Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

  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

  SATURDAY, JULY 14TH, 1906

  LIKE 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

  MALLORY AND FINCH 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.

  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 t
he 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

  GEORGE 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.