THE CROSSING OF THE TSANGPO: A SAD ACCIDENT
The following day we marched down the Tsangpo or Brahmaputra to Chaksam
Ferry. A small column of mounted infantry had ridden ahead of us and
captured the local flotilla, which consisted of two large rectangular
ferry boats, capable each of holding about twenty mules, a hundred men,
or two hundred maunds of stores. Each boat was decorated with a roughly
carved figure-head representing a horse. One horse had lost one of its
ears, which rather detracted from its otherwise imposing appearance. The
party that had preceded us to capture the ferry had also, by the time
the main column arrived, penetrated the monastery which overlooked the
river, made friends with the monks, and engaged the services of the
local ferrymen, who all belonged to the monastery. The monks also placed
at our disposal several skin boats. These were curious craft. They
resembled the Welsh coracle in shape, being quite square, but were a
great deal larger, and capable of holding several people at a time. They
consisted merely of skins stretched over thin stays of wood, were very
light, and drew very little water. A man rowed them from one end,
sitting on the gunwale, any old bit of rope being used in place of
rowlocks to attach the rough peel-shaped oars to the sides of the boat.
Sometimes two boats were tied together to make one, in which case one
boatman would row at one end of the now oblong craft, while another,
sitting opposite him and facing him on the gunwale at the far end, would
assist by 'backing water.' Progress was slow in any case.
We had brought with us several 'Berthon' boats, which, consisting as
they did only of canvas stretched on to a wooden framework, and being
divisible into two halves, had been carried along on the backs of
coolies without much difficulty. We had with us also a useful gang of
Attock boatmen, men who knew how to circumvent the eddies and currents
of the Indus in its upper reaches, and who did not fail us on the
Tsangpo. With the two large ferry boats, the skin boats, the Berthon
boats, the Attock boatmen, and the contingent of Tibetan boatmen from
the monastery, all ready to hand, it was possible to begin the crossing
of the river without a moment's delay. Meanwhile, in order to reduce the
number of mules that would otherwise be largely monopolising the large
ferry boats, it was decided to swim some mules across--a work which was
taken in hand at once. At the same time the sappers, who in the
field-park had brought up various appliances for facilitating ferry
work, made haste to set hawsers, 'travellers,' and wires in position for
immediate use. As soon as these contrivances were in working order,
which was not long, the crossing proceeded at a pace which exceeded our
expectations.
But, before the crossing had well begun, the saddest event of the Tibet
Expedition had occurred. We had lost a good many men in action on
various occasions, and a few officers. In the preceding winter there had
been deaths more or less frequent from such ills as flesh is heir to.
But to fall in action is a special contingency which all soldiers have
to face, and to die by disease is the usual lot of mankind. At the loss
of comrades in these ways we grieve, but do not grieve with any
amazement. Far different from this normal grief was our feeling when we
heard that some sepoys, and with them Major Bretherton, our chief Supply
and Transport officer, had, while crossing the river, been caught by one
of several eddies formed by the sharp jutting out of a certain rocky
headland into midstream, been capsized, sucked down by the eddies, and
drowned.
The gloom that was cast was, as I have said, greater than that cast by
the loss of comrades in action. The ill luck in the case of Major
Bretherton seemed cruel. A moment before we had seen him full of health,
cheery and active, confident of seeing in a few days a happy termination
to the anxieties which in this march to Lhassa, with necessarily slender
commissariat, had been largely borne by himself. We had known him not
only as decorated for past services, but as having, during these past
few months, by his able and perpetual and unsparing work, ever daily
enhanced a reputation that was already assured. Thus here was one, full
of life and ripe for honour, cut off in his prime. Upon the Kamba-La, a
day ago, we had thought with a laugh of him as Moses viewing the
promised land, and now, as a lump came into the throat, the same thought
recurred, but this time full of sadness, for Lhassa, the promised land,
to help us to reach which he had striven for nearly a year, was the land
which he himself was not to see.
His body was carried down the Tsangpo, and we grieved at this, for we
could not pay it the honour we desired. But why should we have grieved?
For there, a pioneer always, who had ever gloried in exploring the
confines of the Indian Empire, he had but followed his bent, pursuing
the mysterious course of that river whose outlet still baffles us.
* * * * *
A melancholy sequel to the death of an officer on field service, whether
occurring in this or in any other way, is the inevitable auction of his
effects, for the conveyance of few of which to the base is transport
likely to be available. A committee of adjustment assembles, and, after
reserving only such articles as will be obviously acceptable to his
relations as mementoes and can easily be carried, puts up the remainder
to auction. To be auctioneer of the effects of a comrade is not an
enviable post. I had to auction Major Bretherton's things, and found
that the adoption of the correct, breezy, businesslike auctioneer's
manner was up-hill work. A man so stamps his individuality on his
belongings that often some well-worn familiar garment, as for instance
the 'coat-warm British' with fur-lined collar that the officer had been
used to wear on cold mornings, brings, as you hold it up to sale, many
sad associations. And yet you must look round inquiringly, you must
snatch on to the first bid, and appeal loudly for a higher. When the
topmost bid is reached and no other is forthcoming, you must throw the
coat to the buyer with a careless air and collect his rupees.
The prices that different articles fetch at these auctions is often
amazing. The demand of course depends on whether the force as a whole
has grown short of the particular article now for sale, and whether it
can or cannot be obtained by the individual through the post. Beyond
Gyantse there was no regular parcels post, so that of many articles we
were feeling a keen want. Accordingly, a few sheets of note paper and a
few envelopes held up in the hand as one enticing 'lot' would on that
occasion fetch two rupees. At another similar auction I remember
half-pounds of tobacco going for five rupees each, and one-rupee packets
of 'Three Castles' cigarettes also for five rupees.