will be to take shelter. The wind howls its demonic chorus. It claws at the tents for two long days, gnawing at the ropes and straining the thin fabric protecting the men from the full fury of the storm. When the worst is over and the four men emerge, the scene outside is one of chaos.
‘Where are the harnesses?’
‘Where are the ski bindings?’
Johansen picks up what remains of his whip. The leather sheath has been stripped. Teeth marks score deep in the wooden handle. ‘They’ve eaten the lot.’
Helmer swears. After a moment’s reflection he says, ‘I’ve got spare leather straps. That’s the bindings at least. We’ll have to use rope for harnesses.’
Johansen picks up a tent pole and whips it savagely through the air. ‘This’ll have to do.’
‘We’re short a few dogs.’ Oscar looks about in confusion.
‘Over there,’ Helmer gestures casually to where the snow is piled high against one of the sledges.
The dogs are indeed buried beneath. Are they dead? Oscar unearths first one, then another and another, and gets them moving. But Thor, one of Amundsen’s dogs, cannot be coaxed to his feet. Whining when touched, the animal is obviously gravely ill.
‘Sorry, my friend,’ Amundsen says with genuine emotion.
Oscar turns away just in time. He does not care to see the swift blow of the axe.
Thor’s lifeless body is tossed onto the sledge to be divided up at the next camp to feed his colleagues. Amundsen’s four remaining dogs have been shared between Oscar and Helmer’s teams but are not capable of much pulling. Jens, one of the Three Musketeers, is too weak to even walk. He is loaded together with the sleeping bags and tents and given a free ride for as long as he survives. The sledges, empty of provisions now, still represent an excessive burden for the compromised dog teams; there’ll be no hitching a ride like last time.
It’s a despicable job cutting up dogs that are no longer good for anything other than their meat. They must all take turns, even soft-hearted Oscar, who retches repeatedly while Amundsen offers advice.
‘I see why Thor was in such pain.’ Amundsen points to the abscess filling the dog’s entire chest cavity. ‘It’s been growing there a while, by the looks. Amazing that he had it in him to set out from Framheim, let alone get this far.’
Oscar presses his forearm to his nose to try and block the smell. ‘What shall I do?’
Amundsen shakes his head. ‘Bury it. The meat’s spoiled.’
In the night there is a fearsome racket. Several of the dogs have dug up Thor’s diseased carcass and are ripping into it with such frenzy that nobody can tear them from the foul feast. Most of the others, huddled and freezing like so many tightly bound knots in the snow, neither register the commotion nor display much sign of life. Johansen, swiping his tent pole back and forth with terrible menace, manages to chase the dogs a safe distance from the action so Oscar can once again bury the remains, this time much deeper in the snow. Nobody gets much sleep after that and an early start seems the only sensible option.
For several days in a row, the men manage to cover a distance of more than 20 kilometres a day. The remaining dogs have finally fallen into a rhythm. Perhaps it’s because the weather is warmer; perhaps they simply sense their journey’s end is ever nearer. Johansen’s team in particular seem to have come into their own. For so long the slowest, most disobedient dogs, they now beat a steady trail homeward.
‘Why are you stopping?’ asks Amundsen, sliding to a halt beside Oscar.
‘It’s Lurven,’ Oscar says, removing his skis and kneeling in the snow. ‘He howled then just sat down.’ The other dogs crowd around. Oscar bats their curious snouts away so he can get closer to Lurven, his leader, his best puller, in many ways his teacher.
Amundsen peers down at the animal. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Can’t be. He was pulling just a second ago.’
‘Well, he’s stopped breathing.’
‘No.’
‘He’s dead, Oscar.’ Amundsen sets to unbuckling the dog’s harness, a gesture that confuses the other dogs into thinking the day’s work is at an end.
‘My best dog.’ Oscar feels culpable. How did he not spot the dog’s fatal decline? ‘My best dog, worked to death.’
‘Forget the eulogy,’ says Amundsen briskly as he hefts the dead dog onto the sledge. ‘Let’s go.’ Oscar just stares at the animal, uncomprehending.
‘Come on,’ encourages Amundsen. ‘The others are getting away on us.’
Oscar knocks the snow from his boots and fastens his ski straps. He feels like vomiting.
That evening, Lurven’s scrawny body is chopped up and fed to his ravenous companions. This time, Johansen does the job.