Treachery in Tibet (21 page)

The two continued their journey, with Sunil now riding on ahead a little way to ensure that they did not stumble into the rearguard of the retreating Khampa troops, whose hoof marks straddled across the track in trampled numbers. They passed, in fact, only two shepherds, tending their scattered sheep up the mountainside. They looked down at Alice in some consternation, but she gave them a cheerful salute and a smile.

That night they made camp without a fire, tethering their horses some way off the track in a little glade and taking it in turns to keep watch. The following day was equally uneventful, although they passed more people, who gazed at them inquisitively but did not harass them. They slept out in the open again and broke camp early the next morning and set off on what Alice felt would be the last lap to the village of Nethang, which Sunil had discovered from talking to passers-by was on the outskirts of Lhasa on the road they were taking.

Alice had felt the need to change her appearance to avoid suspicion, now that they were nearing the capital, for the sight of a European woman on horseback had already caused considerable interest and she did not want to draw overt attention to herself before they had met the man whom she hoped would be their guide. Accordingly, she put a blanket loosely over her head, Tibetan style, with the ends
reaching down and covering, to some extent, her boots and riding breeches. She rubbed red clay onto her face in the manner of Tibetan women and she rode now with downcast gaze. More she felt she could not do.

They reached Nethang on the late afternoon of the third day after leaving the river at Chaksam Chori. It was little more than a hamlet, off the main road, with the usual collection of one-storey, mud and stone dwellings lining the very narrow streets. The smell of yak dung and human excrement hung over the place and Alice wrinkled her nose in disgust.

‘No wonder your uncle took you away,’ she murmured to Sunil.

The boy looked momentarily ashamed. ‘It is a stink, yes,’ he muttered.

Alice felt a sudden sharp pang of doubt. What a risk they had taken! What if Sunil’s uncle no longer lived here and, indeed, had died? They could not ride just blindly into the holy city. They would need some sort of guide. ‘Do you know where Chung Li lives?’ she asked.

‘No. But I find out.’

‘Very well. I think I would only draw attention to us if I came with you now into the village. I will dismount and pull under these trees here, in this gulley, and wait for you. Leave your pony here, too. Please don’t be too long, Sunil. I shall feel exposed without you.’

‘No, memsahib.’

In fact, the boy was away for only ten minutes when he came running back, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

‘I find him! He glad to see me after all these years, though he not recognise me. He happy to meet you but a bit afraid of what lamas do to him if he help us. Come now. He waits.’

Alice blew out her cheeks in relief. ‘Thank goodness. Lead on. I think we should lead the horses and not ride in.’

Chung Li’s house, in fact, was right on the edge of the village, very near where Alice had waited. She was glad to note that it seemed rather more substantial than the dwellings surrounding it, being built of stone and timber and having some sort of second storey. Importantly, however, there was a patch of land at its back, where grazed a pair of goats and where it was possible to leave the ponies.

The old man was waiting for them, his hands folded together and thrust into the capacious sleeves of his old, cotton jacket. He was quite indistinguishable from any of the Tibetan peasants that Alice had seen on her journey so far: his features were wrinkled so that his face looked like a scroll parchment and his hair had been pulled back into a pigtail, Chinese fashion. His eyes remained quite impassive but the wrinkles on his face had fallen into a great grin, as his head bobbed up and down in greeting. Stretched behind him was an equally elderly woman, obviously his wife, and several middle-aged men and women whom Alice presumed were his children. They, too, were smiling and the women had extended their tongues in the Tibetan act of welcome.

The elderly woman now produced a piece of paper from her sleeve and waved it in the air, while talking to Sunil.

The youth turned with an air of pride. ‘This letter from my uncle on your plantation,’ he said. ‘He write to his brother to say that I had gone to join British army in invading Tibet and to tell him to watch for me. They heard army is near but not sure if I was with it.’

‘How splendid,’ said Alice. And she extended her hand to the old man.

At first, he thought she wanted the letter and he snatched it back
from his wife, but Sunil intervened to explain the British way of shaking hands, so he extended his own hand and gave hers a lifeless shake. Alice then, smilingly, shook hands with the whole family.

Old wicker chairs were produced and the guests of honour made to sit while Sunil and his uncle and aunt talked in a kind of sing-song gibberish and the rest of the family squatted on the earthen floor. Then tea was produced, a fine brew that Alice felt no hesitation in nodding to her hosts enthusiastically in thanks, followed by what appeared to be sweetmeats and wrapped in little balls of dough. They, too, were delicious. It appeared that Chung Li, if not exactly rich, was a man of some substance.

‘They say,’ said Sunil, a touch proprietarily, ‘that family is honoured to have such fine English lady in our house. We invited to stay. We eat with them tonight, but no talk business until tomorrow. That is Tibetan custom.’

‘Please say,’ said Alice, inclining her head to the family, ‘that it is I who is honoured to be in their house and to accept their hospitality.’ Then lowering her voice slightly. ‘Do you think he will help us?’

‘Don’t know yet. See in morning.’

‘Very well. Please, Sunil, would you unsaddle the horses and bring our things in. Oh, and ask if there is somewhere I could wash to take this disgusting red stuff off my face. I must try and look a little like an English memsahib.’ And she inclined her head once again and smiled all around.

After the disaster of Major Bretherton’s death, Fonthill’s Mounted Infantry had stayed on the southern bank of the river, so Simon did not receive Alice’s first note until the major part of the column had been transported over onto the other bank, where he was lining up his men in patrol order as the note was handed to him.

He read it quickly and frowned. Why on earth should she undertake the long ride back to Gyantse just to clarify some problems about cabling? Still, at least she was not riding back alone but had the good sense to go with a returning column, so she should be safe enough. He tucked the note away into his jacket and set about organising the patrol.

This was new territory, of course, and it wasn’t so long since he had seen the last of the Khampa warriors crossing and hurling abuse, so maybe they were still there, somewhere up ahead, in ambush, waiting for the column to recommence its stately progress. Accordingly, he
decided to spread his command: one company under Ottley pulling away to the north, away from the riverbank and the second, under his command, to continue on the road to Lhasa, which now followed a tributary of the Tsangpo called Kyi Chu, curling towards the north east.

He had not ridden far when two scouts whom he had sent on galloped in to report that a party of Tibetans, some of them gorgeously apparelled, were riding along the bank of the river towards them. Immediately, he ranged his company out away from the river, in a semicircle, and set them forward at a trot.

The Tibetans soon came in sight and he indicated to Jenkins on the extreme left wing to ride round behind the party and ahead, to ensure that they were not set up as bait to draw his men into a trap. Yet there seemed little cover ahead in which warriors could be hiding and the Welshman soon returned, giving the thumbs up.

Fonthill accordingly rode ahead and greeted the four gorgeously robed lamas in the centre of the group. One of them he immediately recognised as one of the delegates who had parleyed with Younghusband back at Nagartse and he bowed to him. Oh no! Not another durbar.

But so it proved, for the lama courteously bowed his head in acknowledgment and gestured ahead. ‘Lord Younghusband,’ he said, smiling. Simon nodded and, gesturing to Jenkins to hang behind with a section as rearguard, swung his pony’s head round and led the way back along the riverbank towards the crossing.

The army’s crossing of the river was in full flow but Younghusband greeted the lamas with his customary courtesy. The rugs were set out yet again in a hastily erected tent but, as the preparations were being
made, the Commissioner pulled Fonthill to one side and told him of the latest instructions he had received from India.

‘I am to impose an indemnity on the Tibetans towards the costs incurred in mounting this expedition,’ he said, his eyes staring up at the cold mountains, as though speculating on whether there was time to pen an ode to them before he was forced once again to say no to pleas to turn back.

‘How much will you demand?’ asked Simon.

Younghusband shrugged his shoulders and gave his distant smile. ‘I am to be guided by circumstances as to that,’ he said. ‘But it has to be a sum which it is within the power of the Tibetans to pay. I can allow them to pay in instalments but we shall occupy the Chumbi Valley until the instalments are complete.’

‘I suppose that’s fair.’

‘Eminently fair, considering the unprovoked attack they launched on us at Chang Lo.’

Fonthill raised his eyebrows and thought how Alice would have been incensed by the use of the word ‘unprovoked’ but remained silent.

‘The government won’t hear of me demanding the imposition of a permanent agent at Lhasa,’ Younghusband continued, ‘but I can insist on a trade agent being established at Gyantse. So I suppose that’s something.’ He sighed. ‘And now I must hear once again the same arguments about why we should retreat immediately back to India. Stay here, Fonthill, ready to escort this latest lot out of the camp. They will get nothing from me now until we reach Lhasa.’

He gave a smile and patted Fonthill on the back. ‘Last lap, at last, old chap. Last lap, at last.’

Simon stayed to listen to the negotiations once again. As Frank O’Connor introduced the Tibetan delegates, he realised that this was probably the highest level of mediators that Lhasa had sent. In addition to the four Shapés, there were four abbots from the three great monasteries around the capital: Drepung, which housed not less than 7,700 monks, Sera (5,500) and Ganden (3,300). Fonthill marvelled once again at the grip that the religious order had on the country. Via O’Connor’s translation, he heard each abbot reiterate the same plea: that these monks were all restive at the approach of the British and they might well break out and attack the column if it continued its approach.

Younghusband once again sat impassively and listened to every word and once again he repeated that his orders were to enter Lhasa and there to open negotiations with the Tibetan government and that there could be no retreat back over the passes. This time there was no state secretary from Lhasa to sound a belligerent note and smiles and politeness permeated the whole day’s discussion. But the end result was the same: there would be no turning back by the mission.

At the end of the afternoon, after much bowing and smiling, Simon lined up his company of Mounted Infantry and escorted the delegation out of the camp and some seven miles along the riverside road, before he too made his salutations and returned back to the crossing, just as Ottley rode in with his company to report an uneventful patrol. There were no hostile Tibetans in the immediate vicinity of the British column to threaten it while it was vulnerable during the river crossing.

Before setting out again, Younghusband sent a letter to the Dalai Lama. In it he repeated that he must carry out his orders, which were that he must continue his journey to Lhasa. He would withdraw as
soon as a satisfactory treaty had been negotiated there; his troops would not fire unless fired upon, no holy places would be occupied unless they were being used for warlike purposes and all supplies would be paid for. If any resistance was met, however, it would adversely affect the terms of the treaty.

As the last troops were ferried across the Tsangpo, Fonthill had stayed behind talking to Younghusband. Now, before leaving to catch up with his patrol, he scanned through his field glasses to where the road twisted up on the southern bank and disappeared into the mountains. There was no sign of a returning supply train nor, therefore, of Alice. He sighed and turned to overtake the column which was already now beginning its last march on Lhasa.

It was an imposing sight. The soil by the banks of the river was fecund and rich, the weather spring-like and almost warm, birds were singing overhead, despite the dust kicked up by the long column, and the forts that they passed were ruined and deserted. It seemed that the pleasant countryside was empty of all opposition.

Despite the reduction that had taken place in the ranks of the army before leaving Gyantse, the column was still seven miles long. As always, a screen of Mounted Infantry spread out in the van, followed by the actual vanguard of Sikhs and Gurkhas, then the artillery, mounted on mountain mules, and the long line of Fusiliers and supply mounts and camp followers. Right in the middle of the column rode the fragile figure of General Macdonald, head bowed and hunched over the neck of his horse, clearly feeling that he, at least, was riding in the wrong direction.

As Fonthill trotted ahead, to catch up with his two companies of Mounted Infantry, he passed the erect and very different figure cut
by Younghusband who, when on the march, always stayed writing letters or reading poetry until the rearguard began its own march, when he too would then ride gently through the plodding column until he was in the van. He gave a cheering salute to Fonthill and waved him on.

Simon was annoyed to find that, in his view, his Mounted Infantry this morning were not far enough ahead of the army and, once he had caught up with them, he ordered them once again to fan out and put at least five miles between them and the vanguard, to ensure that the main column should not be caught off guard. Then, as an afterthought he ordered Ottley once again to take his company and ride out to the north to protect that flank.

He threw out his orders – not without an obvious trace of ill temper – and settled into his creaking saddle to ride alongside Jenkins, his old companion of so many campaigns.

‘Why, bach sir?’ asked the Welshman. ‘It’s all over bar the shoutin’, ain’t it? Are you expectin’ more trouble, then?’

‘No. But of all the units in this army, this one can’t afford to relax. We’re the column’s eyes and ears and, indeed, the first cushion if it does ride into trouble. But I am beginning to feel that the Tibetans – or at least those big Khampas – are not just going to let us ride quietly and peacefully into their sacred city without putting up one last show.’

Jenkins nodded ruminatively. ‘Why all the fuss about this bleedin’ town, then? What’s so special about it? It’s probably a bit like Rhyl, without the seaside, like.’

‘Well, to the Tibetans, I suppose it’s a bit like Mecca to the Mohammedans, a very sacred place. It’s full of great temples, I
understand, and very few non-Tibetans and hardly any Europeans have seen it. A damned great army of non-believers moving in and camping just outside will seem as if the place will be desecrated. I can understand the point of view, although it is ridiculously old-fashioned and out of place in this twentieth century.’

‘Hmm. Well, at least it’ll be interesting to see it. Something to tell my girls about when I get back.’

Simon gave him a sharp glance. Jenkins now hardly ever mentioned his late wife’s children but there was no doubt that the Welshman – like every man in the army, for that matter – was tired of this long journey over the mountains and into the heart of this strange, mostly barren and hostile country. His customary merry countenance was now seamed and one or two silver streaks were beginning to show through the thick thatch of his black hair. Fonthill suddenly felt an unaccustomed flash of sorrow for his old comrade, who, at fifty-three, was probably the oldest combatant in the column.

‘Absolutely,’ he said, ‘something to tell the children, indeed. Definitely the last lap, 352, and, I hope, the quietest.’

And so the attenuated column with its cavalry eyes and ears far out ahead plodded on. The quietness that Fonthill had hoped for was maintained for the next two days until on the third day, after the river crossing, the Mounted Infantry had been riding for less than an hour, when a dust cloud materialised from the north where Ottley had been patrolling. Simon stood in the stirrups and concentrated his field glasses on the edge of the cloud. At first he could see little, then, as he focussed more carefully, he realised that the cloud was being kicked up by Ottley and his men, who were riding hard towards the rest of the Mounted Infantry.

Were they being pursued or riding back with urgent news? Within minutes Ottley had arrived, he and his company covered in dust.

‘Tibetans,’ he shouted, reining in. ‘The big fellers. They took us by surprise. They’re mounted and coming straight for you.’

‘Are they coming for us or the main column?’

‘For us. And they are moving fast.’

‘Did you sustain casualties?’

‘No. But there were too many of them to tackle so we rode away like hell. They’re right behind us, though.’

‘How many of them?’

‘I’d say about 300 or more.’

Fonthill looked around. There was no cover in the immediate vicinity, apart from the little provided by where the riverbank fell away to the water. He turned to Jenkins.

‘Send two of our best horsemen to gallop right away back to the column. Tell the general that we are about to be attacked by Khampa horsemen and that there may be more Tibetans heading towards him. We will fight them here for there is no time to fall back on the column. Tell the men to ride hard to avoid being cut off. Got that?’

‘Yes, bach sir.’

‘Ottley.’

‘Sir?’

‘I don’t fancy fighting on horseback if we’re to be outnumbered. Dismount the men and get the handlers up and the horses taken down to the river edge, try and find a bank. They’ll get some protection there. Then spread out the men in a crescent with their backs to the river. No firing until I give the order.’

‘Very good, Simon.’

Orders were barked and the two messengers galloped away, back along the riverbank. Fonthill looked back to the north where another and larger dust cloud was nearing fast. Through the field glasses he could see the Khampas clearly now. They were fanning out to cut off his escape back along the riverbank. God – he hoped the two riders would be able to get through!

He withdrew his carbine from its saddle bucket, pulled his sabre from its sheath, dismounted and handed his pony to the handler. Ensuring that the magazine in the carbine was full, he strode to where Ottley was directing the men.

‘Put your company on the right, William,’ he shouted, ‘and command there. I will take the left side. Take out twenty men and have them wait by the riverbank in the middle as a reserve in case the Khampas break through. I will command them. It’ll be carbines now but it could be sabres and kukris later. Good luck, old chap.’

‘And to you, sir.’

Fonthill and Jenkins strode to where the crescent bulged out in the middle and took position among the kneeling men a little to the left of the centre. Seeing that they could not take the British by surprise, the Tibetans had now slowed their ponies to a walk and then they halted just out of range of the Lee Metfords.

Simon looked along the curve of his men. As usual, they looked a completely disreputable bunch: the Sikhs, their turbans kept in place by woollen scarves tied under their chins, looked a head taller than the Gurkhas, whose little pillbox hats poked out incongruously from their
poshteens.
The Sikhs had thrust their sabres into the ground in front of them, the Gurkhas had loosened their sheepskins the better to reach the broad-bladed kukris hanging from their belts.