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    The Reichenbach Problem

    Page 32
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      Were it one of my stories, I do not doubt I would have left my heroes hanging perilously from a cliff by their fingernails at the completion of one week’s story. My readers would have gasped at such bravery mixed with folly, and would have flocked to purchase the next instalment to see, precisely, how the two dashing fellows might overcome their desperate predicament. In a tale of success in the face of grave danger, mastered by sheer courage and derring-do, my fictional heroes would have – bloodied but unbowed – achieved the summit of the mountain. They would have stood there, proud and tall, laughing at the puny attempts of their pursuers to emulate their impossible feat.

      But this was no fiction. This was harsh, cold, pitiless reality. Two unprepared and under-equipped gentlemen of indeterminate age, fitness and stamina were simply not able to achieve such a gargantuan task.

      Father Vernon encouraged me from somewhere in the darkness a few feet above my head. It was curious. Just his voice. A human voice full of both endeavour and frailty. Yet it was enough. I gritted my teeth and set my face to press on.

      We worked our way diagonally for a short while longer. Then, little by little, I began to feel that we were now high enough and far enough away from the dogs and their handlers that they would not be able to follow us further that night.

      It was indeed now fully night. I had been driven by indignation ever since we had left the village. But having ascended this last half-mile up ice and snow on pure adrenaline, and thoroughly out of condition for this type of exertion, I knew I was now almost completely spent. After a little longer, aware of how desperately dangerous it would be to try to proceed by feel alone, I called to my guide.

      “Father, we should rest. We are safe enough for the moment. Let us find a shelf to lie upon and start again at first light.”

      “My dear boy, those were my sentiments precisely. I have just reached such a ledge. I am just up and to your left. It is an easy climb, if you follow the traverse. I’ll secure your rope at my end and bring you up.”

      He was as good as his word. I soon find myself scrambling, knees first, onto the ledge. Father Vernon had enlarged the space by chopping more room out of the ice and snow. It was broad enough for us both to lie down upon. We wrapped ourselves in our blankets and oilcloth. We then secured ourselves with ropes, which were in turn secured to boulders. The whole effort we tied off on pitons, driven into the flank of the granite beast.

      It was bitterly cold. We were exhausted and only had water, bread and cheese with which to nourish ourselves. The wine had been drained long ago. I looked out over the edge down into the blackness below. I could see the lanterns, but they were concentrated off to the left. Holloway had missed us and, by our climbing, his dogs were no longer able to pick up our scent. Further, by traversing as we did, we had moved away from our initial point of contact with the peak. We were, indeed, some dozens of feet beyond a point below around which the lanterns were congregating. Shortly, I imagine, Holloway would work out what we had done. I would have given anything to see his face at that moment. But then the question would be: What would he do next?

      Now that it was night, I suspected he would understand that further pursuit for the time being would be futile. He would know that we would not be able to get very much further in the dark. And we were all dreadfully weary. He would doubtless, therefore, set out his pickets. They would keep watch all night and prevent us slipping through his lines in the darkness, if that were our intention.

      Sure enough, about half an hour later, I could make out bivouac fires beginning to sprout up all around in a crescent beneath us. In the darkness, they looked for all the world like Napoleon’s Grande Armée camped out upon the far ridge, the night before Waterloo.

      The friar and I scraped some pure snow into our water bottles to provide us with vital drinking water in due course. We settled ourselves down for sleep.

      It was a cold, comfortless and disturbing night. But at least we rested. The first streaks of grey had not even begun to silver the distant horizon before Father Vernon shook my shoulder and we began dismantling our camp.

      Presently, we roped up and set off up the traverse over towards the ridge itself, working the stiffness out of our fingers and joints. We paused at one point to look briefly across at the awesome north face, after which Father Vernon indicated that it was time to commence a more direct ascent. He chipped away with his ice axe at the layer of hard snow that encased the precipitous rock, and we nosed back towards our target ridge. One that lay tantalizingly beyond an immense buttress.

      We had to climb and to rest and then to climb again. It was tortuous, slow and infinitely painful; to the limbs, the extremities and the lungs. My ribs felt as though they would separate and the intercostals twang off like so many strips of India rubber with the exertion. But, as the iron grey sky started to grow gold, as the sun dragged itself wearily into a pale blue sky, we found hope rising equally within our breasts. I began to trust implicitly my companion’s balanced progress. Soon, soon enough, we discovered ourselves atop the snow-crusted scar that lay like a craggy ligament between two great peaks. The Eigerjoch.

      We flung ourselves down in the icy whiteness and lay there for many minutes, heaving and moaning with the pain and the lack of air. At that great altitude, the particular quantities of oxygen and nitrogen necessary for efficient respiration were very hard to come by. At length, we sat up and looked at each other. Our faces were pale and already weathered. Our eyes were clammy and red-rimmed. Our lips were chapped and peeling. As we caught sight of one another, we recognized both the absurdity of our situation and the quality of our achievement. We shook hands. It was a silent and surprisingly sombre gesture, considering our extraordinary feat. An understated act that nevertheless spoke more profoundly of what had occurred than any amount of rejoicing.

      The friar told me of an account he had read of the 1886 ascent of the south ridge, and he wondered aloud how hard it was. It would, we reasoned, depend on the conditions, but that the only way to find out was to attempt it. The snow had been good, however, on our way up. So it was possible we would find similar conditions on the ridge.

      We broke out what was left of the bread, cheese and snow-water, there at the blustery shoulder of one of the most challenging peaks in Europe. Consuming our meagre rations, we watched the sun rise higher in the sky.

      I heard the bark of a dog come whipping up from the stark uplands a thousand feet below us. I peered down and could see specks. By now, Holloway had discovered our flight, and was at something of a loss as to what to do next. Father Vernon tapped my arm and pointed. There were folk scaling the face of the Eiger. But we knew, and they probably knew also, that we were a good two and a half, maybe three hours’ climb ahead of them. We could sit and gloat abaft our splendid saddle for a while, without risking capture. It was a fine feeling. A very fine feeling. I lit my pipe and smoked the best smoke of my life. If there were a God in heaven, I felt very much closer to him up here than anywhere else in the world.

      “Come on,” said Father Vernon, struggling to his feet, “it is all downhill from here.”

      After the first hundred yards, which we climbed in pitches, we realized that the snow was ideal and the ridge benefited from it. There was no cornice to complicate matters. Nevertheless, we avoided overconfidence, which had led – and doubtless would continue to lead – inexperienced alpinists to tragedy.

      After the Eigerjoch, we found that the underlying conditions were easing and we were presently able to swing a little faster across the snowfield at the top of the great glacier called the Fieschergletscher. Our aim was to join the north-east ridge of the Mönch. It was a complete expanse of white, like the arctic landscapes I had experienced in my younger days, on this side of the ridge.

      “It is an example of not thinking the problem through that they leave this flank exposed.” The priest laughed immodestly as we pressed on.

      I tut-tutted and agreed. “Such short-sightedness, indeed!” The words had barely left my lips, though
    , when my companion, not for the first time, stood stock still. I looked in the direction he was staring. I noticed, a considerable distance across the snowy expanse, two specks. Then four. Then ten. These specks were working their way steadily across the clean white brae and around towards the Eiger. There, they would be behind us. Holloway had not taken the Eiger for granted after all. He had rightly assumed it was possible for us to scale part of it, at least. If so, then we might slip away around the side and over. Which is just what we had done. These pursuers must have been allotted this task sometime the evening before. It would have been impossible for them to have made so much ground otherwise, had they done so the moment they had noticed we had slipped their net. Those men must have been toiling up to their present position since dawn.

      Anger once again caught me up and squeezed me in its dread grip. Exhausted and not thinking clearly, I began to accept that the spirit of Holmes had taken that Englishman over. He knows I want to kill him, I thought, and he simply cannot allow it. So it is kill or be killed.

      “But they might still be too late.” Father Vernon gave voice to his inner debate. “We have already stolen a march on them.”

      “How far away are they? An hour?”

      He nodded. “They may already have seen us, though.” He was already beginning to get out of breath after the exertions of the night coupled with the high altitude, its thin air and now the searing sunshine. “But we still have time.”

      “Exactly; while there is time, there is time enough.”

      He instinctively looked behind us. I knew what he was thinking. Somewhere there, currently hidden from view, were further pursuers. And then, doubtless, with such foresight as he possessed, Holloway would have despatched another section of hunters from the Kleine Scheidegg district up along our side of the glacier. Albeit that they, too, were still some significant distance beneath us.

      Holloway’s relentless pursuit was a weapon he was wielding with consummate skill. But I was dashed if I was going to let the fellow best me. Not now, not after everything I had endured.

      “The Lord will take care of us,” was the priest’s heartfelt contribution.

      We were, as it happened, now standing in the Valais, out of Bernese jurisdiction. But it would not have taken the authorities in one district long to convince another to hand us over, should the evidence be compelling. So where could we go? It was past noon and to remain on the hill for much longer would be further folly. The nearest Valaisian village was more than fifteen miles away. That would be a stumbling progress over snow and ice. That left setting a course back towards the way we had come. Not directly back, but down towards the more readily accessible lower snow- and ice-free slopes and civilization beyond.

      We pressed on. We had to zigzag round the crevasses in the steeper part of the glacier above the rock rib. If we moved fast enough, the men trying to cut us off would not be able to intercept us before we could be through, between their rapidly closing pincers, and away. But the geometry did not look too promising. Those across the glacier from us, the only pursuers currently in view, most probably had field glasses and were observing our trajectory. Every time we altered course, they also adjusted theirs. It was a race, and the more the minutes ticked by the less likely it became that we might squeeze past them.

      Especially if they had rifles.

      This latest morbid thought had only recently occurred to me. After all, they were no doubt equipped and experienced mountain folk. We were, who…? A city doctor and a friar in boots. Our toes were probably already developing frostbite.

      It was after we had adjusted our course for a fourth time that I noticed something on the slopes in the lee of the ridge. It was a hut. A little rickety, wooden construction sitting incongruously among that expanse of white icing. I tapped Father Vernon on the shoulder and pointed it out to him. He nodded and set course for it.

      We did not know why we were heading for it. It brought us on a more direct route to meet up with the people assigned to cut us off, and further away from our escape route. Nevertheless, both I and my companion sensed that this was the only option in the present circumstances. In effect, our last option. So we struck out for it as fast as our weary legs would carry us.

      A moment later and it felt as though something had slapped into the white iciness beside us. A little ledge of snow on a rise to the north collapsed as if someone had stepped on it. A moment later and we heard an unmistakable snapping noise which then echoed around the icy peaks. They did have rifles. They were shooting at us. If they were not careful, they would have nobody left to ask questions of later.

      “Come on!” I cried. Two more shots flew past us and I felt the familiar disturbance in air pressure, the slight raising of temperature and the lazy hum of the bullets as they thankfully missed their marks. The shots plunged recklessly into the snows behind us. In a few seconds they would have worked out our exact range and direction of travel, I thought.

      Another shot buzzed past my ear. Then, all at once, we were at the door. Father Vernon grabbed the latch and hauled at it as though he were intent on wrenching his shoulder out of its socket.

      “Frozen!”

      A bullet thudded into the wood above our heads. It sent splinters and dust in all directions. In an instant I had grabbed my ice axe. I began hefting it like a Viking berserker at the lock. With a satisfying rupturing noise, all resistance gave way and we were through. We tumbled in, one after the other; the door behaved as if it had been flung open in welcome.

      Inside, if we were hoping to find guns or dynamite or a direct telegraph line through to the British embassy in Bern, we were sadly mistaken.

      Urgently, we began searching around for something – we did not know what – anything that might help us.

      There were old blankets and some rusty tins of food. Useful if we were staying the night – but that was impossible for us. In fact, I realized, if those men outside with their rifles had any say in the matter, we may not even see the next morning.

      Father Vernon was muttering. He held up what appeared to be some very basic weather-monitoring equipment. “Useless,” he pronounced, and flung the items over his shoulder to land with a clatter on the hut’s wooden floor.

      I found some geological experimentation apparatus; that went the same way as Father Vernon’s weather-monitoring instruments.

      “Ah!” cried the friar, and held up a box.

      “What have you found?”

      “Flares”

      “Flares?”

      “Yes – you light them like fireworks and they shoot into the air and show people you need rescuing…”

      “Excellent,” I replied, and then it came to me: “What people?”

      “The people from the village.”

      “Which village?”

      As if in answer, another bullet thudded into the hut wall.

      “Ah yes, I see… they already know we are here, don’t they?”

      “Yes. Unfortunately.”

      I could hear shouting.

      “What are they saying?”

      Father Vernon listened for a moment. “They are asking us to surrender to them. No – telling us.”

      “Surrender? Or simply step outside so they can get a clear shot at us…?”

      We continued our increasingly frenzied search. We found a few tools for either cutting or gathering material such as glacier ice or granite. “What on earth are these doing here?” I asked.

      “I have no idea. I know that they are surveying this whole district because there is an intention to raise a railway up into the mountains. Perhaps these have been left here to support the mission.”

      I cast them aside. All of it was utterly useless to us in our predicament.

      The men outside were even closer now. Their voices carried to us across the silence of the bowl created by the great peaks of the Berner Oberland.

      I moved some sacking from a few items stacked over in a corner and revealed dark-goggles. These were to keep out the painfully bright white light of the sun r
    eflecting on the snow.

      And then I found them…

      Skis with ski poles.

      “Skis!?” the priest exclaimed. He looked at me as if I had finally taken leave of my senses. “What purpose might they have, pray? A Sunday morning outing? Or perhaps you feel they will send us flying into our pursuers’ arms more quickly. That at least would mean it would all be over and done with swiftly. Perhaps the judge will be asked to be more lenient as a result. ‘Oh yes, they were guilty of seeking to evade justice – but they were the quickest people ever to surrender themselves, M’lud…’ ‘Fair enough, ten years commuted to nine and a half. Take them away!’.”

      I understood his frustration and looked at my companion kindly. The exertions had finally unmanned him and he was at a loss as to what to do next. The burden of having effected my escape and helping me evade the pursuers – this, for him, was the proverbial last straw.

      “Father Vernon, I have read of a Norwegian’s experiments with sliding downhill on these things. Do you not consider the prospect of such an escapade diverting? It may even be exhilarating.”

      “You left out the adjectives ‘dangerous’ and ‘foolhardy’.”

      “Of course. But there is no gainsaying it. They would be swift.”

      “Swift.”

      “Swift.”

      As if to hurry us up in our deliberations, we were hailed once more from outside. They clearly believed they had trapped us. Although they were undoubtedly stumbling with difficulty through the deep drifted snows to reach us, there was no question of them being soon upon us. It was now or never.

      “Well,” said the friar turning a ski in his hands, “I have had a little experience with these…”

     


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