Paths of Glory

1892
CHAPTER ONE

ST. BEES, CUMBRIA, TUESDAY, JULY 19TH, 1892

IF YOU HAD asked George why he’d begun walking toward the rock, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The fact that he had to wade into the sea to reach his goal didn’t appear to concern him, even though he couldn’t swim.

Only one person on the beach that morning showed the slightest interest in the six-year-old boy’s progress. The Reverend Leigh Mallory folded his copy of The Times and placed it on the sand at his feet. He didn’t alert his wife, who was lying on the deckchair beside him, eyes closed, enjoying the occasional rays of sunshine, oblivious to any danger their eldest son might be facing. He knew that Annie would only panic, the way she had when the boy had climbed onto the roof of the village hall during a meeting of the Mothers’ Union.

The Reverend Mallory quickly checked on his other three children, who were playing contentedly by the water’s edge, unconcerned with their brother’s fate. Avie and Mary were happily collecting seashells that had been swept in on the morning tide, while their younger brother Trafford was concentrating on filling a small tin bucket with sand. Mallory’s attention returned to his son and heir, who was still heading resolutely toward the rock. He was not yet worried, surely the boy would eventually realize he had to turn back. But he rose from his deckchair once the waves began to cover the boy’s knee breeches.

Although George was now almost out of his depth, the moment he reached the jagged outcrop he deftly pulled himself out of the sea and leaped from rock to rock, quickly reaching the top. There he settled himself, and stared out toward the horizon. Although his favorite subject at school was history, clearly no one had told him about King Canute.

His father was now watching with some trepidation as the waves surged carelessly around the rocks. He waited patiently for the boy to become aware of the danger he was in, when he would surely turn and ask for help. He didn’t. When the first spray of foam touched the boy’s toes, the Reverend Mallory walked slowly down to the water’s edge. “Very good, my boy,” he murmured as he passed his youngest, who was now intently building a sandcastle. But his eyes never left his eldest son, who still hadn’t looked back, even though the waves were now lapping around his ankles. The Reverend Mallory plunged into the sea and started to swim toward the rock, but with each slow lunge of his military breast-stroke he became more aware that it was much further away than he had realized.

He finally reached his goal, and pulled himself onto the rock. As he clambered awkwardly to the top he cut his legs in several places, showing none of the sure-footedness his son had earlier displayed. Once he’d joined the boy, he tried not to reveal that he was out of breath and in some considerable discomfort.

That’s when he heard her scream. He turned to observe his wife, standing at the water’s edge, shouting desperately, “George! George!”

“Perhaps we should be making our way back, my boy,” suggested the Reverend Mallory, trying not to sound at all concerned. “We don’t want to worry your mother, do we?”

“Just a few more moments, Papa,” begged George, who continued to stare resolutely out to sea. But his father decided they couldn’t wait any longer, and pulled his son gently off the rock.

It took the two of them considerably longer to reach the safety of the beach, as the Reverend Mallory, cradling his son in his arms, had to swim on his back, only able to use his legs to assist him. It was the first time George became aware that return journeys can take far longer.

When George’s father finally collapsed on the beach, George’s mother rushed across to join them. She fell on her knees and smothered the child in her bosom, crying, “Thank God, thank God,” while showing scant interest in her exhausted husband. George’s two sisters stood several paces back from the advancing tide, quietly sobbing, while his younger brother continued to build his fortress, far too young for any thoughts of death to have crossed his mind.

The Reverend Mallory eventually sat up and stared at his eldest son, who was once again looking out to sea although the rock was no longer in sight. He accepted for the first time that the boy appeared to have no concept of fear, no sense of risk.

1896
CHAPTER TWO

DOCTORS, PHILOSOPHERS, AND even historians have debated the significance of heredity when trying to understand the success or failure of succeeding generations. Had a historian studied George Mallory’s parents, he would have been hard pressed to explain their son’s rare gift, not to mention his natural good looks and presence.

George’s father and mother considered themselves to be upper middle class, even if they lacked the resources to maintain such pretensions. The Reverend Mallory’s parishioners at Mobberley in Cheshire considered him to be High Church, hide-bound and narrow-minded, and were unanimously of the opinion that his wife was a snob. George, they concluded, must have inherited his gifts from some distant relative. His father was well aware that his elder son was no ordinary child, and was quite willing to make the necessary sacrifices to ensure that George could begin his education at Glengorse, a fashionable prep school in the south of England.

George often heard his father say, “We’ll just have to tighten our belts, especially if Trafford is to follow in your footsteps.” After considering these words for some time, he inquired of his mother if there were any prep schools in England that his sisters might attend.

“Good heavens no,” she replied disdainfully. “That would simply be a waste of money. In any case, what would be the point?”

“For a start, it would mean Avie and Mary had the same opportunities as Trafford and me,” suggested George.

His mother scoffed. “Why put the girls through such an ordeal, when it would not advance their chances of securing a suitable husband by one jot?”

“Isn’t it possible,” suggested George, “that a husband might benefit from being married to a well-educated woman?”

“That’s the last thing a man wants,” his mother responded. “You’ll find out soon enough that most husbands simply require their wife to provide them with an heir and a spare, and to organize the servants.”

George was unconvinced, and decided he would wait for an appropriate opportunity to raise the subject with his father.

The Mallorys’ summer holiday of 1896 was not spent at St. Bees, bathing, but in the Malvern Hills, hiking. While the rest of the family quickly discovered that none of them could keep up with George, his father at least made a valiant attempt to accompany him to the higher slopes, while the other Mallorys were happy to wander in the valleys below.

With his father puffing away several yards behind, George re-opened the vexed question of his sisters’ education. “Why aren’t girls given the same opportunities as boys?”

“It’s not the natural order of things, my boy,” panted his father.

“And who decides the natural order of things?”

“God,” responded the Reverend Mallory, feeling he was on safer ground. “It was He who decreed that man should labor to gain sustenance and shelter for his family, while his spouse remained at home and tended to their offspring.”

“But He must have noticed that women are often blessed with more common sense than men. I’m sure He’s aware that Avie is far brighter than either Trafford or me.”

The Reverend Mallory fell back, as he required a little time to consider his son’s argument, and even longer to decide how he should answer it. “Men are naturally superior to women,” he eventually suggested, not sounding altogether convinced, before lamely adding, “and we should not attempt to meddle with nature.”

“If that is true, Papa, how has Queen Victoria managed to reign so successfully for more than sixty years?”

“Simply because there wasn’t a male heir to inherit the throne,” replied his father, feeling he was entering uncharted waters.

“How lucky for England that no man was available when Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne either,” suggested George. “Perhaps the time has come to allow girls the same opportunity as boys to make their way in the world.”

“That would never do,” spluttered his father. “Such a course of action would overturn the natural order of society. If you had your way, George, how would your mother ever be able to find a cook or a scullery maid?”

“By getting a man to do the job,” George suggested guilelessly.

“Good heavens, George, I do believe you’re turning into a free-thinker. Have you been listening to the rantings of that Bernard Shaw fellow?”

“No, Papa, but I have been reading his pamphlets.”

It is not unusual for parents to suspect that their progeny just might be brighter than they are, but the Reverend Mallory was not willing to admit as much when George had only recently celebrated his tenth birthday. George was ready to fire his next question, only to find that his father was falling further and further behind. But then, when it came to climbing, even the Reverend Mallory had long ago accepted that his son was in a different class.

CHAPTER THREE

GEORGE DIDN’T CRY when his parents sent him away to prep school. Not because he didn’t want to, but because another boy, dressed in the same red blazer and short gray trousers, was bawling his head off on the other side of the carriage.

Guy Bullock came from a different world. He wasn’t able to tell George exactly what his father did for a living, but whatever it was, the word industry kept cropping up-something George felt confident his mother wouldn’t approve of. Another thing also became abundantly clear after Guy had told him about his family holiday in the Pyrenees. This was a child who had never come across the expression We’ll have to tighten our belts. Still, by the time they arrived at Eastbourne station later that afternoon they were best friends.

The two boys slept in adjoining beds while in junior dormitory, sat next to each other in the classroom, and, when they entered their final year at Glengorse, no one was surprised that they ended up sharing the same study. Although George was better than him at almost everything they tackled, Guy never seemed to resent it. In fact, he appeared to revel in his friend’s success, even when George was appointed captain of football and went on to win a scholarship to Winchester. Guy told his father that he wouldn’t have been offered a place at Winchester if he hadn’t shared a study with George, who never stopped pushing him to try harder.

While Guy was checking the results of the entrance exam posted on the school notice board, George appeared more interested in an announcement that had been pinned below. Mr. Deacon, the chemistry beak, was inviting leavers to join him on a climbing holiday in Scotland. Guy had little interest in climbing, but once George had added his name to the list, Guy scribbled his below it.

George had never been one of Mr. Deacon’s favorite pupils, possibly because chemistry was not a subject he excelled in, but as his passion for climbing far outweighed his indifference toward the Bunsen burner or litmus paper, George decided that he would just have to rub along with Mr. Deacon. After all, George confided to Guy, if the damn man went to the trouble of organizing an annual climbing holiday, he couldn’t be all bad.

From the moment they set foot in the barren Highlands of Scotland, George was transported into a different world. By day he would stroll through the bracken and heather-covered hills, while at night, with the aid of a candle, he would sit in his tent reading The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde before reluctantly falling asleep.

Whenever Mr. Deacon approached a new hill, George would loiter at the back of the group and think about the route he had selected. On one or two occasions he went as far as to suggest that they might perhaps consider an alternative route, but Mr. Deacon ignored his proposals, pointing out that he had been taking climbing parties to Scotland for the past eighteen years, and perhaps Mallory might ponder on the value of experience. George fell back in line, and continued to follow his master up the well-trodden paths.

Over supper each evening, when George sampled ginger beer and salmon for the first time, Mr. Deacon would spend some considerable time outlining his plans for the following day.

“Tomorrow,” he declared, “we face our most demanding test, but after ten days of climbing in the Highlands I’m confident that you’re more than ready for the challenge.” A dozen expectant young faces stared up at Mr. Deacon before he continued, “We will attempt to climb the highest mountain in Scotland.”

“Ben Nevis,” said George. “Four thousand four hundred and nine feet,” he added, although he had never seen the mountain.

“Mallory is correct,” said Mr. Deacon, clearly irritated by the interruption. “Once we reach the top-what we climbers call the summit, or peak-we will have lunch while you enjoy one of the finest vistas in the British Isles. As we have to be back at camp before the sun sets, and as the descent is always the most difficult part of any climb, everyone will report for breakfast by seven o’clock, so that we can set out at eight on the dot.”

Guy promised to wake George at six the following morning, as his friend often overslept and then missed breakfast, which didn’t deter Mr. Deacon from keeping to a timetable that resembled a military operation. However, George was so excited by the thought of climbing the highest mountain in Scotland that it was he who woke Guy the next morning. He was among the first to join Mr. Deacon for breakfast, and was waiting impatiently outside his tent long before the party was due to set off.

Mr. Deacon checked his watch. At one minute to eight he set off at a brisk pace down the path that would take them to the base of the mountain.

“Whistle drill!” he shouted after they had covered about a mile. All the boys, except one, took out their whistles and heartily blew the signal that would indicate they were in danger and required assistance. Mr. Deacon was unable to hide a thin-lipped smile when he observed which of his charges had failed to carry out his order. “Am I to presume, Mallory, that you have left your whistle behind?”

“Yes, sir,” George replied, annoyed that Mr. Deacon had got the better of him.

“Then you will have to return to camp immediately, retrieve it, and try to catch us up before we begin the ascent.”

George wasted no time protesting. He took off in the opposite direction, and once he was back at camp, fell on his hands and knees and crawled into his tent, where he spotted the whistle on top of his sleeping bag. He cursed, grabbed it, and began running back, hoping to catch up with his chums before they started the climb. But by the time he’d reached the foot of the mountain the little crocodile of climbers had already begun their ascent. Guy Bullock, who was acting as “tail-end Charlie,” continually looked back, hoping to see his friend. He was relieved when he spotted George running toward them, and waved frantically. George waved back as the group continued their slow progress up the mountain.

“Keep to the path,” were the last words he heard Mr. Deacon say as they disappeared around the first bend.

Once they were out of sight, George came to a halt. He stared up at the mountain, which was bathed in a warm haze of misty sunshine. The brightly lit rocks and shaded gullies suggested a hundred different ways to approach the summit, all but one of which were ignored by Mr. Deacon and his faithful troop as they resolutely kept to the guidebook’s recommended path.

George’s eyes settled on a thin zigzag stretching up the mountain, the dried-up bed of a stream that must have flowed lazily down the mountain for nine months of the year-but not today. He stepped off the path, ignoring the arrows and signposts, and headed toward the base of the mountain. Without a second thought, he leaped up onto the first ridge like a gymnast mounting a high bar and agilely began making his way from foothold to ledge to jutting outcrop, never once hesitating, never once looking down. He only paused for a moment when he came to a large, jagged rock 1,000 feet above the base of the mountain. He studied the terrain for a few moments before he identified a fresh route and set off once again, his foot sometimes settling in a well-trodden hollow, while at other times he pursued a virgin path. He didn’t stop again until he was almost halfway up the mountain. He looked at his watch-9:07. He wondered which signpost Mr. Deacon and the rest of the group had reached.

Ahead of him, George could make out a faint path that looked as if it had only ever been climbed by seasoned mountaineers or animals. He followed it until he came to a halt at a large granite slab, a closed door that would prevent anyone without a key from reaching the summit. He spent a few moments considering his options: he could retrace his steps, or take the long route around the slab, which would no doubt lead him back to the safety of the public footpath-both of which would add a considerable amount of time to the climb. But then he smiled when a sheep perched on a ledge above him let out a plaintive bleat, clearly not used to being disturbed by humans, before bounding away and unwittingly revealing the route the intruder should take.

George looked for the slightest indentation in which he could place a hand, followed by a foot, and begin his ascent. He didn’t look down as he progressed slowly up the vertical rock face, searching for a finger-hold or a hint of a ledge to grip on to. Once he’d found one and pushed himself up, he would use it as his next foothold. Although the rock couldn’t have been more than fifty feet high, it was twenty minutes before George was able to yank himself onto the top and gaze at the peak of Ben Nevis for the first time. His reward for taking the more demanding route was immediate, because he now faced only a gentle slope all the way to the summit.

He began to jog up the rarely trodden path, and by the time he’d reached the summit it felt as if he was standing on top of the world. He wasn’t surprised to find that Mr. Deacon and the rest of the party hadn’t got to the peak yet. He sat alone on top of the mountain, surveying the countryside that stretched for miles below him. It was another hour before Mr. Deacon appeared leading his trusty band. The schoolmaster could not hide his annoyance when the other boys began cheering and clapping the lone figure sitting on the peak.

Mr. Deacon marched up to him and demanded, “How did you manage to overtake us, Mallory?”

“I didn’t overtake you, sir,” George replied. “I simply found an alternative route.”

Mr. Deacon’s expression left the rest of the class in no doubt that he didn’t want to believe the boy. “As I’ve told you many times, Mallory, the descent is always more difficult than the climb, not least because of the amount of energy you will have expended to reach the top. That is something novices fail to appreciate,” said Mr. Deacon. After a dramatic pause he added, “Often to their cost.” George didn’t comment. “So be sure to stay with the group on the way down.”

Once the boys had devoured their packed lunches, Mr. Deacon lined them up before taking his place at the front. However, he didn’t set off until he’d seen George standing among the group chatting to his friend Bullock. He would have ordered him to join him at the front if he’d overheard his words, “See you back at camp, Guy.”

On one matter Mr. Deacon proved correct: The journey down the mountain was not only more demanding than the ascent, but more dangerous, and, as he had predicted, it took far longer.

Dusk was already setting in by the time Mr. Deacon tramped into camp, followed by his bedraggled and exhausted troop. They couldn’t believe what they saw: George Mallory was seated cross-legged on the ground, drinking ginger beer and reading a book.

Guy Bullock burst out laughing, but Mr. Deacon was not amused. He made George stand to attention while he delivered a stern lecture on the importance of mountain safety. Once he had finished his diatribe, he ordered George to pull his trousers down and bend over. Mr. Deacon did not have a cane to hand, so he pulled off the leather belt that held up his khaki shorts and administered six strokes to the boy’s bare flesh, but unlike the sheep, George didn’t bleat.

At first light the following morning, Mr. Deacon accompanied George to the nearest railway station. He bought him a ticket and handed him a letter, which he instructed the boy to hand to his father the moment he arrived at Mobberley.

“Why are you back so early?” George’s father inquired.

George handed over the letter, and remained silent while the Reverend Mallory tore open the envelope and read Mr. Deacon’s words. He pursed his lips, attempting to hide a smile, then looked down at his son and wagged a finger. “Do remember, my boy, to be more tactful in future, and try not to embarrass your elders and betters.”

1905
CHAPTER FOUR

THE FAMILY WERE seated around the breakfast table when the maid entered the room with the morning post. She placed the letters in a small pile by the Reverend Mallory’s side, along with a silver letter opener-a ritual she carried out every morning.

George’s father studiously ignored the little ceremony while he buttered himself another piece of toast. He was well aware that his son had been waiting for his end-of-term report for some days. George pretended to be equally nonchalant as he chatted to his brother about the latest exploits of the Wright brothers in America.

“If you ask me,” interjected their mother, “it’s not natural. God made birds to fly, not humans. And take your elbows off the table, George.”

The girls did not offer an opinion, aware that whenever they disagreed with their mother she simply pronounced that children should be seen and not heard. This rule didn’t seem to apply to the boys.

George’s father did not join in the conversation as he sifted through the envelopes, trying to determine which were important and which could be placed to one side. Only one thing was certain, any envelopes that looked as if they contained requests for payment from local tradesmen would remain at the bottom of the pile, unopened for several days.

The Reverend Mallory concluded that two of the envelopes deserved his immediate attention: one postmarked Winchester, and a second with a coat of arms embossed on the back. He sipped his tea and smiled across at his eldest son, who was still pretending to take no interest in the charade taking place at the other end of the table.

Eventually he picked up the letter opener and slit open the thinner of the two envelopes, before unfolding a letter from the Bishop of Chester. His Grace confirmed that he would be delighted to preach at Mobberley Parish Church, assuming a suitable date could be arranged. George’s father passed the letter across to his wife. A smile flickered across her lips when she saw the Palace crest.

The Reverend Mallory took his time opening the other, thicker envelope, pretending not to notice that all conversation around the table had suddenly ceased. Once he had extracted a little booklet, he slowly began to turn its pages while he considered the contents. He gave the occasional smile, the odd frown, but despite a prolonged silence, he still didn’t offer any opinion. This state of affairs was far too rare for him not to enjoy the experience for a few more moments.

Finally he looked up at George and said, “‘Proxime accessit in history, with 86 percent.’” He glanced down at the booklet, “‘Has worked well this half, good exam results, and a commendable essay on Gibbon. I hope that he will consider reading this subject when he goes up to university.’” His father smiled before turning the next page. “‘Fifth place in English, 74 percent. A very promising essay on Boswell, but he needs to spend a little more time on Milton and Shakespeare and rather less on R. L. Stevenson.’” This time it was George’s turn to smile. “‘Seventh in Latin, 69 percent. Excellent translation of Ovid, safely above the mark Oxford and Cambridge demand from all applicants. Fourteenth in mathematics, 56 percent, just one percent above the pass mark.’” His father paused, frowned, and continued reading. “‘Twenty-ninth in chemistry.’” The Reverend Mallory looked up. “How many pupils are there in the class?” he inquired.

“Thirty,” George replied, well aware that his father already knew the answer.

“Your friend Guy Bullock, no doubt, kept you off the bottom.”

He returned to the report. “‘Twenty-six percent. Shows little interest in carrying out any experiments, would advise him to drop the subject if he is thinking of going to university.’”

George didn’t comment as his father unfolded a letter that had been attached to the report. This time he did not keep everyone in suspense. “Your housemaster, Mr. Irving,” he announced, “is of the opinion that you should be offered a place at Cambridge this Michaelmas.” He paused. “Cambridge seems to me a surprising choice,” added his father, “remembering that it’s among the flattest pieces of land in the country.”

“Which is why I was rather hoping, Papa, that you’ll allow me to visit France this summer, so that I might further my education.”

“Paris?” said the Reverend Mallory, raising an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind, dear boy? The Moulin Rouge?”

Mrs. Mallory glared at her husband, leaving him in no doubt that she disapproved of such a risqué remark in front of the girls.

“No, Papa, not ‘Rouge,’” replied George. “Blanc. Mont Blanc, to be precise.”

“But wouldn’t that be extremely dangerous?” said his mother anxiously.

“Not half as dangerous as the Moulin Rouge,” suggested his father.

“Don’t worry yourself, Mother, on either count,” said George, laughing. “My housemaster, Mr. Irving, will be accompanying me at all times, and not only is he a member of the Alpine Club, but he would also act as a chaperone were I fortunate enough to be introduced to the lady in question.”

George’s father remained silent for some time. He never discussed the cost of anything in front of the children, although he’d been relieved when George won a scholarship to Winchester, saving him £170 of the £200 annual fee. Money was not a subject to be raised at the breakfast table, though in truth it was rarely far from his mind.

“When is your interview for Cambridge?” he eventually asked.

“A week on Thursday, Father.”

“Then I’ll let you know my decision a week on Friday.”

CHAPTER FIVE

ALTHOUGH GUY WOKE his friend on time, George still managed to be late for breakfast. He blamed having to shave, a skill he hadn’t yet mastered.

“Aren’t you meant to be attending an interview at Cambridge today?” inquired his housemaster after George had helped himself to a second portion of porridge.

“Yes, sir,” said George.

“And if I recall correctly,” added Mr. Irving, glancing at his watch, “your train for London is due to leave in less than half an hour. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the other candidates were already waiting on the platform.”

“Under-nourished and having missed your words of wisdom,” said George with a grin.

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Irving. “I addressed them during early breakfast, as I felt it was essential they weren’t late for their interviews. If you think I’m a stickler for punctuality, Mallory, just wait until you meet Mr. Benson.”

George pushed his bowl of porridge across to Guy, stood slowly, and ambled out of the dining room as if he didn’t have a care in the world, then bolted across the quad and into college house as if he were trying to win an Olympic dash. He took the stairs three at a time to the top floor. That’s when he remembered he hadn’t packed an overnight case. But when he burst into his study he was delighted to find his little leather suitcase already strapped up and placed by the door. Guy must have anticipated that he would once again leave everything to the last minute.

“Thank you, Guy,” said George out loud, hoping that his friend was enjoying a well-earned second bowl of porridge. He grabbed the suitcase, bounded down the steps two at a time, and ran back across the quad, only stopping when he reached the porter’s lodge. “Where’s the college hansom, Simkins?” he asked desperately.

“Left about fifteen minutes ago, sir.”

“Damn,” muttered George, before dashing out into the street and heading in the direction of the station, confident he could still make his train.

He raced down the street with an uneasy feeling he’d left something behind, but whatever it was, he certainly didn’t have time to go back and retrieve it. As he rounded the corner onto Station Hill, he saw a thick line of gray smoke belching into the air. Was the train coming in, or pulling out? He picked up the pace, charging past a startled ticket collector and onto the platform, only to see the guard waving his green flag, climbing the steps into the rear carriage, and slamming the door behind him.

George sprinted after the train as it began to move off, and they both reached the end of the platform at the same time. The guard gave him a sympathetic smile as the train gathered speed before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

“Damn,” George repeated as he turned to find the ticket collector bearing down on him. Once the man had caught his breath, he demanded, “May I see your ticket, sir?”

That was when George remembered what he’d forgotten.

He dumped his suitcase on the platform, opened it, and made a show of rummaging among his clothes as if he was looking for his ticket, which he knew was on the table by the side of his bed.

“What time’s the next train to London?” he asked casually.

“On the hour, every hour,” came back the immediate reply. “But you’ll still need a ticket.”

“Damn,” said George for a third time, aware that he couldn’t afford to miss the next train. “I must have left my ticket back at college,” he added helplessly.

“Then you’ll have to purchase another one,” said the ticket collector helpfully.

George felt desperation setting in. Did he have any money with him? He began searching the pockets of his suit, and was relieved to find the half crown his mother had given him at Christmas. He’d wondered where it had got to. He followed the ticket collector meekly back to the booking office, where he purchased a third-class return ticket from Winchester to Cambridge, at a cost of one shilling and sixpence. He had often wondered why trains didn’t have a second class, but felt this was not the time to ask. Once the collector had punched his ticket, George returned to the platform and bought a copy of The Times from the newspaper seller, parting with another penny. He settled down on an uncomfortable slatted wooden bench and opened it to find out what was happening in the world.

The Prime Minister, Arthur Balfour, was hailing the new entente cordiale recently signed by Britain and France. In the future, relations with France could only improve, he promised the British people. George turned the page and began to read an article about Theodore Roosevelt, recently inaugurated for a second term as President of the United States. By the time the nine o’clock train for London came steaming in, George was studying the classified advertisements on the front page, which offered everything from hair lotion to top hats.

He was relieved the train was on time, and even more so when it pulled into Waterloo a few minutes early. He jumped out of his carriage, ran down the platform, and onto the road. For the first time in his life he hailed a hansom cab, rather than wait around for the next tram to King’s Cross-an extravagance his father would have disapproved of, but Papa’s anger would have been far more acute had George missed his interview with Mr. Benson and therefore failed to be offered a place at Cambridge.

“King’s Cross,” said George as he climbed into the hansom. The driver flicked his whip and the tired old gray began a slow plod across London. George checked his watch every few minutes, but still felt confident that he would be on time for his three o’clock appointment with the senior tutor of Magdalene College.

After he was dropped off at King’s Cross, George discovered that the next train to Cambridge was due to leave in fifteen minutes. He relaxed for the first time that day. However, what he hadn’t anticipated was that it would stop at every station from Finsbury Park to Stevenage, so by the time the train finally puffed into Cambridge, the station clock showed 2:37 P.M.

George was first off the train, and once his ticket had been punched he went off in search of another hansom cab, but there was none to be found. He began to run up the road, following the signs to the city center, but without the slightest idea in which direction he should be going. He stopped to ask several passers-by if they could direct him to Magdalene College, with no success until he came across a young man wearing a short black gown and a mortar board, who was able to give him clear directions. After thanking him, George set off again, now searching for a bridge over the river Cam. He was running flat out across the bridge as a clock in the distance chimed three times. He smiled with relief. He wasn’t going to be more than a couple of minutes late.

At the far side of the bridge he came to a halt outside a massive black oak double door. He turned the handle and pushed, but it didn’t budge. He rapped the knocker twice, and waited for some time, but no one answered his call. He checked his watch: 3:04 P.M. He banged on the door again, but still no one responded. Surely they would not deny him entry when he was only a couple of minutes late?

He hammered on the door a third time, and didn’t stop until he heard a key turning in the lock. The door creaked open to reveal a short, stooping man in a long black coat, wearing a bowler hat. “The college is closed, sir,” was all he said.

“But I have an interview with Mr. A. C. Benson at three o’clock,” pleaded George.

“The senior tutor gave me clear instructions that I was to lock the gate at three o’clock, and that after that no one was to be allowed to enter the college.”

“But I-” began George, but his words fell on deaf ears as the door was slammed in his face and once again he heard the key turning in the lock.

He began thumping on the door with his bare fist, although he knew no one would come to his rescue. He cursed his stupidity. What would he say when people asked him how the interview had gone? What would he tell Mr. Irving when he arrived back at college later that night? How could he face Guy, who was certain to be on time for his interview next week? He knew what his father’s reaction would be: the first Mallory for four generations not to be educated at Cambridge. And as for his mother, would he ever be able to go home again?

He frowned at the heavy oak door that forbade him entry and thought about one last knock, but knew it would be pointless. He began to wonder if there might be some other way of entering the college, but as the Cam ran along its north side, acting as a moat, there was no other entrance to consider. Unless…George stared up at the high brick wall that surrounded the college, and began to walk up and down the pavement as if he was studying a rock face. He spotted several nooks and crannies that had been created by 450 years of ice, snow, wind, rain, and a thawing sun, before he identified a possible route.

There was a heavy stone archway above the door, the rim of which was only an arm’s length away from a windowsill that would make a perfect foothold. Above that was another smaller window and another sill, from which he would be within touching distance of the sloping tiled roof, which he suspected was duplicated on the other side of the building.

He dumped his case on the pavement-never carry any unnecessary weight when attempting a climb-placed his right foot in a small hole some eight inches above the pavement, and propelled himself off the ground with his left foot, grabbing at a jutting ledge, which allowed him to pull himself further up toward the stone archway. Several passers-by stopped to watch his progress, and when he finally pulled himself up onto the roof, they rewarded him with a muted round of applause.

George spent a few moments studying the other side of the wall. As always, the descent was going to be more difficult than the ascent. He swung his left leg over and lowered himself slowly down, clinging on to the gutter with both hands while he searched for a foothold. Once he felt the windowsill with a toe, he removed one hand. That was when his shoe came off, and the grip of the one hand that had been clinging to the guttering slipped. He’d broken the golden rule of maintaining three points of contact. George knew he was going to fall, something he regularly practiced when dismounting the high bar in the college gym, but the bar had never been this high. He let go, and had his first piece of luck that day when he landed in a damp flower bed and rolled over.

He stood up to find an elderly gentleman staring at him. Did the poor fellow imagine he was confronting a shoeless burglar, George wondered.

“Can I help you, young man?” he asked.

“Thank you, sir,” said George. “I have an appointment with Mr. Benson.”

“You should find Mr. Benson in his study at this time of day.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know where that is,” said George.

“Through the Fellows’ archway,” he said, pointing across the lawn. “Second corridor on the left. You’ll see his name printed on the door.”

“Thank you, sir,” said George, bending down to tie up his shoelace.

“Not at all,” said the elderly gentleman as he headed off down the path toward the masters’ lodgings.

George ran across the Fellows’ lawn and through the archway into a magnificent Elizabethan courtyard. When he reached the second corridor he stopped to check the names on the board: A. C. Benson, Senior Tutor, third floor. He bolted up the steps, and when he reached the third floor he stopped outside Mr. Benson’s room to catch his breath. He knocked gently on the door.

“Come,” responded a voice. George opened the door and entered the senior tutor’s domain. A rotund, ruddy-faced man with a bushy mustache looked up at him. He was wearing a light checked suit and a yellow-spotted bow tie under his gown, and seated behind a large desk covered in leather-bound books and students’ essays. “And how may I help you?” he inquired, tugging at the lapels of his gown.

“My name is George Mallory, sir. I have an appointment to see you.”

“Had an appointment would be more accurate, Mallory. You were expected at three o’clock, and as I gave express orders that no candidate should be allowed to enter the college after that hour, I am bound to inquire how you managed to get in.”

“I climbed over the wall, sir.”

“You did what?” asked Mr. Benson, rising slowly from behind his desk, a look of incredulity on his face. “Follow me, Mallory.”

George didn’t speak as Mr. Benson led him back down the steps, across the courtyard and into the lodge. The porter leaped up the moment he saw the senior tutor.

“Harry,” said Mr. Benson, “did you allow this candidate to enter the college after three o’clock?”

“No, sir, I most certainly did not,” said the porter, staring at George in disbelief.

Mr. Benson turned to face George. “Show me exactly how you got into the college, Mallory,” he demanded.

George led the two men back to the Fellows’ garden, and pointed to his footprints in the flower bed. The senior tutor still didn’t look convinced. The porter offered no opinion.

“If, as you claim, Mallory, you climbed in, then you can surely climb back out.” Mr. Benson took a pace back, and folded his arms.

George walked slowly up and down the path, studying the wall carefully before he settled on the route he would take. The senior tutor and the college porter watched in astonishment as the young man climbed deftly back up the wall, not pausing until he had placed one leg over the top of the building and sat astride the roof.

“Can I come back down, sir?” George asked plaintively.

“You most certainly can, young man,” said Mr. Benson without hesitation. “It’s clear to me that nothing is going to stop you from entering this college.”

CHAPTER SIX

WHEN GEORGE TOLD his father he had no intention of visiting the Moulin Rouge, it was the truth. Indeed, the Reverend Mallory had already received a letter from Mr. Irving with a detailed itinerary for their visit to the Alps, which did not include stopping off in Paris. But that was before George had saved Mr. Irving’s life, been arrested for disturbing the peace, and spent a night in jail.

George’s mother was never able to hide her anxiety whenever her son went off on one of his climbing trips, but she always slipped a five-pound note into his jacket pocket, with a whispered plea not to tell his father.

George joined Guy and Mr. Irving at Southampton, where they boarded the ferry for Le Havre. When they disembarked at the French port four hours later, a train was waiting to transport them to Martigny. During the long journey, George spent most of his time staring out of the window.

He was reminded of Mr. Irving’s passion for punctuality when they stepped off the train to find a horse-drawn charabanc awaiting them. With a crack of the coachman’s whip, the little party set off at a brisk pace up into the mountains, allowing George to study even more closely some of the great challenges that lay ahead of him.

It was dark by the time the three of them had booked into the Hôtel Lion d’Or in Bourg St. Pierre, at the foot of the Alps. Over dinner Mr. Irving spread a map across the table and went over his plans for the next fortnight, indicating the mountains they would attempt to climb: the Great St. Bernard (8,101 feet), Mont Vélan (12,353 feet), and the Grand Combin (14,153 feet). If they succeeded in conquering all three, they would move on to Monte Rosa (15,217 feet).

George studied the map intently, already impatient for the sun to rise the next morning. Guy remained silent. Although it was well known that Mr. Irving selected only the most promising climbers among his pupils to accompany him on his annual visit to the Alps, Guy was already having second thoughts about whether he should have signed up.

George, on the other hand, had no such misgivings. But even Mr. Irving was taken by surprise the following day when they reached the top of the Great St. Bernard Pass in record time. Over dinner that evening George asked him if he could take over as climbing leader when they tackled Mont Vélan.

For some time Mr. Irving had realized that George was the most accomplished schoolboy mountaineer he had ever come across, and was more naturally gifted than his seasoned teacher. However, it was the first time a pupil had asked to lead him-and on only the second day of their expedition.

“I will allow you to lead us to the lower slopes of Mont Vélan,” conceded Mr. Irving. “But once we’ve reached 5,000 feet, I’ll take over.”

Mr. Irving never took over, because the next day George led the little party with all the assurance and skill of a seasoned alpinist, even introducing Mr. Irving to new routes he’d never considered in the past. And when, two days later, they climbed the Grand Combin in a shorter time than Mr. Irving had achieved before, the master became the pupil.

All George now seemed to be interested in was when he would be allowed to tackle Mont Blanc.

“Not for some time yet,” said Mr. Irving. “Even I wouldn’t attempt it without a professional guide. But when you go up to Cambridge in the autumn, I’ll give you a letter of introduction to Geoffrey Young, the most experienced climber in the land, and he can decide when you’re ready to approach that particular lady.”

Mr. Irving was confident, however, that they were ready to take on Monte Rosa, and George led them to the summit of the mountain without the slightest mishap, even if Guy had at times found it difficult to keep up. It was on the way down that the accident occurred. Perhaps Mr. Irving had become a little too complacent-a climber’s worst enemy-believing that nothing would go wrong after the triumphant ascent.

George had begun the descent with his usual confidence, but when they reached a particularly sheer couloir he decided to slow down, remembering that Guy had not found that part of the route easy to negotiate during the ascent. George had almost traversed the couloir when he heard the scream. His immediate reaction undoubtedly saved the lives of all three of them. He thrust his axe into the deep snow and quickly looped the rope around the shaft, securing it firmly against his boot while holding on to the rope with his other hand. He could only watch as Guy careered past him. He assumed that Mr. Irving would have carried out the same safety procedure as he had, and that between them they would halt the momentum of Guy’s fall, but his housemaster had failed to react quite as quickly, and although he had dug his axe firmly into the snow, he hadn’t had time to loop the rope around its shaft. A moment later he too came flying past George. George didn’t look down, but kept his boot wedged firmly against the axe head and tried desperately to maintain his balance. There was nothing between him and the valley some six hundred feet below.

He held firm as both of them came to a halt and began swinging in midair. George wasn’t confident that the rope wouldn’t snap under the strain, leaving his companions to fall to their deaths. He didn’t have time to pray, and as a second later he was still clinging to the rope his question seemed to have been answered, if only temporarily. The danger hadn’t passed because he still had to somehow get both men safely back onto the mountain.

George looked down to see them clinging on to the rope in desperation, their faces as white as the snow. Using a skill he’d developed while endlessly practicing on a rope in the school gymnasium, he began to swing his two companions slowly to and fro, until Mr. Irving was able to establish a foothold on the side of the mountain. Then, while George held his position, Irving carried out the same process, swinging Guy back and forth until he too was finally secure.

It was some time before any of them felt able to continue the descent, and George did not release his axe until he was convinced that Mr. Irving and Guy had fully recovered. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he led the two badly shaken climbers to the safety of a wide ledge, thirty feet below. The three of them rested for nearly an hour before Mr. Irving took over and guided them toward safer slopes.

Hardly a word passed between them over dinner that evening, but all three of them knew that if they didn’t return to the mountain the following morning, Guy would never climb again. The next day, Mr. Irving led his two charges back up Monte Rosa, taking a longer and far less demanding route. By the time George and Guy had returned to the hotel that evening, they were no longer children.

On the previous day, it had only taken a few minutes before all three climbers were safe, but each of those minutes could have been measured in sixty parts, and then not forgotten for a lifetime.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS CLEAR from the moment they entered Paris that Mr. Irving was no stranger to the city, and George and Guy were only too happy to allow their housemaster to take the lead, having already agreed to his suggestion that they should spend the final day of their trip in the French capital celebrating their good fortune.

Mr. Irving booked them into a small family hotel, located in a picturesque courtyard in the 7th arrondissement. After a light lunch he introduced them to the day life of Paris: the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe. But it was the Eiffel Tower, built for the Universal Exhibition of 1889 in celebration of the centenary of the French Revolution, that captured George’s imagination.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Mr. Irving when he caught his charge looking up at the highest point of the steel edifice, some 1,062 feet above them.

Having purchased three tickets for six francs, Mr. Irving herded Guy and George into an elevator, which transported them on a slow journey to the top of the tower.

“We wouldn’t even have reached the foothills of Mont Blanc,” George commented as he looked out over Paris.

Mr. Irving smiled, wondering if even conquering Mont Blanc would prove enough for George Mallory.

After they had changed for dinner, Mr. Irving took the boys to a little restaurant on the Left Bank where they enjoyed foie gras accompanied by small glasses of chilled Sauternes. This was followed by boeuf bourguignon, better than any beef stew either of them had ever experienced, which then gave way to a ripe brie; quite a change from school food. Both courses were washed down with a rather fine burgundy, and George felt it had already been one of the most exciting days of his life. But it was far from over. After introducing his two charges to the joys of cognac, Mr. Irving accompanied them back to the hotel. Just after midnight he bade them good-night before retiring to his own room.

Guy sat on the end of his bed while George started to undress. “We’ll just hang around for a few more minutes before we slip back out.”

“Slip back out?” mumbled George.

“Yes,” said Guy, happily taking the lead for a change. “What’s the point of coming to Paris if we don’t visit the Moulin Rouge?”

George continued to unbutton his shirt. “I promised my mother…”

“I’m sure you did,” mocked Guy. “And you’re now asking me to believe that the man who plans to conquer the heights of Mont Blanc isn’t willing to plumb the depths of Parisian nightlife?”

George reluctantly rebuttoned his shirt as Guy switched off the light, opened the bedroom door, and peeked out. Satisfied that Mr. Irving was safely tucked up in bed with his copy of Three Men in a Boat, he stepped out into the corridor. George reluctantly followed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Once they had reached the lobby, Guy slipped out onto the street. He’d hailed a hansom cab before George had time for second thoughts.

“The Moulin Rouge,” Guy said with a confidence he hadn’t shown on the slopes of any mountain. The driver set off at a brisk pace. “If only Mr. Irving could see us now,” said Guy as he opened a silver cigarette case George had never seen before.

Their journey took them across the Seine to Montmartre, a mountain that hadn’t been part of Mr. Irving’s itinerary. When they came to a halt outside the Moulin Rouge, George wondered if they would even be allowed into the glamorous nightclub when he saw how smartly dressed most of the revelers were-some even wearing dinner jackets. Once again Guy took the lead. After paying the driver, he extracted a ten-franc note from his wallet and handed it to the doorman, who gave the two young men a doubtful look but still pocketed the money and allowed them to enter.

Once they were inside, the maître d’ treated the two young men with a similar lack of enthusiasm, despite Guy producing another ten-franc note. A young waiter led them to a tiny table at the back of the room before offering them a menu. While George couldn’t take his eyes off the cigarette girl’s legs, Guy, aware of his dwindling finances, selected the second cheapest bottle on the wine list. The waiter returned moments later, and poured each of them a glass of Sémillon just as the lights went down.

George sat bolt upright as a dozen girls dressed in flamboyant red costumes revealing layers of white petticoats performed what was described in the program as the cancan. Whenever they kicked their black-stockinged legs in the air they were greeted by raucous cheers and cries of “Magnifique!” from the mainly male audience. Although George had been brought up with two sisters, he had never seen that much bare flesh before, even when they were bathing at St. Bees. Guy called for a second bottle of wine, and George began to suspect that this was not his close friend’s first experience of a nightclub; but then, Guy had been raised in Chelsea, not Cheshire.

The moment the curtain fell and the lights came up, the waiter reappeared and presented them with a bill that bore no resemblance to the prices on the wine list. Guy emptied his wallet, but it wasn’t enough, so George ended up parting with his emergency five-pound note. The waiter frowned when he saw the alien currency, but still pocketed the large white banknote without any suggestion of change-so much for Mr. Balfour’s entente cordiale.

“Oh my God,” said Guy.

“I agree,” said George. “I had no idea that a couple of bottles of wine could cost that much.”

“No, no,” said Guy, not looking at his friend. “I wasn’t referring to the bill.” He pointed to a table by the stage.

George was just as astonished when he spotted their housemaster sitting next to a scantily dressed woman, an arm draped around her shoulder.

“I think the time has come for us to beat a tactical retreat,” said Guy.

“Agreed,” said George. They rose from their places and walked toward the door, not looking back until they were out in the street.

As they stepped onto the pavement, a woman wearing an even shorter skirt than the waitresses selling cigarettes in the Moulin Rouge strolled across to join them.

“Messieurs?” she whispered. “Besoin de compagnie?”

“Non, merci, madame,” said George.

“Ah, Anglais,” she said. “Juste prix pour tous les deux?”

“In normal circumstances I would be happy to oblige,” chipped in Guy, “but unfortunately we’ve already been fleeced by your countrymen.”

The woman gave him a quizzical look, until George translated his friend’s words. She shrugged her shoulders before moving away to offer her wares to other men who were spilling out of the nightclub.

“I hope you know your way back to the hotel,” said Guy, appearing a little unsteady on his feet. “Because I’ve no money left for a hansom.”

“Haven’t a clue,” said George, “but when in doubt, identify a landmark you know, and it will act as a pointer to your destination.” He set off at a brisk pace.

“Yes, of course it will,” said Guy as he hurried after him.

George began to sober up as they made their way back across the river, his eyes rarely leaving his chosen point of reference. Guy followed in his wake, and didn’t speak until forty minutes later when they came to a halt at the base of a monument many Parisians claimed to detest, and wished to see dismantled bolt by bolt, girder by girder, as soon as its twenty-year permit had expired.

“I think our hotel’s somewhere over there,” said Guy, pointing toward a narrow side street. He turned back to see George staring up at the Eiffel Tower, a look of sheer adoration in his eyes.

“So much more of a challenge by night,” George said, not diverting his gaze.

“You can’t be serious,” said Guy, as his friend headed off in the direction of one of the four triangular feet at the base of the tower.

Guy ran after him, protesting, but by the time he’d caught up, George had already leaped onto the frame and begun climbing. Although Guy continued to shout at the top of his voice, he could do no more than stand and watch as his friend moved deftly from girder to girder. George never once looked down, but had he done so he would have seen that a small group of night owls had gathered below, eagerly following his every move.

George must have been about halfway up when Guy heard the whistles. He swung around to see a police vehicle drive onto the concourse, coming to a halt at the base of the tower. Half a dozen uniformed officers leaped out and ran toward an official Guy hadn’t noticed until then, but who was clearly waiting for them. The official led them quickly to the elevator door and pulled open the iron gates. The crowd watched as the elevator made its slow journey upward.

Guy looked up to check on George’s progress. He was only a couple of hundred feet from the top, and seemed entirely unaware of his pursuers. Moments later the elevator came to a stuttering halt by his side. The gates were pulled open and one of the policemen took a tentative step out onto the nearest girder. After a second step, he thought better of it and quickly leaped back inside. The senior officer began pleading with the miscreant, who pretended not to understand his words.

George was still determined to reach the top, but after ignoring some reasoned words, followed by some harsh expletives that could have been understood in any language, he reluctantly joined the officers in the elevator. Once the police had returned to the ground with their quarry, the watching crowd formed a gangway to the waiting vehicle, applauding the young man all the way.

“Chapeau, jeune homme.”

“Dommage.”

“Bravo!”

“Magnifique!”

It was the second time that night that George had heard a crowd crying, “Magnifique!”

He spotted Guy just as the police were about to bundle him into the van and drive off to heaven knows where. “Find Mr. Irving!” he shouted. “He’ll know what to do.”

Guy ran all the way back to the hotel and took the lift to the third floor, but when he banged on Mr. Irving’s door there was no response. Reluctantly he returned to the ground floor and sat on the steps, awaiting the arrival of his housemaster. He even considered making his way back to the Moulin Rouge, but on balance decided that that might cause even more trouble.

The hotel clock had struck six before a carriage bearing Mr. Irving pulled up outside the front door. There was no sign of the scantily dressed lady. He was surprised to find Guy sitting on the steps, and even more surprised when he discovered why.

The hotel manager only needed to make a couple of phone calls before he located which police station George had spent the night in. It took all of Mr. Irving’s diplomatic skills, not to mention emptying his wallet, before the duty officer agreed to release the irresponsible young man, and only then after Mr. Irving had assured the inspector that they would leave the country immédiatement.

On the ferry back to Southampton, Mr. Irving told the two young men that he hadn’t yet made up his mind whether to report the incident to their parents.

“And I still haven’t made up my mind,” responded Guy, “whether to tell my father the name of that club you took us to last night.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

GEORGE WAS RELIEVED to find that the front door of Magdalene College was open when he arrived for the first day of term.

He strolled into the porter’s lodge, placed his suitcase on the floor, and said to the familiar figure seated behind the counter, “My name’s-”

“Mr. Mallory,” said the porter, raising his bowler hat. “As if I’m likely to forget,” he added with a warm smile. He looked down at his clipboard. “You’ve been allocated a room on staircase seven, sir, the Pepys Building. I normally escort freshmen on their first day of term, but you seem to be a gentleman who can find his own way.” George laughed. “Across First Court and through the archway.”

“Thank you,” said George, picking up his suitcase and heading toward the door.

“And sir.” George turned back as the porter rose from his chair. “I believe this is yours.” He handed George another leather suitcase with the letters GLM printed in black on its side. “And do try to be on time for your six o’clock appointment, sir.”

“My six o’clock appointment?”

“Yes, sir, you are bidden to join the Master for drinks in the lodgings. He likes to acquaint himself with the new undergraduates on the first day of term.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” said George. “By the way, has my friend Guy Bullock turned up?”

“He has indeed, sir.” Once again the porter looked down at his list. “Mr. Bullock arrived over two hours ago. You’ll find him on the landing above you.”

“That will be a first,” said George without explanation.

As George walked toward First Court, he was careful not to step on the grass, which looked as if it had been cut with a pair of scissors. He passed several undergraduates, some dressed in long gowns to show that they were scholars, others in short gowns to indicate that, like himself, they were exhibitioners, while the rest didn’t wear gowns, just mortar boards, which they occasionally raised to each other.

No one gave George a second look, and certainly no one raised their mortar board to him as he walked by, which brought back memories of his first day at Winchester. He couldn’t suppress a smile when he passed Mr. A. C. Benson’s staircase. The senior tutor had telegrammed the day after their meeting, offering George a history exhibition. In a later letter he informed him that he would be tutoring him himself.

George continued on through the archway into Second Court, which housed the Pepys Building, until he came to a narrow corridor marked with a bold 7. He dragged his cases up the wooden steps to the second floor, where he saw a door with the name G. L. Mallory painted on it in silver letters. How many names had appeared on that door over the past century, he wondered.

He entered a room not much larger than his study at Winchester, but at least he would not be expected to share the tiny space with Guy. He was still unpacking when there was a knock on the door, and Guy strolled in without waiting for an invitation. The two young men shook hands as if they had never met before, laughed, and then threw their arms around each other.

“I’m on the floor above you,” said Guy.

“I’ve already made my views clear on that ridiculous notion,” responded George.

Guy smiled when he saw the familiar chart that George had already pinned to the wall above his desk.

Ben Nevis 4,409 ft.

Great St. Bernard 8,101 ft.

Mont Vélan 12,353 ft.

Grand Combin 14,153 ft.

Monte Rosa 15,217 ft.

Mont Blanc 15,774 ft.

“You seem to have forgotten Montmartre,” he said. “Not to mention the Eiffel Tower.”

“The Eiffel Tower is only 1,062 feet,” replied George. “And you seem to have forgotten that I didn’t reach the top.”

Guy glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going if we’re not to be late for the Master.”

“Agreed,” said George, and quickly slipped on his gown.

As the two young undergraduates strolled across Second Court toward the Master’s lodgings, George asked Guy if he knew anything about their head of house.

“Only what Mr. Irving told me. Apparently he was our man in Berlin before he retired from the Foreign Office. He had a reputation for being pretty blunt with the Germans. According to Irving, even the Kaiser was wary of him.”

George straightened his tie as they joined a stream of young men who were walking through the Master’s garden in the direction of a Victorian Gothic house that dominated one side of the courtyard. They were greeted at the door by a college servant dressed in a white jacket and black trousers, carrying a clipboard.

“I’m Bullock, and this is Mallory,” said Guy.

The man ticked off their names, but not before he’d taken a closer look at George. “You’ll find the Master in the drawing room on the first floor,” he told them.

George ran up the stairs-he always ran up stairs-and entered a large, elegantly furnished room full of undergraduates and dons, with oil paintings of more ancient versions of the latter decorating the walls. Another servant offered them a glass of sherry, and George spotted someone he recognized. He strolled across to join him.

“Good evening, sir,” he said.

“Mallory. I’m delighted you were able to make it,” said the senior tutor, without any suggestion of teasing. “I was just reminding two of your fellow freshmen that my first tutorial will be at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. As you’ve now taken up residence in the college, you won’t have to climb over the wall to be on time, will you, Mallory?”

“No, sir,” said George, sipping his sherry.

“Though I wouldn’t count on it,” said Guy.

“This is my friend, Guy Bullock,” said George. “You don’t have to worry about him, he’s always on time.”

The only person in the room not wearing a gown, apart from the college servants, came across to join them.

“Ah, Sir David,” said the senior tutor. “I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Bullock, but I know that you are well acquainted with Mr. Mallory, who dropped into your garden earlier in the year.”

George turned to face the head of college. “Oh Lord,” he said.

Sir David smiled at the new undergraduate. “No, no, Mr. Mallory, ‘Master’ will suffice.”

Guy made sure that George was on time for his first tutorial with Mr. Benson the following morning, but even so, George still managed to turn up only moments before the appointed hour. The senior tutor opened his remarks by making it clear that weekly essays were to be delivered every Thursday by five o’clock, and if anyone was late for a tutorial, they should not be surprised to find the door locked. George was grateful that his room was a mere hundred yards away from Mr. Benson’s, and that his mother had supplied him with an alarm clock.

Once the preliminary strictures had been administered, the tutorial went far better than George had dared to hope. His spirits were raised further when he discovered over a sherry that evening that the senior tutor shared his love of Boswell, as well as Byron and Wordsworth, and had been a personal friend of Browning.

However, Mr. Benson left George in no doubt of what would be expected of an exhibitioner in his first year, reminding him that although the university term was only eight weeks in length, he would be required to work just as hard during the vacation. As he was leaving, Benson added, “And do be sure, Mr. Mallory, to attend the Freshers’ Fair on Sunday, otherwise you will never discover just how many activities this university has to offer. For example,” he said, smiling, “you might consider joining the dramatic society.”

CHAPTER NINE

GUY KNOCKED ON George’s door, but there was no reply. He checked his watch: 10:05. George couldn’t be in hall having breakfast, because they finished serving at nine on a Sunday, and he surely wouldn’t have gone to the Freshers’ Fair without him. He must be either fast asleep or having a bath. Guy knocked again, but still there was no reply. He opened the door and peeked inside. The bed was unmade-nothing unusual about that-an open book lay on the pillow and some papers were strewn across the desk, but there was no sign of George. He must be having a bath.

Guy sat down on the end of the bed and waited. He had long ago stopped complaining about his friend’s inability to understand the purpose of a watch. However, it still annoyed many of George’s acquaintances, who regularly reminded him of Winchester’s motto, Manners Maketh Man. Guy was well aware of his friend’s shortcomings, but he also recognized that George had exceptional gifts. The accident of fate that had placed them in the same carriage on their way to prep school had changed his whole life. While others sometimes found George tactless, even arrogant, if he allowed them into his confidence they also discovered kindness, generosity, and humor in equal measure.

Guy picked up the book from George’s pillow. It was a novel by E. M. Forster, a writer he’d never come across before. He had only managed a few pages of it before George strolled in, a towel around his waist, his hair dripping.

“Is it ten o’clock already?” he asked, taking off his towel and using it to rub his hair.

“Ten past,” said Guy.

“Benson suggested I sign up for the dramatic society. It might give us the chance to meet a few girls.”

“I don’t think it’s girls that Benson is interested in.”

George swung around. “You’re not suggesting…”

“Just in case you haven’t noticed,” said Guy to his friend, who was standing naked in front of him, “it isn’t only girls who give you a second look.”

“And which do you prefer?” asked George, giving him a flick of the towel.

“You’re quite safe with me,” Guy assured him. “Now, could you get a move on? Otherwise everyone will have packed up and gone before we even arrive.”

As they crossed the courtyard George set his usual pace, which Guy always found hard to keep up with.

“What clubs are you going to join?” Guy asked, almost running by his side.

“The ones that won’t admit you,” said George with a grin. “Which ought to leave me a wide enough choice.”

Their pace slowed as they joined a teeming horde of undergraduates who were also making their way to the Freshers’ Fair. Long before they reached Parker’s Piece they could hear bands playing, choirs singing, and a thousand exuberant voices all striving to outdo each other.

A large area of the green was occupied by stalls manned by noisy students, all of whom seemed to be hollering like street traders. George and Guy strolled down the first gangway, soaking up the atmosphere. Guy began to show some interest when a man dressed in cricket whites and carrying a bat and ball, which looked somewhat incongruous in autumn, demanded, “Do either of you play cricket by any chance?”

“I opened the batting for Winchester,” said Guy.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the man with the bat. “My name’s Dick Young.”

Guy, recognizing the name of a man who had played both cricket and football for England, gave a slight bow.

“What about your friend?” Dick asked.

“You needn’t waste your time on him,” said Guy. “He has his sights on higher things, although he happens to be looking for a man who’s also called Young. I’ll catch up with you later, George,” said Guy.

George nodded and strolled off through the crowd, ignoring a cry of, “Do you sing? We’re looking for a tenor.”

“But a fiver will do,” quipped another voice.

“Do you play chess? We must beat Oxford this year.”

“Do you play a musical instrument?” asked a desperate voice. “Even the cymbals?”

George stopped in his tracks when he saw an awning above a stall at the end of the aisle which announced The Fabian Society, founded 1884. He walked quickly toward a man who was waving a pamphlet and shouting, “Equality for all!”

As George came up to him, the man inquired, “Would you care to join our little band? Or are you one of those hide-bound Tory fellows?”

“Certainly not,” said George. “I have long believed in the doctrines of Quintus Fabius Maximus. ‘If you can win a battle without having to fire a shot in anger, you are the true victor.’”

“Good fellow,” said the young man, pushing a form across the table. “Sign up here, and then you can come to our meeting next week, which will be addressed by Mr. George Bernard Shaw. By the way, my name’s Rupert Brooke,” he added, thrusting out his hand. “I’m the club’s secretary.”

George shook Brooke warmly by the hand before filling in the form and handing it back. Brooke glanced at the signature. “I say, old chap,” he said, “are the rumors true?”

“What rumors?” said George.

“That you entered this university by climbing over your college’s wall.”

George was about to reply when a voice behind him said, “And then he was made to climb back out. That’s always the most difficult part.”

“And why is that?” inquired Brooke innocently.

“Simple, really,” said Guy, before George had a chance to speak. “When you’re climbing up a rock face, your hands are not more than a few inches from your eyes, but when you’re coming down, your feet are never less than five feet below you, which means that when you look down you’ve far more chance of losing your balance. Got the idea?”

George laughed. “Ignore my friend,” he said. “And not just because he’s a hide-bound Tory, but he’s also a lackey of the capitalist system.”

“True enough,” said Guy without shame.

“So what clubs have you signed up for?” asked Brooke, turning his attention to Guy.

“Apart from cricket, the Union, the Disraeli Society, and the Officers’ Training Corps,” replied Guy.

“Good heavens,” said Brooke. “Is there no hope for the man?”

“None whatsoever,” admitted Guy. Turning to George, he added, “But at least I’ve found what you’ve been looking for, so the time has come for you to follow me.”

George raised his mortar board to Brooke, who returned the compliment. Guy led the way to the next row of stalls, where he pointed triumphantly at a white awning that read CUMC, founded 1904.

George slapped his friend on the back. He began to study a display of photographs showing past and present undergraduates standing on the Great St. Bernard Pass, and on the summits of Mont Vélan and Monte Rosa. Another board on the far side of the table displayed a large photograph of Mont Blanc, on which was written the words Join us in Italy next year if you want to do it the hard way.

“How do I join?” George asked a short, stocky fellow standing next to a taller man who was holding an ice axe.

“You can’t join the Mountaineering Club, old chap,” he replied. “You have to be elected.”

“Then how do I get elected?”

“It’s quite simple. You sign up for one of our Club meets to Pen-y-Pass, and then we’ll decide if you’re a mountaineer or just a weekend rambler.”

“I would have you know,” interrupted Guy, “that my friend-”

“-would be happy to sign up,” said George before Guy could complete the sentence.

Both George and Guy signed up for a weekend trip to Wales, and handed back their application forms to the taller of the two men standing behind the table.

“I’m Somervell,” he said, “and this is Odell. He’s a geologist, so he’s more interested in studying rocks than climbing them. The chap at the back,” added Somervell, pointing to an older man, “is Geoffrey Winthrop Young of the Alpine Club. He’s our honorary chairman.”

“The most accomplished climber in the land,” said George.

Young smiled as he studied George’s application form. “Graham Irving has a tendency to exaggerate,” he said. “However, he’s already written to tell me about your recent trip to the Alps. When we’re at Pen-y-Pass you’ll be given the chance to show if you’re as good as he says you are.”

“He’s better,” said Guy. “Irving won’t have mentioned our visit to Paris, when…ahhh!” he shouted as George’s heel collided with his shin.

“Will I be given a chance to join your party for Mont Blanc next summer?” George asked.

“That may not be possible,” said Young. “There are one or two other fellows already hoping to be selected for that jaunt.”

Somervell and Odell were now taking a far greater interest in the freshman from Magdalene. The two young men couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Odell was just a shade over five feet five, with sandy hair, a ruddy complexion, and watery blue eyes. He looked too young to be an undergraduate, but the moment he spoke he sounded older than his years. Somervell, in contrast, was over six foot, with dark, unruly hair that looked as if it had rarely been acquainted with a comb. He had the black eyes of a pirate, but when asked a question he bowed his head and spoke softly, not because he was aloof, but simply because he was shy. George knew instinctively that these two disparate men were going to be friends for the rest of his life.

If George had been asked what he had achieved in his first year at Cambridge-and his father did-he would have said that it had been far more than the third class he’d been awarded following his end-of-term exams.

“Is it possible that you have become involved in too many outside activities,” his father remonstrated, “none of which is likely to assist you when the time comes to consider a profession?” This was something George hadn’t given a great deal of thought to. “Because I don’t have to remind you, my boy,” his father added-but he did-“that I do not have sufficient funds to allow you to spend the rest of your life as a gentleman of leisure”-a sentiment the Reverend Mallory had made all too clear since George’s first day at prep school.

George felt confident that this was not a conversation Guy would be having with his father, despite the fact that he had also only managed to scrape a third. He concluded that it was not the moment to tell Papa that if he was lucky enough to be among those selected to join Geoffrey Young’s climbing party in the Alps, he would be making an excursion to Italy that summer.

Unlike Guy, George had been mortified to be awarded a third. However, Mr. Benson had assured him that he had been a borderline case for a second, and added that if he were to work a little harder during the next two years, that would be the class he should attain when he sat his finals-and if he was willing to make sacrifices, he might even secure a first.

George began to consider what sacrifices Mr. Benson might have in mind. He had, after all, been elected to the committee of the Fabian Society, where he had dined with George Bernard Shaw and Ramsay MacDonald. He regularly spent evenings with Rupert Brooke, Lytton Strachey, Geoffrey and John Maynard Keynes, and Ka Cox, all of whom Mr. Benson thoroughly approved of. He’d even played the Pope in Brooke’s production of Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus-although George would have been the first to admit that the reviews had not been all that flattering. He had also begun a thesis on Boswell, which he hoped might in time be published. But all of this had been secondary to his efforts to be elected to the Alpine Club. Did Mr. Benson expect him to sacrifice everything in order to gain the coveted first?

CHAPTER TEN

GEORGE MALLORY HAD never climbed with anyone he considered his equal. That was until he met George Finch.

During the Michaelmas vacation, George had traveled to Wales to join Geoffrey Young for one of the Cambridge Mountaineering Club meets at Pen-y-Pass. Each day, Young would select the teams for the morning climb, and George quickly came to respect Odell and Somervell, who were not only excellent company, but were able to keep pace with him when they tackled the more demanding climbs.

On Thursday morning, George was paired with Finch for the ridge climb over Crib Goch, Crib-y-Ddysgl, Snowdon, and Lliwedd. As the two men clambered up and down Snowdon, often having to scramble on their hands and knees, George became painfully aware that the young Australian wouldn’t rest until everyone else had been left in his wake.

“It’s not a competition,” said George, once the rest of the climbers had all fallen behind.

“Oh yes it is,” said Finch, not slackening his pace. “Haven’t you noticed that Young has only invited two people to this meet who aren’t at Oxford or Cambridge?” He paused to draw breath before spitting out, “And the other one is a woman.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” admitted George.

“If I’m to have any hope of being invited to join Young in the Alps this summer,” snapped Finch, “I’ll have to leave him in no doubt who’s the best climber of all the would-be applicants.”

“Is that right?” said George as he quickened his pace and overtook his first rival.

By the time they swung around the Snowdon Horseshoe, Finch was back by his side. Both men were breathing heavily as they almost jogged down the hill. George slackened his pace, allowing Finch to overtake him just as the Pen-y-Pass hotel came into sight.

“You’re good, Mallory, but are you good enough?” said Finch after George had ordered two pints of bitter. They were on their second pint before Odell and Somervell joined them.

In Cornwall a few months later the two rivals honed their rock-climbing skills, and whenever Young was asked to choose who he thought was the better climber, he was unwilling to respond. However, George accepted that once they stepped onto the slopes of the Italian Alps in the summer, Young would have to decide which of them would accompany him in the Courmayeur Valley for the challenging assault on Mont Blanc.

Among the other climbers who regularly attended those trips to Wales and Cornwall was one George wanted to spend more time with. Her name was Cottie Sanders. The daughter of a wealthy industrialist, she could have undoubtedly taken her place at Cambridge had her mother considered it a proper activity for a young lady. George, Guy, and Cottie regularly made up a three for the morning climb, but once they’d had lunch together on the lower slopes, Young would insist that George leave them and join Finch, Somervell, and Odell for the more demanding afternoon climbs.

Cottie could not have been described as beautiful in the conventional sense, but George had rarely enjoyed a woman’s company more. She was just an inch over five feet, and if she possessed a pleasing figure, she disguised it determinedly beneath layers of jumpers and jodhpurs. Her freckled face and curly brown hair gave the impression of a tomboy. But that wasn’t what had attracted George to her.

George’s father often referred to “inner beauty” in his morning sermons, and George had just as often silently scoffed at the idea from his place in the front pew. But that was before he met Cottie. He failed, however, to notice that her eyes always lit up when she was with him. And when Guy asked her if she was in love with George, she simply said, “Isn’t everybody?”

Whenever Guy raised the subject with his friend, George always replied that he did not think of Cottie as anything more than a friend.

“What’s your opinion of George Finch?” asked Cottie one day when they sat down for lunch on top of a rock.

“Why do you ask?” said George, removing a sandwich from its grease-proof paper wrapping.

“My father once told me that only politicians are expected to answer a question with a question.”

George smiled. “I admit Finch is a damned fine climber, but he can be a bit much if you have to spend all day with him.”

“Ten minutes was quite enough for me,” said Cottie.

“What do you mean?” asked George as he lit his pipe.

“Once we were out of sight of everybody, he tried to kiss me.”

“Perhaps he’s fallen in love with you,” said George, trying to make light of it.

“I don’t think so, George,” she said. “I’m not exactly his type.”

“But he must find you attractive if he wanted to kiss you?”

“Only because I was the one girl within fifty miles.”

“Thirty, my dear,” said George, laughing, as he tapped his pipe on the rock. “I see our esteemed leader is on his way,” he added as he helped Cottie back on her feet.

George was disappointed when Young chose not to take the party down a rather interesting-looking descent of Lliwedd by way of a sheer rock buttress. When they reached the lower slopes he was irritated to discover that he had left his pipe behind, and would have to return to the summit to retrieve it. Cottie agreed to accompany him, but when they reached the base of the rock George asked her to wait, as he couldn’t be bothered to take the long route around the giant obstacle.

She watched in amazement as he began to climb straight up the sheer rock face, showing no sign of fear. Once he had reached the top he grabbed his pipe, put it in his pocket and came straight back down by the same route.

Over dinner that evening, Cottie told the rest of the party what she had witnessed that afternoon. From the looks of incredulity on their faces, it was clear that no one believed her. George Finch even burst out laughing, and whispered to Geoffrey Young, “She thinks he’s Sir Galahad.”

Young didn’t laugh. He was beginning to wonder if George Mallory might be the ideal person to accompany him on a climb even the Royal Geographical Society considered impossible.

A month later, Young wrote to seven climbers, inviting them to join his party for the Italian Alps during the summer vacation. He made it clear that he wouldn’t select the pair who would make the assault on Mont Blanc from the Courmayeur Valley until he had seen which of them acclimatized best to the hazardous conditions.

Guy Bullock and Cottie Sanders did not receive invitations, as Young believed that their presence would be a distraction.

“Distractions,” he pronounced when the team gathered in Southampton, “are all very well when you’re spending a weekend in Wales, but not when you’re in Courmayeur attempting to climb some of the most treacherous slopes in Europe.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LIKE BURGLARS IN the night, the two of them slipped out of the hotel unnoticed, carrying the swag under their arms. Silently, they crossed an unlit road and disappeared into the forest, aware that it would be some time before they were missed by their colleagues, who were probably dressing for dinner.

The first few days had gone well. They had pitched up at Courmayeur on the Friday to find that the weather was perfect for climbing. A week later, with the Aiguille du Chardonnet, the Grépon, and Mont Maudit “under their belts,” to use one of Geoffrey Young’s favorite expressions, they were all prepared for the final challenge-assuming the weather held.

When seven o’clock struck on the hotel’s grandfather clock, the honorary chairman of the CUMC tapped the side of his glass with a spoon. The rest of the committee fell silent.

“Item number one,” said Geoffrey Young, glancing down at his agenda, “the election of a new member. Mr. George Leigh Mallory has been proposed by Mr. Somervell and seconded by Mr. Odell.” He looked up. “Those in favor?” Five hands were raised. “Carried unanimously,” said Young, and a ripple of applause followed-something he had never experienced before. “I therefore declare George Leigh Mallory elected as a member of the CUMC.”

“Perhaps someone should go and look for him,” said Odell, “and tell him the good news?”

“If you’re hoping to find Mallory, you’d better put on your climbing boots,” said Young without explanation.

“I know he isn’t a Cambridge man,” said Somervell, “but I propose that we invite George Finch to be an honorary member of the club. After all, he’s a fine climber.”

No one seemed willing to second the proposal.

George struck a match and lit the little Primus stove. The two men in the tent sat cross-legged, facing each other. They warmed their hands while they waited for the water to boil, a slow process when you’re halfway up a mountain. George placed two mugs on the ground while Finch ripped the wrapping off a bar of Kendal Mint Cake, broke it in half and passed a chunk across to his climbing partner.

The previous day, the two of them had stood together on the summit of Mont Maudit and stared up at Mont Blanc, a mere 2,000 feet above them, wondering if they would be looking down from its peak tomorrow.

George checked his watch: 7:35 P.M. By now Geoffrey Young would be taking the rest of the team through tomorrow’s program, having informed them who would be joining him on the final ascent. The water boiled.

“This has been quite a remarkable week for climbing,” continued Young. “In fact, I would go so far as to say that it has been among the most memorable of my career, which only makes my selection of who will join me for the attack on the summit tomorrow all the more difficult. I am painfully aware that some of you have waited years for this opportunity, but more than one of you has to be disappointed. As you are all well aware, reaching the summit of Mont Blanc is not technically difficult for an experienced climber-unless, of course, he attempts it from the Courmayeur side. He paused.

“The climbing party will consist of five men: myself, Somervell, Odell, Mallory, and Finch. We will set out at four o’clock tomorrow morning, and press on to 15,400 feet, where we will rest for two hours. If that capricious mistress, the weather, allows us, the final team of three will make an attempt on the summit.

“Odell and Somervell will descend to the Grand Mulets hut at 13,400 feet, where Somervell will await the return of the final party.”

“Triumphant return,” said Somervell magnanimously, although he and Odell could barely conceal their frustration at not having been chosen for the assault on the summit.

“Let’s hope so,” said Young. “I know how disappointed some of you must feel not to be selected for the climbing party, but never forget that without a back-up team it wouldn’t be possible to conquer any mountain, and every member of the team will have played his part. Should tomorrow’s attempt fail for any reason, I shall be inviting Odell and Somervell to join me later in the week when we will make a second attempt on the summit.” The two men smiled slightly ruefully, as if they’d won a silver medal at the Olympic Games. “There is nothing more for me to say, other than to tell you who I have chosen to join me for the final ascent.”

George removed a glove, unscrewed the jar of Bovril and dropped a spoonful of the thick brown substance into the mugs. Finch added the hot water and stirred until he was sure there was nothing left on the bottom before he handed George his drink. George broke a second bar of Kendal Mint Cake and passed the larger portion across to Finch. Neither spoke while they savored their gourmet meal.

It was George who eventually broke the silence. “I wonder who Young will pick.”

“You’re certain to be selected,” said Finch, warming his hands around his mug. “But I don’t know who else he’ll choose out of Odell, Somervell, and me. If he picks the best climber, then the final place is mine.”

“Why wouldn’t he pick the best climber?”

“I’m not an Oxford or Cambridge man, old boy,” said Finch, mimicking his companion’s accent.

“Young’s no snob,” said George. “He won’t let that influence his decision.”

“We could of course pre-empt that decision,” suggested Finch with a grin.

George looked puzzled. “What do you have in mind?”

“We could set out for the summit first thing in the morning, and then sit around waiting to see which of them joins us.”

“It would be a pyrrhic victory,” George suggested as he drained his drink.

“A victory’s a victory,” said Finch. “Ask any Epirote how he feels about the word ‘pyrrhic.’”

George made no comment as he crawled into his sleeping bag. Finch undid his fly buttons before slipping out of the tent. He looked up at the peak of Mont Blanc glistening in the moonlight, and even wondered if he could manage to climb it alone. When he crawled back into the tent, George was already fast asleep.

“I can’t find either of them,” said Odell as he joined the rest of his colleagues for dinner. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

“They’ve got an important day tomorrow, so they’ll be trying to rest,” said Young, as a bowl of hot consommé was placed in front of him. “But it’s never easy to sleep at minus twenty degrees. I will have to make a slight adjustment to tomorrow’s plan.” Everyone around the table stopped eating and turned toward him. “Odell, Somervell, and I will be joined by Herford.”

“But what about Mallory and Finch?” asked Odell.

“I have a feeling that the two of them will already be sitting at Grand Mulets, waiting for us to join them.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

MALLORY AND FINCH had already finished lunch by the time Young and his party joined them at the Grand Mulets refuge. Neither of them spoke as they waited to see how the expedition’s leader would react to their impudence.

“Have you already tried for the top?” asked Young.

“I wanted to,” said Finch as he followed Young into the hut, “but Mallory advised against it.”

“Shrewd fellow, Mallory,” said Young, before unfolding an old parchment map and laying it out on the table. George and Finch listened intently as he took them all through his proposed route for the last 2,200 feet.

“This will be my seventh attempt from the Courmayeur side,” he said, “and if we make it, it will only be the third time, so the odds are worse than fifty-fifty.” Young folded the map up and stowed it in his rucksack. He shook hands with Somervell, Herford, and Odell. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “We’ll make every effort to be back with you by five. Half past at the latest. See that you have a cup of Earl Grey on the boil,” he added with a smile. “We can’t risk being any later,” he said as he looked up at the forbidding peak before turning to face his chosen companions. “Time to rope up. I can assure you, gentlemen, this is one lady you don’t want to be out with after dark.”

For the next hour, the three of them worked their way steadily along a narrow ridge that would take them to within a thousand feet of the summit. George was beginning to wonder what all the fuss was about, but that was before they reached the Barn Door, a vast pinnacle of ice with sheer rock on both sides acting as bookends. There was a simpler, longer route to the summit, but as Young told them, that was for women and children.

Young sat at the foot of the Barn Door and checked his map once again. “Now you’ll begin to understand why we spent all those weekends honing our rock-climbing skills.”

George couldn’t take his eyes off the Barn Door, looking for any cracks in the surface, or indentations where other climbers had gone before them. He placed a foot tentatively in a small fissure.

“No,” said Young firmly, as he walked across to take the lead. “Next year, possibly.”

Young began to slowly traverse the giant overhanging pinnacle, often disappearing from view only, roped together as if by an umbilical cord, to reappear a few moments later. Each of them realized that if one of them made a single mistake, they would all come tumbling down.

Finch looked up. Young was out of sight, and all he could see of George were the heels of two hobnail boots disappearing over a ridge. Inch by inch, foot by foot, Mallory and Finch followed slowly behind Young, aware that if they made the slightest error of judgment, the Barn Door would be slammed in their faces and seconds later they would be buried in an unmarked grave.

Inch by inch…

At Grand Mulets, Odell stood over a wood fire toasting a piece of bread, while Herford boiled a pot of water to make tea.

“I wonder how far they’ve got,” said Odell.

“Trying to find the key to the Barn Door would be my bet,” said Somervell.

“I ought to be getting back,” said Odell, “so I can follow their progress through the hotel’s telescope. The moment I see that they’ve joined you, I’ll put in our orders for dinner.”

“Along with a bottle of champagne,” suggested Somervell.

Young heaved himself up onto the ledge above the Barn Door. He didn’t have to wait long before the two Georges joined him. No one spoke for some time, and even Finch didn’t pretend he wasn’t exhausted. A mere 800 feet above them loomed the summit of Mont Blanc.

“Don’t think of it as being 800 feet away,” Young said. “It’s more like a couple of miles, and every foot you take will be into thinner and thinner air.” He checked his watch. “So don’t let’s keep the lady waiting.”

Although the stony terrain appeared less demanding than the Barn Door, the climb was still treacherous; crevices, icy stones, and uneven rocks covered in only a thin film of snow lay in wait for them should they make the slightest mistake. The summit looked tantalizingly close, but the lady turned out to be a tease. It was another two hours before Young finally placed a foot on the summit.

When Mallory first saw the view from the highest peak in the Alps he was lost for words.

“Magnifique,” he finally managed, as he looked down on Madame Blanc’s precocious offspring, which stretched as far as the eye could see.

“It’s one of the ironies of mountaineering,” said Young, “that grown men are happy to spend months preparing for a climb, weeks rehearsing and honing their skills, and at least a day attempting to reach the summit. And then having achieved their goal, they spend just a few moments enjoying the experience, along with one or two equally certifiable companions who have little in common other than wanting to do it all again, but a little higher.”

George nodded, while Finch said nothing.

“There’s one act I have to carry out, gentlemen,” said Young, “before we begin our descent.” He took a sovereign from his jacket pocket, bent down, and placed it in the snow at his feet. Mallory and Finch watched the little ritual with fascination, but said nothing.

“The King of England sends his compliments, ma’am,” said Young, “and hopes that you will grant his humble subjects safe passage back to their homeland.”

When Odell arrived back at the hotel a few minutes after four, the first thing he did was order a large flask of hot fruit punch before walking out onto the veranda to take up his post. He peered through the large telescope, and once he’d focused on a rabbit scurrying into the forest, he turned his attention to the mountain. He swung the telescope further up the peak, but although it was a clear day, he knew that the climbing party would be no larger than ants, so searching for them would be pointless.

Odell swung the telescope lower down, and focused on the wooden hut at the Grand Mulets refuge. He thought he could see two figures standing outside it, but he couldn’t make out which was Somervell and which was Herford. A waiter in a white jacket appeared by his side and poured him a cup of hot punch. Odell leaned back and enjoyed the sensation as the warm liquid slipped down his parched throat. He allowed himself to imagine for a moment what it must feel like to be standing on the peak of Mont Blanc, having unlocked the Barn Door.

He returned to the telescope, although he didn’t expect to see much activity at the Grand Mulets before five o’clock. Young was a reliable sort of cove, so he expected him to be on time. Once the climbing team reappeared, he would have that bottle of champagne put on ice to share with those who would be returning in triumph. The grandfather clock in the hall struck once, to indicate that it was 4:30 P.M. He focused the telescope on the Grand Mulets refuge in case the climbing party was ahead of schedule, but there was still no sign of any activity. He moved the telescope slowly up the mountain, hoping to see three specks appear in the lens.

“Dear God, no!” he exclaimed as the waiter poured him a second glass of punch.

“Una problema, signore?” inquired the waiter.

“An avalanche,” replied Odell.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GEORGE HEARD THE unmistakable roar behind him, but didn’t have time to turn around.

The snow hit him like a giant wave, sweeping all before it. He tried desperately to remain the right way up, making firm breaststrokes with his arms in the hope of keeping a pocket of air in front of his face so that he could buy some time, just as the safety manual recommended. But when the second wave hit him, he knew he was going to die. The third and final wave tossed him like a loose pebble, down and down and down.

His last thoughts were of his mother, who had always dreaded this moment, then of his father who never spoke of it, and finally of his brother and sisters, who would all outlive him. Was this hell? And then he came to a sudden halt. He lay still for a moment, trying to convince himself that he was still alive, and to take in his immediate surroundings. He had landed at the bottom of a crevasse, cast into an Aladdin’s cave of ice, the beauty of which he might have appreciated in any other circumstances. What did the manual recommend? Quickly work out which way is up and which is down so that you can at least start heading in the right direction. He spotted a shaft of murky gray light thirty, perhaps forty feet above him.

He recalled the manual’s next instruction: Find out if anything is broken. He wiggled the fingers and thumb of his right hand; he’d still got five. His left hand was very cold, but at least there was some movement there too. He stretched his right leg, and tentatively raised it off the ground. He had one leg. He raised his left leg-two. He placed his hands by his side and pushed himself up slowly, very slowly. His fingers were beginning to freeze. He looked for his gloves; they were nowhere to be seen. He must have lost them during his fall.

The cave was lined with ridges of ice protruding from every side, making several natural ladders to the roof; but were they safe? He crawled across the soft snow to the far side of his prison, and kicked at the ice with the toe of his hobnailed boot. It made no impression. The ice had taken a hundred years, perhaps even longer, to grow to that thickness, and wasn’t going to be budged easily. George became a little more confident, but kept reminding himself to abide by the rules, not to hurry, and not to take any unnecessary risks. He spent some time trying to work out which rungs of the ladder he should mount. It looked as if the best route was on the far side of the cave, so he crawled back on his hands and knees and grabbed at the bottom rung. He prayed. When you’re in danger, you need to believe there is a God.

He placed a foot tentatively on a ridge of ice a few inches above the ground, then gripped another above it with his bare fingers, now numb with cold, and pulled himself slowly up. He risked placing his full weight on the lower ridge, because if it broke off, he would only have a short fall into the soft snow. It didn’t, which gave him the confidence to climb onto the next rung of his Jacob’s ladder, and find out if he was about to join the angels or his fellow humans.

He was about halfway up, feeling more confident with each move, when a piece of ice broke off in his hand. His feet immediately slithered off the ice below, leaving him dangling by one hand, some thirty feet above the floor. George began to sweat in a crevasse that must have been minus forty degrees. He swung slowly backward and forward, certain that the Gods above him had simply decided to extend his life by a few minutes, and at any moment the ice he was clinging to would shear off. Then one foot found a toehold, followed by the other. He held his breath, the fingers of his right hand almost glued to the ice above him. His strength was beginning to ebb away. He took some time before selecting the next rung of the ladder. Just three more, and he would be able to push himself through the chink of light. He picked the next rung carefully, and then the next, and at last he was able to punch a fist through the little crack above him. He would have cheered, but he couldn’t waste the time, as the last rays of sunlight were fast disappearing behind the highest peak.

George pushed his head through the hole, and looked tentatively to his left and right. He didn’t need a manual to tell him it made sense to clear the snow around him if he was to have any chance of finding a rock or a hard place.

He swept away with his bare hands until he uncovered a slab of rock that had recently been covered by the avalanche. Gathering all the strength he possessed, he hauled himself out of the hole and clung on to the edge of the rock. He didn’t hang around but, like a crab, scurried across its surface, fearful that he might slide back down the icy rock and return to the bottom of the crevasse.

That was when he heard a voice singing “Waltzing Matilda.” No prizes for guessing who the soloist was. George continued his painful advance across the snow until the source of the voice took shape. Finch was sitting bolt upright repeating the chorus again and again. He clearly didn’t know the second verse.

“Is that you, George?” Finch cried out as he peered through the falling snow.

It was the first time Finch had ever called him by his Christian name. “Yes, it is!” George shouted as he crawled up to his side. “Are you all right?”

“I’m just fine,” said Finch. “Apart from a broken leg, and the fact that the toes of my left foot are beginning to freeze up. I must have lost a boot somewhere along the way. What about you?”

“Never better, old chap,” said George.

“Bloody English,” said Finch. “If we’re to have any chance of getting out of here, you’ll need to find my torch.”

“Where do I start looking?”

“The last time I saw it, it was some way up the mountain.”

George set off, like a toddler, on his hands and knees. He was beginning to despair until he spotted a black object resting in the snow a few yards ahead of him. He cheered. He cursed. It was only Finch’s missing boot. He struggled on until he was able to cheer again when he saw the handle of the torch sticking out of the snow. He grabbed at it, and prayed once more before flicking the switch. A beam of light glowed in the dusk. “Thank God,” he murmured, and returned down the mountain to where Finch was lying.

No sooner had George reached him than they both heard the moan. “That must be Young,” said Finch. “Better go and see if you can help. But for God’s sake turn off that torch until the sun’s completely disappeared. If Odell spotted the avalanche from the hotel, a rescue party should be on their way by now, but they won’t reach us for hours.”

George switched off the torch and began to crawl in the direction of the moan, but it was some time before he came across a body lying motionless in the snow, the right leg buckled under the left thigh.

“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda …”

George quickly cleared the snow around Young’s mouth, but made no attempt to move him.

“Hold on, old friend,” he whispered in his ear. “Somervell and Herford should be on their way by now. They’re certain to be with us soon.” He only wished he believed his own words. He took Young’s hand and began to rub, trying to get some circulation back, all the time having to brush away the falling snow.

“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda …”

Odell ran out of the front door of the hotel and onto the driveway. He immediately began to turn the wheel of the ancient klaxon which produced a deafening screeching sound that would alert Somervell and Herford to the danger.

When the sun finally disappeared behind the highest peak, George placed the torch firmly in the snow, facing down the mountain. He switched it on and a beam of light flickered, but how long would it last?

“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda with me? And he sang as he…”

There was nothing in the safety manual about what to do about an Australian singing out of tune, thought George as he rested his head in the snow and began to drift off to sleep. Not a bad way to die.

“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me …”

When George woke he couldn’t be sure where he was, how he’d got there, or how long he’d been there. Then he saw a nurse. He slept.

When he woke again, Somervell was standing by the side of his bed. He gave George a warm smile. “Welcome back,” he said.

“How long have I been away?”

“Two or three days, give or take. But the doctors are confident they’ll have you back on your feet within a week.”

“And Finch?”

“He’s got one leg in plaster, but he’s eating a hearty breakfast and still singing “Waltzing Matilda” to any nurse who cares to listen.”

“What about Young?” George asked, fearing the worst.

“He’s still unconscious, suffering from hypothermia and a broken arm. The medical chaps are doing everything they can to patch him up, and if they do manage to save his life, he’ll have you to thank.”

“Me?” said George.

“If it hadn’t been for your torch, we would never have found you.”

“It wasn’t my torch,” said George. “It was Finch’s.”

George slept.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“ONCE YOU’VE STARED death in the face, nothing is ever the same again,” said Young. “It places you apart from other men.”

George poured his guest a cup of tea.

“I wanted to see you, Mallory, to make sure it wasn’t that dreadful experience that has caused you to stop climbing.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” said George. “There’s a far better reason. My tutor has warned me that I won’t be considered for a doctorate unless I get a first.”

“And what are your chances of that, old fellow?”

“It seems I’m a borderline case. I can’t allow myself not to succeed simply because I didn’t work hard enough.”

“Understandable,” said Young. “But all work and no play…”

“I’d rather be a dull success than a bright failure,” retorted George.

“But once your exams are over, Mallory, will you consider joining me in the Alps next summer?”

“I certainly will,” said George, smiling. “If there’s one thing I fear even more than failing to get a first, it’s the thought of Finch standing on the peaks of higher and higher mountains singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’.”

“He’s just had his degree results,” said Young.

“And…?”

Guy was astonished by the amount of work George put in as his finals approached. He didn’t take even a day off during the spring vacation to visit Pen-y-Pass or Cornwall, let alone the Alps. His only companions were kings, dictators, and potentates, and his only excursions were to battlefields in far-off lands as he studied night and day right up until the morning of the exams.

After five days of continual writing, and eleven different papers, George still couldn’t be sure how well he’d done. Only the very clever and the very stupid ever are. Once he’d handed in his final paper, he emerged from the examination room and stepped out into the sunlight to find Guy sitting on the steps of Schools waiting to greet him, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other. George sat down beside him and smiled.

“Don’t ask,” he said, as Guy began to remove the wire from around the cork.

For the next ten days a period of limbo followed as the examinees waited for the examiners to tell them the class of degree they had been awarded, and with it, what future had been determined for them.

However much Mr. Benson tried to reassure his pupil that it had been a close-run thing, the fact was that George Leigh Mallory had been awarded a second-class honors degree, and therefore would not be returning to Magdalene College in the Michaelmas term to work on a doctorate. And it didn’t help when the senior tutor added, “When you know you’re beaten, give in gracefully.”

Despite an invitation from Geoffrey Young to spend a month with him in the Alps that summer, George packed his bags and took the next train back to Birkenhead. If you had asked him, he would have described the next four weeks as a period of reflection, although the word his father continually used was denial, while his mother, in the privacy of the bedroom, described her son’s uncharacteristic behavior as sulking.

“He’s not a child any more,” she said. “He must make up his mind what he’s going to do with the rest of his life.”

Despite his wife’s remonstrations, it was another week before the Reverend Mallory got round to tackling head-on the subject of his son’s future.

“I’m weighing up my options,” George told him, “though I’d like to be an author. In fact, I’ve already begun work on a book on Boswell.”

“Possibly illuminating, but unlikely to be remunerative,” replied his father. “I assume you have no desire to live in a garret and survive on bread and water.” George was unable to disagree. “Have you thought about applying for a commission in the army? You’d make a damn fine soldier.”

“I’ve never been very good at obeying authority,” George replied.

“Have you considered taking up Holy Orders?”

“No, because I fear there’s an insurmountable obstacle.”

“And what might that be?”

“I don’t believe in God,” said George simply.

“That hasn’t prevented some of my most distinguished colleagues from taking the cloth,” said his father.

George laughed. “You’re such an old cynic, Papa.”

The Reverend Mallory ignored his son’s comment. “Perhaps you should consider politics, my boy. I’m sure you could find a constituency that would be delighted to have you as its MP.”

“It might help if I knew which party I supported,” said George. “And in any case, while MPs remain unpaid politics is nothing more than a rich man’s hobby.”

“Not unlike mountaineering,” suggested his father, raising an eyebrow.

“True,” admitted George. “So I’ll have to find a profession, which will provide me with sufficient income to allow me to pursue my hobby.”

“Then it’s settled,” said the Reverend Mallory. “You’ll have to be a schoolmaster.”

Although George hadn’t offered any opinion on his father’s last suggestion, the moment he returned to his room he sat down and wrote to his former housemaster inquiring if there were any openings at Winchester for a history beak. Mr. Irving replied within the week. The college, he informed George, was still considering applications for a classics master, but had recently filled the position of junior history tutor. George was already regretting his month of reflection. However, Mr. Irving continued, I hear on the grapevine that Charterhouse is looking for a history master, and should you think of applying for the post, I would be only too happy to act as a referee.

Ten days later George traveled down to Surrey for an interview with the headmaster of Charterhouse, the Reverend Gerald Rendall. Mr. Irving had warned George that almost anything would seem an anticlimax after Winchester and Cambridge, but George was pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoyed his visit. He was both delighted and relieved when the headmaster invited him to join the staff ahead of three other applicants.

What George could not have foretold, when he wrote back to the Reverend Rendall accepting the appointment, was that it would not be the school but one of the governors who would alter the course of his life.

1910
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I WOULD NEED two first-class climbers to join me for the final assault,” Geoffrey Young replied.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” asked the secretary of the Royal Geographical Society.

“Yes,” said Young firmly, not wishing to divulge their names.

“Then perhaps you’d better have a word with both of them,” said Hinks. “And in the strictest confidence, because unless the Dalai Lama gives his blessing, we won’t even be allowed to cross the border into Tibet.”

“I’ll write to both of them this evening,” said Young.

“Nothing in writing would be my advice,” said the secretary. Young nodded. “And I also need you to do me a small favor. When Captain Scott…”

One of the problems George faced during his first few weeks at Charterhouse was that if he wasn’t wearing his mortar board and gown, he was often mistaken for one of the boys.

He enjoyed his first year at the school far more than he’d expected, even if the lower fifth was populated by a group of monsters determined to disrupt his lessons. However, when those same boys returned for their final year in the sixth form, to George’s surprise several of them were entirely reformed characters, all their energies directed toward securing a place at the university of their choice. George was happy to spend countless hours helping them to achieve that objective.

However, when his father inquired during the summer vacation what had given him the most satisfaction, he mentioned coaching the Colts football eleven in the winter and the under-fourteen hockey team during the spring, but, most of all, taking a group of boys hill walking in the summer.

“And just occasionally,” he said, “one comes across an exceptional boy, who displays real talent and curiosity, and is certain to make his name in the world.”

“And have you met such a paragon?” his father inquired.

“Yes,” replied George, without further elucidation.

On a warm summer evening, George traveled to London by train and made his way on foot to No. 23 Savile Row in Mayfair to join Geoffrey Young for dinner. A porter accompanied him to the members’ bar, where George found his host chatting to a group of elderly climbers who were repeating tall stories about even taller mountains. When Young spotted his guest entering the room, he broke away and guided George toward the dining room with the words, “I fear a bar stool is the highest thing that lot can climb nowadays.”

While they enjoyed a meal of brown Windsor soup and steak and kidney pie followed by vanilla ice cream, Young took George through the program he had planned for their forthcoming trip to the Alps. But George had a feeling that his host had something more important on his mind, as he had already written to him setting out in great detail which new climbs they would be attempting that summer. It wasn’t until they retired to the library for coffee and brandy that George discovered the real purpose behind Young’s invitation.

“Mallory,” said Young once they had settled in the far corner of the room, “I wondered if you’d care to join me as my guest at the RGS next Thursday evening, when Captain Scott will be addressing the Society on his forthcoming expedition to the South Pole.”

George nearly spilled his coffee, he was so excited by the prospect of hearing the intrepid explorer talk about his Voyage of Discovery, not least because he’d recently read in The Times that every ticket had been taken up within hours of the Society announcing the speaker for its annual memorial lecture.

“How did you manage to-” began George.

“As a committee member of the Alpine Club, I was able to wangle a couple of extra tickets out of the secretary of the RGS. However, he did request a small favor in return.”

George wanted to ask two questions at once, but it quickly became clear that Young had already anticipated them.

“Of course, you’ll be interested to know who my other guest is,” said Young. George nodded. “Well, it won’t come as much of a surprise, because I’ve invited the only other climber in your class.” Young paused. “But I must confess that the favor the RGS secretary requested did come as a surprise.”

George put down his coffee cup on a side table, folded his arms, and waited.

“It’s quite simple really,” Young said. “Once Captain Scott has finished his lecture and calls for questions, the secretary wants you to raise your hand.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IT WAS ONE of those rare occasions when George was on time. He had rehearsed his question during the train journey up from Godalming and, although he felt confident that he knew the answer, he was still puzzled why the RGS secretary wanted him to ask it.

George had been disappointed when he’d read in The Times earlier that year that it was an American, Robert Peary, not an Englishman who had been the first to reach the North Pole. But as the subject of Captain Scott’s lecture was “The South Pole Yet Unconquered,” he assumed that, just as Geoffrey Young had suggested, the great explorer was about to make a second attempt to make amends.

George jumped off the train at Waterloo as it came to a halt, ran along the platform, and handed in his ticket before going off in search of a hansom cab. Young had warned him that such was Scott’s popularity most of the seats would be taken at least an hour before the lecture was due to begin.

There was already a small queue forming at the entrance to the RGS by the time George presented his invitation card. He joined the chattering crowd as they made their way to the lecture theater on the ground floor.

When George entered the recently built theater, he was surprised by how grand it was. The oak-paneled walls were covered with oil paintings of past presidents of the RGS, while the dark parquet floor was covered by what must have been five hundred plush red chairs, perhaps even more. The raised stage at the front of the hall was dominated by a full-length portrait of King George V.

George scanned the rows, searching for Geoffrey Young. He finally spotted him on the far side of the room, seated next to Finch. George quickly made his way across the hall and took the seat next to Young.

“I couldn’t have held on to it for much longer,” said Young with a grin.

“Sorry,” said George, as he leaned across to shake hands with Finch. He looked around the theater to see if he knew anyone. Somervell, Herford, and Odell were seated near the back. The thing that struck George most was that there were no women in the body of the hall. He knew they could not be elected as fellows of the RGS, but why couldn’t they attend as guests? He could only wonder what would have happened if Cottie Sanders had been one of Geoffrey Young’s guests. Would they have put her in the front row perhaps, which remained unoccupied? He glanced toward the upper gallery, where several smartly dressed ladies in long gowns and shawls were taking their seats. He frowned before turning his attention back to the stage, where two men were erecting a large silver screen. In the central aisle another man was checking slides in a magic lantern, flicking the shutter backward and forward.

The lecture theater was filling up quickly, and long before the clock below the gallery chimed eight times, a number of members and their guests found themselves having to stand in the aisles and at the back of the room. On the eighth chime, the committee, crocodile-like, entered the room and took their places in the front row, while a short, elegantly dressed gentleman wearing a white tie and tails strode up onto the stage, to be greeted with loud applause. He raised the palms of his hands as if warming himself by a fire, and immediately the applause died down.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “My name is Sir Francis Younghusband. I have the honor of being your chairman this evening, and I believe that tonight’s lecture promises to be one of the most exciting in the Society’s long history. The RGS prides itself on being a world leader in two different, but not unrelated fields: first, the surveying and drawing up of maps of previously uncharted territories; and second, exploring those distant and dangerous lands where no white man has ever trodden before. One of the Society’s statutes allows us to support and encourage those single-minded individuals who are willing to travel the length and breadth of the globe, risking their lives in the service of the British Empire.

“One such man is our lecturer tonight, and I have no doubt,” continued Sir Francis as he glanced up at the portrait of the King, “that we are about to learn of his plans to make a second attempt to be the first of His Majesty’s subjects to reach the South Pole. It is a well-worn phrase to suggest that a speaker needs no introduction, but I suspect there isn’t a man, woman, or child in our land who does not know the name Captain Robert Falcon Scott RN.”

The audience rose as one as a clean-shaven, stockily built man with fierce blue eyes and in a naval uniform marched out from the wings. He took his place at the center of the stage, his legs thrust apart, giving the impression that he did not intend to be moved for some time. He smiled down at his audience and, unlike Sir Francis, made no attempt to quell their enthusiasm, ensuring that it was some time before he was able to speak.

George was captivated from Scott’s first sentence. He spoke for over an hour, never once referring to notes, while dozens of slides projected on the screen behind him brought dramatically to life his previous expedition to the Antarctic in his ship the Discovery. His words were regularly interrupted by spontaneous bursts of applause.

The audience learned how Captain Scott went about selecting his team, and the qualities he demanded: loyalty, courage, and unquestioning discipline were, it seemed to him, prerequisites. He then went on to explain the deprivation and hardship his men would have to take for granted if they hoped to survive for four months in the Antarctic trekking four hundred miles across a frozen wasteland on an uncharted journey to the South Pole.

George stared in disbelief at images of men who had been on his previous expedition, some of whom had lost not only fingers and toes to severe frostbite, but ears and in one case even a nose. One of the slides caused a woman in the gallery to faint. Scott paused for a moment before adding, “Each of the men who accompanies me on this enterprise must be prepared to undergo such suffering if he still hopes to be standing when we eventually reach the South Pole. And never forget, my most important responsibility is to ensure that all my men return home safely.”

George only wished that he could be among those who would be invited to join Scott, but he knew that an inexperienced schoolmaster whose greatest achievement to date was conquering Mont Blanc was an unlikely candidate for Scott’s team.

Scott ended his lecture by thanking the RGS, its committee and fellows for their continued support, aware that without their backing he couldn’t even consider raising anchor at Tilbury, let alone docking in McMurdo Sound fully equipped and ready to carry out such an ambitious enterprise. When the lights came up, Scott gave a slight bow and the audience rose as one to acknowledge a very British hero. George could only wonder what it must feel like to be standing on that stage receiving such plaudits and, more important, what would be expected of him to prove worthy of such adulation.

When the applause eventually died down and the audience resumed their places, Scott thanked them once again before inviting questions from the floor.

A gentleman rose in the front row.

“That’s Arthur Hinks,” whispered Geoffrey Young. “He’s just been appointed secretary of the RGS.”

“Sir,” Hinks began, “rumors abound that the Norwegians, led by Amundsen, are also planning an assault on the South Pole. Does this concern you?”

“No, it does not, Mr. Hinks,” replied Scott. “Let me assure you and the Society’s fellows that it will be an Englishman, not a Viking, who will be the first to reach the South Pole.” Once again these sentiments were greeted with loud applause.

From the dozen hands that shot up, Scott next selected a man seated in the third row. The left breast of his dinner jacket was adorned with rows of campaign medals.

“I read in The Times this morning, sir, that the Norwegians are willing to use motorized sledges as well as dogs, to make sure they reach the Pole ahead of you.”

Several cries of “Shame!” emanated from the body of the hall. “May I ask what your response is to this blatant disregard of the amateur code?” Finch looked at the questioner in disbelief.

“I shall simply ignore them, General,” Scott replied. “My enterprise remains a challenge of man’s superiority over the elements, and I am in no doubt that I have assembled a group of gentlemen who are more than ready to face this challenge.”

Cries of “Hear, hear!” came from every quarter of the packed hall, although Finch did not join in.

“And allow me to add,” continued Scott, “that I intend to be the first human to reach the South Pole, not the first dog.” He paused. “Unless, of course, it’s a bulldog.”

Laughter followed, before several more hands shot up, George’s among them. However, Captain Scott answered three more questions before he pointed in George’s direction.

“A young gentleman on the end of the fifth row is showing the sort of determination I look for when selecting my team, so let’s hear what he has to say.”

George rose slowly from his place, his legs shaking. He felt five hundred pairs of eyes staring at him.

“Sir,” he said, his voice quivering, “once you have reached the South Pole, what will there be left for an Englishman to conquer?” He collapsed back onto his chair as some of the audience burst out laughing, while others applauded. A puzzled expression appeared on Finch’s face. Why would Mallory ask a question he already knew the answer to?

“The next great challenge for any Englishman,” said Scott without hesitation, “will undoubtedly be the scaling of the highest mountain on earth, Mount Everest in the Himalaya. It stands at over 29,000 feet above sea level-that’s almost five and a half miles high, my boy-and we have no idea how the human body will react to such altitude, as no man has yet been above 22,000 feet. And that’s before you consider temperatures that can fall below minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, and winds that will cut your skin to shreds. But of one thing I am certain: dogs and motorized sledges will be of little use up there.” He paused and, looking directly at George, added, “But whoever succeeds in that magnificent endeavor will be the first man to stand on the roof of the world. I envy him. Let us hope that he will be an Englishman. However,” Scott concluded, turning his attention to a lady seated in the front row of the gallery, “I have already promised my wife that I will leave that particular challenge to a younger man.” Scott looked back down at George as the audience burst once again into spontaneous applause.

Finch’s hand immediately shot up, and Scott nodded in response. “Do you consider yourself to be an amateur or a professional, sir?”

An audible gasp could be heard around the hall as Finch stared defiantly at the speaker.

Scott took his time before replying, never once taking his eyes off Finch. “I am an amateur,” he eventually replied, “but an amateur who surrounds himself with professionals. My doctors, engineers, drivers, and even my cooks are all fully qualified, and would be insulted were you to describe them as amateurs. But they would be even more insulted if you were to suggest that their presence on this expedition was motivated by a desire for financial gain.”

This reply was greeted by the loudest applause of the evening, and prevented anyone other than Young and Mallory from hearing Finch say, “If he really believes that, he has no hope of coming back alive.”

After two or three more questions, Scott once again thanked the RGS for sponsoring the lecture and for their wholehearted backing of his latest enterprise. This was followed by a vote of thanks from Mr. Hinks on behalf of the Society, after which the audience stood to attention and lustily sang the National Anthem.

While Young and Finch joined those leaving the theater, George remained in his place, unable to take his eyes off the stage Scott had occupied; a stage from which one day he intended to address the RGS. Finch grinned when he looked back and saw the immovable Mallory. Turning to Young, he said, “He’ll still be sitting there, listening just as intently, when it’s my turn to deliver the annual lecture.”

Young smiled at the presumptuous pup. “And what, dare I ask, will be the subject of your talk?”

“Everest conquered,” Finch replied. “Because this lot”-gesturing with a sweeping arm-“won’t let me stand on that stage unless I’m the man who gets there first.”