Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

On her west face, the cheekbone was made up of a pinnacle of rock that stretched high into the heavens, far higher than George’s imagination had ever dared to soar, while the east face displayed a mile-long sheet of ice that never thawed, even on the longest day of the year. Her noble head rested on a slim neck, nestling in shoulders of granite. From her massive torso hung two long, supple arms, attached to large flat hands that offered a slight hope until you saw her ten thin, icy fingers, one of the nails of which was where they hoped to set up base camp.

George turned to see Nyima gazing at Chomolungma with the same fear, respect, and admiration that he himself felt. George doubted if, alone, either of them would be capable of climbing onto even the shoulders of this giant, let alone scaling her granite ice face-but perhaps together…

A FTER THEIR MIDNIGHTdispute in Bombay, George was relieved that the General invited him to be a member of the diplomatic mission that would present their credentials at the border post.

Thirteen members of the expedition team, thirty-five porters, and forty-eight mules had bedded down for the night on a flat piece of land by a fast-flowing river on the India-Tibet border. George and the rest of the party spent a convivial evening enjoying the General’s excellent wine and cigars over dinner.

At 5:45 the following morning, the General was standing outside George’s tent in full dress uniform, carrying a black leather attaché case. Sherpa Nyima stood a pace behind him, wearing his traditional woolen bakhu and carrying a large black box with the words LOCK’S of London printed on the lid. George crawled out of his tent a few moments later, dressed in the suit he’d worn for the Governor-General’s reception and his old school tie. He accompanied Bruce out of the camp toward the border post.

“Now, I am not expecting any problems, Mallory,” said the General, “but should any misunderstanding arise, leave everything to me. I’ve dealt with these natives in the past, and have the measure of them.”

George accepted that the General had many great strengths, but feared he was about to witness one of his weaknesses.

When they reached the border post, George was taken by surprise. The little bamboo hut was well camouflaged by the dense undergrowth, and certainly didn’t look as if it welcomed strangers. A few paces later, George spotted a soldier, and then another, holding ancient rifles pointing in their direction. This show of hostility didn’t cause the General to slacken his pace-if anything, he speeded up. On balance, George felt he would have preferred to die on the top of a mountain rather than at the bottom. A few paces further on, George could see exactly where the Tibetan border lay. At the only break in the bamboo barrier that stretched across the narrow path, two more soldiers sat in a dug-out fortified by sandbags, their rifles also aimed directly at the advancing British army. Still undaunted, the General marched straight up the wooden steps of the hut and through the open door, as if the border post was under his command. George followed cautiously in his wake, Nyima a pace behind.

Inside the hut, the General came to a halt in front of a wooden counter. A young corporal seated behind the desk stared at the three strangers in disbelief and, although he opened his mouth, he didn’t speak.

“I wish to speak to your commanding officer,” barked the General. Sherpa Nyima translated in a soft voice.

The corporal quickly disappeared into a little room behind him and closed the door. It was some time before the door opened again, and a short, thin man with sunken cheeks and a battle-hardened face stepped out and glared at the General as if his private territory had been invaded. The General smiled when he noticed that the post commander only held the rank of captain. He saluted, but the Tibetan did not return the compliment. Instead, he looked directly at Sherpa Nyima and, pointing at the General, said in his native tongue, “I am the Dzongpen of the district of Phari. Who is this?”

Once Sherpa Nyima had translated his words, only adding the final word “gentleman,” the General replied, “I am General Bruce,” then opened his attaché case and removed some papers, which he placed firmly on the desk. “These are the official permits that authorize my party to enter the district of Phari Dzong.” After Nyima had translated the General’s words, the Dzongpen gave the documents a cursory glance, then shrugged his shoulders. “As you can see,” said the General, “they have been signed by Lord Curzon, the British Foreign Secretary.” The General waited for Sherpa Nyima to complete his translation before the Dzongpen came back with a question.

“The Dzongpen wishes to know if you are Lord Curzon.”

“Of course I’m not,” said the General. “Tell this fool that if he doesn’t allow us to cross the border immediately, I will have no choice but to…”

It was clear that the Tibetan commander didn’t need the General’s words translated, as his hand moved swiftly to the gun in his holster.

“The Dzongpen says that he will allow Lord Curzon to cross the border, but no one else,” translated Nyima.

Bruce banged a fist on the desk, and shouted, “Doesn’t the stupid man realize who I am?”

George bowed his head and began to think about the long journey home as he waited for the Dzongpen’s response. He could only hope that the General’s words would be lost in translation, but the Dzongpen had removed his pistol from its holster and was pointing the barrel at the General’s forehead before Sherpa Nyima had completed his translation.

“Tell the General he can go home,” said the commander quietly. “I will give my men orders to shoot on sight if he comes anywhere near this border post again. Do I make myself clear?”

The General didn’t flinch, even after Nyima had translated the border commander’s words. Although George had given up any chance of being allowed to cross the border, he still rather hoped they might get out alive.

“May I speak, General?” he whispered.

“Yes, of course, Mallory,” replied the General.

George wondered if he should have held his tongue, because the commander’s gun was now pointing at his forehead. He looked the Dzongpen straight in the eye. “I bring gifts of friendship from my country to yours.”

Sherpa Nyima translated, and the Dzongpen slowly lowered his gun and put it back in its holster, before placing his hands on his hips. “I will see these gifts.”

George removed the lid of the Lock’s box and took out a black Homburg hat which he handed across to the Dzongpen. The commander placed it on his head, looked at himself in a mirror on the wall and smiled for the first time. “Please tell the Dzongpen that Lord Curzon wears a Homburg to work every morning,” said George, “as do all gentlemen in England.” When the commander heard these words he leaned over the desk and peered into the box. General Bruce bent down, took out another Homburg and passed it to the commander, who in turn placed it on the head of the young corporal standing by his side. This time the Dzongpen burst out laughing, then grabbed the box, left the hut, and began to distribute the remaining ten Homburgs among his guards.

When the commander returned to the hut, he began to study the General’s documents more carefully. He was about to rubber stamp the last page when he looked up, smiled at the General, and pointed to his half-hunter gold watch. The General wanted to explain that he had inherited the watch from his father, Lord Aberdare, but he thought better of it, and without a word handed it over. George was relieved that in his haste that morning he had forgotten to put on the watch Ruth had given him for his birthday.