“The King,” responded the rest of the team.

“Gentlemen, you may smoke,” said the General, sitting back down and clipping off the end of his cigar.

George remained standing, as did the rest of the team. He raised his glass a second time. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.”

The General was quickly back on his feet, and joined his colleagues as they raised their glasses, while the Sherpas fell flat on the ground and lay facing the mountain.

A moment later, George tapped his glass and called for order. Command had changed hands.

“I should like to begin, gentlemen,” he said, “by thanking General Bruce for ensuring that we all arrived in one piece. And, to quote you, sir,” he added, turning to the General, “burly and fit.”

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“Hear, hear,” chorused the rest of the team, a sentiment with which even Finch felt able to join in.

George unfurled a parchment map, cleared a space in front of him and placed it on the table. “Gentlemen,” he began, “we are currently here.” He pointed the handle of his coffee spoon at 17,500 feet. “Our immediate aim is to progress to here,” he added, moving the spoon up the mountain and coming to a halt at 21,000 feet, “where I hope to set up Camp III. If we are to succeed in conquering Chomolungma, we must establish three more camps at altitude. Camp IV should be on the North Col around 23,000 feet while Camp V will be at 25,000 feet, and Camp VI at 27,000 feet, just 2,000 feet from the summit. It is imperative to discover a route along the crest or skirting the North-East Ridge, that could lead us to the summit.

“But for now,” he continued, “we must remember that we have no idea what lies ahead of us. There are no reference books to consult, no maps to pore over, no old fogies sitting at the bar of the Alpine Club who can regale us with anecdotes of their past triumphs, real or imagined.” Several members of the team smiled and nodded. “We must therefore chart a course that will allow us to one day be the old fogies who pass on our knowledge to the next generation of climbers.” He looked up at his team. “Any questions?”

“Yes,” said Somervell. “How long do you think it will take to establish Camp III? And by that I mean fully stocked and occupied.”

“Ever the practical one,” said George with a smile. “In truth, I can’t be sure. I’d like to cover 2,000 feet a day, so by tomorrow evening I hope to have set up Camp II at 19,000 feet, and be back here at base camp before sunset. The following day we push for 21,000 feet, where we set up Camp III before returning to Camp II for the night. It will take at least a couple of weeks to become acclimatized to altitudes none of us has ever experienced before. Never forget: climb high, sleep low.”

“Will you be dividing us up into teams before we set out?” asked Odell.

“No, not yet,” said George. “We’ll remain as one unit until I know which of you acclimatize best to the conditions. However, I suspect that in the end it won’t be me who decides on the final composition of the teams, but the mountain itself.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Finch. “But have you given any further thought to the use of oxygen above 25,000 feet?”

“Again, I expect the mountain will dictate that decision, and not me.” George waited for a moment before he asked, “Any more questions?”

“Yes, skipper,” said Norton. “What time do you want us on parade tomorrow morning?”

“Six o’clock,” replied George. “And that means all kitted up and ready to move. Remember, tomorrow, we must have the courage to think like Columbus and be prepared to walk off the map.”

George couldn’t make up his mind if it was the responsibility of leadership, or the sheer thrill of knowing that from this moment on, every pace he took would be the highest he’d ever climbed, that meant he emerged from his tent the next morning some time before the rest of the team.

A few minutes before six o’clock, on a clear morning with little wind and the sun inching its own path above the highest peak, George was delighted to find that all eight of his climbers were waiting patiently outside their tents. They were dressed in a variety of garments: woolen waistcoats—probably knitted by their wives or girlfriends—Jaeger trousers, windproofs, silk shirts, cotton smocks, climbing boots, Burberry scarves, and Canadian moccasins, making one or two of them look as if they were about to embark on a skiing holiday in Davos.

Standing behind the climbers were the local Sherpas Nyima had recruited. They each carried as much as eighty pounds of equipment strapped to their backs: tents, blankets, spades, pots and pans, Primus stoves, and food, as well as a dozen oxygen cylinders.

At six o’clock precisely, George pointed upward, and his men set off on the first stage of a journey of which none of them could predict the outcome. He looked back at his team and smiled at the thought of the General sitting in his warm bath at base camp having to read through endless telegrams from Hinks demanding to know how much progress had been made, and whether Finch was behaving himself.

George set a steady pace for the first hour, tramping over the barren, stony ground that stretched along the side of the valley above base camp, regularly passing the sacred blue sheep of the Rongbuk valley, which, however hungry the local tribesmen became, could not be slaughtered. He was well aware that the real challenges wouldn’t arise until they’d skirted the North Ridge, at around 23,000 feet, where not only would the air be thinner and the temperature fall to levels few of them had ever experienced, but far worse, they would have no way of knowing which route they should take if they hoped to progress.

As they tramped on, George became awestruck by colors he had never seen before—a faint blue light that changed to a rich yellow and seemed bent on parching their pale English skins. In the distance he could see the Kangshung face, its vast icy fangs pitted with crevasses and dark, unfathomable ridges perpetually threatening them with an unwelcome avalanche.

Once they’d established Camps II and III, George could only wonder just how many days they would have to spend searching for a safe route on the North Col, only to find that at the end of every illusory path there would be signposts announcing No Entry, Dead End. George was beginning to wonder if it would even prove possible for a human to reach the summit. Those members of the RGS who had predicted that Chomolungma would be just like Mont Blanc, but a little higher, were already looking foolish.

At the end of the second hour, George called the caravan to a halt so that everyone could enjoy a well-earned rest. As he walked among the team, he noticed that Morshead and Hingston were breathing heavily. Nyima had to report that three of the Sherpas had dumped their loads in the snow and headed back down the mountain to return to their villages. George wondered how many Sherpas would be standing on the dockside in Bombay waiting to claim their twenty-rupee bonus from General Bruce. “You’ll be able to count them on one hand,” Bruce had warned him, though even the General couldn’t have predicted that one of his colleagues wouldn’t even be able to do that.

Thirty minutes later the group continued on their way, and didn’t stop to rest again until the sun had reached its zenith. During the lunch break they chewed on mint cake, ginger biscuits, and dried apricots, and drank reconstituted powdered milk before setting off once again.

After another hour’s climbing they had to cross a stream surrounded by tufts of green grass. On its bank stood a willow tree teeming with giant butterflies that rose into the air as they approached; an oasis, the memory of which soon became a mirage as they climbed higher and higher.

The time had come to look for a suitable place to pitch Camp II. He finally chose a piece of flat, stony ground in the middle of the East Rongbuk Glacier, among the giant pinnacles of ice, that had the advantage of being sheltered from the wind. He checked his altimeter—just above 19,000 feet. Under Nyima’s watchful eye the Sherpas deposited their loads in the snow, and leveled off the rocky debris before they could set about erecting the first tent. After unloading equipment and boxes of provisions destined for Camp III and meant to last them at least a month, they finally raised the team tent.

George told his men over dinner back at base camp—goat stew and dumplings once again, no need for a menu, because water biscuits and cheese were certain to follow—that he thought the first day could not have gone much better. However, he still had no idea how long it would take to identify a route beyond the Rongbuk Glacier, and they must be prepared to expect a number of false dawns.

Tags: Jeffrey Archer Fiction
Source: readsnovelonline.net