Paths of Glory (9 page)

Finch looked up. Young was out of sight, and all he could see of George were the heels of two hobnail boots disappearing over a ridge. Inch by inch, foot by foot, Mallory and Finch followed slowly behind Young, aware that if they made the slightest error of judgment, the Barn Door would be slammed in their faces and seconds later they would be buried in an unmarked grave.

Inch by inch…

At Grand Mulets, Odell stood over a wood fire toasting a piece of bread, while Herford boiled a pot of water to make tea.

“I wonder how far they’ve got,” said Odell.

“Trying to find the key to the Barn Door would be my bet,” said Somervell.

“I ought to be getting back,” said Odell, “so I can follow their progress through the hotel’s telescope. The moment I see that they’ve joined you, I’ll put in our orders for dinner.”

“Along with a bottle of champagne,” suggested Somervell.

Young heaved himself up onto the ledge above the Barn Door. He didn’t have to wait long before the two Georges joined him. No one spoke for some time, and even Finch didn’t pretend he wasn’t exhausted. A mere 800 feet above them loomed the summit of Mont Blanc.

“Don’t think of it as being 800 feet away,” Young said. “It’s more like a couple of miles, and every foot you take will be into thinner and thinner air.” He checked his watch. “So don’t let’s keep the lady waiting.”

Although the stony terrain appeared less demanding than the Barn Door, the climb was still treacherous; crevices, icy stones, and uneven rocks covered in only a thin film of snow lay in wait for them should they make the slightest mistake. The summit looked tantalizingly close, but the lady turned out to be a tease. It was another two hours before Young finally placed a foot on the summit.

When Mallory first saw the view from the highest peak in the Alps he was lost for words.

“Magnifique,” he finally managed, as he looked down on Madame Blanc’s precocious offspring, which stretched as far as the eye could see.

“It’s one of the ironies of mountaineering,” said Young, “that grown men are happy to spend months preparing for a climb, weeks rehearsing and honing their skills, and at least a day attempting to reach the summit. And then having achieved their goal, they spend just a few moments enjoying the experience, along with one or two equally certifiable companions who have little in common other than wanting to do it all again, but a little higher.”

George nodded, while Finch said nothing.

“There’s one act I have to carry out, gentlemen,” said Young, “before we begin our descent.” He took a sovereign from his jacket pocket, bent down, and placed it in the snow at his feet. Mallory and Finch watched the little ritual with fascination, but said nothing.

“The King of England sends his compliments, ma’am,” said Young, “and hopes that you will grant his humble subjects safe passage back to their homeland.”

When Odell arrived back at the hotel a few minutes after four, the first thing he did was order a large flask of hot fruit punch before walking out onto the veranda to take up his post. He peered through the large telescope, and once he’d focused on a rabbit scurrying into the forest, he turned his attention to the mountain. He swung the telescope further up the peak, but although it was a clear day, he knew that the climbing party would be no larger than ants, so searching for them would be pointless.

Odell swung the telescope lower down, and focused on the wooden hut at the Grand Mulets refuge. He thought he could see two figures standing outside it, but he couldn’t make out which was Somervell and which was Herford. A waiter in a white jacket appeared by his side and poured him a cup of hot punch. Odell leaned back and enjoyed the sensation as the warm liquid slipped down his parched throat. He allowed himself to imagine for a moment what it must feel like to be standing on the peak of Mont Blanc, having unlocked the Barn Door.

He returned to the telescope, although he didn’t expect to see much activity at the Grand Mulets before five o’clock. Young was a reliable sort of cove, so he expected him to be on time. Once the climbing team reappeared, he would have that bottle of champagne put on ice to share with those who would be returning in triumph. The grandfather clock in the hall struck once, to indicate that it was 4:30
P.M
. He focused the telescope on the Grand Mulets refuge in case the climbing party was ahead of schedule, but there was still no sign of any activity. He moved the telescope slowly up the mountain, hoping to see three specks appear in the lens.

“Dear God, no!” he exclaimed as the waiter poured him a second glass of punch.

“Una problema, signore?” inquired the waiter.

“An avalanche,” replied Odell.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

G
EORGE HEARD THE
unmistakable roar behind him, but didn’t have time to turn around.

The snow hit him like a giant wave, sweeping all before it. He tried desperately to remain the right way up, making firm breaststrokes with his arms in the hope of keeping a pocket of air in front of his face so that he could buy some time, just as the safety manual recommended. But when the second wave hit him, he knew he was going to die. The third and final wave tossed him like a loose pebble, down and down and down.

His last thoughts were of his mother, who had always dreaded this moment, then of his father who never spoke of it, and finally of his brother and sisters, who would all outlive him. Was this hell? And then he came to a sudden halt. He lay still for a moment, trying to convince himself that he was still alive, and to take in his immediate surroundings. He had landed at the bottom of a crevasse, cast into an Aladdin’s cave of ice, the beauty of which he might have appreciated in any other circumstances. What did the manual recommend? Quickly work out which way is up and which is down so that you can at least start heading in the right direction. He spotted a shaft of murky gray light thirty, perhaps forty feet above him.

He recalled the manual’s next instruction: Find out if anything is broken. He wiggled the fingers and thumb of his right hand; he’d still got five. His left hand was very cold, but at least there was some movement there too. He stretched his right leg, and tentatively raised it off the ground. He had one leg. He raised his left leg—two. He placed his hands by his side and pushed himself up slowly, very slowly. His fingers were beginning to freeze. He looked for his gloves; they were nowhere to be seen. He must have lost them during his fall.

The cave was lined with ridges of ice protruding from every side, making several natural ladders to the roof; but were they safe? He crawled across the soft snow to the far side of his prison, and kicked at the ice with the toe of his hobnailed boot. It made no impression. The ice had taken a hundred years, perhaps even longer, to grow to that thickness, and wasn’t going to be budged easily. George became a little more confident, but kept reminding himself to abide by the rules, not to hurry, and not to take any unnecessary risks. He spent some time trying to work out which rungs of the ladder he should mount. It looked as if the best route was on the far side of the cave, so he crawled back on his hands and knees and grabbed at the bottom rung. He prayed. When you’re in danger, you need to believe there is a God.

He placed a foot tentatively on a ridge of ice a few inches above the ground, then gripped another above it with his bare fingers, now numb with cold, and pulled himself slowly up. He risked placing his full weight on the lower ridge, because if it broke off, he would only have a short fall into the soft snow. It didn’t, which gave him the confidence to climb onto the next rung of his Jacob’s ladder, and find out if he was about to join the angels or his fellow humans.

He was about halfway up, feeling more confident with each move, when a piece of ice broke off in his hand. His feet immediately slithered off the ice below, leaving him dangling by one hand, some thirty feet above the floor. George began to sweat in a crevasse that must have been minus forty degrees. He swung slowly backward and forward, certain that the Gods above him had simply decided to extend his life by a few minutes, and at any moment the ice he was clinging to would shear off. Then one foot found a toehold, followed by the other. He held his breath, the fingers of his right hand almost glued to the ice above him. His strength was beginning to ebb away. He took some time before selecting the next rung of the ladder. Just three more, and he would be able to push himself through the chink of light. He picked the next rung carefully, and then the next, and at last he was able to punch a fist through the little crack above him. He would have cheered, but he couldn’t waste the time, as the last rays of sunlight were fast disappearing behind the highest peak.

George pushed his head through the hole, and looked tentatively to his left and right. He didn’t need a manual to tell him it made sense to clear the snow around him if he was to have any chance of finding a rock or a hard place.

He swept away with his bare hands until he uncovered a slab of rock that had recently been covered by the avalanche. Gathering all the strength he possessed, he hauled himself out of the hole and clung on to the edge of the rock. He didn’t hang around but, like a crab, scurried across its surface, fearful that he might slide back down the icy rock and return to the bottom of the crevasse.

That was when he heard a voice singing “Waltzing Matilda.” No prizes for guessing who the soloist was. George continued his painful advance across the snow until the source of the voice took shape. Finch was sitting bolt upright repeating the chorus again and again. He clearly didn’t know the second verse.

“Is that you, George?” Finch cried out as he peered through the falling snow.

It was the first time Finch had ever called him by his Christian name. “Yes, it is!” George shouted as he crawled up to his side. “Are you all right?”

“I’m just fine,” said Finch. “Apart from a broken leg, and the fact that the toes of my left foot are beginning to freeze up. I must have lost a boot somewhere along the way. What about you?”

“Never better, old chap,” said George.

“Bloody English,” said Finch. “If we’re to have any chance of getting out of here, you’ll need to find my torch.”

“Where do I start looking?”

“The last time I saw it, it was some way up the mountain.”

George set off, like a toddler, on his hands and knees. He was beginning to despair until he spotted a black object resting in the snow a few yards ahead of him. He cheered. He cursed. It was only Finch’s missing boot. He struggled on until he was able to cheer again when he saw the handle of the torch sticking out of the snow. He grabbed at it, and prayed once more before flicking the switch. A beam of light glowed in the dusk. “Thank God,” he murmured, and returned down the mountain to where Finch was lying.

No sooner had George reached him than they both heard the moan. “That must be Young,” said Finch. “Better go and see if you can help. But for God’s sake turn off that torch until the sun’s completely disappeared. If Odell spotted the avalanche from the hotel, a rescue party should be on their way by now, but they won’t reach us for hours.”

George switched off the torch and began to crawl in the direction of the moan, but it was some time before he came across a body lying motionless in the snow, the right leg buckled under the left thigh.

“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda
…
”

George quickly cleared the snow around Young’s mouth, but made no attempt to move him.

“Hold on, old friend,” he whispered in his ear. “Somervell and Herford should be on their way by now. They’re certain to be with us soon.” He only wished he believed his own words. He took Young’s hand and began to rub, trying to get some circulation back, all the time having to brush away the falling snow.

“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda
…
”

Odell ran out of the front door of the hotel and onto the driveway. He immediately began to turn the wheel of the ancient klaxon which produced a deafening screeching sound that would alert Somervell and Herford to the danger.

When the sun finally disappeared behind the highest peak, George placed the torch firmly in the snow, facing down the mountain. He switched it on and a beam of light flickered, but how long would it last?

“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda with me? And he sang as he…”

There was nothing in the safety manual about what to do about an Australian singing out of tune, thought George as he rested his head in the snow and began to drift off to sleep. Not a bad way to die.

“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me
…
”

When George woke he couldn’t be sure where he was, how he’d got there, or how long he’d been there. Then he saw a nurse. He slept.

When he woke again, Somervell was standing by the side of his bed. He gave George a warm smile. “Welcome back,” he said.

“How long have I been away?”

“Two or three days, give or take. But the doctors are confident they’ll have you back on your feet within a week.”

“And Finch?”

“He’s got one leg in plaster, but he’s eating a hearty breakfast and still singing “Waltzing Matilda” to any nurse who cares to listen.”

“What about Young?” George asked, fearing the worst.

“He’s still unconscious, suffering from hypothermia and a broken arm. The medical chaps are doing everything they can to patch him up, and if they do manage to save his life, he’ll have you to thank.”

“Me?” said George.

“If it hadn’t been for your torch, we would never have found you.”

“It wasn’t my torch,” said George. “It was Finch’s.”

George slept.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
UESDAY
, J
ULY
9
TH
, 1907

“O
NCE YOU’VE STARED
death in the face, nothing is ever the same again,” said Young. “It places you apart from other men.”