Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

A few moments later, a plume of black smoke erupted from the center funnel, and once again the rest of the team burst into spontaneous applause. “I still can’t work it out,” said Norton.

“The only explanation I can come up with,” said Odell, “is that Mallory must have smuggled Mr. Houdini on board.”

The rest of the team laughed, while Finch remained silent.

“What’s more, he seems to have reached the top without the aid of oxygen,” Somervell added.

“I wonder how he managed that?” said Guy, a grin still fixed firmly on his face. “No doubt our resident scientist will have a theory.”

“No, I don’t have a theory,” said Finch. “But I can tell you one thing. Mallory won’t be able to climb up the inside of Everest.”

Ruth sat by the window holding her letter, beginning to wonder if her forthright honesty might prove to be a distraction for George. After a few minutes of contemplation, she tore the letter into small pieces and dropped them into the crackling flames. She returned to her desk and began to write a second letter.

My darling George,

Spring is upon us at The Holt, and the daffodils are in full bloom. In fact, the garden has never looked more beautiful. Everything is just as you would wish it to be. The children are doing well, and Clare has written a poem for you, which I enclose…

W HEN THESS Caledonia docked in Bombay, the first person to disembark was General Bruce. He was dressed in the freshly ironed short-sleeve khaki shirt and neatly pressed khaki shorts that had become regulation kit for the British army serving in hot climates. He regularly reminded the team that it was Lord Baden-Powell who had followed his example when choosing the uniform of the Boy Scout movement, and not the other way around.

George followed closely in the General’s wake. The first thing that struck him as he made his way down the wobbly gangplank was the smell-what Kipling had described as spicy, pungent, oriental, and like no other smell on earth. The second thing that hit him, almost literally, was the intense heat and humidity. To a pale-faced loon from Cheshire, it felt like Dante’s fiery furnace. The third thing was the realization that the General had considerable clout in this far-off land.

Two groups of men were waiting at the foot of the gangplank to greet the expedition’s leader, and not only did they stand far apart from each other, but they could not have been in greater contrast. The first group of three embodied “the British abroad.” They made no attempt to blend in with the indigenous population, dressed as if they were attending a garden party in Tunbridge Wells and making no allowances for the inhospitable climate for fear it might suggest in some way that they and the natives were equals.

As the General stepped onto the dockside, he was greeted by one of them, a tall young man wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt with a stiff collar, and sporting an Old Harrovian tie.

“My name is Russell,” he announced as he took a step forward.

“Good morning, Russell,” said the General, and they shook hands as if they had known each other for years, whereas in reality their only bond was the old school tie.

“Welcome back to India, General Bruce,” said Russell. “I’m the Governor-General’s private secretary. This is Captain Berkeley, the Governor-General’s ADC.” An even younger man in full dress uniform, who had been standing rigidly to attention since the General had stepped ashore, saluted. The General returned his salute. The third man, dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, stood by the side of a gleaming Rolls-Royce, and was not introduced. “The Governor-General hopes,” continued Russell, “that you and your party will join him for dinner this evening.”

“We shall be delighted to do so,” said Bruce. “At what time would Sir Peter like us on parade?”

“He will be hosting a reception in the residence at seven o’clock,” said Russell, “followed by dinner at eight.”

“And the dress code?” inquired the General.

“Formal, with medals, sir.”

Bruce nodded his approval.

“We have, as you requested,” continued Russell, “secured fourteen rooms at the Palace Hotel, and I’ve also put a number of vehicles at your disposal while you and your men are in Bombay.”

“Most hospitable,” said the General. “For the time being, perhaps you could arrange for my men to be transported to the hotel, billeted, and fed.”

“Of course, General,” said Russell. “And the Governor-General asked me to give you this.” He handed over a bulky brown envelope, which the General passed on to George as if he was his private secretary.

George smiled and tucked the envelope under his arm. He couldn’t help noticing that the rest of the team, including Finch, were observing the exchange in awed silence.

“Mallory,” said the General, “I want you to join me while the rest of the men are escorted to the hotel. Thank you, Russell,” he said to the Governor-General’s private secretary. “I look forward to seeing you at the reception this evening.”

Russell bowed and took a pace backward, as if the General were minor royalty.

The General then turned his attention to the second group, also three in number, which was about the only thing they had in common.

The three locals, dressed in long, cool white gowns and white slippers, had waited patiently while Mr. Russell carried out the formal welcome on behalf of the Governor-General. Now their leader stepped forward. “Namaste, General Sahib,” he said, bowing low.

The General neither shook hands with the Sirdar nor saluted. Without preliminaries, he asked, “Did you get my cable, Kumar?”

“Yes, General Sahib, and all your instructions have been carried out to the letter. I think I can say with some confidence that you will be well satisfied.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Kumar, and only after I’ve inspected the merchandise.”

“Of course, General,” said the Indian, once again bowing low. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to follow me.”

Kumar and his two compatriots led the General across a road teeming with people, rickshaws, and hundreds of old Raleigh and Hercules bicycles, as well as the occasional contented-looking cow chewing its cud in the middle of the highway. The General marched through the bustling, noisy crowd, which parted as if he were Moses crossing the Red Sea. George pursued his leader, curious to discover what was next while at the same time trying to take in the unfamiliar sounds of the street traders plying their exotic wares: Heinz baked beans, Player’s cigarettes, Swan Vesta matches, bottles of Tizer, and Eveready batteries were continually thrust in front of his nose. He politely declined each new offer, while feeling overwhelmed by the energy and exuberance of the local people, but horrified by the poverty he saw all around him-the beggars far outnumbered the traders. He now understood why these people considered Gandhi to be a prophet, while the British continued to treat the Mahatma as if he were a criminal. He would have so much to tell the lower fifth when he returned.

The General strode on, ignoring the dusty outstretched hands and the repeated cries of “Pie, pie, pie.” The Sirdar led him into a square that was so packed it might have been a mass rally at Speaker’s Corner, with the difference that everyone was talking, and no one was listening. The square was surrounded by unfinished concrete buildings. The curious and those with nothing better to do hung out of upper windows hoping to gain a bird’s-eye view of what was taking place below. Then George set eyes for the first time on what the General had described as “the merchandise.”