“Why not?” demanded Finch.
“Because Hinks will be reporting to the committee that an Englishman was the first to reach the summit.” George gave Finch a brief smile. “But I can’t see any reason why an Australian and a Sherpa shouldn’t manage it at some time in the future.” He picked up his pen. “Now go back to sleep, Finch. I’ve got a letter to finish.” Once again George began to move the nib across the paper, but no words appeared; the ink had frozen.
At five o’clock the following morning the three men clambered out of their sleeping bags. George was the first to emerge from the tent, to be greeted by a cloudless blue sky, the color of which J. M. W. Turner would have marveled at, although the great artist would have had to climb to 25,000 feet before he could hope to paint the scene. There was only the slightest suggestion of a breeze, and George filled his lungs with the cold morning air as he looked up at the peak, a mere 4,000 feet above him.
“So near…” he said as Finch crawled out of the tent with thirty-two pounds of oxygen cylinders strapped to his back. He also looked up at the summit, and then beat his chest.
“Shh,” said George. “We don’t want to wake her. Let her slumber, and then we can take her by surprise.”
“That’s hardly the way to treat a lady,” replied Finch with a grin.
George began pacing up and down on the spot, unable to hide his frustration at having to wait for Odell to appear.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, chaps,” Odell said sheepishly when he eventually crawled out of the tent. “I couldn’t find my other glove.” Neither of his companions showed any sympathy.
They roped up, George taking the lead, with Finch behind him and Odell bringing up the rear. “Good luck, gentlemen,” said George. “The time has come for us to court a lady.”
“Let’s hope she doesn’t drop her handkerchief right on top of us,” said Finch, turning the valve of one of his oxygen cylinders and adjusting his mouthpiece.
George had taken only a few steps before he knew that this was going to be like no other climb he’d ever experienced. Whenever he’d approached the summit of a mountain in the past, there were always places where it was possible to stop and rest. But here there was no chance of respite. The slightest movement was as exhausting as if he was trying to run a hundred-yard dash, although he progressed at a tortoise’s pace.
He tried not to think about Finch, only a few strides behind, contentedly taking in his oxygen. Would he prove them all wrong? George battled on but with each step his breathing became more and more labored. He had practiced a special deep-breathing technique every day for the past seven months—four seconds in through the nose, fill up your chest, followed by four seconds out through the mouth, but this was the first opportunity he’d had to try the technique out above 25,000 feet. He glanced back to see that Finch, despite carrying an extra thirty-two pounds on his back, still appeared relaxed. But if they both reached the top, there would be no doubt which one of them would be considered the victor.
George struggled on inch by inch, foot by foot, and didn’t stop until he came across Norton’s Burberry scarf, which had been left as a marker to proclaim the new—now old—world-record altitude for any climber. He looked back to see Finch still climbing strongly, but Odell was clearly struggling and had already fallen several yards behind. Would Finch prove to be right? Should George have chosen the best climber available to accompany them?
George checked his watch: 10:12. Although their progress had been slower than he had anticipated, he still believed that if they could reach the summit by midday, they would have enough time to return to the North Col before sunset. He counted slowly to sixty—something he’d done on every climb since he was a schoolboy—before checking the altimeter to see how far they’d progressed. He didn’t need an altimeter to know the distance was becoming less and less by the minute, but he still remained confident that they could make it to the top when they reached 27,550 feet at 10:51. That was when he heard a cry that sounded like a wounded animal. He knew it wasn’t Finch.
George looked back to see Odell was on his knees, his body racked with coughs, his ice axe buried beside him in the snow. He clearly wasn’t going to advance another inch. Reluctantly, George slithered back down to join him, losing twenty hard-earned feet in the process.
“I’m so sorry, Mallory,” gasped Odell. “I can’t go any further. I should have let you and Finch set off without me.”
“Don’t give it a second thought, old chum,” George said between breaths. He placed an arm around Odell’s shoulders. “I can always have another crack at it tomorrow. You couldn’t have done more.”
Finch didn’t waste any time with words of sympathy. He removed his mouthpiece and said, “If you’re going to stick around looking after Odell, can I at least carry on?”
George wanted to say no, but knew he couldn’t. He checked his watch—10:53—and nodded. “Good luck,” he said, “but you must turn back by midday at the latest.”
“That should be quite long enough,” said Finch, before replacing his mouthpiece and releasing himself from the team’s rope. As he eased his way past Mallory and Odell, neither could see the grin on his face. George could only watch as his rival progressed slowly on up the mountain, inching his way toward the summit.
However, long before the hour was up, Finch could no longer place one foot in front of the other. He stopped to release the valve on the second gas cylinder, but he could still only manage a few more feet. He cursed as he thought how close he was to immortality. He checked his altimeter: 27,850 feet, a mere 1,155 feet from shaking hands with God.
Finch stared up at the glistening peak, took out his mouthpiece, and shouted, “It was Mallory you were expecting, wasn’t it? But it will be me who comes back tomorrow!”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
June 28th, 1922
My dearest Ruth,
We so nearly reached the summit, but within hours of returning to the North Col the foul weather set in again with a vengeance. I can’t make up my mind if the Gods are
angry because we failed to reach the top, or that we came too close so they decided to slam the door in our face.
The following day the conditions were so dreadful that we only just got back to Camp II, and we’ve had to sit around for the past week waiting for a break in the weather. I’m still determined to have one final crack at the summit.
Norton has had to return to base camp, and I suspect the General may decide to send him back to England. God knows he’s played his part.
Finch has been struck down with dysentery and also returned to base camp but is still well enough to remind anyone who cares to listen that he is the man who climbed higher than anyone else on earth (27,850 feet)—myself included. Morshead has had to join him as his frostbite has become unbearable. Odell has fully recovered from our first attempt on the summit, when he suffered badly, and tells me that he wants to be given another chance, but if we do make another attempt I’m not going to risk climbing with him again. So with Finch, Norton, and Morshead no longer available to join me for the final climb, only Somervell among the recognized climbers is still on his feet, and he has every right to be given a second chance.