The Snow Tiger / Night of Error (22 page)

Dr Robert Scott was caught in the avalanche and freakishly survived. He was lucky.

Ralph W. Newman was an American tourist. The ‘W’ in his name stood for Wilberforce, a fact he did not advertise. He had come to Hukahoronui for the skiing, having been led to believe by a man he had met in Christchurch that the slopes were exceptionally good. They may well have been but it takes more than snow on slopes to make a ski resort, and the essentials in Hukahoronui were lacking. There was no chair-lift, no organization and precious little après-ski conviviality. The two-bit dance they held Saturday nights at the hotel was not much of a substitute.

The man he had met in Christchurch who had told him of the charms of Hukahoronui was Charlie Peterson. Newman judged him to be a con man.

He had come to Hukahoronui for the skiing. He had certainly never expected to find himself in the middle of a line of twenty men, holding a long aluminium pole botched up out of a television antenna, and methodically driving it into the snow at the toe of each boot to the rasped commands of a Canadian scientist. It was all very improbable.

The man next to him nudged him and nodded at McGill. ‘That joker would make a bloody good sergeant-major.’

‘You’re right about that,’ said Newman. He felt the probe hit bottom and hauled it out.

‘Think he’s right about this avalanche?’

‘He seems to know what he’s doing. I ran across him up on the slope and he had some scientific gear with him. Said it was for testing snow.’

The other man leaned on his probe. ‘He seems to know what he’s doing down here, too. I’d never have thought of this way of searching. Come to think of it, the subject never entered my mind until half an hour ago.’

The line of men advanced one foot and Newman set his toes against the tautened string. The string slackened and he drove the probe into the snow again. ‘My name’s Jack Haslam,’ said the man. ‘I work at the mine. I’m a stoper.’

Newman didn’t know what a stoper was. He said, ‘I’m Newman.’

‘Where’s your friend?’

‘Miller? I don’t know. He went out early this morning.

‘What’s a stoper?’

Haslam grinned. ‘The chap at the sharp end of a mine. One of the elite. I get the gold out.’

In went the probes again. Newman grunted. ‘If we have to do this for long it’s going to be tiring.’

‘Listen!’ said Haslam. ‘I think I hear a plane.’

They stopped and listened to the drone overhead. Soon the whole line of men had stopped and were staring at the greyness above. ‘Come on!’ called the team leader. ‘Haven’t you heard a plane before?’

The line moved ahead one foot and twenty probes were raised for driving downwards.

Newman worked methodically. Drive down left … haul out … drive down right … haul out … advance one foot … drive down left … haul out … drive down …

A sudden yell from McGill stopped him. There was something in the quality of McGill’s shout that made the hair prickle at the nape of his neck and caused a sudden hollowness in his belly.

‘Take cover!’ shouted McGill. ‘Take cover right now! You’ve got less than thirty seconds.’

Newman ran towards the place that had been allotted to him in case of emergency. His boots crunched crisply on the
snow as he ran to the cluster of rocks, and he was aware of Haslam at his elbow. McGill was still shouting hoarsely as they reached the rocks.

Haslam grabbed Newman by the arm. ‘This way.’ He led Newman to a cranny not more than two feet wide and three feet high. ‘In here.’

Newman crawled inside and found himself in a small cave. Haslam was breathing heavily when he hauled himself in. Between gasps he said, ‘Used to play in here when I was a kid.’

Newman grunted. ‘Thought you miners all came from outside.’ He felt apprehensive. This was a silly time and place for inconsequential conversation.

More men came through the narrow hole until seven of them were jammed in the small cave. It was a tight fit. One of them was Brewer, the team leader, who said, ‘Quiet, everyone!’

They heard a distant shouting which suddenly cut off, and then a faint faraway thread of noise difficult to interpret because it was like nothing any of them had heard before. Newman checked his watch. It was dark in the cave but he peered at the luminous second hand as it marched steadily around the dial. ‘Must be more than thirty seconds.’

The air quivered imperceptibly and the noise grew a little louder. Suddenly there was a violent howl and air was sucked out of the cave. Newman choked and fought for breath and was thankful that the suction ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

The live rock underneath him quivered and there was a thunderous drumming noise overhead, deafening in its intensity. The air in the cave filled with fine particles of snow which settled everywhere. More and more snow came in and began to build up thickly about the tangle of huddled bodies.

The noise grew louder and Newman thought his eardrums would split.

Someone was shouting. He could not make out the words but, as the sound eased, he knew it was Brewer. ‘Keep it out! Keep the bloody snow out!’

The men nearest the entrance scrabbled with their hands but the snow came swirling in faster and faster, much more quickly than they could cope with. ‘Cover your mouths,’ shouted Brewer, and Newman brought his arm across his face with difficulty because of the restricted space.

He felt the snow build up about him, cold but dry. Finally, what space in the cave not occupied by bodies was filled completely with snow.

The noise stopped.

Newman kept still, breathing deeply and evenly. He wondered how long he could go on breathing like that – he did not know if air could penetrate the snow mass. Presently he sensed someone stirring and he made a tentative movement himself.

He was able to push with his arm and found that by pushing he could compress the snow into a smaller volume and thus make a bigger air space. From what seemed a hundred miles away he heard a faint voice and he stopped moving so that he could listen. ‘Can anyone hear me?’

‘Yes,’ he shouted. ‘Who are you?’

‘Brewer.’

It seemed pretty silly that you had to shout at the top of your voice to a man not many feet away. ‘Newman here,’ he yelled. He remembered that Brewer had been nearest to the cave entrance. ‘Can you get out?’

There was a pause and presently he heard another voice.

‘Anderson here.’

Brewer called, ‘Not a chance. There’s a lot of snow outside.’

Newman was busy clearing a space. He pushed the powdery snow away, plastering it on the rock wall of the cave. He shouted to tell Brewer what he was doing, and Brewer told everybody else to get busy and do the same. He also asked them to call out their names.

Newman was aware of the dead weight of Haslam next to him. Haslam had not moved or made a sound. He put his hand out and groped for Haslam’s face and found his cheek. Still Haslam did not move, so Newman pinched the flesh between thumb and forefinger very sharply. Haslam remained inert.

‘There’s a guy called Haslam here,’ he said. ‘He’s unconscious.’

Now that there was increased air space there was no need to shout. Brewer said, ‘Wait a minute. I’m trying to get my torch from my pocket.’ There were gasping sounds in the darkness and the wriggling of contorted bodies, then suddenly a beam of light shot out.

Newman blinked, then turned to Haslam. He moved his hand and pointed. ‘Shine that light here.’ He bent over Haslam, and Brewer crawled forward with the light. Newman felt for Haslam’s wrist pulse but could detect no movement so he leaned down and pressed his ear against Haslam’s chest. When he lifted his head he turned towards the light. ‘I think the guy’s dead.’

‘How can he be dead?’ demanded Brewer.

‘Give me the light.’ Newman shone it on Haslam’s face which was leaden grey. ‘He didn’t die of asphyxiation, that’s for sure. I’ve seen that and he’s the wrong colour. He’d be purple.’

‘There’s snow in his mouth,’ said Brewer.

‘Yeah.’ Newman passed back the light and put his finger in Haslam’s mouth. ‘But not much. Not enough to stop him breathing. Can you guys give me some room? I’m going to try the kiss of life.’

Room was made with difficulty. ‘Maybe he died of shock,’ someone suggested.

Newman breathed air into Haslam’s lungs and then pumped his chest. He kept it up for a long time but Haslam did not react. All that happened was that his body became colder. After fifteen minutes Newman stopped. ‘No good. He’s gone.’ He turned his head to Brewer. ‘Better switch off that light. It won’t last forever.’

Brewer snapped off the light and there was darkness and silence, each man occupied with his own thoughts. At last Newman said, ‘Brewer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Nobody is going to find us with probes – not in this cave. How much snow do you reckon is out there?’

‘Hard to tell.’

‘We’d better find out. It looks as though we’ll have to save ourselves.’ Newman groped about and found Haslam’s hat which he placed over the dead man’s face. It was a futile but human gesture there in the darkness. He remembered Haslam’s last words –
Used to play in here when I was a kid.
It was too goddamn ironic to be true.

There were six men jammed in that narrow cleft in the rock: Newman, Brewer, Anderson, Jenkins, Fowler and Castle.

And the dead man – Haslam.

Turi Buck was coping remarkably well with the influx of children. The house under the great rock of Kamakamaru was large – too large now that his family had grown up and gone out into the world – and he welcomed the bustle and clamour. He relished less the glacial eye of Miss
Frobisher, the schoolteacher who accompanied the children. There is something about schoolteaching in isolated communities which tends to acidulate the feminine temperament and Miss Frobisher had a high acid content. Turi listened to her comments which tended to a criticism of the civil authorities, the stupidity of men, and other cognate matters. He took her measure and thereafter ignored her.

His daughter-in-law, who was his housekeeper, and his granddaughter were occupied in laying out bedding and allocating quarters for the horde of noisy small fry. This was woman’s work and they would brook no interference, so Turi went to the back of the house to see how the emergency generator was to be installed.

Jock McLean, the mechanical engineer from the mine, was a Scot from the Clyde. He tapped the toe of his boot on the level area of concrete where the lines for hanging laundry were suspended from steel poles. ‘And how thick is this, Mr Buck?’

‘My name is Turi, and the concrete is six inches thick. I laid it myself.’

‘Good. We drill four holes for the foundation bolts an’ anchor ’em wi’ masonry plugs. We don’t want this thing shiftin’.’

‘How are you going to drill the holes?’ queried Turi. ‘We have no power.’

McLean jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Air compressor wi’ an air drill.’

Turi looked down at the concrete and shook his head. ‘Not there. Can your drill make holes in rock?’

‘Wi’ a diamond drill I can go through armour plate.’

Turi pointed. ‘Then put the machine over there. Fasten it to the rock.’

McLean stared at the old man, and smiled. ‘I think six inches o’ concrete should hold her,’ he said tolerantly.

‘Have you been in an avalanche, Mr McLean?’ asked Turi softly.

‘People call me Jock.’ McLean shook his head. ‘We didna’ have them in the Gorbals – not when I was a laddie there forty years gone by. Maybe at Aviemore.’

‘I have been in an avalanche. I have dug dead bodies from the snow.’ Turi nodded his head towards the north. ‘Just over there – about two hundred yards away. Put your machine on the rock.’

McLean scratched his head. ‘Are they as bad as that?’

‘When the avalanche comes it will be worse than anything you have ever known in your life.’

‘I doubt it,’ said McLean. ‘I went ashore at Anzio.’

‘I also have been in a war,’ said Turi. ‘Possibly a worse war than yours. I was in Flanders in 1918. When the avalanche comes it will be worse than that.’

‘Aye, well.’ McLean looked about. ‘We’ll have to find a flat bit o’ rock an’ that willna’ be easy.’ He strode away, his eyes roving. At last he thumped with his heel. ‘It’s flat enough here. This’ll do.’

Turi walked over and stood on the place which McLean marked. He looked up at Kamakamaru and shook his head. ‘This is not the place.’

‘An’ why not?’ demanded McLean.

‘In 1912 my father had a workshop here. It was built very strongly because my father believed in building strongly. When the snow came down that winter the workshop vanished. We never found so much as a brick.’ He pointed. ‘I believe that when the wind comes, followed by the powder, there is an eddy here. This place is not safe.’

‘You’re a cheery soul,’ said McLean. ‘What about over there, right under the rock?’

‘That would do,’ said Turi gravely. ‘In 1912 I had some rabbits in a hutch there. The hutch wasn’t strongly made
because my father didn’t make it – I did. But the rabbits were unharmed.’

‘Well I’ll be damned!’ said McLean. ‘Let’s go an’ see what the footin’ is like.’