The fire’s lit, the kitchen door opens. The cook flings down the plates and cutlery on the table before rounding off his performance with his customary finale – the dropping of spoons from a height into each of the men’s enamel mugs.
‘Quit it, Fatty.’
‘Of all mornings. We deserve a sleep-in.’
‘Why you softies, I was up until one last night waiting for the boys. You don’t hear me complaining.’ Lindstrøm retreats to the kitchen to do battle with the coffee mill.
There’s movement in the bunks. Some groaning. A little slower than normal, the men emerge and set about their various morning rituals – washing, dressing and heading outside for a minute or two to guess the temperature – it’s just like any other morning except there is a heaviness in the air and hardly a word is spoken. Stubberud is limping badly. So is Helmer. There is no laughter or small talk or joking as they sit down.
Amundsen takes a sip of his coffee and regards Johansen over the rim of his mug. ‘What took you so long?’
‘WHAT TOOK US SO LONG?’ Johansen shouts. ‘You left us for dead!’ Hatred gushes forth unabashed. ‘Call yourself a leader? You’re nothing but a coward. Save yourself! To hell with anyone else.’
The men shrink from the table. Such vehemence directed at the chief – it’s unthinkable.
‘No leader should ever abandon his team!’ Fine specks of spittle fly in Amundsen’s direction. Johansen pauses, mustering his thoughts, his mouth working, his eyes fixed on the mask of the chief ’s face. He starts anew, ‘Prestrud was left. Neither of us had anything. It was madness. Blundering like idiots out there. We lost our bearings in fog. We’d lost the light. We’re only alive because we heard the dogs barking outside the hut. We had to follow the bloody howling of dogs to get home. Clearly no one was coming to look for us. It’s a disgrace.’ There’s a pause. ‘You’re a disgrace.’
A profound silence descends. Johansen is right. But the hut is so small and his voice is so loud. Embarrassment prevents anyone from speaking up. Prestrud simply looks at his plate and wishes for it all to be over.
‘It was madness to set out so early in the season. You’re going to kill us all with your plans. You don’t have a clue what you’re doing.’ Johansen’s words trail off. He shakes his head.
Amundsen takes it all, his eyes resting on Johansen’s weather-beaten complexion with studied indifference. To be thus challenged, and with an audience. Does Johansen really think he’ll get away with this? Mutinous. It’s a defining moment. His authority must not be called into question.
‘How dare you?’ Amundsen’s voice is even but forceful. ‘I’ll have no more of your slanderous talk. It is nobody’s fault other than your own. You failed to keep pace with the rest of the group. It is your failing, sir. It was not my priority to ensure you had a tent on your sledge. I had men who required medical attention. As far as I was concerned that took precedence over checking on the likes of you, Hjalmar Johansen. That was my priority.’
Johansen scoffs. ‘You and your so-called priorities be damned.’
Johansen has let humiliation and bitterness and a whole raft of other ugly feelings he cannot define get the better of him. Yes, he was opposed to setting out so early, yes he had the weakest dog team, yes he had no provisions, but to say things that cannot be unsaid – that is far from prudent. This was his time – to make his name shine once more, to bask in the fame that was once his, to rehabilitate himself, to move beyond the unhappiness of losing his wife, his kids, and his self-control. This was his time to prove his worth, to the world and to himself.
Amundsen’s words are unhurried. ‘Hjalmar Johansen, you have overstepped the mark. Given you hold my leadership in such low regard and have been so forthright in your criticisms of this expedition, you leave me no option but to remove you from our journey to the South Pole.’