[63] For example, when the leader suspects crevasses, and sounds for them, in the manner shown in the engraving, he usually loses half a step or more. The second man should take a turn of the rope around his hand to draw it back in case the leader goes through.
The distance from man to man must be neither too great nor too small. About twelve feet is sufficient. If there are only two or three persons, it is prudent to allow a little more—say fifteen feet. More than this is unnecessary, and less than nine or ten feet is not much good.
It is essential to examine your rope from time to time to see that it is in good condition. If you are wise you will do this yourself every day. Latterly, I have examined every inch of my rope overnight, and upon more than one occasion have found the strands of the Manila rope nearly half severed through accidental grazes.
Thus far the rope has been supposed to be employed upon level, snow-covered glacier, to prevent any risk from concealed crevasses. On rocks and on slopes it is used for a different purpose (namely, to guard against slips), and in these cases it is equally important to keep it taut and to preserve a reasonable distance one from the other. It is much more troublesome to keep the rope taut upon slopes than upon the level, and upon difficult rocks it is all but impossible, except by adopting the plan of moving only one at a time.
From the Col d’Olen we proceeded down the combe of the same name to the châlets of Prerayen, and passed the night of the 6th under the roof of our old acquaintance, the wealthy herdsman. On the 7th we crossed the Va Cornere Pass, en route for Breuil. My thoughts were fixed on the Matterhorn, and my guides knew that I wished them to accompany me. They had an aversion to the mountain, and repeatedly expressed their belief that it was useless to try to ascend it. “Anything but Matterhorn, dear sir!” said Almer—“anything but Matterhorn.” He did not speak of difficulty or of danger, nor was he shirking work. He offered to go anywhere, but he entreated that the Matterhorn should be abandoned. Both men spoke fairly enough. They did not think that an ascent could be made, and for their own credit, as well as for my sake, they did not wish to undertake a business which in their opinion would only lead to loss of time and money.
I sent them by the short cut to Breuil, and walked down to Val Tournanche to look for Jean-Antoine Carrel. He was not there. The villagers said that he and three others had started on the 6th to try the Matterhorn by the old way, on their own account. They will have no luck, I thought, for the clouds were low down on the mountains; and I walked up to Breuil, fully expecting to meet them. Nor was I disappointed. About halfway up I saw a group of men clustered around a châlet upon the other side of the torrent, and crossing over found that the party had returned. Jean-Antoine and Cæsar were there, C. E. Gorret and J. J. Maquignaz. They had had no success. The weather, thev said, had been horrible, and they had scarcely reached the Glacier du Lion.
I explained the situation to Carrel, and proposed that we, with Cæsar and another man, should cross the Théodule by moonlight on the 9th, and that upon the 10th we should pitch the tent as high as possible upon the east face. He was unwilling to abandon the old route, and urged me to try it again. I promised to do so provided the new route failed. This satisfied him, and he agreed to my proposal. I then went up to Breuil, and discharged Almer and Biener—with much regret, for no two men ever served me more faithfully or more willingly.[[64]] On the next day they crossed to Zermatt.
[64] During the preceding eighteen clays (I exclude Sundays and other non-working days) we ascended more than 100,000 feet, and descended 98,000 feet.
The 8th was occupied with preparations. The weather was stormy, and black, rainy vapors obscured the mountains. Toward evening a young man came from Val Tournanche, and reported that an Englishman was lying there extremely ill. Now was the time for the performance of my vow, and on the morning of Sunday, the 9th, I went down the valley to look after the sick man. On my way I passed a foreign gentleman, with a mule and several porters laden with baggage. Amongst these men were Jean-Antoine and Cæsar, carrying some barometers. “Hullo!” I said, “what are you doing?” They explained that the foreigner had arrived just as they were setting out, and that they were assisting his porters. “Very well: go on to Breuil, and await me there—we start at midnight, as agreed.” Jean-Antoine then said that he should not be able to serve me after Tuesday, the 11th, as he was engaged to travel “with a family of distinction” in the valley of Aosta. “And Cæsar?” “And Cæsar also.” “Why did you not say this before?” “Because,” said he, “it was not settled. The engagement is of long standing, but the day was not fixed. When I got back to Val Tournanche on Friday night, after leaving you, I found a letter naming the day.” I could not object to the answer, but the prospect of being left guideless was provoking. They went up, and I down, the valley.
The sick man declared that he was better, though the exertion of saying as much tumbled him over on to the floor in a fainting-fit. He was badly in want of medicine, and I tramped down to Chatillon to get it. It was late before I returned to Val Tournanche, for the weather was tempestuous and rain fell in torrents. A figure passed me under the church-porch. “Qui vive?” “Jean-Antoine.” “I thought you were at Breuil.” “No, sir: when the storm came on I knew we should not start to-night, and so came down to sleep here.” “Ha, Carrel,” I said, “this is a great bore. If to-morrow is not fine, we shall not be able to do anything together. I have sent away my guides, relying on you, and now you are going to leave me to travel with a party of ladies. That work is not fit for you” (he smiled, I supposed at the implied compliment): “can’t you send some one else instead?” “No, monsieur. I am sorry, but my word is pledged. I should like to accompany you, but I can’t break my engagement.” By this time we had arrived at the inn door. “Well, it is no fault of yours. Come presently with Cæsar, and have some wine.” They came, and we sat up till midnight, recounting our old adventures, in the inn of Val Tournanche.