Paths of Glory (31 page)

If the weather breaks, even for a couple of days, I’m determined to give it one more go, before the monsoon season is upon us. I don’t care for the idea of returning to Britain in second place, not while I’m convinced that if Odell hadn’t held me up, I could have gone far higher than 27,550, especially with Finch snapping at my heels—possibly even to the top. Now that he’s laid low, I may even experiment with his foul oxygen cylinders, but I won’t tell him until I’ve returned triumphant.

However, the real reason I’m so determined to put an end to this life-long obsession is that I have no interest in coming back to this desolate place, and every interest in spending the rest of my life with you and the girls—I even miss the lower fifth.

I hope that long before you open this letter, you will have read in The Times that your husband has stood on top of the earth and is on his way back home.

I can’t wait to hold you in my arms.

Your loving husband,

George

George was sealing the envelope when Nyima appeared by his side with two mugs of Bovril.

“You will be pleased to learn, Mr. Mallory,” he said, “that we are about to have three clear days in a row, but no more. So this will be your last chance, because the monsoon season will follow close behind.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked George, warming his fingers on the mug before taking a sip.

“I’m like a cow in your country,” Nyima replied, “that knows when to shelter under a tree because it’s about to rain.”

George laughed. “You have a considerable knowledge of my country.”

“More books have been written about England than any country on earth.” Nyima hesitated for a moment before saying, “Perhaps if I had been born an Englishman, Mr. Mallory, you might have considered including me in your climbing party.”

“Please wake me at six,” said George, folding his letter. “If you’re right about tomorrow’s weather, I’d like to try to reach the North Col Camp by sunset, so we can have one final crack at the summit the following day.”

“Would you like me to take your letter down to base camp, so it can be posted immediately?”

“No, thank you,” said George. “Someone else can do that. I have a more important role than postman in mind for you.”

When Nyima woke him the following morning, George’s spirits were high. Ascension Day. A day for making history. He ate a hearty breakfast, aware that he would only be able to nibble Kendal Mint Cake for the next couple of days.

When he stepped out of his tent he was delighted to see Somervell and Odell already waiting for him, along with nine Sherpas, including Nyima, who all looked equally determined to be on their way.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said George. “I think the time has come to leave our calling card on top of the earth.” Without another word he set off up the mountain.

The weather was perfect for climbing: a bright, clear day, not a breath of wind, just a carpet of overnight snow that reminded him of the Swiss Alps. If Nyima’s prediction turned out to be correct, George’s only problem would be selecting who to team up with for the final assault. But he’d already made up his mind to follow Finch’s advice and invite the most competent climber to join him tomorrow.

George made better progress in the first hour than he had thought possible, and when he turned to see how his team was faring, he was delighted to find that no one was lagging behind. He decided not to stop while they were progressing so well; a decision that was to save his life.

No one flagged during the second hour, at the end of which George called for a break. He was pleased to see that even the Sherpas, despite each having eighty pounds of supplies on their backs, were still smiling.

When they set off again, their pace dropped a little as the slope steepened. The snow was deep, often above his knees, but George’s spirits remained high. He was pleased that Somervell and Odell were keeping up with the pace, no doubt both assuming that they would be joining him tomorrow for the final climb. He’d already decided that, this time, only one of them would. A little further down the mountain, the Sherpas were managing a slow shuffle up the slope, with Nyima bringing up the rear. A contented smile remained on George’s face, as he now believed he could defeat both Finch and Hinks.

They were within 600 feet of the North Col when George heard what sounded like a car backfiring somewhere above him. He instantly recalled when he’d last heard that unmistakable, unforgiving sound.

“Please God, not again!” he shouted as a wave of rocks, snow, and rubble came crashing down from a cliff-face some 200 feet above him. Within seconds he, Somervell, and Odell were completely buried. George frantically fought his way to the surface in time to see the avalanche continuing its ruthless course down the mountain, gathering momentum as it engulfed everything its path. He could only watch helplessly, still buried up to his shoulders in snow, as first his colleagues, and then the Sherpas, disappeared below the surface, one by one. The last to be buried was Nyima, an image that would remain with George for the rest of his life.

An cerie silence fell, before George cried out. He prayed that he wasn’t the only member of the party still alive. Odell answered his call, and moments later Somervell surfaced. The three of them dug themselves out of the snow and hurried down the mountain, hoping against hope that they could save the Sherpas who had served them so faithfully.

George spotted a glove on the surface and tried to run toward it, but with each step he sank deeper into the thick snow. When he finally reached the glove, he began frantically shoveling at the snow around it with his bare hands. He was beginning to despair when a blue gloveless hand appeared, followed by an arm, a neck, and finally a head, gasping for breath. Behind him he heard a cry of relief as Odell rescued another Sherpa who had not expected to see the light of day again. George waded on down the mountain through the thick powdery snow searching for a rucksack, a boot, an ice axe, anything that might lead him to Nyima. For what seemed like hours he dug desperately at even the slightest hint of life. He found nothing. At last he collapsed, exhausted, forced to accept that he could do no more.

When the sun set an hour later, only two of the nine Sherpas had been rescued. The other seven, including Nyima, remained buried in undug graves. George knelt in the snow and wept. Chomolungma had laughed at the impertinence of these mortals.

It would be days before the loss of those seven Sherpas was not constantly on George’s mind, even when he slept. No matter how hard his colleagues tried to console him, they were unable to convince George that his ambition had not been the cause of the Sherpas’ deaths. General Bruce had ordered that a memorial cairn be erected on a moraine close to a Tibetan monastery. As the team stood around it, heads bowed, Somervell said quietly, “It would have been better if one of us were buried alongside them.”

Bruce led a broken band of men back to Bombay. They had been on board the ship sailing for England for several days before anyone smiled, and weeks passed before anyone laughed. George could only wonder what lay ahead of them when they docked at Liverpool.

Every member of the team had vowed that he would not return to Everest for, to quote their climbing leader, all the gold in Arabia.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

M
ONDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
4
TH
, 1922

G
EORGE LEANED OVER
the railing of the SS
Caledonia
and, along with the rest of the team, stared down at the dockside in disbelief. None of them could believe what they were witnessing. As far as the eye could see, the dockside was crowded with people clapping, cheering, and waving Union Jacks.

“Who are they cheering for?” asked George, wondering if perhaps some American film star was on board.

“I think you’ll find, George, that they’re welcoming you home,” said Somervell. “They must be suffering from the delusion that you reached the summit.”

George continued to stare down at the clamoring crowd, but there was only one person he was looking for. It wasn’t until they had tied up to the dock that he finally caught a fleeting glimpse of her: a lone figure who kept appearing and disappearing among the vast mêlée of raised hats, waving hands, and Union Jacks.

George would have been the first down the gangplank if Finch hadn’t beaten him to it. The moment he placed a foot on the dockside he was engulfed by a mass of out-thrust arms, which brought back vivid memories of Bombay—except that this time they were trying to slap him on the back rather than begging or proffering secondhand goods.

“Do you still hope to be the first man to conquer Everest, Mr. Mallory?” shouted a journalist with his notepad open, his pencil poised.

George made no attempt to reply, but fought his way through the crowd toward the spot where he’d last seen her.

“
I’ll
certainly be going back!” shouted Finch, as the press surrounded him. “After all, I only have just over 1,000 feet left to climb.” The man with the poised pencil wrote down his every word.

“Do you think
you’ll
make it to the top next time, Mr. Mallory?” a pursuing journalist persisted.

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” mumbled George under his breath. And then he saw her, just a few yards in front of him.

“Ruth! Ruth!” he called, but she clearly couldn’t hear him above the clamor of the crowd. At last their eyes met, and he saw that smile she reserved only for those she truly cared for. He stretched out a hand, and several strangers tried to shake it. He finally lunged forward and took her in his arms.

“How are we ever going to escape from this lot?” he shouted in her ear.

“The car’s just over there,” she said, clinging to his hand and pulling him away from the crowd, but his newfound friends were unwilling to let him escape quite that easily.

“Have you accepted the position as climbing leader for next year’s trip?” shouted another journalist.

“Next year’s trip?” asked George, taken by surprise. But by then Ruth had reached the car, opened the door, and pushed him into the passenger seat. George couldn’t hide his astonishment when she climbed behind the wheel.

“When?” he asked.

“A girl has to find something to occupy her time when her husband is off visiting another woman,” Ruth said with a smile.

He took her in his arms again, and kissed her gently on the lips.

“I’ve spoken to you before about kissing strange women in public, George,” she said, not letting go of him.

“I remember,” George replied, kissing her again.

“Let’s get moving,” said Ruth reluctantly, “before this becomes the closing scene of a Lillian Gish picture.”

She switched on the ignition and cranked the gear lever into first, then tried to inch her way through the crowd, but it was another twenty minutes before she was able to change into second gear and leave the baying pack behind her, and even then one last admirer banged the bonnet with his hand and shouted, “Well done, sir!”

“What was all that about?” asked George, looking out of the rear window as some of the mob continued to pursue them.

“You had no way of knowing, but the press has been covering your progress since the day you left, and over the past six months they’ve turned you into something of a national figure.”

“But I failed,” said George. “Didn’t anyone take that into account?”

“They don’t seem to care. The fact that you remained behind with Odell after he’d collapsed, and let Finch go on, is what caught the public’s imagination.”

“But it’s Finch whose name’s in the record books—he climbed at least three hundred feet higher than I managed.”

“But only with the aid of oxygen,” said Ruth. “In any case, the press thinks you would have climbed far higher than Finch if you’d had the opportunity—possibly even made it to the top.”

“No, I wouldn’t have been able to climb much further than Finch that day,” said George, shaking his head. “And it was because I wanted to prove that I was better than him that seven good men lost their lives. One of them just might have stood by my side on the summit.”

“But surely all the climbing team survived?” said Ruth.

“He wasn’t part of the official party,” said George. “But I’d already decided that he and Somervell would accompany me on the final assault.”

“A Sherpa?” said Ruth, unable to mask her surprise.

“Yes. Sherpa Nyima. I never did find out his family name.” George remained silent for some time before he added, “But I know that I was responsible for his death.”

“No one blames you for what happened,” said Ruth, taking his hand. “You obviously wouldn’t have set out that morning if you had thought even for a moment there was the slightest chance of an avalanche.”

“But that’s the point,” said George. “I didn’t think. I allowed my personal ambition to cloud my judgment.”

“Your latest letter only turned up this morning,” said Ruth, wanting to change the subject.

“And where was I?” George asked.

“In a small tent 25,000 feet above sea level, explaining to Finch why you wouldn’t consider using oxygen.”

“If I’d taken his advice,” said George, “I might have reached the top.”

“There’s nothing to stop you trying again,” said Ruth.

“Never.”

“Well, I know someone who’ll be delighted to hear that,” she said, trying not to reveal her own feelings.

“You, my darling?”

“No, Mr. Fletcher. He called this morning and asked if you could drop in and have a word with him at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course I will,” said George. “I can’t wait to get back to work. I know you won’t believe it, but I even missed the lower fifth and, more important, I need to start earning a salary again. Heaven knows we can’t go on living off your father’s largesse forever.”