by John Wilcox
‘It’s called Yamdrok So, or the Turquoise Lake,’ explained O’Connor to Fonthill. He pointed. ‘See the way the white sand shows through as the shore is reached and then the water deepens to that lovely half-blue half-green colour? I wouldn’t mind betting that we are the first Europeans to see this lake since the Jesuits came this way centuries ago.’
A little ahead of the lake and immediately in their path, the trail was dominated by the fort of Nagartse and here, much to everyone’s chagrin, another Tibetan delegation rode out to meet the column. Once again it was led by the Ta Lama and the still adversarial Grand Secretary. This time, however, the Gyantse team was reinforced by the Yuthok Shapé, one of the four state councillors from Lhasa.
Once again, the ceremonial rugs were laid on the floor of a large tent and hopes of the Yuthok Shapé’s placatory and conciliatory interventions winning the day were crushed by the Grand Secretary’s aggressive rejection of every point offered by Younghusband. The parley lasted for seven long hours, most of which Fonthill observed from a chair behind the Commissioner.
His main admiration during the long day was for O’Connor, who translated once again. Later, he reported to Alice.
‘It was mind-numbing,’ he said. ‘The Tibetans seem to have no idea of logic or of the niceties of diplomacy. Poor old O’Connor had to strain his ears to catch the mumblings of each delegate, who, in turn, simply repeated exactly what had been said by the previous speaker in the delegation. It was, in effect, a low, continuous gabble with absolutely nothing new being said. It was as if the durbar at Gyantse and the attack on the fort had never taken place.’
Alice was scribbling. ‘What about Younghusband?’ she asked.
‘Oh, he sat like some implacable Bhudda, no expression crossing his face. I must say I admired his patience and courtesy. But, of course, he gave nothing away, repeating all that had been said before about the frontier transgressions and so on, and saying that we needed a new treaty, confirming a closer relationship between our two countries. It was all another waste of time. Nothing came of it at all.’
During the enforced stay at Nagartse, rumours reached the staff that Macdonald had once again written to Younghusband – written, his tent was only 200 yards from that of the Commissioner! – expressing his doubts about advancing on Lhasa and requesting confirmation of the need to do so. But Younghusband, it seemed, was firm. The mission would advance on Lhasa and if any opposition was offered to its passage the General would be expected to overcome it.
And so the mission plodded on, marching along the shores of the beautiful Yamdrok So, passing another dilapidated fortress before the route led them up to the Kamba La, which, at 15,400 feet, was the last pass on the road to Lhasa. Trouble was expected here but, once again, it proved to offer no obstacles, either from the Tibetans or from the weather, for the lake was already 14,400 feet above sea level and so the climb was comparatively short-lived. Below them ran the Tsangpo river, running through a valley much lusher and more fertile than any the troops had set their eyes on in Tibet.
The descent to it was as precipitous as any so far encountered, for the column was forced to march down into the valley along a zigzag track which descended 3,000 feet in five miles. This, however, was summer and the descent lacked any of the ice-fuelled perils that the troops had met earlier.
For the first couple of 1,000 feet the march down was through the usual bleak, grey, black, rocky hillside, after which the wood line was reached, which was welcome for it meant that firewood was plentiful. Then as the troops came into the open the most glorious sight met their eyes: thick green crops through which the yellow river meandered and large prosperous-looking villages and monasteries dotted along the riverbank, offering the prospect of good grazing for the animals and grain from the holy buildings.
Even Jenkins walked along – albeit close to the cliff face – singing the praises of the view. Not so General Macdonald, whose condition had now worsened, for dysentery was now suspected and he had to be carried down the winding track in a dhoolie. It was whispered again that it was his indisposition that had coloured his reluctance, expressed at Nagartse, to continue the advance to Lhasa.
The Tsangpo, however, presented a different problem. It was wide, yellow-looking and turbulent and it had to be crossed. Fonthill and his horsemen ranged on ahead to secure the crossing some ten miles upstream at a place called Chaksam, ‘the Iron Bridge’, at a place where the river was at its narrowest. They were just in time to see a last load of hard-fighting Khampa warriors, the remnants of the retreating Tibetan rearguard, disembarking on the far side and crying out in derision in the heavy rain at their belated pursuers.
For the bridge, an ancient – at least six centuries old, it was rumoured – suspension affair, made of old iron chains and slats of wood, could obviously not be relied upon for a safe crossing. The main method was clearly a ferry consisting of two large rectangular boats, each capable, thought Ottley, of holding a hundred men or at least twenty mules. But these had been left on the far northern side by the retreating Khampa soldiers.
Fonthill turned and shouted an order. At last, there was a role to be played by the four Berthon, canvas and wood, folding-boats that had been brought from India for just such an occasion as this. They were brought up and, with much shouting and jocularity, assembled on the riverbank. Then, as the last of the Khampas disappeared into the distance, the boats were crewed and rowed to the other side, while the rest of Fonthill’s men covered them from the riverbank. So the ferries were seized, but how to get them to the southern bank? Crewing them seemed to be a skilled business.
The riverside village, Chaksam Chori, had its statutory monastery a little further upstream. Fonthill stood in the stirrups and studied it. It seemed empty but then he caught a glimpse of movement on its walls.
‘William,’ he called to Ottley. ‘Take six men and flush out the abbot from the monastery. I bet you will also find the ferrymen hiding there. Be sharp. We don’t want to keep the main column waiting when it comes up.’
Ottley rode away and within fifteen minutes had returned, ushering a flustered-looking monk and twenty desperately frightened river boatmen.
‘Tell them,’ ordered Fonthill to a Tibetan that they had brought with them from Gyantse as interpreter, ‘that they will each have twenty rupees if they will cross and bring the ferries back.’
Much heated conversation ensued until the interpreter shrugged his shoulders and turned back to Simon. ‘They don’t go,’ he said. ‘They frightened that if they work for you their own people kill them.’
Fonthill drew his pistol slowly from its holster. ‘Very well. Tell them that I will undoubtedly shoot every one of them now, if they do not fetch those boats.’
The effect was immediate and the ferrymen rushed to climb into the collapsible boats, with a rifleman in each to ensure that they did not run away once on the far bank. Within minutes both of the ferries had been brought back and safely moored on the southern bank.
Simon immediately ordered the abbot – happy now to be of any assistance – to fetch some chung, local beer, and ten sheep from the monastery. He then distributed the beer and sheep to the ferrymen and also paid them twenty rupees each. Suddenly, all was sweetness and light and the Tibetans immediately produced coracle skin boats from hiding places on the riverbank, which, as they demonstrated, proved admirable shelters from the consistent rain for the horsemen who had travelled light and therefore had no tents to provide shelter for the night.
Jenkins flicked the rain from his glistening moustache. ‘Ain’t it amazin’ what a bit of a threat backed up by love an’ kindness can do,’ he observed. ‘Let’s feed the ponies an’ then find ourselves a nice little dry boat to crawl under and drink some of that awful bloody beer.’
It was a wet and miserable night for them all, despite the coracles, but the rain eased a little in the morning and Fonthill was able to cross his men over the river in the ferry boats soon after dawn to establish a bridgehead on
the far bank just as the main column came up.
The ferry boats were put into use for the main crossing straight away, but it proved to be slow work, for the river had to be crossed in two stages: first from the south bank to a sandbank in midstream, using the ferry boats, then in the yak-skin coracles to cross a shallower side channel to the far bank.
To speed things up, the engineers were able to throw a steel cable across the river and, at the same time, Major Bretherton, the column’s transport officer, experimented with lashing together the Berthon boats underneath a wooden platform. Then, with another officer, Captain Moore, seven Gurkhas and two Indian camp followers, he boarded the makeshift raft and attempted the crossing.
It looked perilous and so it proved. Halfway across and before they had reached the sandbank, a strong eddy caught the craft and it upended, tipping all of the men into the surging water. Moore and five of the Gurkhas were able to reach the riverbank, but Bretherton and the remaining men, laden with packs and rifles, were swept away and drowned.
This took place while the whole column and the journalists, including Alice, were watching. Immediately a groan went up from the watchers, for Bretherton had proved to be one of the most popular officers in the whole expedition, always working to relieve the strain on his men and to think of innovative schemes to hasten the progress of the column.
Later, Alice sat sipping one of Jenkins’s cups of scalding tea in the tiny, one-woman bivouac tent that she used on the march, Simon just able to crawl in and crouch beside her.
‘Watching that lovely man drown was the tipping point for me,’ she muttered into her cup.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Surely there has been enough killing on this disgraceful invasion of a hitherto peaceful country without having an accident of this kind – just because we must press on to bloody Lhasa at all cost.’
Simon looked at her sharply. They had had little opportunity to be together on these latter stages of the march, for he was consistently out riding ahead of the main column. On the rare occasions that they met, however, he had found her withdrawn, preoccupied and reluctant to talk very much.
‘Oh come on, Alice,’ he said now. ‘You know as well as I do that these things happen on campaign. This is a war, after all – albeit a one-sided, most peculiar one – and accidents happen under pressure. And we are on the last lap now, not far from Lhasa and I am not at all sure that the Tibetans will try and stop us now.’
‘Really?’ She sniffed. ‘What about those tough so-and-sos, the Khampas, or whatever they are called, who you said shouted at you when you arrived on the riverbank? It looks as though they haven’t given up yet.’
Fonthill shrugged. ‘Who’s to know? But I can’t see Younghusband stopping now. We have all come so far. He wants his treaty, you know.’
‘To hell with his treaty.’ Alice leant and threw the dregs from her tin cup out into the rain. ‘Forgive me, my love, but I am very tired. I know it’s early. Would you mind if I turned in now?’
‘Of course not.’ Her husband leant across and kissed her quickly. ‘We’re both a bit old for this game now, I think, darling. And you just a poor, vulnerable woman out in this freezing cold and wet. Tuck in and get a good night’s sleep.’
But Alice did not. When she was sure that Simon had retreated to his own bivouac with Jenkins and his men on the far side of the camp, she pulled on her oilskin and went looking for Sunil. She found him, not far away, curled up already in the tiny tent she had procured for him back in India.
‘Can I come in, Sunil?’ she whispered.
‘Ah, memsahib. I come out.’
‘No. I will come in. There will be just about room.’
She crouched beside him under the noisy, rain-battered canvas. ‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she said. ‘But tell me. When you lived in Tibet as a boy did you live in Lhasa itself?’
‘Oh no. I never been there.’
‘Ah.’ Disappointment sounded in her voice. ‘Where, then, did you live? Do you remember?’
‘Yes. Remember very much. I was, I think about seven when uncle take me away. Father and mother dead, you see.’
‘Yes, I knew that much. But where did you live?’
‘Well, strange. I think it not far from here, if I remember well. Because I know this river well. I live at place called Nethang. It is this side of Lhasa, though I never went to sacred city. It is on this road to the city, I think.’
Alice awkwardly uncrossed her aching leg. ‘How far from here, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. But I find out.’
‘Good. Do you … er … have any relatives still living there, Sunil?’
‘Oh yes. I know that. I still have uncle. Brother of my father and man on your plantation in India. I know he still alive because my uncle told me when we left. He say: see Chung Li when you get to old country. Why you ask these things, memsahib?’
‘Because … well, because it will take probably a week at least for this great army to cross this damned river and I don’t want to wait here. I want you to take me tomorrow to where you used to live and find your uncle.’
‘Ah!’ Alice saw Sunil’s black eyes open wide in the half-light. ‘Why you want my uncle, then?’
‘I think he may be able to help me. I will explain tomorrow. Keep what I have asked you very confidential – just between us. Yes?’
‘Oh, yes, memsahib. Big secret. Yes.’
‘Good. Now get a good night’s sleep.’
‘Goodnight, memsahib.’
Shortly after dawn, Alice was up and scribbling a note to Simon. She explained that she was having problems with the cable clerks back in Gyantse and was taking opportunity of the pause by the riverbank to ride back there with one of the supply trains to sort it out. She would be away less than a week and would easily catch up with the column. Then, she scribbled a second note, which merely said:
Sorry, Simon. Did not go Gyantse but have ridden instead on to Lhasa with Sunil. I intend to see the Tibetan high lamas and persuade them to stop this war. Don’t worry. We can look after ourselves. Keep safe. A.
She gave five rupees to one of the servants and asked him to deliver the first note to Fonthill after 8 a.m. that morning. The second he was to deliver in one week’s time – and, she warned, she would know if the man did not follow these instructions and he would be punished if he did not.
Then she made for the major who was the liaison officer for the correspondents. She bestowed on him one of her most radiant smiles.
‘Now that the rain has stopped, Major,’ she said. ‘I would be most grateful if you would allow myself and my boy, Sunil, to cross to the far bank with the next ferry with our ponies, so that they can feed on that good grazing over there for an hour or two.’
‘I see no reason why not, Miss Griffith. I will write you a chit for the ferry captain.’
So it was that Alice and Sunil, together with their mounts, plus food for three days tucked away in their saddlebags, crossed on that first ferry – even before Fonthill and his Mounted Infantry had mounted up for their normal daily patrol. Once on the other side, they languidly led their ponies away in the luscious pasture, until they were out of the sight of the ferrymen. Then, they mounted, dug in their heels and galloped up the road towards Lhasa to be well ahead of Simon and his first patrol.
They had trotted and cantered for two hours before Sunil, his precious rifle nestling in its saddle bucket, pulled his pony alongside that of Alice.
‘Now, memsahib, you must tell me why you want see my uncle. You don’t know him, do you?’
Alice grinned. ‘No I don’t, Sunil. But I want to ask him to guide us into Lhasa. It is only forty-three miles away from here. He will know the way and he will know the city, won’t he?’
‘Oh yes. But why you go before the army? Tibetans might kill us.’
‘That’s why I want your uncle to be with us, to explain that I am on a special mission to see the Dalai Lama. I will pay him well.’
> Sunil’s jaw dropped. ‘You want go see Dalai Lama? Nobody sees him. Certainly not English lady. We get killed for sure.’
‘I think not.’ Alice’s smile faded quickly. ‘You see, Sunil, I am sick of being with this army of the British Raj, which is rampaging its way through Tibet, killing Tibetans with its modern weaponry. I am tired of merely reporting what happens. I want to actually do something, to stop this killing.’
‘How you do that, then?’
‘Well, you are right that I probably won’t get to see the Dalai. I have heard rumours that he has fled the city, and I am not sure that he really has much control over his so-called government, anyway. But I am determined to get to see the senior lamas, perhaps all of the state councillors, who are the real decision makers.
‘What you say to them, then?’
‘From what I have heard and seen of the delegates that have come to see Colonel Younghusband, they have not the faintest idea of the strength and power of the army of the Raj. Even though they have fought and lost quite a few times to the British already, with fearful losses in manpower, they still seem to think that praying and pushing forward peasants with muskets and old swords will deflect our troops. I am going to beseech them to allow Younghusband Sahib to enter Lhasa and to sit down with him to negotiate a treaty with the British. No more killing and silly talking. Proper negotiations.’
Sunil pondered this for a moment. ‘You think they listen to you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe not. But I have to try, don’t you see?’
