<br/> <br/> <SPAN name="ch45" id="ch45"></SPAN></p>
<h2> CHAPTER XLV </h2>
<h3> A Catastrophe Which Cost Eleven Lives </h3>
<p><br/></p>
<p>On the 5th of September, 1870, a caravan of eleven persons departed from
Chamonix to make the ascent of Mont Blanc. Three of the party were
tourists; Messrs. Randall and Bean, Americans, and Mr. George Corkindale,
a Scotch gentleman; there were three guides and five porters. The cabin on
the Grands Mulets was reached that day; the ascent was resumed early the
next morning, September 6th. The day was fine and clear, and the movements
of the party were observed through the telescopes of Chamonix; at two
o'clock in the afternoon they were seen to reach the summit. A few minutes
later they were seen making the first steps of the descent; then a cloud
closed around them and hid them from view.</p>
<p>Eight hours passed, the cloud still remained, night came, no one had
returned to the Grands Mulets. Sylvain Couttet, keeper of the cabin there,
suspected a misfortune, and sent down to the valley for help. A detachment
of guides went up, but by the time they had made the tedious trip and
reached the cabin, a raging storm had set in. They had to wait; nothing
could be attempted in such a tempest.</p>
<p>The wild storm lasted <i>more than a week</i>, without ceasing; but on the 17th,
Couttet, with several guides, left the cabin and succeeded in making the
ascent. In the snowy wastes near the summit they came upon five bodies,
lying upon their sides in a reposeful attitude which suggested that
possibly they had fallen asleep there, while exhausted with fatigue and
hunger and benumbed with cold, and never knew when death stole upon them.
Couttet moved a few steps further and discovered five more bodies. The
eleventh corpse—that of a porter—was not found, although
diligent search was made for it.</p>
<p>In the pocket of Mr. Bean, one of the Americans, was found a note-book in
which had been penciled some sentences which admit us, in flesh and
spirit, as it were, to the presence of these men during their last hours
of life, and to the grisly horrors which their fading vision looked upon
and their failing consciousness took cognizance of:</p>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p>TUESDAY, SEPT. 6. I have made the ascent of Mont Blanc, with ten
persons—eight guides, and Mr. Corkindale and Mr. Randall. We
reached the summit at half past 2. Immediately after quitting it, we
were enveloped in clouds of snow. We passed the night in a grotto
hollowed in the snow, which afforded us but poor shelter, and I was
ill all night.</p>
<p>SEPT. 7—MORNING. The cold is excessive. The snow falls heavily
and without interruption. The guides take no rest.</p>
<p>EVENING. My Dear Hessie, we have been two days on Mont Blanc, in the
midst of a terrible hurricane of snow, we have lost our way, and are
in a hole scooped in the snow, at an altitude of 15,000 feet. I have
no longer any hope of descending.</p>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<p>They had wandered around, and around, in the blinding snow-storm,
hopelessly lost, in a space only a hundred yards square; and when cold and
fatigue vanquished them at last, they scooped their cave and lay down
there to die by inches, <i>unaware that five steps more would have brought
them into the true path.</i> They were so near to life and safety as that,
and did not suspect it. The thought of this gives the sharpest pang that
the tragic story conveys.</p>
<p>The author of the <i>Histoire Du Mont Blanc</i> introduced the closing sentences
of Mr. Bean's pathetic record thus:</p>
<p>"Here the characters are large and unsteady; the hand which traces them is
become chilled and torpid; but the spirit survives, and the faith and
resignation of the dying man are expressed with a sublime simplicity."</p>
<p>Perhaps this note-book will be found and sent to you. We have nothing to
eat, my feet are already frozen, and I am exhausted; I have strength to
write only a few words more. I have left means for C's education; I know
you will employ them wisely. I die with faith in God, and with loving
thoughts of you. Farewell to all. We shall meet again, in Heaven. ... I
think of you always.</p>
<p>It is the way of the Alps to deliver death to their victims with a
merciful swiftness, but here the rule failed. These men suffered the
bitterest death that has been recorded in the history of those mountains,
freighted as that history is with grisly tragedies.<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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