Rivers of Ice

by R. M. Ballantyne

Horror-stricken, unable to move or cry out Lewis stood on the edge. From far down in the blue depths of the crevasse there arose a terrible sound, as if of a heavy blow. It was followed by the familiar rattling of masses of falling ice, which seemed to die away in the profound heart of the glacier.

The “weary struggle” had come to an end at last. The chamois-hunter had found a tomb, like too many, alas! of his bold-hearted countrymen, among those great fields of ice, over which he had so often sped with sure foot and cool head in days gone by.

Lewis was as thoroughly convinced that his late comrade was dead, as if he had seen his mangled corpse before him, but with a sort of passionate unbelief he refused to admit the fact. He stood perfectly motionless, as if transfixed and frozen, in the act of bending over the crevasse. He listened intently and long for a sound which yet he knew could never come. An oppressive, sickening silence reigned around him, which he suddenly broke with a great and terrible cry, as, recovering from his stupor, he hurried wildly to and fro, seeking for some slope by which he might descend to the rescue of his friend.

Vainly he sought. Both walls of the crevasse were sheer precipices of clear ice. At one spot, indeed, he found a short slope, and, madly seizing his axe, he cut foot-holds down it, descending, quite regardless of danger, until the slope became too perpendicular to admit of farther progress. Struck then with alarm for himself, he returned cautiously to the top, while beads of cold perspiration stood on his pale brow. A few minutes more, and he became sufficiently calm to realise the fact that poor Le Croix was indeed beyond all hope. As the truth was forced into his heart he covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly.

It was long ere the passionate burst of feeling subsided. Lewis was very impressionable, and his young heart recoiled in agony from such a shock. Although the hunter had been to him nothing but a pleasant guide, he now felt as if he had lost a friend. When his mind was capable of connected thought he dwelt on the unfortunate man’s kindly, modest, and bold disposition, and especially on the incidents of the previous night, when they two had lain side by side like brothers on their hard couch.

At last he rose, and, with a feeling of dead weight crushing his spirit began to think of continuing his descent. He felt that, although there was no hope of rescuing life, still no time should be lost in rousing the guides of Chamouni and recovering, if possible, the remains.

Other thoughts now came upon him with a rush. He was still high up among the great cliffs, and alone! The vale of Chamouni was still far distant, and he was bewildered as to his route, for, in whatever direction he turned, nothing met his eye save wildly-riven glaciers or jagged cliffs and peaks. He stood in the midst of a scene of savage grandeur, which corresponded somewhat with his feelings.

His knowledge of ice-craft, if we may use the expression, was by that time considerable, but he felt that it was not sufficient for the work that lay before him; besides, what knowledge he possessed could not make up for the want of a companion and a rope, while, to add to his distress, weakness, resulting partly from hunger, began to tell on him.

Perhaps it was well that such thoughts interfered with those that unmanned him, for they served to rouse his spirit and nerve him to exertion. Feeling that his life, under God, depended on the wisdom, vigour, and promptitude of his actions during the next few hours, he raised his eyes upward for a moment, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, asked help and guidance of his Creator, with the feeling strong upon him that help and guidance were sorely needed.

Almost at the commencement of his descent an event occurred which taught him the necessity of extreme caution. This was the slipping of his axe. He had left the fatal crevasse only a few hundred yards behind him, when he came to a fracture in the ice that rendered it impossible to advance in that direction any longer; he therefore turned aside, but was met by a snow slope which terminated in another yawning crevasse. While standing on the top of this, endeavouring to make up his mind as to the best route to be followed, he chanced to swing his axe carelessly and let it fall. Instantly it turned over the edge, and shot like an arrow down the slope. He was ice-man enough to know that the loss of his axe in such circumstances was equivalent to the signing of his death-warrant and his face flushed with the gush of feeling that resulted from the accident. Fortunately, the head of the weapon caught on a lamp of ice just at the edge of the crevasse, and the handle hung over it. Something akin to desperation now took possession of the youth. The slope was far too steep to slide down. Not having his axe, it was impossible to cut the necessary steps. In any case it was excessively dangerous, for, although the snow was not new, it lay on such an incline that the least weight on it might set it in motion, in which case inevitable death would have been the result. The case was too critical to admit of delay or thought. At all hazards the axe must be recovered. He therefore lay down with his face to the slope, and began to kick foot-holds with the toe of his boots. It was exceedingly slow and laborious work, for he dared not to kick with all his force, lest he should lose his balance, and, indeed, he only retained it by thrusting both arms firmly into the upper holes and fixing one foot deep in a lower hole, while with the other he cautiously kicked each new step in succession. At last, after toiling steadily thus for two hours, he regained his axe.