Patrick O’Brian 3-Book Adventure Collection: The Road to Samarcand, The Golden Ocean, The Unknown Shore. Patrick O’Brian

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      ‘It is not important,’ replied Sullivan, after a moment’s pause. ‘It is just that I underestimated the distance a little. I misread the map, and said that we were at the pass before we had really reached it. It is some way farther on.’

      He took a compass bearing, and said cheerfully, ‘We will make for that ridge, and then I dare say we shall see our valley.’

      But no one believed him. They had all seen the map, and it clearly showed the pass and the fall to the valley as being just beyond the head of the glacier. Either Atakin, the Mongol who had drawn the map, had forgotten the way, or they had climbed on the wrong side of the glacier. Before them lay the enormous stretch of country between the Kunlun range and the Himalaya, hundreds of miles of it, with a cold death in every single mile. They had been so certain of the map that they had eaten well in the snow house, and in the morning they had used almost all their fuel. Food and fuel sacks were nearly empty.

      Derrick felt a kick behind that shot him a yard forward. ‘Don’t mooch along with a dismal face, boy,’ said his uncle, walking along to the head of the line and whistling as he went. But his whistling could not restore the expedition’s heart. They had made a great effort, and now, some of them at least, felt so hopeless that they trudged slowly, unwillingly, without any spirit left. It was not that each of them was not a brave man in his own place, at sea or on the dusty steppe, but here they were dealing with enemies they did not understand, the altitude had given each of them the mountain-sickness to some degree, and for the Mongols there was the added fear of their inherited beliefs.

      Olaf resisted well enough, but it was the Professor who behaved the best of all. He was as nearly sure as Sullivan that the map had been mistaken, and he knew perfectly well that if they did not find Hukutu or some other human habitation in the next few days they would be in a very serious position, for there was no going back; but he exclaimed on the excellence of the snow-crust and the pleasure of walking on it, he even made Li Han run, and he encouraged them all by singing a discordant Tyrolean song. And it was he who discovered the hidden valley that lay on their right just before the midday halt: it was a narrow cleft between two snowy slopes, and as its end ran parallel to their route it had escaped the notice of the others. Even when he pointed it out, they scarcely saw it, for the white of its near side merged so perfectly with the white of its far side that it was nearly invisible.

      ‘While the banquet is being prepared,’ he said, ‘I think I will just go over and look down that little valley.’ He had already left the line to explore several others, and they watched him apathetically while Li Han unpacked the meagre store of food. They were squatting there when a shadow passed over the snow, and two choughs landed a little distance from them.

      ‘Who would have expected to find them up here?’ exclaimed Sullivan, shooting them both. ‘They were extra-ordinarily tame,’ he said, bringing them back. ‘I hope they will taste better than they look.’

      They were still eating and discussing the birds when the Professor rejoined them: he sat down and ate his three pieces of meat, and when they were getting up again Derrick asked him if he had seen anything in the valley.

      ‘Why, yes,’ he said, in a conversational tone, ‘I looked down on a village that I take to be Hukutu. It is remarkable in that there appears to be no lamasery there, whereas I had –’

      ‘You saw Hukutu!’ exclaimed Derrick. ‘Where? Is it far?’

      ‘– whereas I had been led to suppose,’ continued the Professor, ‘that there was hardly an inhabited place in Tibet without its monastery. It is directly below us, as you always maintained, Sullivan. I should say that it is about seven thousand feet lower than we are, but I fear that the descent may present some difficulties.’

      With twice the speed of their morning’s march they hurried to the narrow valley. Here the snow lay loose and drifted, and they plunged in knee-deep. It was sweltering work under the noon-day sun, trapped as it was between the narrow walls, but their fresh hope – doubly strong after such a disappointment – carried them through in the Professor’s tracks, and very soon they were staring down a dark precipice that dropped a sheer two thousand feet, ice-coated here and there with ice that trickled now in the sun, but which would freeze again that night. Below the precipice there stretched the snow, but no longer unending snow, for it stopped five thousand feet below them, and then came a brown bar of naked earth, cut by streams that shone white in the distance. Below the brownness there was green, the green of pastures, and then the whole sweep of the broad valley, a river, a few dark patches that might be trees and even the tiny squares of fields, as small as postage stamps from that vertiginous height.

      ‘Where is Hukutu?’ asked Sullivan.

      ‘You will have to lean out and look down to the left to see it,’ replied the Professor, ‘but for heaven’s sake do not go too near the edge. This is only a snow cornice, and it might give.’

      Sullivan lay down and began to creep out, but the Mongols, who understood only the Professor’s pointing finger, walked boldly to the edge and peered out.

      ‘Take care,’ cried the Professor, and as he spoke the jutting out rim of snow gave way. The two Mongols vanished with a cry and Chingiz hurled himself on his back, but half his body was over the edge and his hands clawed in vain for a split second in the snow for a hold. Derrick hurled himself forward, flat on his stomach, and grabbed Chingiz’s right hand as it went. There was a low moan from below, and Derrick felt the grip of the fingers slacken in his own: he held with all his force, gritting his teeth, and in a moment he felt Chingiz’s left hand come up and grasp him by the wrist.

      Sullivan had Derrick by the feet. ‘Have you got him?’ he cried.

      ‘Yes. But pull me back. The snow is giving under me.’ He felt himself slide back, and then the edge of the snow, wind-blown out from the precipice and overhanging it, gave way. A piece stretching from his chin to his stomach fell. He saw it hit Chingiz, who gave a grunt, and then Sullivan had pulled him farther back.

      ‘Hold on,’ called Sullivan. ‘Olaf’s coming alongside of you.’

      Olaf edged himself rapidly against Derrick’s side: his long arms reached down to Chingiz’s elbows, raised him, took him by the neck and brought him up.

      Derrick crawled backwards on to the firm snow and saw Chingiz sitting with his back to a rock. His face looked terribly strange and drawn, but he smiled.

      ‘This will hurt,’ said Sullivan, picking him up and laying him on his back. ‘His arm went backwards as he fell,’ he said to Derrick, ‘and he was hanging by it with his shoulder dislocated.’

      He put his foot under Chingiz’s armpit, took his hand and pulled. The Mongol kept his face expressionless: he got up, moved his arm and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and walked carefully towards the edge again.

      They all peered down the shocking drop, but there was no sign of the two tribesmen. There was a tumble of huge boulders, flecked with snow, that hid their bodies: there was no sort of hope at all.

      ‘They were good men,’ said Chingiz, getting up at last.

      The others said the same, and they moved slowly back into the narrow valley. There was one thought in all their minds, but no one uttered it: the Mongols had been carrying the food and the fuel.

      ‘What do you suggest, Professor?’ asked Sullivan. ‘We have got to get down there somehow. Two more nights up here would kill Ross, and I don’t think we’d last much longer ourselves without food. And I think it’s coming on to blow.’

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