Presently he had melted enough snow to make a warm drink, but Forester found the taste of the bouillon nauseating and could not drink it, so he heated some more water and they drank that; at least it put some warmth into their bellies.
Then he got to work on Forester, examining his hands and feet and pummelling him violently over many protests. After this Forester was wide awake and in full possession of his senses and did the same for Rohde, rubbing hands and feet to bring back the circulation. ‘Do you think we’ll make it, Miguel?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Rohde shortly; but he was having his first doubts. Forester was not in good condition for the final assault on the pass and the descent of the other side. It was not a good thing for a man with cracked ribs. He said, ‘You must keep moving—your fingers and toes, move them all the time. You must rub your face, your nose and ears. You must not sleep.’
‘We’d better talk,’ suggested Forester. ‘Keep each other awake.’ He raised his head and listened to the howls of the wind. ‘It’ll be more like shouting, though, if this racket keeps up. What shall we talk about?’
Rohde grunted and pulled the hood about his ears. ‘O’Hara told me you were an airman.’
‘Right,’ said Forester. ‘I flew towards the end of the war—in Italy mostly. I was flying Lightnings. Then when Korea came I was dragged in again—I was in the Air Force Reserve, you see. I did a conversion on to jets and then I flew Sabres all during the Korean war, or at least until I was pulled out to go back Stateside as an instructor. I think I must have flown some missions with O’Hara in Korea.’
‘So he said. And after Korea?’
Forester shrugged. ‘I was still bitten with the airplane bug; the company I work for specializes in airplane maintenance.’ He grinned. ‘When all this happened I was on my way to Santillana to complete a deal with your Air Force for maintenance equipment. You still have Sabres, you know; I sometimes get to flying them if the squadron commandant is a good guy.’ He paused. ‘If Aguillar pulls off his coup d’état the deal may go sour—I don’t know why the hell I’m taking all this trouble.’
Rohde smiled, and said, ‘If Señor Aguillar comes into power your business will be all right—he will remember. And you will not have to pay the bribes you have already figured into your costing.’ His voice was a little bitter.
‘Hell,’ said Forester. ‘You know what it’s like in this part of the world—especially under Lopez. Make no mistake, I’m for Aguillar; we businessmen like an honest government—it makes things easier all round.’ He beat his hands together. ‘Why are you for Aguillar?’
‘Cordillera is my country,’ said Rohde simply, as though that explained everything, and Forester thought that meeting an honest patriot in Cordillera was a little odd, like finding a hippopotamus in the Arctic.
They were silent for a while, then Forester said, ‘What time is it?’
Rohde fumbled at his wristwatch. ‘A little after nine.’
Forester shivered. ‘Another nine hours before sunrise.’ The cold was biting deep into his bones and the wind gusts which flailed into their narrow shelter struck right through his clothing, even through O’Hara’s leather jacket. He wondered if they would be alive in the morning; he had heard and read too many tales of men dying of exposure, even back home and closer to civilization, to have any illusions about the precariousness of their position.
Rohde stirred and began to empty two of the packs. Carefully he arranged the contents where they would not roll out of the cave, then gave an empty pack to Forester. Put your feet in this,’ he said. ‘It will be some protection against the cold.’
Forester took the pack and flexed the blanket material, breaking off the encrusted ice. He put his feet into it and pulled the drawstring about the calves of his legs. ‘Didn’t you say you’d been up here before?’ he asked.
‘Under better conditions,’ answered Rohde. ‘It was when I was a student many years ago. There was a mountaineering expedition to climb this peak—the one to our right here.’
‘Did they make it?’
Rohde shook his head. ‘They tried three times—they were brave, those Frenchmen. Then one of them was killed and they gave up.’
‘Why did you join them?’ asked Forester curiously.
Rohde shrugged. ‘I needed the money—students always need money—and they paid well for porters. And, as a medical student, I was interested in the soroche. Oh, the equipment those men had! Fleece-lined under-boots and thick leather over-boots with crampons for the ice; quilted jackets filled with down; strong tents of nylon and long lengths of nylon rope—and good steel pitons that did not bend when you hammered them into the rock.’ He was like a starving man voluptuously remembering a banquet he had once attended.
‘And you came over the pass?’
‘From the other side—it was easier that way. I looked down over this side from the top and was glad we did not have to climb it. We had a camp—camp three—on top of the pass; and we came up slowly, staying some days at each camp to avoid the soroche.’
‘I don’t know why men climb mountains,’ said Forester, and there was a note of annoyance in his voice. ‘God knows I’m not doing it because I want to; it beats me that men do it for pleasure.’
‘Those Frenchmen were geologists,’ said Rohde. ‘They were not climbing for the sake of climbing. They took many rock samples from the mountains around here. I saw a map they had made—published in Paris—and I read they had found many rich minerals.’
‘What’s the use?’ queried Forester. ‘No one can work up here.’
‘Not now,’ agreed Rohde. ‘But later—who knows?’ His voice was serenely confident.
They talked together for a long time, each endeavouring to urge along the lagging clock. After a time Rohde began to sing—folk-songs of Cordillera and later the half-forgotten German songs that his father had taught him. Forester contributed some American songs, avoiding the modern pop tunes and sticking to the songs of his youth. He was halfway through ‘I’ve Been Working on the Railroad’ when there was a thunderous crash from the left which momentarily drowned even the howls of the gale.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, startled.
‘The snow cornice is falling,’ said Rohde. ‘It has built up because of the wind; now it is too heavy and not strong enough to bear its own weight.’ He raised his eyes to the roof of the ice cave. ‘Let us pray that it does not fall in this place; we would be buried.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Midnight. How do you feel?’
Forester had his arms crossed over his chest. ‘Goddam cold.’
‘And your ribs—how are they?’
‘Can’t feel a thing.’
Rohde was concerned. ‘That is bad. Move, my friend; move yourself. You must not allow yourself to freeze.’ He began to slap and pummel Forester until he howled for mercy and could feel the pain in his chest again.
Just after two in the morning the snow cornice over the cave collapsed. Both Rohde and Forester had become dangerously moribund, relapsing into a half-world of cold and numbness. Rohde heard the preliminary creaking and stirred feebly, then sagged back weakly. There was a noise as of a bomb exploding as the cornice broke and a cloud of dry, powdery snow was driven into the shelter, choking and cold.
Rohde struggled against it, waving his arms in swimming motions as the tide of snow covered his legs and crept up to his chest. He yelled to Forester, ‘Keep a space clear for yourself.’
Forester moaned in protest and waved his hands ineffectually, and luckily the snow stopped its advance, leaving them buried to their shoulders. After a long, dying rumble which seemed to come from an immense distance they became aware that it was unnaturally quiet; the noise of the blizzard which had battered at their ears for so long that they had ceased to be aware of it had gone, and the silence was loud and ear-splitting.
‘What’s happened?’ mumbled Forester. Something was holding his arms imprisoned and he could not get them free. In a p
anic he began to struggle wildly until Rohde shouted, ‘Keep still.’ His voice was very loud in the confined space.
For a while they lay still, then Rohde began to move cautiously, feeling for his ice-axe. The snow in which he was embedded was fluffy and uncompacted, and he found he could move his arms upwards. When he freed them he began to push the snow away from his face and to plaster and compress it against the wall of the cave. He told Forester to do the same and it was not long before they had scooped out enough space in which to move. Rohde groped in his pocket for matches and tried to strike one, but they were all wet, the soggy ends crumbling against the box.
Forester said painfully, ‘I’ve got a lighter,’ and Rohde heard a click and saw a bright point of blinding light. He averted his eyes from the flame and looked about him. The flame burned quite still without flickering and he knew that they were buried. In front, where the opening to the cave had been, was an unbroken wall of compacted snow.
He said, ‘We must make a hole or suffocate,’ and groped in the snow for the small axe. It took him a long time to find it and his fingers encountered several other items of their inadequate equipment before he succeeded. These he put carefully to one side—everything would be important from now on.
He took the axe and, sitting up with his legs weighed down with snow, he began to hew at the wall before him. Although it was compacted it was not as hard to cut as the ice from which he had chopped the cave and he made good progress. But he did not know how much snow he had to go through before he broke through to the other side. Perhaps the fall extended right across the ledge between the ice wall and the cliff edge and he would come out upon a dizzying drop.
He put the thought out of his mind and diligently worked with the axe, cutting a hole only of such size as he needed to work in. Forester took the snow as it was scooped out of the hole and packed it to one side, observing after a while, ‘We’re not going to have much room if this goes on much longer.’
Rohde kept silent, cutting away in the dark, for he had blown out the small flame. He worked by sense of touch and at last he had penetrated as far as he could with the small axe, thrusting his arm right up to the shoulder into the hole he had made. He had still not come to the other side of the snow fall, and said abruptly, ‘The ice-axe.’
Forester handed it to him and Rohde thrust it into the hole, driving vigorously. There was no room to cut with this long axe, so he pushed, forcing it through by sheer muscle power. To his relief, something suddenly gave and there was a welcome draught of cold air. It was only then he realized how foetid the atmosphere had become. He collapsed, half on top of Forester, panting with his exertions and taking deep breaths of air.
Forester pushed him and he rolled away. After a while he said, ‘The fall is about two metres thick—we should have no trouble in getting through.’
‘We’d better get at it, then,’ said Forester.
Rohde considered the proposition and decided against it. ‘This might be the best thing for us. It is warmer in here now, the snow is shielding us from the wind. All we have to do is to keep that hole clear. And there will not be another fall.’
‘Okay,’ said Forester. ‘You’re the boss.’
Warmth was a relative term. Cutting the hole had made Rohde sweat freely and now he could feel the sweat freezing to ice on his body under his clothing. Awkwardly he began to strip and had Forester rub his body all over. Forester gave a low chuckle as he massaged, and said, ‘A low-temperature Turkish bath—I’ll have to introduce it to New York. We’ll make a mint of money.’
Rohde dressed again and asked, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Goddam cold,’ said Forester. ‘But otherwise okay.’
‘That shock did us good,’ said Rohde. ‘We were sinking fast—we must not let that happen again. We have another three hours to go before dawn—let us talk and sing.’
So they sang lustily, the sound reverberating from the hard and narrow confines of the ice cave, making them sound, as Forester put it, ‘like a pair of goddam bathroom Carusos.’
III
Half an hour before dawn Rohde began to cut their way out and he emerged into a grey world of blustery wind and driving snow. Forester was shocked at the conditions outside the cave. Although it was daylight, visibility was restricted to less than ten yards and the wind seemed to pierce right through him. He put his lips to Rohde’s ear and shouted, ‘Draughty, isn’t it?’
Rohde turned, his lips curled back in a fierce grin. ‘How is your chest?’
Forester’s chest hurt abominably, but his smile was amiable. ‘Okay. I’ll follow where you go.’ He knew they could not survive another night on the mountain—they had to get over the pass this day or they would die.
Rohde pointed upward with the ice-axe. ‘The cornice is forming again, but it is not too bad; we can go up here. Get the packs together.’ He stepped to the ice wall and began to cut steps skilfully, while Forester repacked their equipment. There was not much—some had been lost, buried under the snow fall, and some Rohde had discarded as being unnecessary deadweight to carry on this last desperate dash. They were stripped down to essentials.
Rohde cut steps in the fifteen-foot ice wall as high as he could reach while standing on reasonably firm ground, then climbed up and roped himself to pitons and stood in the steps he had already cut, chopping vigorously. He cut the steps very deep, having Forester in mind, and it took him nearly an hour before he was satisfied that Forester could climb the wall safely.
The packs were hauled up on a rope and then Forester began the climb, roped to Rohde. It was the most difficult task he had faced in his life. Normally he could have almost run up the broad and deep steps that Rohde had cut but now the bare ice burned his hands, even through the gloves, his chest ached and stabbing pains pierced him as he lifted his arms above his head, and he felt weak and tired as though the very breath of life had been drained from him. But he made it and collapsed at Rohde’s feet.
Here the wind was a howling devil driving down the pass and bearing with it great clouds of powdery snow and ice particles which stung the face and hands. The din was indescribable, a freezing pandemonium from an icy hell, deafening in its loudness. Rohde bent over Forester, shielding him from the worst of the blast, and made him sit up. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he shouted. ‘We must keep moving. There is no more hard climbing—just the slope to the top and down the other side.’
Forester flinched as the ice particles drove like splinters into his face and he looked up into Rohde’s hard and indomitable eyes. ‘Okay, buster,’ he croaked harshly. ‘Where you go, so can I.’
Rohde thrust some coca quids into his hand. ‘You will need these.’ He checked the rope round Forester’s waist and then picked up both packs, tentatively feeling their weight. He ripped them open and consolidated the contents into one pack, which he slung on his back despite Forester’s protests. The empty pack was snatched by the wind and disappeared into the grey reaches of the blizzard behind them.
Forester stumbled to his feet and followed in the tracks that Rohde broke. He hunched his shoulders and held his head down, staring at his feet in order to keep the painful wind from his face. He wrapped the blanket hood about the lower part of his face but could do nothing to protect his eyes, which became red and sore. Once he looked up and the wind caught him right in the mouth, knocking the breath out of him as effectively as if he had been punched in the solar plexus. Quickly he bent his head again and trudged on.
The slope was not very steep, much less so than below the cliffs, but it meant that to gain altitude they had that much farther to go. He tried to work it out; they had to gain a thousand feet of height and the slope was, say, thirty degrees—but then his bemused mind bogged down in the intricacies of trigonometry and he gave up the calculation.
Rohde plodded on, breaking the deep snow and always testing the ground ahead with the ice-axe, while the wind shrieked and plucked at him with icy fingers. He could not see more than ten yards ahead
but he trusted to the slope of the mountainside as being sufficient guide to the top of the pass. He had never climbed this side of the pass but had looked down from the top, and he hoped his memory of it was true and that what he had told Forester was correct—that there would be no serious climbing—just this steady plod.
Had he been alone he could have moved much faster, but he deliberately reduced his pace to help Forester. Besides, it helped conserve his own energy, which was not inexhaustible, although he was in better condition than Forester. But then, he had not fallen over a cliff. Like Forester, he went forward bent almost double, the wind tearing at his clothing and the snow coating his hood with a thickening film of ice.
After an hour they came to a slight dip where the slope eased and found that the ground became almost level. Here the snow had drifted and was very deep, getting deeper the farther they went up. Rohde raised his head and stared upwards, shielding his eyes with his hand and looking through the slits made by his fingers. There was nothing to be seen beyond the grey whirling world in which they were enclosed. He waited until Forester came abreast of him and shouted, ‘Wait here; I will go ahead a little way.’
Forester nodded wearily and sank to the snow, turning his back to the gale and hunching himself into a foetus-like attitude. Rohde unfastened the rope around his waist and dropped it by Forester’s side, then went on. He had gone a few paces when he turned to look back and saw the dim huddle of Forester and, between them, the broken crust of the snow. He was satisfied that he could find his way back by following his own trail, so he pressed on into the blizzard.
Forester put another coca quid into his mouth and chewed it slowly. His gloved hand was clumsy and he pulled off the glove to pick up the quid from the palm of his hand. He was cold, numb to the bone, and his mouth was the only part of him that was pleasantly warm, a synthetic warmth induced by the coca. He had lost all sense of time; his watch had stopped long ago and he had no way of knowing how long they had been trudging up the mountain since scaling the ice wall. The cold seemed to have frozen his mind as well as his body, and he had the distinct impression that they had been going for several hours—or perhaps it was only several minutes; he did not know. All he knew was that he did not care much. He felt he was condemned to walk and climb for ever in this cold and bleak mountain world.
High Citadel / Landslide Page 21