The hindrances opposed to us by the mountain itself were, however, as nothing compared with the atmospheric obstructions. It is true there was plenty of, “Are you fast, Almer?” “Yes.” “Go ahead, Biener.” Biener, made secure, cried, “Come on, sir,” and Monsieur endeavoured. “No, no,” said Almer, “not there,—here,”—pointing with his bâton to the right place to clutch. Then ’twas Croz’s turn, and we all drew in the rope as the great man followed. “Forwards” once more—and so on.
Five hundred feet of this kind of work had been accomplished when we were saluted (not entirely unexpectedly) by the first gust of a hurricane which was raging above. The day was a lovely one for dwellers in the valleys, but we had, long ago, noted some light, gossamer clouds, that were hovering round our summit, being drawn out in a suspicious manner into long, silky threads. Croz, indeed, prophesied before we had crossed the schrund, that we should be beaten by the wind, and had advised that we should return. But I had retorted, “No, my good Croz, you said just now ‘Dent Blanche is best’; we must go up the Dent Blanche.”
I have a very lively and disagreeable recollection of this wind. Upon the outskirts of the disturbed region it was only felt occasionally. It then seemed to make rushes at one particular man, and when it had discomfited him, it whisked itself away to some far-off spot, only to return, presently, in greater force than before.
My old enemy—the Matterhorn—seen across the basin of the Z’Muttgletscher, looked totally unassailable. “Do you think,” the men asked, “that you, or any one else, will ever get up that mountain?” And when, undismayed by their ridicule, I stoutly answered, “Yes, but not upon that side,” they burst into derisive chuckles. I must confess that my hopes sank; for nothing can look more completely inaccessible than the Matterhorn on its northern and north-west sides.
“Forwards” once again. We overtopped the Dent d’Hérens. “Not a thousand feet more; in three hours we shall be on the summit.” “You mean ten,” echoed Croz, so slow had been the progress. But I was not far wrong in the estimate. At 3.15 we struck the great ridge followed by Mr. Kennedy, close to the top of the mountain. The wind and cold were terrible there. Progress was oftentimes impossible, and we waited, crouching under the lee of rocks, listening to “the shrieking of the mindless wind,” while the blasts swept across, tearing off the upper snow and blowing it away in streamers over the Schönbühl glacier—“nothing seen except an indescribable writhing in the air, like the wind made visible.”
Our goal was concealed by mist, although it was only a few yards away, and Croz’s prophecy, that we should stay all night upon the summit, seemed likely to come true. The men rose with the occasion, although even their fingers had nearly lost sensation. There were no murmurings, nor suggestions of return, and they pressed on for the little white cone which they knew must be near at hand. Stopped again; a big mass perched loosely on the ridge barred the way; we could not crawl over, and scarcely dared creep round it. The wine went round for the last time. The liquor was half-frozen,—still we would more of it. It was all gone; the bottle was left behind, and we pushed on, for there was a lull.
The end came almost before it was expected. The clouds opened, and I saw that we were all but upon the highest point, and that, between us and it, about twenty yards off, there was a little artificial pile of stones. Kennedy was a true man,—it was a cairn which he had erected. “What is that, Croz?” “Homme des pierres,” he bawled. It was needless to proceed farther; I jerked the rope from Biener, and motioned that we should go back. He did the same to Almer, and we turned immediately. They did not see the stones (they were cutting footsteps), and misinterpreted [pg 221]the reason of the retreat. Voices were inaudible, and explanations impossible.[171]
We commenced the descent of the face. It was hideous work. The men looked like impersonations of Winter, with their hair all frosted, and their beards matted with ice. My hands were numbed—dead. I begged the others to stop. “We cannot afford to stop; we must continue to move,” was their reply. They were right; to stop was to be entirely frozen. So we went down; gripping rocks varnished with ice, which pulled the skin from the fingers. Gloves were useless; they became iced too, and the bâtons slid through them as slippery as eels. The iron of the axes stuck to the fingers—it felt red-hot; but it was useless to shrink, the rocks and the axes had to be firmly grasped—no faltering would do here.
We turned back at 4.12 P.M., and at 8.15 crossed the bergschrund again, not having halted for a minute upon the entire descent. During the last two hours it was windless, but time was of such vital importance that we pressed on incessantly, and did not stop until we were fairly upon the glacier. Then we took stock of what remained of the tips of our fingers. There was not much skin left; they were perfectly raw, and for weeks afterwards I was reminded of the ascent of the Dent Blanche by the twinges which I felt when I pulled on my boots. The others escaped with some slight frost-bites; and, altogether, we had reason to congratulate ourselves that we got off so lightly. The men complimented me upon the descent, and I could do the same honestly to them. If they had worked less vigorously, or harmoniously, we should have been benighted upon the face, where there was not a single spot upon which it was possible to sit; and if that had happened, I do not think that one would have survived to tell the tale.
We made the descent of the glacier in a mist, and of the [pg 222]moraine at its base, and of the slopes below, in total darkness, and regained the chalets of Abricolla at 11.45 P.M. We had been absent eighteen and a half hours, and out of that time had been going not less than seventeen. That night we slept the sleep of those who are thoroughly tired.[172]