Paths of Glory (8 page)

“You’re good, Mallory, but are you good enough?” said Finch after George had ordered two pints of bitter. They were on their second pint before Odell and Somervell joined them.

In Cornwall a few months later the two rivals honed their rock-climbing skills, and whenever Young was asked to choose who he thought was the better climber, he was unwilling to respond. However, George accepted that once they stepped onto the slopes of the Italian Alps in the summer, Young would have to decide which of them would accompany him in the Courmayeur Valley for the challenging assault on Mont Blanc.

Among the other climbers who regularly attended those trips to Wales and Cornwall was one George wanted to spend more time with. Her name was Cottie Sanders. The daughter of a wealthy industrialist, she could have undoubtedly taken her place at Cambridge had her mother considered it a proper activity for a young lady. George, Guy, and Cottie regularly made up a three for the morning climb, but once they’d had lunch together on the lower slopes, Young would insist that George leave them and join Finch, Somervell, and Odell for the more demanding afternoon climbs.

Cottie could not have been described as beautiful in the conventional sense, but George had rarely enjoyed a woman’s company more. She was just an inch over five feet, and if she possessed a pleasing figure, she disguised it determinedly beneath layers of jumpers and jodhpurs. Her freckled face and curly brown hair gave the impression of a tomboy. But that wasn’t what had attracted George to her.

George’s father often referred to “inner beauty” in his morning sermons, and George had just as often silently scoffed at the idea from his place in the front pew. But that was before he met Cottie. He failed, however, to notice that her eyes always lit up when she was with him. And when Guy asked her if she was in love with George, she simply said, “Isn’t everybody?”

Whenever Guy raised the subject with his friend, George always replied that he did not think of Cottie as anything more than a friend.

“What’s your opinion of George Finch?” asked Cottie one day when they sat down for lunch on top of a rock.

“Why do you ask?” said George, removing a sandwich from its grease-proof paper wrapping.

“My father once told me that only politicians are expected to answer a question with a question.”

George smiled. “I admit Finch is a damned fine climber, but he can be a bit much if you have to spend all day with him.”

“Ten minutes was quite enough for me,” said Cottie.

“What do you mean?” asked George as he lit his pipe.

“Once we were out of sight of everybody, he tried to kiss me.”

“Perhaps he’s fallen in love with you,” said George, trying to make light of it.

“I don’t think so, George,” she said. “I’m not exactly his type.”

“But he must find you attractive if he wanted to kiss you?”

“Only because I was the one girl within fifty miles.”

“Thirty, my dear,” said George, laughing, as he tapped his pipe on the rock. “I see our esteemed leader is on his way,” he added as he helped Cottie back on her feet.

George was disappointed when Young chose not to take the party down a rather interesting-looking descent of Lliwedd by way of a sheer rock buttress. When they reached the lower slopes he was irritated to discover that he had left his pipe behind, and would have to return to the summit to retrieve it. Cottie agreed to accompany him, but when they reached the base of the rock George asked her to wait, as he couldn’t be bothered to take the long route around the giant obstacle.

She watched in amazement as he began to climb straight up the sheer rock face, showing no sign of fear. Once he had reached the top he grabbed his pipe, put it in his pocket and came straight back down by the same route.

Over dinner that evening, Cottie told the rest of the party what she had witnessed that afternoon. From the looks of incredulity on their faces, it was clear that no one believed her. George Finch even burst out laughing, and whispered to Geoffrey Young, “She thinks he’s Sir Galahad.”

Young didn’t laugh. He was beginning to wonder if George Mallory might be the ideal person to accompany him on a climb even the Royal Geographical Society considered impossible.

A month later, Young wrote to seven climbers, inviting them to join his party for the Italian Alps during the summer vacation. He made it clear that he wouldn’t select the pair who would make the assault on Mont Blanc from the Courmayeur Valley until he had seen which of them acclimatized best to the hazardous conditions.

Guy Bullock and Cottie Sanders did not receive invitations, as Young believed that their presence would be a distraction.

“Distractions,” he pronounced when the team gathered in Southampton, “are all very well when you’re spending a weekend in Wales, but not when you’re in Courmayeur attempting to climb some of the most treacherous slopes in Europe.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

S
ATURDAY
, J
ULY
14
TH
, 1906

L
IKE BURGLARS IN
the night, the two of them slipped out of the hotel unnoticed, carrying the swag under their arms. Silently, they crossed an unlit road and disappeared into the forest, aware that it would be some time before they were missed by their colleagues, who were probably dressing for dinner.

The first few days had gone well. They had pitched up at Courmayeur on the Friday to find that the weather was perfect for climbing. A week later, with the Aiguille du Chardonnet, the Grépon, and Mont Maudit “under their belts,” to use one of Geoffrey Young’s favorite expressions, they were all prepared for the final challenge—assuming the weather held.

When seven o’clock struck on the hotel’s grandfather clock, the honorary chairman of the CUMC tapped the side of his glass with a spoon. The rest of the committee fell silent.

“Item number one,” said Geoffrey Young, glancing down at his agenda, “the election of a new member. Mr. George Leigh Mallory has been proposed by Mr. Somervell and seconded by Mr. Odell.” He looked up. “Those in favor?” Five hands were raised. “Carried unanimously,” said Young, and a ripple of applause followed—something he had never experienced before. “I therefore declare George Leigh Mallory elected as a member of the CUMC.”

“Perhaps someone should go and look for him,” said Odell, “and tell him the good news?”

“If you’re hoping to find Mallory, you’d better put on your climbing boots,” said Young without explanation.

“I know he isn’t a Cambridge man,” said Somervell, “but I propose that we invite George Finch to be an honorary member of the club. After all, he’s a fine climber.”

No one seemed willing to second the proposal.

George struck a match and lit the little Primus stove. The two men in the tent sat cross-legged, facing each other. They warmed their hands while they waited for the water to boil, a slow process when you’re halfway up a mountain. George placed two mugs on the ground while Finch ripped the wrapping off a bar of Kendal Mint Cake, broke it in half and passed a chunk across to his climbing partner.

The previous day, the two of them had stood together on the summit of Mont Maudit and stared up at Mont Blanc, a mere 2,000 feet above them, wondering if they would be looking down from its peak tomorrow.

George checked his watch: 7:35
P.M
. By now Geoffrey Young would be taking the rest of the team through tomorrow’s program, having informed them who would be joining him on the final ascent. The water boiled.

“This has been quite a remarkable week for climbing,” continued Young. “In fact, I would go so far as to say that it has been among the most memorable of my career, which only makes my selection of who will join me for the attack on the summit tomorrow all the more difficult. I am painfully aware that some of you have waited years for this opportunity, but more than one of you has to be disappointed. As you are all well aware, reaching the summit of Mont Blanc is not technically difficult for an experienced climber—unless, of course, he attempts it from the Courmayeur side. He paused.

“The climbing party will consist of five men: myself, Somervell, Odell, Mallory, and Finch. We will set out at four o’clock tomorrow morning, and press on to 15,400 feet, where we will rest for two hours. If that capricious mistress, the weather, allows us, the final team of three will make an attempt on the summit.

“Odell and Somervell will descend to the Grand Mulets hut at 13,400 feet, where Somervell will await the return of the final party.”

“Triumphant return,” said Somervell magnanimously, although he and Odell could barely conceal their frustration at not having been chosen for the assault on the summit.

“Let’s hope so,” said Young. “I know how disappointed some of you must feel not to be selected for the climbing party, but never forget that without a back-up team it wouldn’t be possible to conquer any mountain, and every member of the team will have played his part. Should tomorrow’s attempt fail for any reason, I shall be inviting Odell and Somervell to join me later in the week when we will make a second attempt on the summit.” The two men smiled slightly ruefully, as if they’d won a silver medal at the Olympic Games. “There is nothing more for me to say, other than to tell you who I have chosen to join me for the final ascent.”

George removed a glove, unscrewed the jar of Bovril and dropped a spoonful of the thick brown substance into the mugs. Finch added the hot water and stirred until he was sure there was nothing left on the bottom before he handed George his drink. George broke a second bar of Kendal Mint Cake and passed the larger portion across to Finch. Neither spoke while they savored their gourmet meal.

It was George who eventually broke the silence. “I wonder who Young will pick.”

“You’re certain to be selected,” said Finch, warming his hands around his mug. “But I don’t know who else he’ll choose out of Odell, Somervell, and me. If he picks the best climber, then the final place is mine.”

“Why wouldn’t he pick the best climber?”

“I’m not an Oxford or Cambridge man, old boy,” said Finch, mimicking his companion’s accent.

“Young’s no snob,” said George. “He won’t let that influence his decision.”

“We could of course pre-empt that decision,” suggested Finch with a grin.

George looked puzzled. “What do you have in mind?”

“We could set out for the summit first thing in the morning, and then sit around waiting to see which of them joins us.”

“It would be a pyrrhic victory,” George suggested as he drained his drink.

“A victory’s a victory,” said Finch. “Ask any Epirote how he feels about the word ‘pyrrhic.’”

George made no comment as he crawled into his sleeping bag. Finch undid his fly buttons before slipping out of the tent. He looked up at the peak of Mont Blanc glistening in the moonlight, and even wondered if he could manage to climb it alone. When he crawled back into the tent, George was already fast asleep.

“I can’t find either of them,” said Odell as he joined the rest of his colleagues for dinner. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

“They’ve got an important day tomorrow, so they’ll be trying to rest,” said Young, as a bowl of hot consommé was placed in front of him. “But it’s never easy to sleep at minus twenty degrees. I will have to make a slight adjustment to tomorrow’s plan.” Everyone around the table stopped eating and turned toward him. “Odell, Somervell, and I will be joined by Herford.”

“But what about Mallory and Finch?” asked Odell.

“I have a feeling that the two of them will already be sitting at Grand Mulets, waiting for us to join them.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

M
ALLORY AND
F
INCH
had already finished lunch by the time Young and his party joined them at the Grand Mulets refuge. Neither of them spoke as they waited to see how the expedition’s leader would react to their impudence.

“Have you already tried for the top?” asked Young.

“I wanted to,” said Finch as he followed Young into the hut, “but Mallory advised against it.”

“Shrewd fellow, Mallory,” said Young, before unfolding an old parchment map and laying it out on the table. George and Finch listened intently as he took them all through his proposed route for the last 2,200 feet.

“This will be my seventh attempt from the Courmayeur side,” he said, “and if we make it, it will only be the third time, so the odds are worse than fifty-fifty.” Young folded the map up and stowed it in his rucksack. He shook hands with Somervell, Herford, and Odell. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “We’ll make every effort to be back with you by five. Half past at the latest. See that you have a cup of Earl Grey on the boil,” he added with a smile. “We can’t risk being any later,” he said as he looked up at the forbidding peak before turning to face his chosen companions. “Time to rope up. I can assure you, gentlemen, this is one lady you don’t want to be out with after dark.”

For the next hour, the three of them worked their way steadily along a narrow ridge that would take them to within a thousand feet of the summit. George was beginning to wonder what all the fuss was about, but that was before they reached the Barn Door, a vast pinnacle of ice with sheer rock on both sides acting as bookends. There was a simpler, longer route to the summit, but as Young told them, that was for women and children.

Young sat at the foot of the Barn Door and checked his map once again. “Now you’ll begin to understand why we spent all those weekends honing our rock-climbing skills.”

George couldn’t take his eyes off the Barn Door, looking for any cracks in the surface, or indentations where other climbers had gone before them. He placed a foot tentatively in a small fissure.

“No,” said Young firmly, as he walked across to take the lead. “Next year, possibly.”

Young began to slowly traverse the giant overhanging pinnacle, often disappearing from view only, roped together as if by an umbilical cord, to reappear a few moments later. Each of them realized that if one of them made a single mistake, they would all come tumbling down.