Paths of Glory (38 page)

George stood a pace behind him, seething.

“However, the committee is only too aware that there might be reasons why Mr. Mallory would feel unable to take on this onerous task a second time.”

Cries of “No!” came from the audience, causing Hinks to raise a hand once again. “Reasons you may not be aware of, but when I tell you what they are, you will appreciate his dilemma. Mr. Mallory has a wife and three young children whom he may not wish to abandon for another six months. Not only that, but I learned today that he is about to be appointed to a most important position at the Workers’ Educational Association that will allow him to put into practice the beliefs he has held passionately for many years.

“If that were not enough,” continued Hinks, “there is a third reason. I must be very careful how I word this, as I am only too aware that several gentlemen of the press are among us tonight. Your society learned today that Mr. Finch, Mr. Mallory’s colleague on the last Everest expedition, has had to withdraw his name from the climbing team for personal reasons, which I fear the newspapers will be reporting in greater detail tomorrow.” The room was now silent. “With this in mind, your committee has decided that if Mr. Mallory felt, quite understandably, unable to take his place as leader of the 1924 expedition, we would be left with no choice but to postpone—not abandon, but postpone—that expedition until such time as a suitable replacement as climbing leader could be found.”

George suddenly realized that the King and the Prince of Wales were only a side show. Hinks was about to deliver the knock-out punch.

“Let me end by saying,” Hinks said, turning to face George, “that whatever decision you come to, sir, this society will be eternally grateful for your unswerving commitment to its cause, and, more important, your service to this country. We naturally hope that you will accept our offer of the position of climbing leader, and that this time you will lead your team to even greater glory. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you all to join me in thanking our guest speaker this evening, Mallory of Everest.”

The audience rose as one. Men who would normally offer courteous and respectful applause to the guest speaker leaped from their seats, some cheering, some pleading, all hoping that Mallory would accept the challenge. George looked down at Ruth, who was also on her feet, joining in the applause. When Hinks took a pace back to join him, George said for the second time that evening, “You bastard.”

“Quite possibly,” Hinks replied. “However, when I bring the minute book up-to-date later this evening, I presume I’ll be able to record your acceptance of the position of climbing leader.”

“Mallory of Everest! Mallory of Everest!” the audience chanted in unison.

“You bastard,” George repeated.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

G
EORGE LEANED OVER
the railing of the SS
California
, searching for his wife. He smiled when he spotted her among the cheering crowd. The moment she realized he had found her, she began to wave. She was only glad that he could not see the tears streaming down her face.

By the time the crew had raised the gangway, the ropes had been untied and the ship had begun to ease away from the dockside, he was already missing her. Why did he always have to go away to realize how much he loved her? For the next six months all he would have to remind him of her beauty was a frayed sepia photograph taken during the first week of their honeymoon. If she had not been adamant that he should go, he would have stayed at home, content to follow the progress of the expedition in
The Times
. He knew that Hinks had no intention of postponing the expedition, but as every word of his speech had been reported in the “Thunderer” the following morning, he also realized that his bluff had been called. Hinks had proved to be a far better poker player.

So now he was on his way back to India without Finch to challenge his every move. And Sherpa Nyima would not be standing on the dockside waiting to greet him when he stepped off the ship on the far side of the world.

And then George saw him standing at the back of the crowd, slightly to one side, as befits a loner. He didn’t recognize him to begin with, until the man raised his hat to reveal that thick, wavy fair hair that so many women had swooned over. George returned the compliment, only surprised that Finch hadn’t smuggled himself on board. But Hinks had made certain that he couldn’t show his face in public until the scandal had died down, let alone make a solo appearance on the highest stage on earth.

George searched for Ruth once again and, having found her, he never let her out of his sight until she could no longer be seen among the vast crowd of well-wishers waving from the dockside.

When finally a column of black, belching smoke was all that could be seen on the horizon, Ruth reluctantly walked slowly to her car. She drove out of the dock and began the long journey back to The Holt. This time there were no adoring crowds to prevent her from escaping.

Ruth had never craved adoring crowds. She simply wanted her husband to return alive. But she had played the game so well that everyone was convinced she wanted George to be given one last chance to fulfill his dream. In truth, she didn’t care if he succeeded or failed, as long as they could grow old together, and today would become nothing more than a fading memory.

When George could no longer see his homeland, he retired to his little cabin. He sat at the desk below the porthole and began to write a letter to the only woman he had ever loved.

My dearest Ruth…

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

March 12th, 1924

My dearest Ruth,

The long sea voyage has only served to remind me what a fine bunch of chaps I have the privilege of leading. I think too often of the sacrifices I have made, and not enough about these fine men who have been willing to join me in this capricious adventure, and what tribulations they must also have been through with their families and friends during the past two years.

Despite my initial misgivings, Sandy Irvine turns out to be a very singular fellow. Although he’s only 22, he has a shrewd northern head screwed firmly onto his broad shoulders, and the coincidence of us both hailing from Birkenhead would not be acceptable on the pages of a novel.

Of course, I’m still anxious about the fact that he’s never climbed much above 5,500 feet, but I have to admit that he is far fitter than any of us, as passengers have been able to witness at our morning PT sessions conducted by the redoubtable General Bruce. Bruce is happy enough to remain our conductor, while still having no desire to be part of the orchestra.

I must also confess that Hinks did not exaggerate Irvine’s chemistry skills. He’s quite the equal of Finch in that department, even though Norton and Odell still refuse to countenance the idea of using oxygen, let alone agreeing to strap those bulky cylinders onto their backs. Will they in the end accept that we cannot hope to reach the summit without the aid of this infernal heresy, or will they remain, in Finch’s words, blessed amateurs who must therefore fail? Only time will tell.

Our ship docked at Bombay on March 20th, and we immediately boarded the train for Darjeeling, where we selected our ponies and porters. Once again General Bruce performed miracles, and the following morning we set off on the long trek for Tibet, along with 60 ponies and more than a hundred porters. Before leaving Darjeeling on the Toy Train, we dined with Lord Lytton, the new Governor-General, and his wife, but as Finch wasn’t present there is nothing of interest to report, other than the fact that young Irvine took more than a passing interest in the Governor-General’s daughter, Lynda. Lady Lytton seemed happy to encourage him.

There was a letter awaiting me at the embassy from my sister Mary. Bit of luck her husband being posted to Ceylon, because she’ll be able to warn us in advance when the monsoon season will be upon us, as it travels across that island about ten days before it’s due to reach us.

The following morning we set off on the eighty-mile journey to the border, which passed without incident. Sadly, General Bruce caught malaria and had to return to Darjeeling. I fear we won’t see him again. He took with him his bath, a dozen boxes of cigars, and half his cases of wine and champagne—but he kindly left us with the other half, not to mention all the gifts he had so carefully selected for the Dzongpen, when we present our credentials at the border.

The General’s deputy, Lt. Col. Norton, has taken over his responsibilities. You may recall Norton as the man who held the world altitude record for twenty-four hours before Finch so rudely snatched it away from him. Although he never mentions the subject, I know Norton is keen to put the record straight, and I must admit that if only he would agree to using oxygen once we have reached 27,000 feet, he would be the obvious choice to accompany me to the summit. However, Somervell is wavering when it comes to oxygen, so he may well turn out to be the alternative, as I wouldn’t consider attempting the last 2,000 feet with Odell again.

We sailed across the border on this occasion, even if we were all wearing our oldest boots and watches picked up cheaply in Bombay. However, we were still able to shower the Dzongpen with gifts from Harrods, Fortnum’s, Davidoff, and Lock’s, including a black opera cane mounted with a silver head of the King, which I assured him was a personal gift from His Majesty.

We were all taken by surprise when the Dzongpen told us how disappointed he was to learn that General Bruce had been taken ill, as he had been looking forward to seeing his old friend again. I couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing the General’s half-hunter and chain, even if there was no sign of my Old Wykehamist tie.

This morning as we passed over Pang La, the clouds suddenly lifted and we saw the commanding heights of Chomolungma dominating the skyline ahead of us. Once again, her sheer beauty took my breath away. A wise man would surely resist her alluring charms and immediately turn back, but like Euripides’ sirens, she draws one toward her rocky and treacherous terrain.

As we climbed higher and higher, I kept a watchful eye on Irvine, who appears to have acclimatized to the conditions as well as any of us. But then, I sometimes forget that he’s sixteen years younger than I am.

This morning, with Everest in the background, we held a service in memory of Nyima and the other six Sherpas who lost their lives on the last expedition. We must reach the summit this time, if for no other reason than to honor their memory.

I only wish Nyima was standing by my side now, because I would not hesitate to invite him to join me on the final climb, as it must surely be right that a Sherpa is the first person to stand on top of his own mountain. Not to mention that it would be the sweetest revenge on Hinks after his Machiavellian behavior on the night of the memorial lecture. But sadly a Sherpa will not reach the top on this occasion, as I have searched among his countrymen and have not found Nyima’s equal.

We finally arrived at base camp on April 29th, and to be fair to Hinks—something I’ve never found easy—everything I requested has been put in place. This time we will not be wasting precious days erecting and dismantling camps and continually moving equipment up and down the mountain. I’ve been assured by Mr. Hazard (an unfortunate name for someone with the responsibility of organizing our daily lives) that Camp III has already been established at 21,000 feet, with eleven of the finest Sherpas awaiting our arrival under the command of Guy Bullock.

One must never forget that it’s Noel’s £8,000 that has made all this possible, and he’s filming anything and everything that moves. The final documentary of this expedition will surely rival
“Birth of a Nation.”

I am writing this letter in my little tent at base camp. In a few minutes’ time I will be joining my colleagues for dinner, and Norton will hand over the responsibility of command to me. I will then brief the team on my plans for the ascent of Everest. And so, my dearest, the great adventure begins once again. I am much more confident about our chances this time. But as soon as I conquer my magnificent obsession, I shall press a button, and moments later I will be standing by your side. From this you will gather that I am currently re-reading H. G. Wells’s
“The Time Machine.”
Even if I can’t press his mythical button, I will nevertheless return as quickly as humanly possible, as I have no desire to be away from you a moment longer than necessary. As I promised, I still intend to leave your photograph on the summit…

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

T
HURSDAY
, M
AY
1
ST
, 1924

A
ND THEN THERE
were eight.

“Gentlemen, His Majesty the King,” said Lieutenant Colonel Norton as he rose from his place at the head of the table and raised his tin mug.

The rest of the team immediately stood up and, as one, said, “The King.”

“Please remain standing,” said George. “Gentlemen, Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.” The team raised their mugs a second time. Outside the tent, the Sherpas fell flat on the ground, facing the mountain.

“Gentlemen,” said George, “you may smoke.”

The team resumed their places and began to light cigars and pass the port decanter around the table. A few minutes later George stood up again, tapped his glass with a spoon.