1912 (20 page)

With their task achieved, Amundsen and his men enjoyed a smoke, then raced back to the
Fram
. The Norwegians did not wish to meet Scott, and feared the British were hot on their heels. Everything now depended on getting the news home first. Yet they continued to make weather observations on the journey north and also collected rock samples as gifts for their colleagues at Framheim.

Although Johansen and Prestrud had been sent away, ill feeling still bubbled to the surface during the mission. Amundsen felt the pressure of his task—and it did not help that he was suffering from haemorrhoids, a common problem for polar explorers, who lived off constipating high-protein diets. Amundsen's short temper and unwillingness to be contradicted were a constant source of irritation for the rest of the team. On the ascent of the Axel Heiberg Glacier the skier Olav Bjaaland had questioned Amundsen's instructions; the leader then ordered his subordinate to return to Framheim. Bjaaland was no navigator, so one of the other men, Sverre Hassel, was instructed
to escort him back once they had reached the plateau. Only by pleading on his knees was Bjaaland allowed to stay on.

Hassel wrote in his diary that he and Bjaaland were also rebuked for having snored in the tent: ‘That's O.K. by me but things can be said in several ways. Mr. A. always chooses the nastiest and most haughty one.' Sometime later he mused, ‘One might think the man has a screw loose. He has many times in the last few days actually initiated quarrels, an extraordinary stand to take for a Governor and leader for whom peace and good camaraderie should be the main target.' Even Helmer Hanssen, who had managed to avoid falling out with Amundsen for most of the expedition, argued with him just a week short of Framheim, when he suggested one of the dogs stank and the Norwegian leader insisted she did not. The two men did not speak for days.

The successful team reached Framheim on 26 January 1912, having taken ninety-nine days to cover the three thousand kilometres. The original schedule proved remarkably accurate, down to the supplies, number of dogs and time needed for the journey—in fact, the team made it back eight days sooner than expected. Because of the extra supplies in depots, most of the men had actually increased their weight during their return trip. It was an incredible achievement, and the dogs—in spite of their sometimes threatening demeanour—had shown their worth beyond doubt.

With the Norwegian flag flying over the barrier to signify Amundsen's return, the
Fram
returned to the Bay of Whales. No time was wasted. By 30 January the remaining dogs were on board and Framheim left behind. It was time for Amundsen to tell the world of his success.

On 6 March 1912 the
Fram
quietly dropped anchor in Hobart, southern Tasmania. Word quickly leaked out that Amundsen—at first thought a tramp in one of the local hotels—had made it back to civilisation, but it was unclear whether he had been successful in his quest. Desperate journalists swamped the Norwegian leader, to no avail. He had an exclusive deal with the
Daily Chronicle
and he had learned his lesson from the Northwest Passage. Amundsen sent telegrams in code to the king, his brother Leon and the
Daily Chronicle
. To Nansen, he sent the message, ‘Thanks for everything. Mission accomplished. All well.' Then he tried to hide.

With little to go on, the other newspapers gossiped away, speculating that Scott may have beaten Amundsen. Out of the loop, the
Manchester Guardian
declared in frustration, ‘In Christiania they know that a telegram has been received saying Amundsen has reached the Pole; in Wellington, New Zealand, they know that Amundsen has telegraphed the news that the man who has reached the Pole is Scott.' Norwegian papers, meanwhile, emphasised their man's experience and his ‘sterling personal qualities': ‘These are a guarantee that he will have made exact and complete meteorological, magnetic and geographical observations, which together with Scott's observations, will give important scientific results.'

On 7 March 1912 the
Daily Chronicle
proclaimed the news of Roald Amundsen's success. Letters and telegrams of congratulations poured in from around the world. Some in the British press expressed outrage; most were more restrained. Outside Europe, interest was equally intense, with the
New York Times
managing to obtain word of Amundsen's triumph and reporting it on the same day as the public announcement in Britain.

Intrepid explorer though he was, Amundsen was not a natural storyteller, and the trip was accounted in a clinical fashion. Moments of danger were brushed over, told without the
excitement the public had come to expect from Nansen, Shackleton and Scott. Amundsen made a virtue of being prepared: ‘I may say that this is the greatest factor—the way in which the expedition is equipped—the way in which every difficulty is foreseen, and precautions taken for meeting or avoiding it. Victory awaits him who has everything in order—luck, people call it. Defeat is certain for him who has neglected to take the necessary precautions in time; this is called bad luck.'

True—but Amundsen seemed to have little sense of the story people wanted to hear. And though the Norwegian team was remarkably well prepared and had planned for almost every eventuality, success was not a foregone conclusion. Spectacular arguments had broken out among the men, threatening their main objective, while crevasses were an ever-present threat, even if Amundsen played down the risks. Little of the expedition's tension and danger came across in the reports.

The photographer Anders Beer Wilse, who had taught the expedition members to expose and develop film, found that Amundsen had largely ignored these efforts, preferring instead to use his Kodak and declare, ‘If I take six pictures with various aperture and shutter speed, one of them will probably turn out right.' Today the old cameras appear a wonderful mix of buttons, bellows and strange attachments, but they are unforgiving. I tried using a similar camera in Antarctica and, despite the enormous amount of help I received before heading south, I ended up adopting the Amundsen method, taking a range of shots and hoping the odd image would work. Most didn't. Glass plates added another level of complexity, and the extra weight, along with the need to change the plates in a suffocating sleeping bag, did not endear them to many explorers.

Wilse believed that Amundsen's poor images cost him several thousand kroner in lost revenue. The press had to rely on photos taken by others—in particular Bjaaland, who took
the most famous photo of them all at the South Pole. In it four men stand in a white void, Amundsen on the far left, facing the Norwegian flag flying over the dark tent, Polheim. Most versions of this image are copies of copies. Some are fuzzy, and the fuzziest of all shows a relatively slimline Amundsen and the flag rippling. For his lectures Amundsen understandably seems to have preferred these, the most retouched and flattering copies of the image. To the new nation of Norway, the shot was more than evidence of a world first: it was a public statement that Norway had arrived on the global scene.

The glass plate that gave birth to this famous photograph was developed in Hobart; unfortunately, it seems to have long since disappeared. In 2009 a copy of the closest thing to the original was discovered in the National Library of Australia, in Canberra. A large dog-eared dark-brown album labelled
Tasmanian Views
contains an eclectic collection of photos developed by a professional Hobart photographer, J. W. Beattie, and his assistant, Edward Searle, who Amundsen records having visited. Inside is a strikingly detailed copy of the glass-plate photo taken at Polheim. Amundsen is shown, full-bellied, as one of four bareheaded, sunburnt men saluting the Norwegian flag; the limp pennant suggests the wind was considerably weaker than depicted in the better-known, reproduced versions; even the horizon is discernible.

After his first lectures in Australia, Amundsen did not attract positive comments. When the American promoter Lee Keedick heard rumours that Amundsen had ‘made a poor figure on the rostrum', he wrote to Leon and recommended the polar explorer find an English teacher. He warned against including too many scientific elements in public lectures, and suggested Amundsen concentrate more on the humorous aspects: ‘Shackleton did this with the most satisfactory results.'

In response Amundsen worked hard on his presentation
style and language skills, peppering his talks with photo slides and film footage from the expedition. By Sydney, things were markedly better. Edgeworth David hosted, speaking highly of Amundsen's achievement and defending his decision to head south. During the Norwegian's numerous talks there was frequent applause, particularly when Amundsen announced that ‘he was quite certain that Captain Scott had been to the South Pole, and was now safe and sound in his winter quarters'. It was invaluable practise before Europe.

Working ferociously on his return to the northern hemisphere the same year, Amundsen wrote
The South Pole
and delivered it to his Norwegian publishers. Within two days of the announcement of Amundsen's success, William Heinemann, founder of the esteemed Heinemann Press, had tried to secure a deal for the English translation of this much-anticipated title—previous polar exploration books had sold well, and Amundsen's account was expected to prove highly profitable. Heinemann asked Nansen to act as an intermediary. But by 18 March he had revoked his offer
.
The publisher was shocked by a second interview in the
Daily Chronicle
, writing to Nansen: ‘I must say I am so disappointed with the want of imagination he displays and the blindness he seems to have for a pictorial attraction in even so thrilling a thing as his achievement that I have decided not in any circumstances to compete for his book…I cannot help feeling that however great Amundsen's feat is, he is not likely to write a good book; and even if he were, it has been so seriously hurt by the wretched cable interview that it is pretty certain to be a disappointment.'

Fortunately for Amundsen, others were willing to take the risk. In Amundsen's English version the weather observations
made at Framheim were included for the first time and the units converted from metric to imperial measurements, so they could be understood by the English-speaking scientific community. And when Amundsen returned to Norway he submitted his latitude observations to an astronomer, to be independently checked. The calculations proved correct: Amundsen had made it to the pole, and the report was included as an appendix.

Sales of
The South Pole
were disappointing and reviews were mixed. In the appendices was also a report of the oceanographic cruise made by the
Fram.
During July and August 1911 the vessel had sailed thousands of kilometres, from Buenos Aires to Africa and back again, taking temperatures and salinity measurements as it went. ‘Valuable as they are,' wrote one reviewer, ‘we feel it somewhat disappointing that a ship like the
Fram
did not do this work in higher southern latitudes in the South Atlantic where the work is even more required, and where the ordinarily constructed ship could not work with the same safety and success as the
Fram
.' The RGS review was positive but expressed amazement that Amundsen had not taken any medical support—it was ‘extremely fortunate that the necessity for surgical assistance did not arise'. Dr Harry Edmonds, the American doctor who had missed the journey, appears to have kept quiet.

Other comments were more comical. The
Observer
remarked: ‘One is struck by the wealth of infernal nomenclature in Captain Amundsen's narrative. He arrived, he tells us, at “The Devil's Glacier”; and a particularly difficult corner he named “The Devil's Dancing Room.” But perhaps, in the Antarctic Circle, the most illicit suggestion of warmth is welcome.'

Amundsen had included a map of his route, drawn up shortly after the polar party had returned to the ship. Commenting on the mountains ascended by the Norwegians, a reviewer remarked, ‘Amundsen made the most important discovery that
the main line of peaks from there is continued not towards Graham Land [the Antarctic Peninsula], but towards Coats Land [the eastern edge of the Weddell Sea], in the range named after Queen Maud, while in about 86°S., 160°W., another range strikes away to the north-east: this bears no name on Amundsen's map, but in the text it is called Carmen Land.' Amundsen was nervous about whether Carmen Land was real and preferred to describe it as having the ‘Appearance of Land'. The reviewer was not sympathetic. ‘Such caution is admirable, but it will likely enough result in some explorer in the future taking unto himself the credit for the discovery of this land.'