Rivers of Ice, R. M. Ballantyne [motivational novels for students TXT] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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Up to this point the weather had favoured them, but now Mont Blanc seemed as if inclined to resent the free and easy way in which these men of mingled muscle and science had attacked his crown. He drew several ominous clouds around him, and shook out a flood of hoary locks from his white head, which, caught up by a blast, created apparently for the purpose, were whirled aloft in wild confusion, and swooped down upon the mountaineers with bitter emphasis, in the form of snow-drift, as if they had come direct from Captain Wopper’s favourite place of reference,—Nova Zembla. Coats, which had hitherto been carried on the arm or thrown open, were put on and buttoned, and heads were bent to meet the blast and repel the snow-drift. Little was said, save a murmured doubt by Antoine as to the possibility of gaining the summit, even although they were now so near it, for the day was far spent by that time, and the rugged nature of the route over they had passed, precluded the possibility of a rapid return to the hut at the Grands Mulets. They pushed steadily on, however, for the Professor was anxious to bury his thermometer in the snow at the top; the guide was anxious to maintain his credit for perseverance; and the others were anxious to be able to say they had reached the highest height in Europe.
In any weather the ascent of Mont Blanc requires somewhat more than the average share of physical vigour and perseverance; in bad weather it demands unusual strength and resolution. When, therefore, a severe storm of wind arose, most of the party began to show symptoms of distress. The labour of ascending, being coupled with that of forcing way against the blast, was very exhausting to the muscles, while the extreme cold reduced the physical energy and cooled the most sanguine spirit. Antoine alone seemed to be proof against all influences, but the responsibility lying on him clouded his usually open countenance with a careworn expression. Prudence counselled immediate return. Ambition, as they were now so near the top, urged prolonged effort. The guide expressed his anxieties, but meeting with no response, followed the dictates of his feelings, and pushed on.
Like pillars of living snow they toiled patiently upwards. Breath became too precious to waste in words. They advanced in silence. The wind howled around them, and the snow circled in mad evolutions, as if the demon of wintry storms dwelt there, and meant to defend his citadel to the “bitter end.” There are two rocks near the summit, which crop through the ice like rugged jewels in the monarch’s diadem. The lower is named the Petits Mulets, the upper the Derniers Roches. On reaching the latter of these they paused a few moments to rest. A feeling of certainty that the end would be gained now began to prevail, but the guide was a little alarmed, and the Professor horrified, on looking at their companions’ faces, to observe that they were pinched, haggard, and old-looking, as if they all had aged somewhat during the last few hours! Captain Wopper’s rubicund visage was pale, and his nose blue; the face of Lewis was white all over, and drawn, as if he were suffering pain; Dr Lawrence’s countenance was yellow, and Slingsby’s was green. The Professor himself was as bad as his comrades, and the porters were no better.
“We shan’t be beaten now,” said the man of science, with a ghastly smile.
“Go ’head! nev’r s’die s’l’ng’s th’r’s shot ’n th’ locker!” replied the Captain, in the tone of a man who would rather avoid speaking, if possible.
“What a face you’ve got, Stoutley!” said the artist.
“You’re another!” replied Lewis, with a horrible grin.
“Allons!” exclaimed the guide, bending once more against the storm.
Once, for a few minutes, the wind ceased and the clouds lifted. Captain Wopper uttered a cheer, and rushed forward in advance of the guide, took off his hat and threw it into the air. They had reached the round summit without being aware of it. They stood 15,781 feet above the sea-level! No envious peak rose above their heads. The whole world lay below them, bathed, too, in bright sunshine, for the storm, which had so suddenly swooped upon them, was confined, like an elemental body-guard, to the head of the mountain-king. But, clear though it was at the moment, they were too high in the air to see anything quite distinctly, yet this hazy aspect had a charm of its own, for it increased the feeling and idea of vastness in connection with surrounding space. Around, and now beneath, stood the mountain nobility of the land, looking, however, somewhat reduced in size and majesty, as seen from the royal presence.
Scarcely had the mountaineers assembled and glanced at the wondrous panorama, when the envious clouds swooped down again and mingled with the snow-drift which once more rose to meet them.
“We must be quick, Monsieur,” said Antoine, taking a shovel from one of the porters, while Le Croix grasped another. “Where shall we dig?”
The Professor fixed on a spot, and, while the grave of the thermometer was being dug, a plaid was set up on a couple of alpenstocks, in the shelter of which the others consumed the bread and wine that had been saved from breakfast. It did them little good, however; the cold was too intense. The Captain’s beard was already fringed with icicles, and the whiskers of those who had them were covered with hoar-frost, while the breath issued from their mouths like steam. Before the thermometer was buried all had risen, and were endeavouring to recover heat by rubbing their hands, beating their arms across their breasts, and stamping violently.
“Come,” said the Professor, quickly, when the work was done, “we must start at once.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” assented the guide, and, without more words, the whole party began to descend the mountain at a run.
There was cause for haste. Not only did the storm increase in violence, but evening drew on apace, and all of them were more or less exhausted by prolonged muscular exertion and exposure to severe cold.
Suddenly, having gone a considerable way down the mountain, they emerged from fog and snow-drift into blazing sunshine! The strife of elements was confined entirely to the summit. The inferior ice-slopes and the valleys far below were bathed in the golden glories of a magnificent sunset and, before they reached the huts at the Grands Mulets, they had passed from a condition of excessive cold to one of extreme heat, insomuch that the Captain and Professor were compelled to walk with their coats slung over their shoulders, while perspiration streamed from their bare brows.
That night the party slept again at the Grands Mulets, and next day they reached Chamouni, fagged, no doubt, and bearing marks of mountaineering in the shape of sun-burnt cheeks and peeled noses, but hearty, nevertheless, and not a little elated with their success in having scaled the mighty sides and the hoary summit of Mont Blanc.
Seated one morning on an easy chair in Susan Quick’s apartment and swinging his little blue legs to and fro in a careless, negligent manner, Gillie White announced it as his opinion that Mister Lewis had gone, or was fast going, mad.
“Why do you think so?” asked Susan, with a smile, looking up for a moment from some portion of Lewis’s nether integuments, which Mont Blanc had riven almost to shreds.
“W’y do I think so?” repeated Gillie; “w’y, cos he’s not content with havin’ busted his boots an’ his clo’se, an’ all but busted hisself, in goin’ to the top o’ Mont Blang an’ Monty Rosa, an’ all the other Monty-thingumbobs about but he’s agoin’ off to day with that queer fish Laycrwa to hunt some where up above the clouds—in among the stars, I fancy—for shamwas.”
“Indeed!” said Susan, with a neat little laugh.
“Yes, indeed. He’s mountain-mad—mad as a Swiss March hare, if not madder—By the way, Susan, wot d’ee think o’ the French?”
Gillie propounded this question with the air of a philosopher.
“D’you mean French people?”
“No; I means the French lingo, as my friend Cappen Wopper calls it.”
“Well, I can’t say that I have thought much about it yet. Missis keeps me so busy that I haven’t time.”
“Ah!” said Gillie, “you’re wastin’ of precious opportoonities, Susan. I’ve bin a-studdyin’ of that lingo myself, now, for three weeks—off and on.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Susan, with an amused glance, “and what do you think of it?”
“Think of it! I think it’s the most outrageous stuff as ever was. The man who first inwented it must ’ave ’ad p’ralersis o’ the brain, besides a bad cold in ’is ’ead, for most o’ the enns an’ gees come tumblin’ through the nose, but only git half out after all, as if the speaker was afraid to let ’em go, lest he shouldn’t git hold of ’em again. There’s that there mountain, now. They can’t call it Mont Blang, with a good strong out-an’-out bang, like a Briton would do, but they catches hold o’ the gee when it’s got about as far as the bridge o’ the nose, half throttles it and shoves it right back, so that you can scarce hear it at all. An’ the best joke is, there ain’t no gee in the word at all!”
“No?” said Susan, in surprise.
“No,” repeated Gillie. “I’ve bin studdyin’ the spellin’ o’ the words in shop-winders an’ posters, an’, would you b’lieve it, they end the word Blang with a c.”
“You don’t say so!”
“Yes I do; an’ how d’ee think they spell the name o’ that feller Laycrwa?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Susan.
“They spells it,” returned Gillie, with a solemn look, “L-e-c-r-o-i-x. Now, if I had spelt it that way, I’d have pronounced it Laycroiks. Wouldn’t you?”
“Well, yes, I think I should,” said Susan.
“It seems to me,” continued Gillie, “that they goes on the plan of spellin’ one way an’ purnouncin’ another—always takin’ care to choose the most difficult way, an’ the most unnatt’ral, so that a feller has no chance to come near it except by corkin’ up one nostril tight, an’ borin’ a small extra hole in the other about half-way up. If you was to mix a sneeze with what you said, an’ paid little or no attention to the sense, p’raps it would be French—but I ain’t sure. I only wish you heard Cappen Wopper hoistin’ French out of hisself as if he was a wessel short-handed, an’ every word was a heavy bale. He’s werry shy about it, is the Cappen, an’ wouldn’t for the world say a word if he thought any one was near; but when he thinks he’s alone with Antoine—that’s our guide, you know—he sometimes lets fly a broadside o’ French that well-nigh takes my breath away.”
The urchin broke into a laugh here at the memory of the Captain’s efforts to master what he styled a furrin’ tongue, but Susan checked him by saying slily, “How could you know, Gillie, if the Captain was alone with Antoine?”
“Oh, don’t you know,” replied Gillie, trying to recover his gravity, “the Cappen he’s wery fond o’ me, and I like to gratify his feelin’s by keepin’ near him. Sometimes I keep so near—under the shadow of his huge calf d’ee see—that he don’t observe me on lookin’ round; an’, thinkin’ he’s all alone, lets fly his French broadsides in a way that a’most sends Antoine on his beam-ends. But Antoine is tough, he is. He gin’rally says, ‘I not un’r’stan’ English ver’ well,’ shakes his head an’ grins, but the Cappen never listens to his answers, bein’ too busy loadin’ and primin’ for another broadside.”
The man to whom he referred cut short the conversation at this point by shouting down the stair:—
“Hallo! Gillie, you powder-monkey, where are my shoes?”
“Here they are, Cappen, all ready;
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