Читать книгу Round the World in the "Golden Gleaner" - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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Gerald’s and Peter’s chances of catching their ship seemed to be very remote. The “Quatre Vents” was practically in a state of siege, its occupants held, not by human agency, but by the forces of nature.

The night wore on. Few, if any, of the besieged thought of going to their rooms. The herd instinct made them prefer society to solitude. Most of the guests were able to bring their beds to the large salon. Those whose bedding had been either saturated or buried under masses of snow—Gerald and Peter came in that category—tried to make the best of a bad job, by placing cushions and rugs upon the floor.

The influenza cases, now found to number seven, were accommodated in a nearby room, heat and warmth being somewhat inadequately provided by a wood fire and a couple of candles.

In the salon, conditions were worse. After the guests had turned in, the fire was banked up and all lights extinguished with the exception of a solitary oil lamp, Monsieur Dubois explaining that, although he possessed reserves of fuel and light, it was inexpedient to use them unnecessarily since there seemed to be no prospects of their speedy relief.

Deprived of its usual method of central heating, with parts of the building open to the accumulated masses of snow, “Quatre Vents” did not appear to belie its name. There were draughts everywhere. Ominous noises were of frequent occurrence. No one knew whether a fresh avalanche would complete the task which the earlier one had begun.

At length came the dawn. It was hardly noticeable within the house. The small amount of light that filtered in did so through the snow covering the as yet unbroken window-panes.

A scratch breakfast was provided. Spirits began to rise after the meal. Some of the guests accepted the situation more or less philosophically. Others—especially Gerald and Peter, and to a slightly lesser extent Mr. Stacey—were distinctly worried.

The prospects of an early release were discussed. Gaston Dubois, in spite of an obviously warning look from his parent, declared that he knew of a family whose house in the valley had been completely buried in snow for ten days. When rescued they were in good health, the building remaining warm under its mantle of snow. Fortunately there had been an ample stock of provisions. Eventually a deep trench had to be cut in the snow in order to release the trapped family.

“Can’t we dig a way out, Monsieur Dubois?” asked Peter.

A characteristic shrug of the shoulders was the proprietor’s only reply.

The chums would not have minded if they were to be imprisoned under the snow had it not been a matter of urgency for them to be at Southampton within the next sixty hours. There was also anxiety for Gerald’s mother and sisters. They could not be moved until they were better; and Mr. Stacey would have to remain with them until they could be taken down to Lausanne.

During the forenoon the chums borrowed spades, and having obtained Monsieur Dubois’ reluctant permission, proceeded to their room to excavate their buried clothes and other personal belongings.

Assisted by other temporary residents, they tackled the task with a will. The exercise sent the blood coursing through their veins again, as they removed shovelful after shovelful of partly frozen snow from one end of the room to the other.

Soon they were rewarded by recovering most of the clothes they had removed prior to turning in. Then Peter’s suitcase was exhumed, its contents saturated although otherwise apparently intact.

Gerald’s suitcase was in a hopeless state, one side having been completely wrenched away by the weight of the tree-trunk that had been forced through the window.

“Why can’t we dig a way out through here?” suggested Peter, indicating the shattered window-frame.

“What’s the use?” objected his chum.

“Well, we might have a chance to see what’s going on outside,” replied Peter.

“And what are we going to do with the snow we remove?”

“Pile it up on top of the snow already in the room.”

“Dubois wouldn’t like that: not a little bit,” Gerald pointed out.

“He needn’t know till we’ve shifted the stuff,” countered Peter. “Let’s lug these clothes to the kitchen and see if they can be dried and then we’ll have a shot at shifting the snow.”

It was a stiff task but not so arduous as Gerald had expected. What it amounted to was shifting the snow above the inclined tree trunk and piling the displaced stuff against one of the walls of the room.

Helped by a couple of young Frenchmen, the chums toiled for two hours until, above the end of their inclined tunnel, sunlight began to filter through the thin barrier of frozen snow that separated them from the open air.

Suddenly and without the slightest warning the end of the tunnel caved in, burying Peter’s head and shoulders.

Gripping his chum by his ankles, Gerald dragged him backwards and clear of the accumulated snow. Above them was an opening considerably wider than a man’s shoulders.

“Are you all right?” asked Gerald.

“All serene!” replied his chum somewhat breathlessly.

Two large branches partly buried in the wall of snow served as stepping places to gain the open.

Peter swarmed up, Gerald followed, and behind him appeared the two French youths.

They were above the level of the roof of “Quatre Vents”, which was covered to a depth of about a couple of feet. The large stones that had been purposely placed on it to prevent the roof being removed by high winds had disappeared. More snow, with partly buried trees and rocks, extended towards the towering heights of the Spitz. The wall that had been built with the object of diverting avalanches had disappeared. Either it had been carried away or had been buried deep in debris, but about where its apex had been was an enormous boulder, much of it sunk in the snow. Had it continued its career for another fifty yards or so it would have meant the destruction of “Quatre Vents”.

The sky was perfectly clear. The summit of the Spitz could be distinctly seen. Most of the peak was covered by virgin snow, but a large dark patch, probably a quarter of a mile wide, showed the path of the avalanche down the mountain-side. A group of pine trees—yesterday a feature of the Alpine landscape—had been completely uprooted. Most of the trees had been buried in the debris, but a few stuck up at varying angles above the white though somewhat mottled covering of snow.

The chums then directed their attention to the opposite direction—down the long steep slope to the narrow valley. Some of the houses in the village had been overwhelmed. Men, looking little larger than ants, were swarming over the drifts, engaged upon rescue work. Farther up the valley, a snow plough had been attempting to cut its way, only to be brought to a complete standstill.

“It’s getting too beastly cold!” declared Gerald. “Let’s go down out of it.”

“Zat means ze snow it melt,” said one of the French youths. “Soon ze snow it move. It vill make anoder avalanche.”

In the salon Monsieur Dubois said nothing to express his disapproval of the youths’ activities. In fact he was favourably surprised. Apparently the usual procedure when a house is buried by an avalanche is for the occupants—if they survive—to sit tight until rescuers arrive upon the scene. Digging themselves out is something that rarely enters into their consideration.

“Couldn’t we ski down to the village, Monsieur?” suggested Peter. “We’re awfully anxious to get home some time to-morrow.”

“And so are many other people,” rejoined Dubois, with a vigorous shake of his head.

He went on to explain that the snow lay deep on the slope, extending from well above his pension down to the valley. For the present it was still. The upper layer was frozen hard, but where the underside of the snow was in direct contact with the ground a thaw was already setting in. There was no direct danger from that unless people or cattle moving over the frozen snow—or even the report of a gun—set the whole mass in motion. The result might be a minor but still dangerous avalanche, causing death and destruction to more of the inhabitants of Chamoisette.

“And so you will agree that one must exercise patience,” he added. “It is better for you to continue to be my guests than to be eventually carried to the cemetery of Chamoisette!”

The chums agreed that there was a tremendous lot of horse-sense in what Dubois had said.

Their chances of joining the Golden Gleaner were hourly growing more and more remote.

During that afternoon the now despondent chums were able to resume their own clothes, even though, in the course of the drying operations, their coats and trousers had definitely shrunk.

Another night passed, almost uneventfully. Dawn meant that within the next thirty-six hours the S.S. Golden Gleaner would be on her way. Little short of a miracle could save the situation as far as Gerald and Peter were concerned.

After another uncomfortable night—the salon being crowded by people “sleeping rough”—the chums made their way through the tunnel they had made to the top of the immense mound of debris.

This time Gaston Dubois went with them. His father had been invited to make another addition to the party, but he asked to be excused on account of pressure of work. Gerald and Peter felt certain that this was not the reason. It was more than likely that Monsieur Dubois’ girth had been and still was the deterrent!

Again the sun, though low down, was shining dazzlingly in a clear blue sky. There was no wind, not even a light breeze. The sloping snowfield in front of Quatre Vents looked much the same as it had done on the previous day, but Gaston expressed the opinion that a thaw had set in and soon the whole field would be set in motion. In present conditions he declared that any attempt to ski down to the village would be suicidal.

They could see men at work at Chamoisette, but there remained a lot of work to be done before all the inhabitants could be rescued. The snow plough still appeared to be inactive. Temporarily, the task of clearing a road through the valley had to be abandoned.

Presently a droning sound reached the ears of the “observation party”, which had now increased to five by the arrival of the two French boys.

Skimming the mountain crests beyond the valley was a helicopter. It was flying more or less in the direction of the camouflaged Quatre Vents, with its helices turning slowly lest the disturbed air might set more snow in motion to increase the amount that had already partly overwhelmed the village.

The helicopter was in no hurry. Descending until it was but a hundred feet or so above the houses of Chamoisette, it began to follow the valley road. Then, for no apparent reason, it turned and, regaining altitude, seemed to be making straight for Quatre Vents.

“I know zat aviateur,” declared Gaston. “He is great friend of my fader. But why he come I do not know. Regardez bien! He descends!”

Obviously it was the pilot’s intention to bring the helicopter to earth, or, rather, to alight on the snow massed behind Quatre Vents. The machine was barely hovering in order to minimize the risk of causing another avalanche.

It touched down within twenty yards of the snow-buried house. Gaston walked across the intervening strip of frozen snow to greet the pilot. Gerald and Peter followed. They were curious to see the weird-looking machine at close quarters.

The conversation between Gaston and the pilot was animatedly carried on in a mixture of French and German. Several times the chums heard the words la grippe, so evidently the subject of influenza was being discussed.

Then Gaston, still talking at high speed, pointed to Gerald and Peter in turn. The pilot nodded and the conversation went on for about a couple of minutes more.

“I have told mine friend you are anxious to return to London to go on a ship,” explained Gaston. “He vill fly you to Lausanne tout de suite. Zat is if you wish. He give you ten minutes to make preparation.”

It looked like a heaven-sent opportunity.

The chums had practically abandoned all hope of joining their ship—at Southampton and not at London, as Gaston had erroneously stated. That was a mere detail. What mattered was that, quite unexpectedly, a chance had been offered them to make amends for the bitter disappointment of the last two days.

“Thank him very much, Gaston,” said Gerald. “We won’t be more than ten minutes.”

They dived into the mouth of the tunnel, leaving the two French boys, who were not handicapped by differences in language, to ply the airman with a spate of technical questions concerning his machine.

“There’s a helicopter waiting to take us to Lausanne, pater!” announced Gerald. “I hope you don’t mind?”