by John Wilcox
‘Hell, darling,’ Simon snorted. ‘There were about a hundred of them surrounding us. We could have been overwhelmed at any time. I couldn’t act like some damned funeral director. Now,’ he frowned. ‘Speaking of funerals, we have had some news from South Africa. Bad news, I fear.’ And he handed over Jenkins’s letter.
She read it in silence but a tear slid down her cheek as she folded it and handed it back. ‘She was a lovely, brave girl,’ she said, sniffing. ‘I am just sorry that dear old 352 couldn’t have had longer with her. He must come here, of course – and he must bring the children with him.’ Her eyes lit up. Their only child had died in childbirth some years before and they were resigned to being childless now. ‘It would be wonderful—’ Then she stopped. ‘Ah, but not now. I don’t think we would be able …’ She tailed away again and she fumbled in her bag. ‘I have a letter, too, my love, which affects everything. Here.’
Fonthill sat back in the chair and read Curzon’s letter. Then he looked up, sipped his tea and reread it. He folded it absent-mindedly and looked steadily at his wife.
‘You won’t want me to go, will you?’ he asked.
‘I would rather you didn’t, for all kinds of reasons: your age, the terrain – darling, this expedition – no, this invasion – will be attempting to cross the Himalyas in winter, in midwinter, dammit, and of course the obvious danger. But if you do decide to go, there will be one good thing about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am going anyway, to report on it for The Morning Post.’
‘What! Don’t be ridiculous.’
Calmly, she withdrew a cable from from her handbag and handed it to him. He read aloud:
AGREE YOU ACCOMPANY TIBET MISSION STOP AM ARRANGING WITH C-IN-C YOUR ACCREDITATION STOP STAY OUT OF DANGER STOP REPEAT STAY OUT OF DANGER STOP. REGARDS BAXTER EDITOR STOP
Simon blew out his cheeks. ‘The bloody fool! How can you stay out of danger on an armed invasion! The Tibetans are bound to resist. Of course you cannot go.’
Alice smiled sweetly. ‘And you will go, my love …?’
Fonthill squirmed slightly in his chair. ‘I really think I must. This is a direct appeal to me to help. Reading between the lines, I think Curzon would like me, as his representative, to be some sort of smoothing influence between this chap Younghusband and the Brigadier, Macdonald, if things go a bit wrong between them. Bring my … er … experience to bear and so forth …’ he tailed away. ‘But look here, Alice, we have had this debate so many times. You are the best and bravest war correspondent, irrespective of gender, in all of the world, but, my darling, this campaign would be just one too far for you, I fear. Some of these passes are … what? … 14,000 feet up and, as you say, we would have to forge through them in midwinter, and probably in the face of quite fierce opposition. A woman has no place in that sort of territory. You would be, damn it all, you would be, well,’ he coughed, ‘an embarrassment.’
A silence fell on the room broken only by a shrill call in Hindi in the distance.
Alice spoke eventually, in icy tones. ‘An embarrassment, eh? How strange, but I don’t remember you using that word when I materialised out of that bloody desert in the Sudan to rescue you and Jenkins from the Mahdi. If I remember rightly, you were rather glad to see me.’
‘Ah yes, well. Now, don’t be silly, darling, that was different. You know. The temperature here is bound to drop below zero, I would think, and we will be under canvas. You would be … ahem … we would be the oldest people there. Even the senior officers will be younger. Think about it, darling. You were younger in the Sudan …’
Alice slapped the table and sent the tea cups rattling. ‘And so were you, Simon. I am damned if I am going to stay here growing bloody tea while you invade Tibet. I am going with you and that’s the end of it.’
The two sat scowling at each other until, eventually, Simon could no longer stop the smile from creeping across his face. He rose, bent down, kissed her and resumed his seat resignedly. ‘Why do I always lose these damned arguments?’ he asked of the ceiling. ‘I don’t know why I start arguing, I really don’t.’
Alice returned the smile and, leaning across, squeezed his knee. ‘A woman is always right, darling. Always. What about 352’s letter?’
Simon’s reluctant smile was replaced for a moment by a frown. ‘Terrible news about Nandi,’ he said. ‘I was very fond of her. Very fond.’ Then his face brightened. ‘But 352 must come with us. In fact, I wouldn’t dream of going without him. He’ll want to come, of course. Reading between the lines again, I reckon that he may well tire of farming on the veldt – particularly now that Nandi’s gone.’
‘And I have a feeling, my darling,’ Alice’s smile betrayed a little cynicism, ‘that you are just as tired of growing tea in these hills. Am I right?’
Simon shrugged. ‘I have to say, that I am even more certain than ever that I am not really cut out to be a farmer, whether it is pushing up wheat in dear old Norfolk or trying to persuade tea plants to poke their heads above the dust here.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Jackson up the valley has had his eye on this plantation, ever since we bought it. We’ve made improvements here. I reckon I could persuade him to take it on, if I don’t ask the world for it. And, darling, as you know, we don’t need the money.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I have another thought.’
‘Yes?’
‘This young fellow I have discovered. The one who came up into the forest with me, chasing the Nagas …’
‘What about him?’
‘We could take him with us. We shall need a servant – dear old 352 is a bit long in the tooth to look after both of us now – and he would be ideal. I understand that, although he was brought up in the south, he is, in fact, Tibetan and speaks the language and knows the mountains. And he is as brave as a lion.’
‘Good idea. How much time do we have?’
Simon consulted Curzon’s letter. ‘No precise date fixed for the beginning of the march into Tibet but he speaks of mid December – only five weeks or so away.’ He read on silently. ‘But he makes the point that, as this is very short notice for me, I could join the expedition a little later, before it penetrates deeply into Tibet. Good. That will give us time to pack up here, for 352 to sail across the Indian Ocean and for me to meet him in Bombay and bring him back here.’
Alice beamed across at her husband. ‘The three of us off on campaign again, my love? What a refreshing thought. Do we have any champagne left in the cellar? I think we need – and deserve – a drink.’
CHAPTER THREE
Just five weeks later, a strange quartet rode wearily into the army camp at Gnatong, some twelve miles over the border into Tibet itself. In the lead rode Simon Fonthill, his rather awkward seat in the saddle reflecting not only the long journey they had just completed but also the fact that he had never been entirely happy on horseback. He wore a wide-brimmed canvas hat, a long woollen riding coat and jackboots. Alice rode behind, equally muffled against the cold and her swaying body moving sympathetically with that of her mount. Then came Sunil, riding a small pony, his black head protruding from the top of what appeared to be a blanket and his face alive with curiosity as he took in the strange sights all around him.
Bringing up the rear rode 352 Jenkins, leading their laden pack mule. It was clear that he was quite at home on horseback, although he cut a strange figure, for he was obviously short – perhaps some 5ft 4 ins in height – but looking almost as wide as he was tall. It was equally obvious, however, that he was immensely powerful. Even so, it had become clear to Simon and Alice, meeting him again after almost two years, that this was a slimmer and undoubtedly older Jenkins, for slivers of silver showed through the jet-black hair that stood up from his skull like a broom bottom. He now looked around him with contempt curling the great black moustache that spread under his nose like some dead rodent.
‘Blimey,’ he called out, ‘this place is nothin’ but a transit camp, look you.
If it’s a town it’s one without ’ouses. Nothin’ but army tents. Like Aldershot without the bleedin’ glass ’ouse, see. Oh, sorry for the language, Miss Alice. Bein’ on me own ’as made me a bit rough, see.’
Alice sighed. ‘If you think that your bleedin’ bad language is going to shock me, 352, after all these years, then you are mistaken. I am no debutante sitting on the stairs at the hunt ball – and anyway, I was always an army daughter, if you remember.’ Then her frown turned into a smile as she turned round to look at him. ‘But, bad language or not, it’s wonderful to be with you again, 352. It really is.’
Jenkins looked abashed. Unaccustomed to compliments, he nodded and glared upwards along the trail that wound out of the little settlement to where it climbed into the mountain vastness ahead of them: the first outriders of Tibet’s natural defences.
Fonthill turned back to them and jerked his head over his shoulder. ‘That’s the Jelep La,’ he called. ‘The pass is just over 14,000 feet high. That’s where Younghusband and Macdonald and a whole damned army have gone.’
He looked around him. Apart from perhaps twenty or so rough huts, Gnatong had indeed become an army camp. Khaki tents stretched out onto the arid plain and the place was a-bustle with pack ponies, yaks, bullocks and mules, all being herded into separate enclosures by handlers, while other coolies stacked sacks and wooden boxes marked ‘Ammunition – Handle with Care’ nearby. Grazing fodder was being pitchforked into piles and firewood tied into bundles ready for loading. A handful of sapper NCOs were vainly trying to apply some sort of order, while even fewer officers observed the scene and stamped their feet to restore circulation. The sun shone from a cloudless sky but it was cold.
‘Bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ muttered Jenkins, ‘if it’s as parky as this down ’ere, what’s it goin’ to be like at that Jallopie Laa place up there? ’Ow ’igh did you say it was?’
‘About 14,000 feet, I am told. But it gets even higher on the road to Lhasa. Something like 17,000 at a place called Karo La.’ He grinned. ‘Glad you joined, 352?’
‘Oh instat, egstiteted …’
‘Ecstatic?’ prompted Alice.
‘That’s what I said. Let’s find somewhere where I can put the kettle on.’
They trotted on until Fonthill found an officer who led them to where they could pitch their tents – one housing Alice and Simon and a second for Jenkins and Sunil – in the lee of a small wooden building that gave some protection from the wind. Then, while Jenkins and Sunil erected the tents and Alice sought kindling for a fire, Simon set off in search of the officer commanding the post.
He found him, a tired-looking major, huddled in a bell tent behind a trestle table piled with requisition orders and what appeared to be tables of loading weights. The man jumped to his feet when Fonthill introduced himself.
‘Glad to see you have made it safely from Siliguri, sir,’ he said. ‘I was told to expect you.’
Simon pulled up a camp stool. ‘There were no problems for us, Major. The way ahead was as plain as a pikestaff. It was clear that a bloody great army – or so it seemed – had tramped on before us.’
The Major smiled wistfully. ‘Not as great as all that, actually, sir. But big enough to cause us all problems.’ He jerked his head to the north-east. ‘Trouble is that everything has to be carried in from the railhead at Siliguri and then loaded up here again and sent up there, higher into the mountains proper. Suitably guarded, of course.’
He sighed. ‘There is no fodder up there above the treeline and no damned fuel for fires, either, so everything has to be carried on the backs of our animals, coolies and even the soldiers themselves. What’s more, to get here, everything has had to come through the Tista Valley where anthrax, rinderpest and foot and mouth disease are rampant. We have already lost God knows how many animals from them eating aconite, a sort of poisonous plant known back home as monkshood or wolfsbane.’ He shook his head.
Fonthill frowned. ‘And all this before we meet any opposition from the Tibetans?’
‘Exactly. We’ve seen nothing of them so far.’
‘Hmmm. We are hoping to leave and start the big climb tomorrow. Is there a pack train due to go then?’
‘Oh yes. It will leave at dawn. I do suggest you go along with it. It is not easy going by any means. The column will have stamped down the snow at the top but the trail is covered in packed ice and it’s as slippery as all hell. You will have to lead your horses. Do any of you suffer from mountain sickness?’
Simon wrinkled his nose. ‘Yes, I’ve been worried about that. But all three of us have roughed it high up in Afghanistan and the Hindu Kush without trouble …’
The Major shook his head. ‘Not the same. The route to Gyantse is much higher. And …’ he blew out his cheeks, ‘if we have to go on to Lhasa – which everyone wants to, of course – we shall have to cross just under the peak of the Nojin Kang and that’s a happy 24,000 feet, although the pass ain’t quite that high, thank goodness.’
‘Good heavens. What’s the antidote to mountain sickness?’
‘You will have to ask the medics but from what I have heard the best thing is to take phenacetin with brandy and purgatives, but,’ he grinned ruefully, ‘it ain’t exactly easy to carry out normal bodily functions at that height in that cold. You don’t want to have to chip ice off your arse, so to speak. Obviously, the most efficient antidote is to get down to lower altitudes as quickly as possible. But that’s not easy either. The answer is probably to hang on until you are acclimatised. I presume that you have got snow goggles with you?’
‘Yes, and we picked up the warmest clothing we could find back in Siliguri.’ Fonthill hitched his stool forward. ‘Major, I would be most grateful if you could tell me what sort of force Younghusband and Macdonald have taken with them up into the mountains. It would help me to do my job if I had all the facts.’
The Major looked at him quizzically. He was obviously going to ask ‘and what sort of job would that be?’ but thought better of it. Which was just as well, mused Fonthill, because he was still not completely sure what his duties would be.
‘Certainly, sir. Right. Now,’ he pulled a closely printed long piece of paper towards him. ‘Let’s take the load-bearers first. There are just over 10,000 coolies that are going in relays up to the column and back and, let’s see …’ he added quickly, ‘and just under 18,000 pack animals, ranging from mules to yaks, and even taking in,’ he looked up and grinned, ‘138 bloody buffaloes, would you believe.’
Simon returned the grin. ‘Yes, having looked around outside, I would believe. ‘Do you think all of those animals will survive this first climb up to Jelep La?’
‘Wouldn’t think so for a minute. But we are summoning all of the pack animals we can find in the whole of Bengal, Nepal and Sikkim and even further afield. They are not all conditioned to working at those altitudes, you see, and we have just got to suck it and see, so to speak. Apart from that, even the mules have been slipping on the ice and plunging down God knows how many feet to their deaths.’ He shook his head. ‘No army has had to advance and fight at these heights and in these conditions before. It is going to be touch and go, I am afraid.’
‘Hmmm. What about the fighting men. The escort?’
The Major consulted his sheet again. ‘At the moment, some 1,150 soldiers, with four guns and two Maxims. Do you want the breakdown?’
‘If you please.’
‘Right. There is one section of the 7th Mountain Battery, with two ten-pounder screw guns …’
‘Ah, splendid in the mountains but pretty lightweight if we have to pound down rock defences. Anything heavier?’
‘’Fraid not. There are two seven-pounders manned by the 8th Gurkhas.’ He grinned. ‘They’re about as old as the late Queen and they are called Bubble and Squeak. Beautiful antiques but not more than that, I would say.’
‘Lord! Go on: infantry?’
‘Six companies of 8th Gurkhas …’
‘Splendid chaps. Couldn’t be
better. Fought with them in Afghanistan under Roberts and then along the Khyber in the Pathan Rebellion, some years ago.’
The Major lifted his eyebrows. He had not been quite sure about Fonthill’s background but it was clear that the fit-looking middle-aged civilian sitting before him was a man of some experience. He nodded. ‘Quite agree, sir. First-class fighting men. The Indian army couldn’t exist without them.’
‘I presume there are more?’
‘Oh indeed, yes. There are eight companies of the 23rd Sikh Pioneers.’
Fonthill nodded but frowned. ‘Essential in this territory, of course, but not exactly fighting men.’
‘Oh, I think you would be surprised, sir. They have a good fighting record, as well as being fine swingers of a shovel.’ He consulted his list again. ‘Then we have a half company of sappers and miners, the usual backup specialists: field hospital wallahs, field engineers, telegraph and postal detachments. Oh – and a machine gun attachment of the 1st Battalion of the Norfolk Regiment.’
Fonthill jerked back his head. ‘Are these the only white troops?’
‘Afraid so, sir. But this is only the first contingent, don’t forget. Depending on what opposition we meet, we are bringing up reinforcements from Bengal to stand by at the border.’
‘Hmmm. I should think so.’ He leant back on the stool. ‘Everyone thinks that the Tibetans are not a militaristic race, just because it is a society dominated by religion and the monks and lamas. But, don’t forget they invaded Sikkinese territory back in ’86 and it took quite an effort, I remember, to dislodge them. By the sound of it, ours is not exactly a meticulously prepared invading army.’
‘Quite so, sir. But, as I say, so far so good. There has been no opposition so far.’
‘Good. Let’s hope it stays that way. Thank you for your help. We will join the pack train tomorrow morning.’
‘One more thing, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘It is a little brisk down here, although not too bad in the sun. And the valley up ahead is not unpleasant. But up in the mountains the temperature will plummet.’ He pulled a chit towards him and began to scribble. ‘You say you found some garments back at the railhead but you will need the best protection there is.’ He looked up. ‘How many are you?’
