Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

On a dusty, sunburned patch of earth, one hundred mules awaited inspection. Behind them stood a large group of porters.

George stood to one side and watched as the General carried out his inspection, the crowd following his every move. He began by checking the mules’ legs and teeth, and even sat astride several of the beasts to assess their strength. Two of them collapsed under his weight. It took him over an hour to select seventy of the animals that in his opinion passed muster.

Next, the General carried out exactly the same exercise with row upon row of the silent porters. First he inspected their legs, then their teeth, and in some cases, to George’s astonishment, he even jumped on their backs. Once again, one or two of them collapsed under his weight. Despite this, before the second hour was up he had added sixty-two porters to the seventy mules he had already selected.

Although George had done little more than act as an observer, he was already sweating from head to toe, while the General seemed to take everything, including the heat, in his stride.

When the inspection had been completed, Kumar stepped forward and presented his demanding customer with two cooks and four dhobis. To George’s relief, the General did not jump onto their backs. He did, however, check their teeth and legs.

Having completed his inspection, the General turned to Kumar and said, “Be sure that every one of the coolies and mules are standing on the dockside at six o’clock tomorrow morning. If they are all on parade by that time you will be paid fifty rupees.” Kumar bowed and smiled. The General turned to George and put a hand out. George assumed he required the envelope. The General opened it, extracted a fifty-rupee note and handed it to the Sirdar to confirm that the deal had been struck. “And instruct them, Kumar,” he added, pointing at the porters, “that they will be paid ten rupees a week. Any of them who are still with us when we re-board the ship in three months’ time will be given a bonus of twenty rupees.”

“Most generous, General Sahib, most generous,” Kumar replied, bowing even lower.

“Were you also able to comply with my other request?” demanded the General as he passed the envelope back to George.

“Yes, General Sahib,” said the Sirdar, with an even broader grin on his face.

One of the two men standing behind Kumar stepped forward, stood to attention in front of the General and then removed his slippers. George had given up trying to guess what would happen next. The General took a tape from a pocket in his shorts and proceeded to measure the young man, from the top of his head to the soles of his bare feet.

“I think you will find,” said Kumar with satisfaction, “that the boy is exactly six feet.”

“Yes, but does he understand what is expected of him?”

“He does indeed, General Sahib. In fact he has been preparing for the past month.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Bruce. “If he turns out to be satisfactory, he will be paid twenty rupees a week, and on arrival at base camp will be given a bonus of fifty rupees.”

Once again the Sirdar bowed.

George was about to ask why the expedition required a youth who was exactly six feet tall, when the General pointed to the short, stocky man with Asiatic features who was standing at the back of the trio, and had not uttered a word. “And who is that?”

The young man stepped forward before Kumar had a chance to introduce him, and said, “I am Sherpa Nyima, General. I am your personal translator, and will be the Sherpa leader when you reach the Himalaya.”

“Twenty rupees a week,” said the General, and marched out of the square without another word, his business completed.

It had always amused George that whenever generals marched off, they assumed that everyone else would follow. It was one of the reasons, he concluded, that the British had won more battles than they had lost. It took George several minutes to catch up with Bruce, because most of the crowd were still running after him, hoping to benefit from his largesse. When he finally managed to do so, Bruce simply said, “Never become friendly with the natives. You’ll regret it in the long run.” He didn’t utter another word until they entered the driveway of the Palace Hotel twenty minutes later, leaving the pursuing horde behind them. As the General marched up the path through the manicured gardens, George spotted a third welcoming party standing on the top step of the hotel. He wondered how long they had been waiting.

The General came to a sudden halt in front of a beautiful young woman wearing a deep purple and gold sari. She was carrying a small bowl of sweet-smelling powdered herbs in her left hand and, after dipping the forefinger of her right hand into the powder, she gently pressed the tip of her finger to the General’s forehead, leaving a distinctive red mark of respect. She took a pace back, and a second young woman, also in traditional dress, placed a garland of flowers over the General’s head. He bowed and thanked them.

The ceremony over, a smartly dressed man wearing a black frock coat and pinstripe trousers stepped forward. “Welcome back to the Palace Hotel, General Bruce,” he said. “I have put your party in the south wing, overlooking the ocean, and your usual suite has been prepared.” He stood aside to allow his guest to enter the hotel.

“Thank you, Mr. Khan,” said the General, walking straight past the check-in desk toward a lift that he assumed was being held open for him.

George followed him, and when they reached the top floor, the first thing he saw was Norton and Somervell standing at the far end of the corridor wearing their dressing gowns. He smiled and waved to let them know he would be joining them in a few minutes.

“I suppose, General,” said George, “that this could be our last chance to have a bath for three months.”

“Speak for yourself, Mallory,” said Bruce, as Mr. Khan held open the door of the Queen Victoria suite for him.

George was already discovering why the RGS had considered this short, plump, retired soldier to be head and shoulders above the rest.

“I’ D LIKE TOpost some letters, please,” said George.

“Of course, sir,” said the concierge. “How many?”

“Seventeen,” said George. He had already posted eighteen letters when the ship had docked for a few hours at Durban to take on fuel and fresh food.

“All to the same country?” the concierge asked casually, as if this was an everyday occurrence.

“Yes, in fact all to the same address.” This time the concierge did raise an eyebrow. “My wife,” explained George. “I write to her every day, and I’ve only just disembarked, so…”

“Leave it to me,” said the concierge.

“Thank you,” said George.

“Are you coming to the Governor-General’s shindig, George?” asked a voice behind him.

George turned to see Guy approaching. “Yes,” he replied.

“Then let’s share a taxi,” said Guy, as he headed toward the door.

“I intend to eat like a pig tonight,” said Guy as the rickshaw dodged obstacles in the crowded streets. “I have a feeling this is likely to be the best spread we’ll get before we return to England. Unless of course the Governor-General decides to invite us again on our way back.”

“That may depend on whether we return as conquering heroes or frostbitten failures,” said George.

“I’m not going to risk it anyway,” said Guy. “Especially as Bruce tells me that Sir Peter has the finest cellar in India.”

Two soldiers in full dress uniform snapped to attention and saluted as the rickshaw drove through the gates of the Governor-General’s residence. Mallory and Bullock jumped out and walked beneath a high wooden arch into a long, ornate marble hall, where they took their place in the reception line. The General was standing by the Governor-General’s side, introducing him to each member of the team.