The door to the chartroom is closed. Captain Nilsen and Amundsen have much to discuss. A stack of mail tied neatly with twine awaits the explorer’s attention on the table, along with a year’s worth of newspapers – another indulgence to savour in the weeks ahead. Much has happened since they turned their backs on the outside world. Finally, Nilsen asks the question that has hovered in the air between them since the first moments of their reunion.
‘Naturally, you’ve been to the South Pole?’
‘Ninety-nine days, a distance of almost 3000 kilometres.’
Captain Nilsen whistles in admiration.
The two men stare at the map on the chartroom table. The same one Nilsen unfurled before the stunned crew way back in October 1910, when Amundsen revealed his true intentions.
‘I must admit, I did have my concerns,’ Amundsen says with surprising candour.
‘Well, covering a distance like that, anything could happen,’ Nilsen agrees.
Amundsen gives a snort. ‘There was never any doubt in my mind that we’d succeed. I was concerned about you and your challenges. Getting to Buenos Aires. Securing the necessary funds.’ His eyes bulge comically. ‘And coming back here to get us!’
Nilsen assumes a philosophical air. ‘Don Pedro Christophersen – that’s who we need to thank. He answered our prayers.’
‘Well, there’s a mountain with his name on it. And … one for you also.’
‘You’re joking.’ Nilsen’s face is transformed by an enormous grin.
‘Actually not a mountain, more a plateau at around 86 degrees south. Sort of around here.’ Amundsen swirls his index finger above an empty spot to the left of where the Axel Heiberg Glacier would butt up against the Antarctic Plateau, had any of it been marked on the largely blank map.
Nilsen puffs out his chest. ‘How very grand.’
‘Mount Olav Bjaaland, Mount Sverre Hassel, Mount Oscar Wisting, Mount Helmer Hansen. You’re in good company,’ Amundsen says with genuine warmth.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Lieutenant Gjertsen, sporting a wild beard and dirty overalls. Despite not being the least impressed by his slovenly appearance, Amundsen accepts the generosity of his congratulatory handshake. He can tell the lieutenant is desperate to hear every last detail of their journey. He and Lieutenant Prestrud will have their heads together for hours.
‘Sir,’ he says to Nilsen. ‘When should we expect the others?’
‘Right away, I think.’ Nilsen looks to Amundsen for confirmation.
Amundsen nods. ‘They’ve started packing up Framheim already. I’ve instructed them to take anything of value. The rest they can leave. Half a dozen sledge-loads of supplies at most.’
‘Make the necessary space available, Gjertsen, and ready the crew. We’re going to have a very busy few days.’
Once Gjertsen leaves, Amundsen fixes his friend with a stern gaze. ‘We have to leave here as quickly as possible. I want to be the one to report the news to the world.’
‘So I should set a course to Lyttelton? It’s the closest port.’
‘New Zealand?’ Amundsen eyes flash and he shakes his head. ‘No. That’s Scott’s patch. We won’t be welcome there. Make for Hobart.’
‘Hobart, Tasmania eh? I’m not so sure you’ll get a warm welcome there either. Those British colonies …’ Nilsen’s voice drifts off. ‘I’m afraid you’re not a very popular man, Roald.’
Amundsen’s nostrils flare as he breathes in deeply.
‘Even in Norway.’ Nilsen shakes his head. ‘People were bent out of shape over what you did. Parliament wanted to order you home.’
Amundsen huffs. ‘Which the king refused to do!’
Nilsen sighs. ‘Diplomatically it has been awkward. With the British, I mean. Especially after we had such strong support from them for Norwegian independence. It’s a bit of a slap in the face, to be honest, to beat their man to the South Pole. It’s been viewed as a breach of “etiquette”.’
‘Are those people mad? Is the quest for the pole exclusively given to Scott to achieve?’ Amundsen’s suddenly riled. ‘I couldn’t care less what they think, those idiots.’
Nilsen forces a smile. ‘Nice to have support where it matters though. From what I heard from Don Pedro, Nansen calmed them all down.’
‘Yes. It appears so. He understands. And we have the confidence of the King of Norway. And Don Pedro of course. When everyone turned their backs on me, they extend their hands. I owe them more than I can ever say.’
Over the next two days, sledges trundle back and forth to the edge of the sea ice with an odd assortment of clothing and equipment, items of sentimental value and those deemed too expensive to abandon. Framheim, their haven of warmth and companionship, is mostly empty. Lindstrøm packs away a few favoured items into a crate – his lucky ladle, the cursed handheld coffee grinder, the clockwork acrobat with an old woman’s face that provided him with such amusement on countless evenings alone in the hut. Pots and frying pan, buckets, mops, plates and cutlery, the trusty coal range – they will all stay.
Towards the end of the day, Amundsen’s flustered face appears at the door. ‘Time’s up, Fatty.’
Lindstrøm nods. He’s looked over the odds and ends that remain in the dug-out pantry around the side of the hut. It’s a jumbled mess down there and he decides against going through every single can and jar of preserves. He tucks two wheels of Dutch smoked cheese under each arm and heads for the door. However, there is one last thing he would like to do before sealing up their home and setting sail.
There is a pleasing smell of carbolic soap within the hut. Back and forth, back and forth he guides his trusty mop, making sure to chase its foamy head of string into all the corners. The table and chairs have been scrubbed and the mattresses have been dragged outside and beaten soundly in the sunshine. Satisfied that he has left everything in order, Lindstrøm closes the door behind him. He hesitates a moment, keen to fasten the door somehow, but there’s no key and no lock. He sighs in resignation. After battling their way to the bottom of the globe, those Japanese are welcome to anything they might find here.
While the others are loading the ship, Oscar goes in search of the captain. He’s a hard man to pin down. Twice Oscar has called to him on deck only to have Nilsen raise a hand for patience. More than once he’s said, I’ll be with you shortly, only to disappear below decks.
Oscar knocks firmly on the captain’s cabin door.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Oscar. Permission to enter?’
Nilsen turns wearily from his desk. Whatever the issue, he hopes it will be quickly resolved. His door swings open but it’s not Oscar, it’s a black and white mass of fur. A dog’s wet snout collects his chin, licks his ear. A large head squeezes itself under his hands in wild greeting. Papers fly as dog paws land on the captain’s desk and a sniffing investigation gets underway.
‘Madeiro?’ he says incredulously.
Oscar’s head appears around the door, beaming. ‘Recognise this mutt?’
‘Not sure I would have,’ says Nilsen, who is now standing with his arms over his head while the dog leaps about him. ‘He’s a good deal larger than when I last saw him.’
‘Come here,’ Oscar growls, grabbing at the dog in an effort to subdue his exuberance. ‘Made it to the pole and back. With his mother, Camilla, you remember?’
‘I do,’ says Nilsen a little reservedly, his hands still above his head.
‘Well, just thought I’d let you know.’ Oscar yanks the dog towards the door. ‘They’re all on deck now – all thirty-nine of them – if you want to say hello.’
‘Good for you, Madeiro.’ Nilsen gives the dog’s head a tentative pat; nothing too enthusiastic, he doesn’t want to encourage more jumping. How like the others he’s become, the captain thinks. Huge, out of control and oh, so smelly! He looks at Oscar. ‘Not quite pet material, is he?’
Oscar laughs. ‘No! And he doesn’t need your protection anymore. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, I think he’s pregnant.’
It’s 10 p.m. on 30 January when the Fram finally motors away from the mooring it so briefly occupied on the edge of the Bay of Whales. Lindstrøm points to where the Framheim hut would be, if visibility weren’t so poor. None of the others have had a chance to say goodbye, deprived of a last glimpse of their cherished home by the arrival of a thick bank of fog. There are mixed emotions up on deck as nine men contemplate their year on the ice. Nobody says anything. No words are necessary.
Finally, Bjaaland turns his back on the scene of whiteness. He leans his elbows on the railing and sets his ravaged face northward. ‘Good riddance,’ is his laconic send-off.