George checked his watch again, and frowned. He pointed firmly down the mountain. Irvine placed the camera in a trouser pocket and buttoned up the proof of what they had achieved.
George was about to take the first step back down, when he recalled his promise to Ruth. With heavy, ice-covered fingers, he clumsily pulled out his wallet and extracted the sepia photograph that he always took with him on every trip. He gave his wife one last look and smiled, before placing her image on the highest point on earth. He put his hand back in his pocket and began rummaging around.
“The King of England sends his compliments, ma’am,” he said, giving a bow, “and hopes that you will grant his humble subjects safe passage back to their homeland.”
George smiled. George cursed.
He’d forgotten to bring Geoffrey Young’s sovereign.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
5:49 P.M., SUNDAY, JUNE 8TH, 1924
WHEN ODELL ARRIVED back at Camp IV, he was unable to conceal his excitement. He crawled into Norton’s tent and told him what he’d seen.
“About 600 feet from the summit, you say?” said Norton, still lying flat on his back.
“Yes,” said Odell, “I’m certain of it. They were standing on the Second Step when I saw one of them walk toward the other before going strong for the top.”
“Then nothing should stop them now,” said Bullock as he placed a fresh warm cloth over Norton’s eyes.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Somervell. “But I still think it would be wise for Odell to write down the details of everything he saw while they’re fresh in his mind. It might turn out to be significant when the history of the expedition is written.”
Odell crawled across to his rucksack and took out his diary. He sat in a corner of the tent and for the next twenty minutes wrote down everything he had witnessed that morning. Exactly where he’d seen the two figures, the time at which they continued up the mountain, and the fact that they appeared to be in no difficulty as they disappeared into the mist. When he’d finished, he checked his watch: 6:58 P.M. Were Mallory and Irvine safely back in their tent at Camp VI, having stood on top of the earth?
Once they’d roped up, George’s first thought as he stepped off the summit of Everest was to wonder how long his oxygen would last. Irvine had joked about them not taking more than eight hours, but they must surely be approaching that deadline. His second thought was to wonder how many hours were left in the sun’s rays, because that was something you couldn’t alter with the twiddling of a valve. Finally, he hoped it would be a clear night, which would allow the moon to accompany them on the last steps of their journey home.
He was surprised to find that once they had attained the prize, the rush of adrenaline had deserted him, and all he had left was the will to survive.
After covering a mere 50 feet, George wanted to sit down and rest, but with his body so fatigued and racked with pain, he knew that if he closed his eyes even for a moment, he might never open them again.
He jabbed his ice axe into the cracked surface, took a step backward, and immediately felt the rope tighten. Irvine must be finding the journey down even more difficult than he was, if that was possible. George tentatively placed his left foot back onto the icy slope that was now even more treacherous than before. He tried to take advantage of the finger and toe-holds he’d left behind on the way up, but they were already icing over. Despite losing his balance and falling on his backside several times, he managed to keep moving until he had safely reached the patch of stony ground, only to find himself once again standing above a sheer icy rock face, this time looking down. George knew that this would be the most dangerous part of the climb, and he had to assume that Irvine was in an even worse state than he was. If either of them made the slightest error, they would both tumble to their deaths. He turned to his companion and smiled. For the first time, Irvine did not return his smile.
George gripped the top of the rock with both hands and slowly lowered himself a few inches, searching for the slightest indentation that might secure a toehold. Once his toe had found a step, he lowered his other leg. Suddenly he felt the rope go slack. He looked up to see that Irvine had lost his grip on an icy ledge, and was falling backward. His body passed George a moment later.
George knew that he couldn’t hope to cling on to an icy, vertical rock face while the six-foot-two-inch, 220-pound man to whom he was roped was falling through the air. An instant later he was pulled off the rock. He didn’t even have a chance to think about death as he followed Irvine down, down, down…
A second later, they both landed in the two feet of thick snow that had so bedeviled them on the way up, and which now acted as a cushion to save their lives. After a brief, stunned silence, they both began laughing, like two naughty schoolboys who’d fallen out of a tree and were buried in Christmas snow.
George rose slowly and checked his limbs. He stood unsteadily, pleased to see Irvine already on his feet. The two men collapsed into each other’s arms, and George began slapping his young colleague on the back. He finally released him and gave Irvine the thumbs-up before once again setting off down the mountain.
George knew nothing was going to stop him now.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
MONDAY, JUNE 9TH, 1924
WHEN ODELL ROSE at five the following morning, the first thing he saw was Noel setting up his tripod on a small, flat ridge. The massive lens of his camera was pointing in the direction of Camp VI, ready to roll at the slightest sign of life. A moment later, Norton crawled out to join them.
“Good morning, Odell,” he said cheerfully. “I confess that for the moment you’re no more than a blur, but at least I can tell the difference between you and Noel—just.”
“That’s good news,” said Noel, “because I hope it won’t be too long before we see George and Sandy coming over the skyline.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Norton. “Mallory’s never been an early riser, and I expect young Irvine will still be fast asleep.”
“I can’t hang around waiting for them any longer,” said Odell. “I’m going up to cook them some breakfast, and then I’ll escort them back down in triumph.”
“Before you leave, old man,” said Noel, “once you get up there would you do something for me?” Odell turned to face him. “Could you drag their sleeping bags out of the tent and lay them side by side in the snow, and then we’ll know they reached the summit?”
“And if they didn’t?” He paused. “Or worse?”
“Place the bags in the sign of a cross,” said Noel quietly.
Odell nodded, pulled on his rucksack and began the climb back to Camp VI for the second time in three days. But this time the weather was becoming worse by the minute. Within moments he was battling against a savage wind that was whipping down the valley, a clear warning that within hours the monsoon would be upon them. He kept looking up anxiously, hoping to see his two triumphant colleagues on their way down.
As he came closer and closer to Camp VI, he tried to dismiss from his mind the thought that they might have come to any harm. But when he finally spotted the small tent, it was covered in a layer of fresh snow, with no telltale footprints in sight, and its green canvas flapping in the wind.
Odell attempted to quicken his pace, but it was pointless, because his heavy boots just sank deeper and deeper into the fresh snow until it felt as if he was treading water. He finally gave up, fell on his knees and began to crawl the last few feet toward the tent. He poked his head inside and took off his goggles, hoping to see an untidy mess left by two exhausted men who were fast asleep. But in truth, he already knew that was wishful thinking. He stared in disbelief. Odell would tell his friends for many years to come that it was like looking at a still-life painting. The sleeping bags had not been slept in, the jar of Bovril was unopened, and the bars of Kendal Mint Cake had not been unwrapped, while beside them stood a candle that had not been relit.
Odell put on his goggles and backed out of the tent. He pushe
d himself up off his knees and looked up toward the mountain peak, but could no longer see more than a few feet in front of him. He screamed, “George! Sandy!” at the top of his voice, but the lashing wind and drifting snow beat his words back. He kept on shouting until his voice was just a whimper and he could barely hear himself above the noise of the gale. He finally gave up, but not until he accepted that his own life was in danger. He crawled back toward the tent, and reluctantly pulled out one sleeping bag and placed it on the side of the mountain.
“Someone’s dragging out one of the sleeping bags,” announced Noel.
“What’s the message?” cried Norton.
“Not sure yet. Ah, he’s dragging the other one out now.”
Noel focused on the moving figure.
“Is it George?” shouted Norton, looking hopefully up the mountain, a hand shielding his eyes from the driving snow. Noel didn’t reply. He just bowed his head.
Somervell shuffled across the ridge as quickly as he could, and took Noel’s place behind the camera. He peered through the viewfinder.
The whole lens was filled with the sign of a cross.
EPILOGUE
He who would valiant be ’gainst all disaster
If George Leigh Mallory had been surprised by the reception he received on returning to England following the 1922 expedition, what would he have made of the memorial service that was held in St. Paul’s Cathedral in his honor? No body, no casket, no grave, yet thousands of ordinary citizens had traveled the length and breadth of the land to line the streets and pay homage.
Let him in constancy follow the master
His Majesty the King, the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Connaught, and Prince Arthur were all represented, with the Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald, the former Foreign Secretary Lord Curzon, the Lord Mayor of London, and the Mayor of Birkenhead in attendance.
There’s no discouragement shall make him once relent
General Bruce stood at the east end of the cathedral and lined up Lieutenant Colonel Norton, Dr. Somervell, Professor Odell, Major Bullock, Major Morshead, Captain Noel, and Geoffrey Young to form the guard of honor. They carried silver ice axes under their right arms as they followed the Dean of St. Paul’s down the nave past the crowded pews, and took their places in the front row next to Sir Francis Younghusband, Mr. Hinks, Mr. Raeburn, and Commander Ashcroft, who were there to represent the Royal Geographical Society.
His first avowed intent to be a pilgrim
When the Bishop of Chester mounted the pulpit steps to address the packed congregation, he opened his eulogy by trying to articulate the people’s feelings of affection and admiration for the two lads from Birkenhead, who, on Ascension Day, had captured the imagination of the world.
“We will never know,” he went on to say, “if together they reached the summit of that great mountain. But who among us can doubt that if the prize was within his grasp, George Mallory would have battled on whatever the odds, and that young Sandy Irvine would have followed him to the ends of the earth?”
Ruth Mallory, who was seated in the front row on the other side of the aisle, was in no doubt that her husband wouldn’t have turned back if there was even the slightest possibility of achieving his wildest dream. Nor did the Reverend Herbert Leigh Mallory, who sat beside his daughter-in-law. Hugh Thackeray Turner, seated on the other side of his daughter, would go to his grave without offering an opinion.
Who so beset him round with dismal stories
After the Dean of St. Paul’s had given the blessing, and the captains and the kings had departed, Ruth stood alone by the north door, shaking hands with friends and well-wishers, many of whom told her how their lives had been enriched by this gallant and courageous gentleman.
She smiled when she saw George Finch, waiting in line to speak to her. He was dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and black tie that looked as if they were being worn for the first time. He bowed as he shook her hand. Ruth leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “If it had been you who was climbing with George, he might still be alive today.”
Finch didn’t voice his long-held opinion that had he been invited to join the expedition, he and Mallory would surely have reached the summit together and, more important, returned home safely. Although Finch accepted that if they had been in any trouble, Mallory might have ignored his advice and carried on, leaving him to return alone.
Do but themselves confound, his strength the more is
At last Ruth’s father felt the time had come to take his daughter home, despite the fact that so many mourners still wished to pay their respects.
On the drive back to Godalming, hardly a word passed between them. But then, Ruth had lost the only man she had ever loved, and old gentlemen do not expect to attend the funerals of their sons-in-law. As they passed through the gates of The Holt, Ruth thanked her father for his kindness and understanding, but asked if she could be left alone to grieve. He reluctantly departed, and returned to Westbrook.
No foes shall stay his might, though he with giants fight
When Ruth opened the front door, the first thing she saw lying on the mat was an envelope, addressed to her in George’s unmistakable hand. She picked it up, painfully aware that it must be his last letter. She walked through to the drawing room and poured herself what George would have called “a stiff whiskey” before taking her seat in the winged chair by the window. She looked up at the driveway, somehow still expecting George to come striding through the gates and take her in his arms.
He will make good his right to be a pilgrim
Ruth tore open the envelope, took out the letter, and began to read her husband’s last words.
June 7th, 1924
My darling,
I’m sitting in a tiny tent some 27,300 feet above sea level, and almost 5,000 miles from my homeland, seeking the paths of glory. Even if I were to find them, it would be as nothing, if I am unable to share the moment with you.
I should not have needed to travel halfway round the world to discover that without you I am nothing, as many less fortunate men with envy in their eyes have oft reminded me, and they do not know the half. Ask any one of them what he would sacrifice for that first moment of passion to last a lifetime, and he would tell you half his days, because no such woman exists. They are wrong. I have found that woman, and nothing will ever take her place, certainly not this ice-cold virgin that slumbers above me.
Some men boast of their conquests. The truth is, I’ve had but one, as I loved you from the moment I first saw you. You are my waking morning, you are my setting sun.
And if that were not enough, I still marvel at my good fortune, for I have been thrice blessed.
The first blessing came on the day you became my wife and agreed to share the rest of your life with me. That night you became my lover, and since have become my closest friend.
The second blessing came when you unselfishly encouraged me to fulfill my wildest dream, always allowing my head to remain in the clouds while you, somehow, managed with wisdom and common sense to keep your feet firmly on the ground.
And thrice you have blessed me with a wonderful family, who continue to bring unending joy to my life, although there are never enough minutes in each day to share their laughter and brush away their tears. I often regret depriving myself of so much of their brief years of childhood.
Clare will follow me to Cambridge, where she will not only outwit untested men, but when put to the test herself will surely succeed where I failed. Beridge has been gifted with your grace and charm, growing daily in your image so that when she blossoms into a woman, many men will bend low to seek her hand, but for me, none will be worthy. And as for little John, I cannot wait to read his first school report, watch his first football match, and be by his side when he has to face up to what he imagines to be his first disaster.
My darling, there is so much more that I want to say, but my hand grows shaky, and the flickering candle reminds me that I still have some purpose on the morrow
, when I intend to place your photograph on the highest point on earth so that I might exorcise this demon forever, and finally return to the only woman I have ever loved.
I can see you at The Holt, sitting in your winged chair by the window, reading this letter, and smiling as you turn each page. Look up, my darling, for at any moment you will see me march through those gates and come striding down the path toward you. Will you leap up and rush to greet me, so that I can take you in my arms and never leave your side again?
Forgive me for having taken so long to realize that you are more important to me than life itself.
Your loving husband,
George
At the same time every day for the rest of her life, Ruth Mallory would sit in the winged chair by the window and re-read her husband’s letter.
On her deathbed, she told her children that not a day had passed when she hadn’t seen George march through those gates and come striding down the path toward her.
POST 1924
George Leigh Mallory
George’s body was discovered on May 1st, 1999, at 26,760 feet. The photo of his wife Ruth was not in his wallet and there was no sign of a camera. To this day, the climbing fraternity are divided as to whether he was the first person to conquer Everest. Few doubt that he was capable of doing so.
Andrew “Sandy” Irvine
When Irvine’s death was announced in The Times, three women came forward claiming to be engaged to him.