The story of the Matterhorn must always be one of unique attraction. Like a good play, it resumes and concentrates in itself the incidents of a prolonged struggle—the conquest of the Alps. The strange mountain stood forth as a Goliath in front of the Alpine host, and when it found its conqueror there was a general feeling that the subjugation of the High Alps by human effort was decided, a feeling which has been amply justified by events. The contest itself was an eventful one. It was marked by a race between eager rivals, and the final victory was marred by the most terrible of Alpine accidents.
Going leisurely to Zermatt with a Mule for the luggage in the olden days.
"As a writer, Mr Whymper has proved himself equal to his subject. His serious, emphatic style, his concentration on his object, take hold of his readers and make them follow his campaigns with as much interest as if some great stake depended on the result. No one can fail to remark the contrast between the many unsuccessful attacks which preceded the fall of the Matterhorn, and the frequency with which it is now climbed by amateurs, some of whom it would be courtesy to call indifferent climbers. The moral element has, of course, much to do with this. But allowance must also be made for the fact that the Breil ridge, which looks the easiest, is still the most difficult, and in its unbechained state was far the most difficult. The terrible appearance of the Zermatt and Zmutt ridges long deterred climbers, yet both have now yielded to the first serious attack."
These words, taken from a review of Mr Whymper's Ascent of the Matterhorn, occur in vol. ix. on page 441 of The Alpine Journal. They are as true now as on the day when they appeared, but could the writer have known the future history of the great peak, and the appalling vengeance it called down over and over again on "amateurs" and the guides who, themselves unfit, tempted their ignorant charges to go blindly to their deaths, one feels he would have stood aghast at the contemplation of the tragedies to be enacted on the blood-stained precipices of that hoary peak.
THE CONQUEST OF THE MATTERHORN
When one remembers all the facilities for climbing which are found at present in every Alpine centre, the experienced guides who may be had, the comfortable huts which obviate the need for a bivouac out of doors, the knowledge of the art of mountaineering which is available if any desire to acquire it, one marvels more and more at the undaunted persistence displayed by the pioneers of present-day mountaineering in their struggle with the immense difficulties which beset them on every side.
When, in 1861, Mr Whymper made his first attempt on the Matterhorn, the first problem he had to solve was that of obtaining a skilful guide. Michael Croz of Chamonix believed the ascent to be impossible. Bennen thought the same. Jean Antoine Carrel was dictatorial and unreasonable in his demands, though convinced that the summit could be gained. Peter Taugwalder asked 200 francs whether the top was reached or not. "Almer asked, with more point than politeness, 'Why don't you try to go up a mountain which can be ascended?'"
In 1862 Mr Whymper, who had three times during the previous summer tried to get up the mountain, returned to Breuil on the Italian side, and thence made five plucky attempts, sometimes with Carrel, and once alone, to go to the highest point it was possible to reach. On the occasion of his solitary climb, Mr Whymper had set out from Breuil to see if his tent, left on a ledge of the mountain, was still, in spite of recent storms, safely in its place. He found all in good order, and tempted to linger by the lovely weather, time slipped away, and he at last decided to sleep that night in the tent, which contained ample provisions for several days. The next morning Mr Whymper could not resist an attempt to explore the route towards the summit, and eventually he managed to reach a considerable height, much above that attained by any of his predecessors. Exulting in the hope of entire success in the near future, he returned to the tent. "My exultation was a little premature," he writes, and goes on to describe what befell him on the way down. I give the thrilling account of his adventure in his own words:—
"About 5 P.M. I left the tent again, and thought myself as good as at Breuil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and had smoothened all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the chimney, however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then cut off, and left behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe had proved a great nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the tent. It was not attached to the bâton, but was a separate affair—an old navy boarding-axe. While cutting up the different snow-beds on the ascent, the bâton trailed behind fastened to the rope; and, when climbing, the axe was carried behind, run through the rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently out of the way; but in descending when coming down face outwards (as is always best where it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon caught frequently against the rocks, and several times nearly upset me. So, out of laziness if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid dearly for the imprudence.
"The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have placed me on the 'Great Staircase,' down which one can run. But, on arriving at an angle of the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, while skirting the upper edge of the snow which abuts against them, I found that the heat of the two past days had nearly obliterated the steps which had been cut when coming up. The rocks happened to be impracticable just at this corner, and it was necessary to make the steps afresh. The snow was too hard to beat or tread down, and at the angle it was all but ice; half a dozen steps only were required, and then the ledges could be followed again. So I held to the rock with my right hand, and prodded at the snow with the point of my stick until a good step was made, and then, leaning round the angle, did the same for the other side. So far well, but in attempting to pass the corner (to the present moment I cannot tell how it happened), I slipped and fell.
"The slope was steep on which this took place, and was at the top of a gully that led down through two subordinate buttresses towards the Glacier du Lion—which was just seen a thousand feet below. The gully narrowed and narrowed, until there was a mere thread of snow lying between two walls of rock, which came to an abrupt termination at the top of a precipice that intervened between it and the glacier. Imagine a funnel cut in half through its length, placed at an angle of 45° with its point below, and its concave side uppermost, and you will have a fair idea of the place.
"The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into some rocks about a dozen feet below; they caught something and tumbled me off the edge, head over heels, into the gully; the bâton was dashed from my hands, and I whirled downwards in a series of bounds, each longer than the last; now over ice, now into rocks; striking my head four or five times, each time with increased force. The last bound sent me spinning through the air, in a leap of 50 or 60 feet, from one side of the gully to the other, and I struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of my left side. They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on to the snow with motion arrested. My head, fortunately, came the right side up, and a few frantic catches brought me to a halt in the neck of the gully, and on the verge of the precipice. Bâton, hat, and veil skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks—which I had started—as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the escape from utter destruction. As it was, I fell nearly 200 feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would have taken me in one gigantic leap of 800 feet on to the glacier below.
"The situation was sufficiently serious. The rocks could not be let go for a moment, and the blood was spirting out of more than twenty cuts. The most serious ones were in the head, and I vainly tried to close them with one hand, whilst holding on with the other. It was useless; the blood jerked out in blinding jets at each pulsation. At last, in a moment of inspiration, I kicked out a big lump of snow, and stuck it as a plaster on my head. The idea was a happy one, and the flow of blood diminished. Then, scrambling up, I got, not a moment too soon, to a place of safety, and fainted away. The sun was setting when consciousness returned, and it was pitch dark before the Great Staircase was descended; but, by a combination of luck and care, the whole 4900 feet of descent to Breuil was accomplished without a slip, or once missing the way. I slunk past the cabin of the cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed of the state to which I had been brought by my imbecility, and entered the inn stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed. But Favre met me in the passage, demanded 'Who is it?' screamed with fright when he got a light, and aroused the household. Two dozen heads then held solemn council over mine, with more talk than action. The natives were unanimous in recommending that hot wine mixed with salt should be rubbed into the cuts; I protested, but they insisted. It was all the doctoring they received. Whether their rapid healing was to be attributed to that simple remedy or to a good state of health is a question. They closed up remarkably quickly, and in a few days I was able to move again."
In 1863 Mr Whymper once more returned to the attack, but still without success. In 1864 he was unable to visit the neighbourhood of the Matterhorn, but in 1865 he made his eighth and last attempt on the Breuil, or Italian side.
The time had now come when Mr Whymper became convinced that it was an error to think the Italian side the easier. It certainly looked far less steep than the north, or Zermatt side, but on mountains quality counts for far more than quantity; and though the ledges above Breuil might sometimes be broader than those on the Swiss side, and the general slope of the mountain appear at a distance to be gentler, yet the rock had an unpleasant outward dip, giving sloping, precarious hold for hand or foot, and every now and then there were abrupt walls of rock which it was hardly possible to ascend, and out of the question to descend without fixing ropes or chains.
Now the Swiss side of the great peak differs greatly from its Italian face. The slope is really less steep, and the ledges, if narrow, slope inward, and are good to step on or grasp. Mr Whymper had noticed that large patches of snow lay on the mountain all the summer, which they could not do if the north face was a precipice. He determined, therefore, to make his next attempt on that side. He had, in 1865, intended to climb with Michel Croz, but some misunderstanding had arisen, and Croz, believing that he was free, had engaged himself to another traveller. His letter, "the last one he wrote to me," says Mr Whymper, is "an interesting souvenir of a brave and upright man." The following is an extract from it:
"enfin, Monsieur, je regrette beaucoup d'être engagè avec votre compatriote et de ne pouvoir vous accompagner dans vos conquetes mais dès qu'on a donnè sa parole on doit la tenir et être homme.
"Ainsi, prenez patience pour cette campagne et esperons que plus tard nous nous retrouverons.
"En attendant recevez les humbles salutations de votre tout devoué.
"Croz Michel-Auguste."
By an extraordinary series of chances, however, when Mr Whymper reached Zermatt, whom should he see sitting on the guides' wall but Croz! His employer had been taken ill, and had returned home, and the great guide was immediately engaged by the Rev. Charles Hudson for an attempt on the Matterhorn! Mr Whymper had been joined by Lord Francis Douglas and the Taugwalders, father and son, and thus two parties were about to start for the Matterhorn at the same hour next day. This was thought inadvisable, and eventually they joined forces and decided to set out the following morning together. Mr Hudson had a young man travelling with him, by name Mr Hadow, and when Mr Whymper enquired if he were sufficiently experienced to take part in the expedition, Mr Hudson replied in the affirmative, though the fact that Mr Hadow had recently made a very rapid ascent of Mont Blanc really proved nothing. Here was the weakest spot in the whole business, the presence of a youth, untried on difficult peaks, on a climb which might involve work of a most unusual kind. Further, we should now-a-days consider the party both far too large and wrongly constituted, consisting as it did of four amateurs, two good guides, and a porter.
On 13th July, 1865, at 5.30 A.M., they started from Zermatt in cloudless weather. They took things leisurely that day, for they only intended going a short distance above the base of the peak, and by 12 o'clock they had found a good position for the tent at about 11,000 feet above sea. The guides went on some way to explore, and on their return about 3 P.M. declared that they had not found a single difficulty, and that success was assured.
The Zermatt side of the Matterhorn.
The route now usually followed has been kindly marked by Sir W. Martin Conway. The first party, on reaching the snow patch near the top, bore somewhat to their right to avoid a nearly vertical wall of rock, where now hangs a chain.
From a Photograph by the late W. F. Donkin.
Rising Mists.
The following morning, as soon as it was light enough to start, they set out, and without trouble they mounted the formidable-looking north face, and approached the steep bit of rock which it is now customary to ascend straight up by means of a fixed chain. But they were obliged to avoid it by diverging to their right on to the slope overhanging the Zermatt side of the mountain. This involved somewhat difficult climbing, made especially awkward by the thin film of ice which at places overlay the rocks. "It was a place over which any fair mountaineer might pass in safety," writes Mr Whymper, and neither here nor anywhere else on the peak did Mr Hudson require the slightest help. With Mr Hadow, however, the case was different, his inexperience necessitating continual assistance.
Before long this solitary difficulty was passed, and, turning a rather awkward corner, the party saw with delight that only 200 feet or so of easy snow separated them from the top!
Yet even then it was not certain that they had not been beaten, for a few days before another party, led by Jean Antoine Carrel, had started from Breuil, and might have reached the much-desired summit before them.
The slope eased off more and more, and at last Mr Whymper and Croz, casting off the rope, ran a neck and neck race to the top. Hurrah! not a footstep could be seen, and the snow at both ends of the ridge was absolutely untrampled.
"Where were the men?" Mr Whymper wondered, and peering over the cliffs of the Italian side he saw them as dots far down. They were 1250 feet below, yet they heard the cries of the successful party on the top, and knew that victory was not for them. Still a measure of success awaited them too, for the next day the bold Carrel, with J. B. Bich, in his turn reached the summit by the far more difficult route on the side of his native valley. Carrel was the one man who had always believed that the Matterhorn could be climbed, and one can well understand Mr Whymper's generous wish that he could have shared in the first ascent.
One short hour was spent on the summit. Then began the ever-eventful descent.
The climbers commenced to go down the difficult piece in the following order: Croz first, Hadow next, then Mr Hudson, after him Lord Francis Douglas, then old Taugwalder, and lastly Mr Whymper, who gives an account of what happened almost immediately after in the following words:
"A few minutes later a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte Rosa Hotel to Seiler, saying that he had seen an avalanche falling from the summit of the Matterhorn on to the Matterhorngletscher. The boy was reproved for telling idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw:
"Michel Croz had laid aside his axe, and in order to give Mr Hadow greater security, was absolutely taking hold of his legs, and putting his feet, one by one, into their proper positions.[11] So far as I know, no one was actually descending. I cannot speak with certainty, because the two leading men were partially hidden from my sight by an intervening mass of rock, but it is my belief, from the movements of their shoulders, that Croz, having done as I have said, was in the act of turning round, to go down a step or two himself; at this moment Mr Hadow slipped, fell against him, and knocked him over. I heard one startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr Hadow flying downwards. In another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord Francis Douglas immediately after him.[12] All this was the work of a moment. Immediately we heard Croz's exclamation old Peter and I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit;[13] the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as on one man. We held, but the rope broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas. For a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding downwards on their backs, and spreading out their hands, endeavouring to save themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the Matterhorngletscher below, a distance of nearly 4000 feet in height. From the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them. So perished our comrades!"
The Matterhorn from the Zmutt side.
The dotted line shows the course which the unfortunate party probably took in their fatal fall.
A more terrible position than that of Mr Whymper and the Taugwalders it is difficult to imagine. The Englishman kept his head, however, though the two guides, absolutely paralysed with terror, lost all control over themselves, and for a long time could not be induced to move. At last old Peter changed his position, and soon the three stood close together. Mr Whymper then examined the broken rope, and found to his horror that it was the weakest of the three ropes, and had only been intended as a reserve to fix to rocks and leave behind. How it came to have been used will always remain a mystery, but that it broke and was not cut there is no doubt. Taugwalder's neighbours at Zermatt persisted in asserting that he severed the rope. "In regard to this infamous charge," writes Mr Whymper, "I say that he could not do so at the moment of the slip, and that the end of the rope in my possession shows that he did not do so beforehand."
At 6 P.M., after a terribly trying descent, during any moment of which the Taugwalders, still completely unnerved, might have slipped and carried the whole party to destruction, they arrived on "the ridge descending towards Zermatt, and all peril was over." But it was still a long way to the valley, and an hour after nightfall the climbers were obliged to seek a resting-place, and upon a slab barely large enough to hold the three they spent six miserable hours. At daybreak they started again, and descended rapidly to Zermatt.
"Seiler met me at the door. 'What is the matter?' 'The Taugwalders and I have returned.' He did not need more, and burst into tears."
At 2 A.M. on Sunday the 16th, Mr Whymper and two other Englishmen, with a number of Chamonix and Oberland guides, set out to discover the bodies. The Zermatt men, threatened with excommunication by their priests if they failed to attend early Mass were unable to accompany them, and to some of them this was a severe trial. By 8.30 they reached the plateau at the top of the glacier, and came within sight of the spot where their companions must be. "As we saw one weather-beaten man after another raise the telescope, turn deadly pale, and pass it on without a word to the next, we knew that all hope was gone."
They drew near, and found the bodies of Croz, Hadow and Hudson close together, but of Lord Francis Douglas they could see nothing, though a pair of gloves, a belt and a boot belonging to him were found. The boots of all the victims were off, and lying on the snow close by. This frequently happens when persons have fallen a long distance down rocks.
Eventually the remains were brought down to Zermatt, a sad and dangerous task.
So ends the story of the conquest of the Matterhorn. Its future history is marred by many a tragedy, of which perhaps none are more pathetic, or were more wholly unnecessary, than what is known as the Borckhardt accident.
By the summer of 1886 it had become common for totally inexperienced persons with incompetent guides (for no first-rate guide would undertake such a task) to make the ascent of the Matterhorn. In fine settled weather they contrived to get safely up and down the mountain. But like all high peaks the Matterhorn is subject to sudden atmospheric changes, and a high wind or falling snow will in an hour or less change the whole character of the work and make the descent one of extreme difficulty even for experienced mountaineers. Practically unused to Alpine climbing, thinly clothed, and accompanied by young guides of third-rate ability, what wonder is it that when caught in a storm, a member of the party, whose expedition is described below, perished?
The editor of The Alpine Journal writes: "On the morning of 17th August last four parties of travellers left the lower hut on the mountain and attained the summit. One of them, that of Mr Mercer, reached Zermatt the same night. The three others were much delayed by a sudden storm which came on during the descent. Two Dutch gentlemen, led by Moser and Peter Taugwald, regained the lower hut at an advanced hour of the night; but Monsieur A. de Falkner and his son (with J. P. and Daniel Maquignaz, and Angelo Ferrari, of Pinzolo), and Messrs John Davies and Frederick Charles Borckhardt (with Fridolin Kronig and Peter Aufdemblatten), were forced to spend the night out; the latter party, indeed, spent part of the next day (18th August) out as well, and Mr Borckhardt unfortunately succumbed to the exposure in the afternoon. He was the youngest son of the late vicar of Lydden, and forty-eight years of age. Neither he nor Mr Davies was a member of the Alpine Club."
The Pall Mall Gazette published on 24th August the account given by Mr Davies to an interviewer. It is as follows, and the inexperience of the climbers is made clear in every line:-
"We left Zermatt about 2 o'clock on Monday afternoon in capital spirits. The weather was lovely, and everything promised a favourable ascent. We had two guides whose names were on the official list, whose references were satisfactory, and who were twice over recommended to us by Herr Seiler, whose advice we sought before we engaged them, and who gave them excellent credentials. We placed ourselves in their hands, as is the rule in such cases, ordered the provisions and wine which they declared to be necessary, and made ready for the ascent. I had lived among hills from my boyhood. I had some experience of mountaineering in the Pyrenees, where I ascended the highest and other peaks. In the Engadine I have also done some climbing; and last week, together with Mr Borckhardt, who was one of my oldest friends, I made the ascent of the Titlis, and made other excursions among the hills. Mr Borckhardt was slightly my senior, but as a walker he was quite equal to me in endurance. When we arrived at Zermatt last Saturday we found that parties were going up the Matterhorn on Monday. We knew that ladies had made the ascent, and youths; and the mountain besides had been climbed by friends of ours whose physical strength, to say the least, was not superior to ours. It was a regular thing to go up the Matterhorn, and we accordingly determined to make the ascent.
"We started next morning at half-past two or three. We were the third party to leave the cabin, but, making good speed over the first stage of the ascent, we reached the second when the others were breakfasting there, and then resumed the climb. Mr Mercer, with his party, followed by the Dutch party, started shortly before us. We met them about a quarter-past eight returning from the top. They said that they had been there half an hour, and that there was no view. We passed them, followed by the Italians, and reached the summit about a quarter to nine. The ascent, though toilsome, had not exhausted us in the least. Both Mr Borckhardt and myself were quite fresh, although we had made the summit before the Italians, who started together with us from the second hut. Had the weather remained favourable, we could have made the descent with ease.[14]
"Even while we were on the summit I felt hail begin to fall, and before we were five minutes on our way down it was hailing heavily. It was a fine hail, and inches of it fell in a very short time, and the track was obliterated. We pressed steadily downwards, followed by the Italians, nor did it occur to me at that time that there was any danger. We got past the ropes and chains safely, and reached the snowy slope on the shoulder. At this point we were leading. But as the Italians had three guides, and we only two, we changed places, so that their third guide could lead. They climbed down the slope, cutting steps for their feet in the ice. We trod closely after the Italians, but the snow and hail filled up the holes so rapidly, that, in order to make a safe descent, our guides had to recut the steps. This took much time—as much as two hours I should say—and every hour the snow was getting deeper. At last we got down the snow-slope on to the steep rocks below. The Italians were still in front of us, and we all kept on steadily descending. We were still in good spirits, nor did we feel any doubt that we should reach the bottom. Our first alarm was occasioned by the Italians losing their way. They found their progress barred by precipitous rocks, and their guides came back to ours to consult as to the road. Our guides insisted that the path lay down the side of a steep couloir. Their guides demurred; but after going down some ten feet, they cried out that our guides were right, and they went on—we followed. By this time it was getting dark. The hail continued increasing. We began to get alarmed. It seemed impossible to make our way to the cabin that night. We had turned to the right after leaving the couloir, crossed some slippery rocks, and after a short descent turned to the left and came to the edge of the precipice where Mosely fell, where there was some very slight shelter afforded by an overhanging rock, and there we prepared to pass the night, seeing that all further progress was hopeless. We were covered with ice. The night was dark. The air was filled with hail. We were too cold to eat. The Italians were about an hour below us on the mountain side. We could hear their voices and exchanged shouts. Excepting them, we were thousands of feet above any other human being. I found that while Borckhardt had emptied his brandy-flask, mine was full. I gave him half of mine. That lasted us through the night. We did not try the wine till the morning, and then we found that it was frozen solid.
"Never have I had a more awful experience than that desolate night on the Matterhorn. We were chilled to the bone, and too exhausted to stand. The wind rose, and each gust drove the hail into our faces, cutting us like a knife. Our guides did everything that man could do to save us. Aufdemblatten did his best to make us believe that there was no danger. 'Only keep yourselves warm; keep moving; and we shall go down all right to-morrow, when the sun rises.' 'It is of no use,' I replied; 'we shall die here!' They chafed our limbs, and did their best to make us stand up; but it was in vain. I felt angry at their interference. Why could they not leave us alone to die? I remember striking wildly but feebly at my guide as he insisted on rubbing me. Every movement gave me such agony, I was racked with pain, especially in my back and loins—pain so intense as to make me cry out. The guides had fastened the rope round the rock to hold on by, while they jumped to keep up the circulation of the blood. They brought us to it, and made us jump twice or thrice. Move we could not; we lay back prostrate on the snow and ice, while the guides varied their jumping by rubbing our limbs and endeavouring to make us move our arms and legs. They were getting feebler and feebler. Borckhardt and I, as soon as we were fully convinced that death was imminent for us, did our best to persuade our guides to leave us where we lay and make their way down the hill. They were married men with families. To save us was impossible; they might at least save themselves. We begged them to consider their wives and children and to go. This was at the beginning of the night. They refused. They would rather die with us, they said; they would remain and do their best.
Hoar Frost in the Alps.
"Borckhardt and I talked a little as men might do who are at the point of death. He bore without complaining pain that made me cry out from time to time. We both left directions with the guides that we were to be buried at Zermatt. Borckhardt spoke of his friends and his family affairs, facing his death with manly resignation and composure. As the night wore on I became weaker and weaker. I could not even make the effort necessary to flick the snow off my companion's face. By degrees the guides began to lose hope. The cold was so intense, we crouched together for warmth. They lay beside us to try and impart some heat. It was in vain. 'We shall die!' 'We are lost!' 'Yes,' said Aufdemblatten, 'very likely we shall.' He was so weak, poor fellow, he could hardly keep his feet; but still he tried to keep me moving. It was a relief not to be touched. I longed for death, but death would not come.
"Towards half-past two on Wednesday morning—so we reckoned, for all our watches had stopped with the cold—the snow ceased, and the air became clear. It had been snowing or hailing without intermission for eighteen hours. It was very dark below, but above all was clear, although the wind still blew. When the sun rose, we saw just a gleam of light. Then a dark cloud came from the hollow below, and our hopes went out. 'Oh, if only the sun would come out!' we said to each other, I do not know how many times. But it did not, and instead of the sun came the snow once more. Towards seven, as near as I can make it, a desperate attempt was made to get us to walk. The guides took Borckhardt, and between them propped him on his feet and made him stagger on a few steps. They failed to keep him moving more than a step or two. The moment they let go he dropped. They repeated the same with me. Neither could I stand. I remember four distinct times they drove us forward, only to see us drop helpless after each step. It was evidently no use. Borckhardt had joined again with me in repeatedly urging the guides to leave us and to save themselves. They had refused, and continued to do all that their failing strength allowed to protect us from the bitter cold. As the morning wore on, my friend, who during the night had been much more composed and tranquil than I, began to grow perceptibly weaker. We were quite resigned to die, and had, in fact, lost all hope. We had been on the mountain from about 3 A.M. on Tuesday to 1 P.M. on Wednesday—thirty-four hours in all. Eighteen of these were spent in a blinding snowstorm, and we had hardly tasted food since we left the summit at nine on the Tuesday morning. At length (about one) we heard shouts far down the mountain. The guides said they probably proceeded from a search party sent out to save us. I again urged the guides to go down by themselves to meet the searchers, and to hurry them up. This they refused to do unless I accompanied them. Borckhardt was at this time too much exhausted to stand upright, and was lying in a helpless condition. The guides, although completely worn out, wished to attempt the descent with me, and they considered that by so doing we should be able to indicate to the searchers the precise spot where my friend lay, and to hasten their efforts to reach him with stimulants. Since early morning the snow had ceased falling. We began the descent, and at first I required much assistance from the guides, but by degrees became better able to move, and the hope of soon procuring help from the approaching party for my poor friend sustained us. After a most laborious descent of about an hour and a half, we reached the first members of the rescue party, and directed them to where Borckhardt lay, requesting them to proceed there with all haste, and, after giving him stimulants, to bring him down to the lower hut in whatever condition they found him. We went on to the hut to await his arrival, meeting on the way Mr King, of the English Alpine Club, with his guides, who were hurrying up with warm clothing. A few hours later we heard the terrible news that the relief party had found him dead."
A letter to The Times, written by Mr (now Sir Henry Seymour) King comments as follows on this deplorable accident. It is endorsed by all the members of the Alpine Club then at Zermatt. After describing the circumstances of the ascent, the writer continues: "Instead of staying all together, as more experienced guides would have done, and keeping Mr Borckhardt warm and awake until help came, they determined at about 1 P.M. to leave him alone on the mountain. According to their account, the snow had ceased and the sun had begun to shine when they left him. At that moment a relief party was not far off, as the guides must have known. They heard the shouts of the relief party soon after leaving Mr Borckhardt, and there was, as far as I can see, no pressing reason for their departure. They reached the lower hut at about 5 P.M., and at about the same time a rescue party from Zermatt, which had met them descending, reached Mr Borckhardt, and found him dead, stiff, and quite cold, and partly covered with freshly-fallen snow. No doubt he had succumbed to drowsiness soon after he was left.
"The moral of this most lamentable event is plain. The Matterhorn is not a mountain to be played with; it is not a peak which men ought to attempt until they have had some experience of climbing. Above all, it is not a peak which should ever be attempted except with thoroughly competent guides. In a snowstorm no member of a party should ever be left behind and alone. He will almost certainly fall into a sleep, from which it is notorious that he will never awake. If he will not walk, he must be carried. If he sits down, he must be made to get up. Guides have to do this not unfrequently. A stronger and more experienced party would undoubtedly have reached Zermatt without misfortune. In fact, one party which was on the mountain on the same day did reach Zermatt in good time."
It is fitting that this short, and necessarily incomplete, account of the conquest of the Matterhorn, and events occurring subsequently on it, should conclude with the recital of a magnificent act of heroism performed by Jean-Antoine Carrel, whose name, more than that of any other guide, is associated with the history of the peak. No more striking instance of the devotion of a guide to his employers could be chosen to bring these true tales of the hills to an appropriate end.
I take the account from Scrambles Among the Alps.
"When telegrams came in, at the beginning of September 1890, stating that Jean-Antoine Carrel had died from fatigue on the south side of the Matterhorn, those who knew the man scarcely credited the report. It was not likely that this tough and hardy mountaineer would die from fatigue anywhere, still less that he would succumb upon 'his own mountain.' But it was true. Jean-Antoine perished from the combined effects of cold, hunger, and fatigue, upon his own side of his own mountain, almost within sight of his own home. He started on the 23rd of August from Breuil, with an Italian gentleman and Charles Gorret (brother of the Abbé Gorret), with the intention of crossing the Matterhorn in one day. The weather at the time of their departure was the very best, and it changed in the course of the day to the very worst. They were shut up in the cabane at the foot of the Great Tower during the 24th, with scarcely any food, and on the 25th retreated to Breuil. Although Jean-Antoine (upon whom, as leading guide, the chief labour and responsibility naturally devolved) ultimately succeeded in getting his party safely off the mountain, he himself was so overcome by fatigue, cold, and want of food, that he died on the spot."
Jean-Antoine Carrel entered his sixty-second year in January 1901,[15] and was in the field throughout the summer. On 21st August, having just returned from an ascent of Mont Blanc, he was engaged at Courmayeur by Signor Leone Sinigaglia, of Turin, for an ascent of the Matterhorn. He proceeded to the Val Tournanche, and on the 23rd set out with him and Charles Gorret, for the last time, to ascend his own mountain by his own route. A long and clear account of what happened was communicated by Signor Sinigaglia to the Italian Alpine Club, and from this the following relation is condensed:
"We started for the Cervin at 2.15 A.M. on the 23rd, in splendid weather, with the intention of descending the same night to the hut at the Hörnli on the Swiss side. We proceeded pretty well, but the glaze of ice on the rocks near the Col du Lion retarded our march somewhat, and when we arrived at the hut at the foot of the Great Tower, prudence counselled the postponement of the ascent until the next day, for the sky was becoming overcast. We decided upon this, and stopped.
"Here I ought to mention that both I and Gorret noticed with uneasiness that Carrel showed signs of fatigue upon leaving the Col du Lion. I attributed this to temporary weakness. As soon as we reached the hut he lay down and slept profoundly for two hours, and awoke much restored. In the meantime the weather was rapidly changing. Storm clouds coming from the direction of Mont Blanc hung over the Dent d'Hérens, but we regarded them as transitory, and trusted to the north wind, which was still continuing to blow. Meanwhile, three of the Maquignazs and Edward Bich, whom we found at the hut, returned from looking after the ropes, started downwards for Breuil, at parting wishing us a happy ascent, and holding out hopes of a splendid day for the morrow.
"But, after their departure, the weather grew worse very rapidly; the wind changed, and towards evening there broke upon us a most violent hurricane of hail and snow, accompanied by frequent flashes of lightning. The air was so charged with electricity that for two consecutive hours in the night one could see in the hut as in broad daylight. The storm continued to rage all night, and the day and night following, continuously, with incredible violence. The temperature in the hut fell to 3 degrees.
"The situation was becoming somewhat alarming, for the provisions were getting low, and we had already begun to use the seats of the hut as firewood. The rocks were in an extremely bad state, and we were afraid that if we stopped longer, and the storm continued, we should be blocked up in the hut for several days. This being the state of affairs, it was decided among the guides that if the wind should abate we should descend on the following morning; and, as the wind did abate somewhat, on the morning of the 25th (the weather, however, still remaining very bad) it was unanimously settled to make a retreat.
"At 9 A.M. we left the hut. I will not speak of the difficulties and dangers in descending the arête to the Col du Lion, which we reached at 2.30 P.M. The ropes were half frozen, the rocks were covered with a glaze of ice, and fresh snow hid all points of support. Some spots were really as bad as could be, and I owe much to the prudence and coolness of the two guides that we got over them without mishap.
"At the Col du Lion, where we hoped the wind would moderate, a dreadful hurricane recommenced, and in crossing the snowy passages we were nearly suffocated by the wind and snow which attacked us on all sides.[16] Through the loss of a glove, Gorret, half an hour after leaving the hut, had already got a hand frost-bitten. The cold was terrible here. Every moment we had to remove the ice from our eyes, and it was with the utmost difficulty that we could speak so as to understand one another.
"Nevertheless, Carrel continued to direct the descent in a most admirable manner, with a coolness, ability, and energy above all praise. I was delighted to see the change, and Gorret assisted him splendidly. This part of the descent presented unexpected difficulties, and at several points great dangers, the more so because the tourmente prevented Carrel from being sure of the right direction, in spite of his consummate knowledge of the Matterhorn. At 11 P.M. (or thereabouts, it was impossible to look at our watches, as all our clothes were half frozen) we were still toiling down the rocks. The guides sometimes asked each other where they were; then we went forward again—to stop, indeed, would have been impossible. Carrel at last, by marvellous instinct, discovered the passage up which we had come, and in a sort of grotto we stopped a minute to take some brandy.
"While crossing some snow we saw Carrel slacken his pace, and then fall back two or three times to the ground. Gorret asked him what was the matter, and he said 'nothing,' but he went on with difficulty. Attributing this to fatigue through the excessive toil, Gorret put himself at the head of the caravan, and Carrel, after the change, seemed better, and walked well, though with more circumspection than usual. From this place a short and steep passage takes one down to the pastures, where there is safety. Gorret descended first, and I after him. We were nearly at the bottom when I felt the rope pulled. We stopped, awkwardly placed as we were, and cried out to Carrel several times to come down, but we received no answer. Alarmed, we went up a little way, and heard him say, in a faint voice, 'Come up and fetch me; I have no strength left.'
"We went up and found that he was lying with his stomach to the ground, holding on to a rock, in a semi-conscious state, and unable to get up or to move a step. With extreme difficulty we carried him to a safe place, and asked him what was the matter. His only answer was, 'I know no longer where I am.' His hands were getting colder and colder, his speech weaker and more broken, and his body more still. We did all we could for him, putting with great difficulty the rest of the cognac into his mouth. He said something, and appeared to revive, but this did not last long. We tried rubbing him with snow, and shaking him, and calling to him continually, but he could only answer with moans.
"We tried to lift him, but it was impossible—he was getting stiff. We stooped down, and asked in his ear if he wished to commend his soul to God. With a last effort he answered 'Yes,' and then fell on his back, dead, upon the snow.
"Such was the end of Jean-Antoine Carrel—a man who was possessed with a pure and genuine love of mountains; a man of originality and resource, courage and determination, who delighted in exploration. His special qualities marked him out as a fit person to take part in new enterprises, and I preferred him to all others as a companion and assistant upon my journey amongst the Great Andes of the Equator. Going to a new country, on a new continent, he encountered much that was strange and unforeseen; yet when he turned his face homewards he had the satisfaction of knowing that he left no failures behind him.[17] After parting at Guayaquil in 1880 we did not meet again. In his latter years, I am told, he showed signs of age, and from information which has been communicated to me it is clear that he had arrived at a time when it would have been prudent to retire—if he could have done so. It was not in his nature to spare himself, and he worked to the very last. The manner of his death strikes a chord in hearts he never knew. He recognised to the fullest extent the duties of his position, and in the closing act of his life set a brilliant example of fidelity and devotion. For it cannot be doubted that, enfeebled as he was, he could have saved himself had he given his attention to self-preservation. He took a nobler course; and, accepting his responsibility, devoted his whole soul to the welfare of his comrades, until, utterly exhausted, he fell staggering on the snow. He was already dying. Life was flickering, yet the brave spirit said 'It is nothing.' They placed him in the rear to ease his work. He was no longer able even to support himself; he dropped to the ground, and in a few minutes expired."[18]
I cannot bring this book to a more fitting end than by quoting the closing words of a famous article in The Alpine Journal by Mr C. E. Mathews entitled "The Alpine Obituary." It was written twenty years ago, but every season it becomes if possible more true. May all who go amongst the mountains lay it to heart!
"Mountaineering is extremely dangerous in the case of incapable, of imprudent, of thoughtless men. But I venture to state that of all the accidents in our sad obituary, there is hardly one which need have happened; there is hardly one which could not have been easily prevented by proper caution and proper care. Men get careless and too confident. This does not matter or the other does not matter. The fact is, that everything matters; precautions should be not only ample but excessive.