Amundsen's Way Read online

  Also by Joanna Grochowicz

  Into the White

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2019

  Copyright © Text, Joanna Grochowicz 2019

  Copyright © Illustrations, Sarah Lippett 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76063 766 8

  eISBN 978 1 76087 119 2

  For teaching resources, explore

  www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

  Cover and text design by Joanna Hunt

  Cover and text illustrations by Sarah Lippett

  Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  www.joannagrochowicz.com

  For Dad

  CONTENTS

  7 MARCH 1912 – HOBART

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  December 1887 – Bunde Fjord, Norway

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  1886 – Hardangervidda, Norway

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  1898 – the Belgica expedition

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  1903 – Ogchotku, Northwest Passage

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  April 1895 – Arctic Circle

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Epilogue

  Pic Section

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  7 MARCH 1912 – HOBART

  Many years from now, the people of Hobart will tell how he strode up Murray Street, an imposing figure flanked by two fearsome sledge dogs. But this is not the case. On this particular Thursday morning, Roald Amundsen is just a man heading up the hill to Hadley’s Orient Hotel, completely alone and in possession of news that will soon echo around the world.

  Sledge dogs are far from his thoughts. Neither is he concerned about what his crew are doing aboard the Fram, which has dropped anchor in the middle of the Derwent River. One clear thought spurs him on – hot water.

  He imagines soap and steam and how it will feel to slide his weary explorer’s body into an extravagantly deep bath. A proper wash in a proper bathroom; he can think of no greater luxury. It’s been a year and a half.

  Needless to say, Amundsen is not a fetching sight. In his filthy old cap and an ancient blue jersey riddled with holes, he appears more tramp than polar hero. Pedestrians alter their pace; some slow to let him pass, others pull their children aside. Amundsen sees the wrinkled-up noses, the odd looks at his attire. He cares little. Anonymity comes as a relief. He’s not ready for people. Not quite yet.

  To a man so used to walking on snow, the sensation of paving stones underfoot is unnerving. So too the loud, clacking sounds of the port, the swish of soft skirts, the peaty scent of horse manure on cobbles warmed by the sun.

  It was cooler on the water. The town seems airless by comparison. Sweaty, irritable, the explorer finds fault with the bustle of the place, the very squareness of the buildings. Even the air, flecked with dust, is disagreeable, filling his mouth with too much flavour. Coughing repeatedly, he longs to fill his lungs with a clean breeze off the sea, to feel the satisfying pang of air as cold as ice.

  Hadley’s Orient Hotel is a grand institution, judging by the white columns flanking its entry. Perhaps that’s why the harbourmaster so eagerly recommended it. Amundsen grasps the brass handrail like a lifeline and hefts himself up the stairs and into the hotel’s richly decorated lobby. The feeling of carpet is like a revelation; the deep red pattern is so intense it makes his eyes swim. Perhaps this moment, this return to the civilised world of man, marks the end of his journey. The thought is not altogether pleasing. In fact the ill-humour Amundsen has been nursing since stepping ashore has coalesced into a hard knot at the back of his throat and refuses to budge. How he longs for hot water.

  The young clerk regards with an insolent expression the tall, unkempt individual standing at the front desk.

  Amundsen clears his throat. ‘A room. With bathroom.’ It’s been so long since he spoke English that the words come out gruff and mangled.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t understand you,’ the clerk says, failing to make any effort.

  Amundsen tenses his jaw and resists the urge to bring his fist down on the counter. Instead he tries again with greater care. Several other guests have gathered behind him. A lady in a large hat brings a handkerchief to her nose.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll have to get the manager,’ says the clerk, unsure of how to proceed with dignity.

  When the manager arrives he’s taken off guard. They’re not used to such people in their establishment.

  ‘Can I help you?’ His manner is brisk, designed to move this undesirable person along.

  ‘Yes. A room with bathroom,’ Amundsen repeats slowly.

  ‘Do you have a reservation?’

  Amundsen shakes his head and shifts his weight.

  ‘We are rather full, I’m afraid.’

  The young clerk looks over the register, his eyes flicking up at the manager.

  ‘Ah yes, we can offer … a room.’ The manager glances at the other people waiting and hurriedly points to the spot on the page where Amundsen is to leave his signature, although he doubts this man can even write.

  It’s not far to walk, just along the hall at the rear of the building, where he finds a door below a flight of stairs. The room is dark and there’s a narrow, stained mattress on one wall and a bucket and mop propped against the other. The only window gives onto an alleyway strewn with broken crates and other rubbish. There is no bath. Just a chipped basin with
grubby cake of soap stuck to its lip.

  When Amundsen returns to the front desk a few minutes later, a cool manner disguises the fire burning in his chest. He is ready for battle.

  ‘Amundsen!’

  A well-dressed, barrel-chested man extends his arm in anticipation of a handshake. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: James Macfarlane, Norwegian consul, at your service!’

  Amundsen takes Macfarlane’s hand, a little confused.

  ‘The harbourmaster’s been in touch. He told me he sent you up to Hadley’s to freshen up – I came as quick as I could.’

  It’s unclear who is more surprised, Amundsen, the hotel manager or the terrified looking clerk who knows he’s about to get into trouble.

  ‘I trust you’ve been given the full treatment,’ Macfarlane says. ‘Something befitting a world-famous explorer who has just returned from more than a year in Antarctica.’

  Amundsen arches one eyebrow, which sends the hotel manager into a frenzy of key rattling. ‘There’s been a terrible mix-up with my clerk,’ he babbles. ‘He gave you the wrong room. In fact, we have you staying in our suite. Top floor, sir. Shall I send the bellboy to help you with your luggage?’

  Amundsen turns from the manager and instead addresses Macfarlane. ‘A pleasure to meet with you. Thank you for coming. I have many important arrangements to make, telegrams to send.’

  Macfarlane nods. ‘You would like to send word of your safe return to King Haakon?’

  The clerk’s eyes are round. The King? he mouths to the manager, who is similarly agog. He’s already imagining the delight of informing his other guests, the reflected glory of having a celebrity in their midst.

  The young clerk has other plans. It’s not long before he’s on the telephone, announcing to all the local news men that Roald Amundsen, the man renowned for challenging Captain Scott to a race to the South Pole, has just checked in to Hadley’s Orient Hotel. The fact that he has important telegrams to send just adds to the growing sense of intrigue that will draw every journalist for miles around to camp outside, hoping to break the news of Amundsen’s polar victory. Or possibly his defeat.

  As for Amundsen, telegrams and celebrity can wait. Now installed in the royal suite on the top floor of the hotel, the explorer sinks shoulder-deep in a bathtub of hot water, his longed-for desire fulfilled. Only now does he allow his mind to trace back over his journey from Bunde Fjord in Norway to the very ends of the earth. The years of meticulous planning have certainly paid off. The many favours asked, the many risks taken, the many crises averted – he can say now that it has all been worth it.

  But how will history view my latest polar conquest? he wonders to himself. Will I be remembered for my dedication, my discipline, my daring; or merely my deception?

  CHAPTER ONE

  EARLY SEPTEMBER 1910 – MADEIRA

  Flies gather in their thousands, a vibrating black swarm animating the air. A man might jump overboard to escape but the dogs don’t mind. They rip into the chunks of flesh carved off the horse carcass, savouring the succulent meat and gnawing on bone fragments. It’s the second such feast this week and a welcome respite from the usual ration of dried fish they’ve been getting on the four-week sea voyage from Norway.

  Captain Thorvald Nilsen regards the scene with a sour expression. ‘Yet more muck to clean up.’

  Twice a day the decks of the Fram are sluiced with buckets of salt water. Necessary toil for the twenty men aboard when travelling with a cargo of ninety-seven sledge dogs. Fouling is only one issue. The fighting has been more or less constant. Not surprising given they’re occupying every available space on deck. Until accustomed to living in such close quarters, the dogs will remain chained. They’re a vicious lot. Already they’ve attacked the Madeira official who attempted a health inspection the evening of their arrival on the Portuguese island; and all of Captain Nilsen’s carrier pigeons have disappeared, leaving only feathers. The captain scarcely needs a reason to deliver a swift kick to the unlucky dog that gets under his feet.

  ‘Mind your manners,’ he bellows when growled at.

  The dogs have been divided up, with men assigned to each group. Among Roald Amundsen’s dogs are three inseparable friends that he has christened ‘the Three Musketeers’. United in their hatred of the chief, they snarl whenever he approaches. Amundsen considers it safest to deliver the horsemeat on a long stick, which he also uses to offer a back scratch. ‘You’ll come around,’ he says soothingly. ‘All in good time.’

  Captain Nilsen scoffs.

  Amundsen appreciates the reason for the captain’s dark mood. He too is unsettled by what lies ahead. There is still much uncertainty. But the time is fast approaching when the whole affair will be resolved.

  One by one Amundsen’s dogs flop onto their sides, their bellies full to bursting. Not a bad spot to sleep off a feeding frenzy, in the shade of the tarpaulins that have been rigged up against the powerful sun. Here, off the coast of north Africa, the heat is cruel punishment for creatures with such an overabundance of fur. Just as well they won’t be staying long in Madeira, their only port of call on the five-month sea journey to Antarctica. Of course the dogs don’t know they’re heading to Antarctica. Neither does the crew.

  Captain Nilsen is getting tired of keeping Amundsen’s secret. For months he’s perpetuated the lie that the Arctic is their final destination, that they will round the bottom of South America and sail up the other side, all the way to the Bering Strait, where they’ll enter the Arctic Ocean and drift in the sea ice across the North Pole. The crew, the expedition sponsors, Fridtjof Nansen (Amundsen’s mentor and the owner of the ship), even the Norwegian parliament and the king and queen have been sold the same lie. But why head north now when the prize has already been seized by not one but two men – Peary and Cook both claiming to have reached the North Pole.

  ‘You better be lucky down there at the South Pole. Because you’ll be thrown into prison if you’re not! And probably me too.’ Captain Nilsen finds it increasingly hard to hold his tongue when it’s just the two of them.

  ‘Luck has nothing to do with it,’ is Amundsen’s cool reply.

  The captain knows Amundsen well enough to realise he will achieve his aim; but he won’t make any friends in the process. Least of all Captain Scott, the English polar explorer who has made clear his intention to be the first person to reach the southernmost point on the globe. He’s already on his way.

  Several of the crewmen are suspicious by now. The more experienced ones have voiced the opinion that it would be madness to erect a hut on the Arctic sea ice, yet the hut they built in Amundsen’s garden and then took apart was loaded into the ship’s hold. Still others have questioned the logic of bringing sledge dogs all the way from Norway, when they’ll supposedly be passing Alaska, home of the finest huskies.

  ‘Now that we’re in Madeira,’ Nilsen’s tone softens, ‘do you think it might be time to let the cat out of the bag?’

  Amundsen smiles. ‘Well of course. That was always the plan. Get to Madeira, figure out who wants to join us. Whoever doesn’t can return to Norway with my brother.’

  Leon. Captain Nilsen does not envy that hapless man. He’ll be the one to notify Fridtjof Nansen that Amundsen has absconded with the Fram – Nansen’s precious vessel, the first ship purpose-built for polar research. Leon will also have to tell the king about Roald Amundsen’s radical change of plan. He alone will shoulder the burden. They’ll be long gone by then. Not even a king’s decree will reach the Fram once it leaves Madeira.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘This one’s pregnant.’ Oscar Wisting runs a hand over the dog’s belly.

  ‘Just what we need, more disgusting dogs cluttering up my deck,’ mutters the captain.

  Oscar jerks his head in surprise. ‘What? Don’t you like them?’ He’s already formed a deep attachment to his ten dogs. Camilla is one of his favourites. And now he has an excuse to increase her rations. They greet their master with howls of uncontained joy, especially on
the days when Oscar mixes the dried fish with a generous dollop of beef fat and boiled cornmeal. The more intelligent dogs have worked out that this treat is dished up every third day. Others just apply their intelligence to stealing from neighbours.

  The night is warm. The crew gathers on deck. They’ve been told an important announcement is coming. Hjalmar Johansen squeezes in beside Helmer Hansen. Both men are seasoned Arctic adventurers. Both have their suspicions that all is not what it seems aboard the Fram.

  ‘What do you think?’ says Johansen knowingly. ‘Are we finally going to find out what’s going on?’

  The two men chuckle. They’ve shared their theories with a few others aboard and there’s a certain nervous tension in the air. Amundsen appears before the assembled men. He’s an imposing figure, tall, with a regal bearing. The serious set of his face, his unwavering gaze and his large hooked nose lend a heroic cast to his appearance. He is, after all, a world-famous explorer, the first man to navigate the Northwest Passage. The one man who succeeded where so many had died trying. They’re all a bit awed by his reputation. All except Johansen, that is. He has his own impressive reputation.

  Amundsen’s brother Leon, who has been heavily involved in expedition planning, stands to one side with Captain Nilsen, who flicks the edge of a rolled-up chart back and forth with his fingernail in an obsessive fashion. Leon’s eyes dart from man to man. Roald stands erect, his expression unreadable.

  Finally the great explorer speaks. ‘Thank you for waiting so patiently, and thank you for your hard work. Our first weeks together have been most enjoyable. As you’re aware, I’ve chosen each of you for your strong character. Ours is an ambitious expedition and I require a certain type of individual, capable of adapting to changing conditions. You each have much to contribute and I trust we will end our association not only as colleagues but as friends. I have no doubt that you will be tested greatly in the coming months, but I have perhaps one of the greatest tests for you tonight.’ Amundsen pauses and asks the captain to unroll his chart.

  And there it is. Antarctica. Johansen chortles to himself. He finally understands the need for secrecy, and the absurd excuses for all the odd preparations.