The General neither shook hands with the Sirdar nor saluted. Without preliminaries, he asked, “Did you get my cable, Kumar?”
“Yes, General Sahib, and all your instructions have been carried out to the letter. I think I can say with some confidence that you will be well satisfied.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Kumar, and only after I’ve inspected the merchandise.”
“Of course, General,” said the Indian, once again bowing low. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to follow me.”
Kumar and his two compatriots led the General across a road teeming with people, rickshaws, and hundreds of old Raleigh and Hercules bicycles, as well as the occasional contented-looking cow chewing its cud in the middle of the highway. The General marched through the bustling, noisy crowd, which parted as if he were Moses crossing the Red Sea. George pursued his leader, curious to discover what was next while at the same time trying to take in the unfamiliar sounds of the street traders plying their exotic wares: Heinz baked beans, Player’s cigarettes, Swan Vesta matches, bottles of Tizer, and Eveready batteries were continually thrust in front of his nose. He politely declined each new offer, while feeling overwhelmed by the energy and exuberance of the local people, but horrified by the poverty he saw all around him—the beggars far outnumbered the traders. He now understood why these people considered Gandhi to be a prophet, while the British continued to treat the Mahatma as if he were a criminal. He would have so much to tell the lower fifth when he returned.
The General strode on, ignoring the dusty outstretched hands and the repeated cries of “Pie, pie, pie.” The Sirdar led him into a square that was so packed it might have been a mass rally at Speaker’s Corner, with the difference that everyone was talking, and no one was listening. The square was surrounded by unfinished concrete buildings. The curious and those with nothing better to do hung out of upper windows hoping to gain a bird’s-eye view of what was taking place below. Then George set eyes for the first time on what the General had described as “the merchandise.”
On a dusty, sunburned patch of earth, one hundred mules awaited inspection. Behind them stood a large group of porters.
George stood to one side and watched as the General carried out his inspection, the crowd following his every move. He began by checking the mules’ legs and teeth, and even sat astride several of the beasts to assess their strength. Two of them collapsed under his weight. It took him over an hour to select seventy of the animals that in his opinion passed muster.
Next, the General carried out exactly the same exercise with row upon row of the silent porters. First he inspected their legs, then their teeth, and in some cases, to George’s astonishment, he even jumped on their backs. Once again, one or two of them collapsed under his weight. Despite this, before the second hour was up he had added sixty-two porters to the seventy mules he had already selected.
Although George had done little more than act as an observer, he was already sweating from head to toe, while the General seemed to take everything, including the heat, in his stride.
When the inspection had been completed, Kumar stepped forward and presented his demanding customer with two cooks and four dhobis. To George’s relief, the General did not jump onto their backs. He did, however, check their teeth and legs.
Having completed his inspection, the General turned to Kumar and said, “Be sure that every one of the coolies and mules are standing on the dockside at six o’clock tomorrow morning. If they are all on parade by that time you will be paid fifty rupees.” Kumar bowed and smiled. The General turned to George and put a hand out. George assumed he required the envelope. The General opened it, extracted a fifty-rupee note and handed it to the Sirdar to confirm that the deal had been struck. “And instruct them, Kumar,” he added, pointing at the porters, “that they will be paid ten rupees a week. Any of them who are still with us when we re-board the ship in three months’ time will be given a bonus of twenty rupees.”
“Most generous, General Sahib, most generous,” Kumar replied, bowing even lower.
“Were you also able to comply with my other request?” demanded the General as he passed the envelope back to George.
“Yes, General Sahib,” said the Sirdar, with an even broader grin on his face.
One of the two men standing behind Kumar stepped forward, stood to attention in front of the General and then removed his slippers. George had given up trying to guess what would happen next. The General took a tape from a pocket in his shorts and proceeded to measure the young man, from the top of his head to the soles of his bare feet.
“I think you will find,” said Kumar with satisfaction, “that the boy is exactly six feet.”
“Yes, but does he understand what is expected of him?”
“He does indeed, General Sahib. In fact he has been preparing for the past month.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Bruce. “If he turns out to be satisfactory, he will be paid twenty rupees a week, and on arrival at base camp will be given a bonus of fifty rupees.”
Once again the Sirdar bowed.
George was about to ask why the expedition required a youth who was exactly six feet tall, when the General pointed to the short, stocky man with Asiatic features who was standing at the back of the trio, and had not uttered a word. “And who is that?”
The young man stepped forward before Kumar had a chance to introduce him, and said, “I am Sherpa Nyima, General. I am your personal translator, and will be the Sherpa leader when you reach the Himalaya.”
“Twenty rupees a week,” said the General, and marched out of the square without another word, his business completed.
It had always amused George that whenever generals marched off, they assumed that everyone else would follow. It was one of the reasons, he concluded, that the British had won more battles than they had lost. It took George several minutes to catch up with Bruce, because most of the crowd were still running after him, hoping to benefit from his largesse. When he finally managed to do so, Bruce simply said, “Never become friendly with the natives. You’ll regret it in the long run.” He didn’t utter another word until they entered the driveway of the Palace Hotel twenty minutes later, leaving the pursuing horde behind them. As the General marched up the path through the manicured gardens, George spotted a third welcoming party standing on the top step of the hotel. He wondered how long they had been waiting.
The General came to a sudden halt in front of a beautiful young woman wearing a deep purple and gold sari. She was carrying a small bowl of sweet-smelling powdered herbs in her left hand and, after dipping the forefinger of her right hand into the powder, she gently pressed the tip of her finger to the General’s forehead, leaving a distinctive red mark of respect. She took a pace back, and a second young woman, also in traditional dress, placed a garland of flowers over the General’s head. He bowed and thanked them.
The ceremony over, a smartly dressed man wearing a black frock coat and pinstripe trousers stepped forward. “Welcome back to the Palace Hotel, General Bruce,” he said. “I have put your party in the south wing, overlooking the ocean, and your usual suite has been prepared.” He stood aside to allow his guest to enter the hotel.
“Thank you, Mr. Khan,” said the General, walking straight past the check-in desk toward a lift that he assumed was being held open for him.
George followed him, and when they reached the top floor, the first thing he saw was Norton and Somervell standing at the far end of the corridor wearing their dressing gowns. He smiled and waved to let them know he would be joining them in a few minutes.
“I suppose, General,” said George, “that this could be our last chance to have a bath for three months.”
“Speak for yourself, Mallory,” said Bruce, as Mr. Khan held open the door of the Queen Victoria suite for him.
George was already discovering why the RGS had considered this short, plump, retired soldier to be head and shoulders above the rest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGH
T
“I’D LIKE TO post some letters, please,” said George.
“Of course, sir,” said the concierge. “How many?”
“Seventeen,” said George. He had already posted eighteen letters when the ship had docked for a few hours at Durban to take on fuel and fresh food.
“All to the same country?” the concierge asked casually, as if this was an everyday occurrence.
“Yes, in fact all to the same address.” This time the concierge did raise an eyebrow. “My wife,” explained George. “I write to her every day, and I’ve only just disembarked, so…”
“Leave it to me,” said the concierge.
“Thank you,” said George.
“Are you coming to the Governor-General’s shindig, George?” asked a voice behind him.
George turned to see Guy approaching. “Yes,” he replied.
“Then let’s share a taxi,” said Guy, as he headed toward the door.
“I intend to eat like a pig tonight,” said Guy as the rickshaw dodged obstacles in the crowded streets. “I have a feeling this is likely to be the best spread we’ll get before we return to England. Unless of course the Governor-General decides to invite us again on our way back.”
“That may depend on whether we return as conquering heroes or frostbitten failures,” said George.
“I’m not going to risk it anyway,” said Guy. “Especially as Bruce tells me that Sir Peter has the finest cellar in India.”
Two soldiers in full dress uniform snapped to attention and saluted as the rickshaw drove through the gates of the Governor-General’s residence. Mallory and Bullock jumped out and walked beneath a high wooden arch into a long, ornate marble hall, where they took their place in the reception line. The General was standing by the Governor-General’s side, introducing him to each member of the team.
“As you seem to be so well informed, Guy,” whispered George, “who’s the young lady standing by the Governor-General’s side?”
“His second wife,” said Bullock. “His first died a couple of years ago, and this one—”
“This is Guy Bullock, Sir Peter,” said the General. “He’s taken a sabbatical from the Foreign Office to join us.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bullock.”
“And this is George Mallory, our climbing leader.”
“So this is the man who’s going to be the first to stand on the summit of Everest,” said the Governor-General, shaking George warmly by the hand.
“He has a rival,” said Guy with a grin.
“Ah, yes,” said the Governor-General, “Mr. Finch, if I remember correctly. Can’t wait to meet the fellow. And may I introduce my wife.”
After bowing to the young lady, George and Guy drifted into a packed room where the only Indians in sight were servants offering drinks. George selected a sherry wine and then headed for the one person he recognized.
“Good evening, Mr. Mallory,” said Russell.
“Good evening, Mr. Russell,” said George. “Are you enjoying being posted out here?” He was never at ease when having to make small talk.
“Capital, enjoying every moment,” Russell replied. “It’s just a pity about the natives.”
“The natives?” repeated George, hoping Russell was joking.
“They don’t like us,” whispered Russell. “In fact, they loathe us. There’s trouble brewing.”
“Trouble?” prompted Bullock, who had walked across to join them.
“Yes, ever since we put that fellow Gandhi in jail for creating unrest—” Suddenly, without warning, Russell stopped in mid-sentence and stared, his mouth hanging open. Mallory and Bullock turned to see what had caused him to be struck dumb.
“Is he one of yours?” asked Russell, barely able to hide his discomfort.
“I’m afraid so,” said George, stifling a grin as he turned to see Finch chatting to the Governor-General’s wife. Finch was dressed in an open-necked khaki shirt, green corduroy trousers, and brown suede shoes, with no socks.
“You should feel flattered,” chipped in Guy. “He doesn’t usually take that much trouble.”
The private secretary was clearly not amused. “The man’s a bounder,” he said as they watched Finch slip an arm around Lady Davidson’s waist.
George didn’t move as he spotted the General heading toward him, almost at a gallop.
“Mallory,” he said, his cheeks flushed, “get that man out of here, and be quick about it.”
“I’ll do my best,” said George, “but I can’t guarantee—”
“If you don’t get him out, and now,” said the General, “I will. And let me assure you it won’t be a pretty sight.”
George handed his empty glass to a passing waiter before crossing the room to join Finch and the Governor-General’s wife.
“Have you met Mallory, Sonia?” Finch asked. “He’s my only real rival.”
“Yes, we’ve been introduced,” replied the Governor-General’s wife, pretending to be unaware of Finch’s arm, draped around her waist.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Lady Davidson,” said George, “but I need to have a private word with Mr. Finch, as a small problem has arisen.”
Without another word he grabbed Finch firmly by the elbow and led him quickly out of the room. Guy slipped in next to Lady Davidson and started chatting to her about whether she intended to return to London for the season.
“So what’s this small problem?” asked Finch once they were out in the hallway.
“You are,” replied George. “At this moment I think you’ll find the General is rounding up volunteers for a firing squad.” He guided Finch out of the door and onto the driveway.
“Where are we going?” asked Finch.
“Back to the hotel.”
“But I haven’t had dinner yet.”
“I think that’s the least of your problems.”
“You were ordered to get me out of there, weren’t you?” said Finch as George shoved him into a rickshaw.
“Something like that,” admitted George. “I have a feeling that will be the last time we’re invited to one of the Governor-General’s little soirées.”
“Speak for yourself, Mallory. If you and I get to stand on top of that mountain, you’ll definitely be dining with the Governor-General again.”
“That doesn’t mean you will be,” said George.
“No, I won’t. I’ll be upstairs in his lady’s chamber.”
George thought he heard a knock on the door, but then he could have been dreaming. It sounded a little louder the second time. “Come in,” he said, still half asleep. George opened one eye to see the General staring down at him, still dressed in his uniform.
“Do you always sleep on the floor with the windows wide open, Mallory?” he asked.
George opened his other eye. “It was either this or the veranda,” he said. “And I can assure you, General,” he added, pushing himself up, “this is luxury compared to what it’s going to be like at 27,000 feet, stuck in a tiny tent with only Finch for company.”
“That’s precisely what I wanted to speak to you about,” said the General. “I felt you ought to be the first to know that I’ve decided to put Finch on the next boat back home.”
George put on his silk dressing gown and sat down on the only comfortable chair in the room. He slowly filled his pipe with tobacco, and took his time lighting up.
“Finch’s behavior this evening was quite inexcusable,” the General continued. “I now realize I should never have agreed to him being included in the team.”
George puffed away on his pipe for a few moments before he responded. “General,” he said quietly, “you don’t have the authority to send any member of my team back to England without consulting me.”
“I am consulting you now, Mallory,” said the General, his voice rising with every word.
“No, you are not. You’ve barged into my room in the middle of the night to inform me that you’ve decided to send Finch back to England on the first availa
ble boat. That’s not my idea of consultation.”
“Mallory,” interrupted the General, “I don’t have to remind you that I am in overall charge of this expedition. I will be the one who makes the final decision as to what happens to any member of my team.”
“Then you’ll be making this one all on your own, General, because if you put Finch on that boat, then I and the rest of my team will be joining him. I’m sure the RGS will be fascinated to know why, unlike the Duke of York, you didn’t even manage to take us to the top of the hill, let alone bring us down again.”
“But, but—” spluttered the General. “Surely you agree that’s not the way to treat a lady, Mallory, especially the Governor-General’s wife.”
“No one knows better than I do,” said George, “that Finch can be tiresome, and I’m sure he won’t be teaching etiquette to any debs next season. But unless you’re willing to take his place, General, I suggest you go to bed now, and just be grateful that Finch won’t be attending any more cocktail parties for at least another three months. He’s also unlikely to bump into any more ladies on his way to the Himalaya.”
“I’ll have to think about it, Mallory,” said the General, turning to leave. “I’ll let you know my decision in the morning.”
“General, I’m not one of your coolies who’s desperate for the King’s shilling, so please let me know now if I am to wake up my men and tell them they’ll be returning to England on the first boat, or if I can allow them to rest before they set out on the most arduous journey of their lives.”
The General’s face became redder. “On your head be it, Mallory,” he said, before storming out of the room.
“Dear Lord,” said George as he took off his dressing gown and lay back down on the floor, “please tell me, what did I do to deserve Finch?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
April 15th, 1922
My dearest Ruth,
We have begun the 1,000-mile trek to the Tibetan border. We boarded the train to Siliguri at the base of the Himalaya, which the timetable promised would be a 6-hour journey, but it took almost 16. I’ve often wondered what happens to old trains when they’re pensioned off—well, now I know. They’re sent to India, where they’re reincarnated.