Читать книгу Round the World in the "Golden Gleaner" - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 4

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For the next week the Staceys’ holiday proceeded upon more or less conventional lines.

Gerald and Peter were taught to ski, their instructor being André Dubois’ eldest son Gaston, aged nineteen, who was not only efficient as a teacher and guide, but also spoke English almost as well as his parent.

Under him the chums learned how and when to bend their knees to avoid an awkward and humiliating side-slip, especially if one foot skidded in one direction and the other in an opposite one. But daily—even hourly—the two youths progressed, gaining in efficiency till they became fairly proficient skiers.

Nor were Joan and Peggy anything but apt pupils, and before the week was out they were able to accompany the two youths on expeditions down to the village of Chamoisette.

By this time the chums had changed their attitude towards Dubois père’s suggestion that they should scale the Spitz. Perhaps this was owing to the bracing air and also to the example shown by other young visitors to “Quatre Vents”. Two German youths, younger than they, had already made a successful ascent and descent—the descent, although it took less time, being considered to be more risky than the climb. Gerald and Peter were not going to be beaten by a couple of foreigners!

But on the morning planned for the storming of the Spitz something happened that was to throw the Staceys’ time-table completely out of gear.

Gerald’s mother went down with influenza.

Monsieur Dubois was, to use his own expression, “desolated”. His concern, however, was mostly of a mercenary nature. If other guests of the pension contracted the malady he might have to shut down.

Mrs. Stacey was confined to her bedroom. A doctor was hurriedly summoned from Lausanne. “Quatre Vents” reeked of disinfectants. Belying its name, there wasn’t any wind to disperse the warm and possibly germ-laden air from the now practically draught-proof building.

The next day Joan went down with the complaint, quickly to be followed by her sister. Some of the staff were also infected, but Monsieur Dubois kept that news from his guests. Actually two of them were down with ’flu before the Staceys arrived, but Dubois also kept that information a secret, blaming Mrs. Stacey for having introduced the complaint into his establishment.

Towards noon a strong wind sprung up, accompanied by heavy falls of snow. Outdoor activities had to be suspended. There was nothing much that the inmates—a description that suited them—could do beyond keeping to the warm, stuffy room, conversing in four different languages.

Monsieur Dubois did his best to rouse their flagging spirits.

“To-morrow it will be fine,” he announced successively in French, German and Italian. “It is not often we have very high winds at this season. Yes, to-morrow the storm will have spent its strength and again you will be able to enjoy outdoor sports.”

“You aren’t feeling rotten, are you?” asked Peter, as the chums were preparing for bed.

“No, what makes you think that?” rejoined Gerald.

“I thought you looked a bit off colour,” remarked his chum, with brutal candour. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if both of us are down with ’flu to-morrow. If we are we should be fit again before we join the Golden Gleaner.”

The possibility that they might not be hadn’t struck Gerald before.

“Gosh! I hope we don’t get the beastly thing,” he exclaimed. Then: “What’s that?”

“Thunder, I guess,” suggested Peter.

They listened.

The none-too-distant rumbling sound continued and increased in volume.

“I’ve never known a peal of thunder to last all that time!” declared Gerald.

He drew aside the window-curtain.

That didn’t help. The panes of glass were thickly plastered with frozen snow.

Soon the noise increased to a menacing roar.

“Perhaps it is an avalanche,” suggested Peter.

“Old Dubois said there weren’t any around here,” said his chum. “Perhaps he’s wrong for once. Even if he is, the stone wall will keep it from striking the house.”

He had to raise his voice to make himself understood. In other rooms some of the occupants were shouting. It was just possible to hear their voices above the noise outside the house, but neither of the chums could hear what was being said, except for one word:

“Avalanche!”

A moment later “Quatre Vents” received the first impact. The building, solidly built as it was, seemed to lurch bodily. Above the roar came a terrific crash. The window of the chums’ room had been forced inwards, letting in a large mass of snow. With it was part of a big tree-trunk that, stripped of its branches, was now in effect a battering-ram.

Gerald and Peter instinctively backed away from the inrush. They made for the door, only to find that the snow had piled itself up against it to a depth of about six inches.

Desperately they strove to open the door. Even that six inches of driven snow was enough to frustrate their efforts.

Then, to add to their difficulties, the electric light failed. Whether the cable conveying power from the village had been disrupted or whether the break had occurred inside the building was a matter of future investigation. The fact remained that there was no light. Judging by voices coming from other parts of the house, “Quatre Vents” had been entirely plunged into darkness.

“What’s to be done now?” asked Peter breathlessly, bawling into his chum’s ear.

Apparently there was little that they could do. They were almost breathless as the result of their futile exertions. Probably for the first time during their holiday they were conscious that the wind, eddying through the rapidly decreasing window-space, was really cold.

The while the whole building was trembling. Several loud rumbles, distinct from the noise of the avalanche, indicated that the large stones, resting on the roof to give it greater stability, had been forced from it to add to the debris on the snow-covered ground.

A rapid succession of more snow and debris continued to pound the house. The window of the chums’ bedroom was now entirely blocked. More snow was prevented from entering by masses of it forming a ramp that more than half filled the room.

Noises, both exterior and interior, continued. To the imprisoned youths it seemed as if the battered house was being forced bodily down the hillside.

For all they knew, “Quatre Vents” was not only being displaced; it was being buried deeply by the avalanche. Would the low-pitched roof eventually collapse under the enormous weight?

Presently the roar of the avalanche subsided, to be succeeded by a shrieking noise as if the four winds had literally been simultaneously unleashed. Actually it was caused by the filling-up of deep “air-pockets” that had followed the abnormal displacement set up by the avalanche.

At length these sinister noises died down. The chums hadn’t the faintest idea of how long they had lasted. They seemed to have lost all count of time as they leaned against the snow-blocked door, wondering, apprehensively, what was going to happen next.

They were in utter darkness. The masses of snow and rubble were impervious to light, even though the stars might be shining in a now unclouded sky.

Most of the exterior noises had ceased, but there seemed to be considerable activity on the part of Monsieur Dubois, his staff and the guests.

“I hope your mother and sisters are all right,” said Peter.

“So do I,” replied Gerald.

For the present there was nothing they could do to relieve their anxiety for the three temporary bed-ridden patients who, because of their illness, had been more or less isolated in a wing of the building.

A succession of knocks on the bedroom door reassured the lads that they hadn’t been forgotten and that they were still in touch with the rest—perhaps only a part—of the house.

“Are you all right?” boomed Mr. Stacey’s voice.

“Yes; but we can’t get out,” replied his son.

“Because there’s snow heaped up against the door,” supplemented Peter.

There was a pause during which the two youths could faintly hear an animated discussion between Monsieur Dubois and some of his staff on the one hand and Mr. Stacey and a few of his fellow guests on the other.

Apparently the latter were proposing to open the blocked door by brute force; while Dubois and his supporters were opposing the suggestion on the grounds that enough damage had been done to his property without the wrecking of the door.

Finally they compromised, Dubois agreeing to one of the four door-panels being forced.

This was done and once again artificial light played into the previously dark room. It wasn’t the brilliant electric light bulbs that were responsible for that—only four paraffin lamps. Compared with the intense darkness this was almost luxury.

“Are mother and the girls all right?” asked Gerald.

“So far,” replied his father. “We’ve moved them to one of the front rooms.... Now, one at a time.”

The chums’ efforts to wriggle through the gap in the door were futile. Monsieur Dubois had grossly under-estimated the girth and breadth of shoulder of each of the British youths. It dawned upon him that, should either get stuck, considerably more damage would have to be done to the door before they could be released.

“Wait a little longer!” he urged. “I give you a spade.”

One was passed through the door to the trapped youths.

“Be very careful with ze spade,” Dubois warned them. “Do not scrape ze paint from ze door with ze spade!”

In an attempt to preserve his property from more and perhaps needless damage, Dubois had let his previously almost faultless English go by the board!

There was nearly a contest between the chums as to the first spell with the spade. They were feeling so cold that they wanted manual exercise to send the blood coursing once more through their chilled veins.

Gerald started first, plying the spade so vigorously—in spite of Monsieur Dubois’ warnings—that it wasn’t until he handed the implement to Peter that he realized he’d piled the displaced snow on his own bed!

That hardly mattered, for the bed had already been covered by the drifts and it was most unlikely that he would ever sleep in it again.

At last the accumulation of snow against the door was removed. When lights were brought into the room a scene of desolation and destruction presented itself. From the top of the window—where every pane was missing—there was a steeply sloping bank of snow extending to the opposite wall. Almost buried under it was the gaunt tree trunk that, pressing down upon Gerald’s suitcase, had practically flattened it.

Peter’s was in a slightly better state. He had left it, opened, upon a chair close to the foot of his bed. When it was dug out, its contents were in a sodden condition. The snow, unlike the powdery stuff common to Switzerland, had melted in the comparatively warm room and had filled his case with a mixture of sodden slush and dirt.

Only partly clad—for they hadn’t undressed for bed when the avalanche began—the two lads were taken into the dining room, where they were provided with overcoats by some of the visitors whose things had escaped the catastrophe.

Peter had left his wrist-watch under his pillow. Gerald still wore his but it had stopped. A cuckoo-clock on the wall told them that it was one o’clock in the morning.

It had seemed a very long time that they had been trapped, and the fact that only three hours had elapsed since the avalanche crashed down upon “Quatre Vents” took them completely by surprise.

Rising nobly to the occasion, Monsieur Dubois rallied his kitchen staff and provided his guests with a hot meal. The electric range was out of action—as were all the much-advertised electric “gadgets”. The failure of the current had been responsible. There was no heat to be had from the radiators, the lighting had to be limited to candles and oil-lamps. The telephone was dead, cutting “Quatre Vents” off from the outside world.

There was no coal to be had; but, fortunately, Monsieur Dubois had laid in a good supply of logs. Although he had discounted the idea of an avalanche, he had nevertheless taken precautions against such a thing happening.

At the back of the building the snow was above the eaves and also lay thickly in patches on the roof. On the front, overlooking the valley, it was high enough to block completely any view from the windows.

“How long do you think it will be before we can leave, Monsieur?” asked Mr. Stacey.

The proprietor shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps three days,” he replied. “Perhaps one week, or longer. But rest assured: there will not be another avalanche. We have plenty food and plenty fuel. There is no cause for alarm. As soon as possible help will arrive.”

Already Mr. Stacey realized that he and his family were in a distinctly unfortunate position. They were to all intents and purposes part of a beleaguered garrison. It might be a week or more before his wife and daughters would be fit enough to travel. They would have to stop where they were, and he would have to remain with them until they could leave “Quatre Vents”.

With Gerald and Peter the situation was different.

There were now only three clear days to the time they were due to join their first ship at Southampton. Anything might happen during those three days. What mattered most, as far as the chums were concerned, was whether they would or would not catch the S.S. Golden Gleaner. To them it seemed as if their future career as officers of the Merchant Navy depended upon the happenings of the next few days.