At an unpleasant pace--Drawing near the cavalcade--A picturesque
sight--A shot fired at me--Terrible effects of the spikes along
my spine--The rope breaks--An ill omen--A second shot misses
me--Arrows--The end of my terrible ride.
WE travelled mile after mile at an unpleasant pace, until we arrived at a
spot where, drawn up in a line, was the cavalcade we had seen from the
summit of the hill. It was a beautiful sight as we approached it, though
the pain which I was undergoing rather detracted from the pleasure I
should otherwise have taken in the picturesque scene. There were about a
hundred red Lamas in the centre, with banner-men whose heads were covered
by peculiar flat fluffy hats, and the same number of soldiers and
officers in their grey, red and black tunics; some two hundred horsemen
in all.
The Pombo, in his yellow coat and trousers and his queer pointed hat, sat
on a magnificent pony a little in front of the crowd of Lamas and
soldiers.
Curiously enough, when close to this new crowd, the horseman who led my
pony let go the rope, and the pony was lashed cruelly and left to its own
devices. The soldiers of my guard reined up and drew aside. The pony
dashed off in the direction of the Pombo and, as I passed close to him, a
man named Nerba (private secretary of the Tokchim Tarjum), knelt down,
and, taking aim with his matchlock resting on its prop, deliberately
fired a shot at me.
Although (I learned afterwards) this Nerba was one of the champion shots
in the country, and the distance from the muzzle of his matchlock to me
not more than four yards, the bullet missed me, whizzing past my left
ear. Probably the speed at which my animal was proceeding saved me, as
the marksman could not take a very steady aim; but my pony, startled at
the sudden report of the matchlock at such close quarters, took fright,
and began rearing and plunging. I managed to maintain my seat, though the
spikes in the saddle were lacerating the lower part of my spine terribly.
[Illustration: NERBA FIRING AT ME]
Several horsemen now rode up and captured my pony, and preparations were
made for another exciting number in the programme of my tortures. In
their way these noble Lamas were of a sporting nature, but I swore to
myself that, no matter what they did to me, I would not give them the
satisfaction of seeing that they were hurting me. Acting on this
principle, I pretended not to feel the effect of the spikes tearing the
flesh off my backbone; and when they led me before the Pombo to show him
how covered with blood I was, I expressed satisfaction at riding such an
excellent pony. This seemed to puzzle them.
[Illustration: THE RIDE ON A SPIKED SADDLE]
A cord of yak's hair, about forty or fifty yards long, was now produced,
the swivel attached to one end of it fastened to my handcuffs, and the
other end held by a horseman. We set off again on our wild career, this
time followed not only by the guard, but by the Pombo and all his men.
Once or twice I could not help turning round to see what they were about.
The cavalcade was a weird and picturesque sight, the riders with their
many-coloured dresses, their matchlocks with red flags, their jewelled
swords, their banners with long ribbons of all colours flying in the
wind; all galloping furiously, shouting, yelling and hissing, amidst a
deafening din of thousands of horse-bells.
In order to accelerate our speed, a horseman rode by my side lashing my
pony to make it go its hardest. Meanwhile the horseman who held the cord
did his utmost to pull me out of the saddle, no doubt in the hope of
seeing me trampled to death by the cohort behind me. As I leaned my body
forward so as to maintain my seat, and with my arms pulled violently
backwards by the rope, the flesh was rubbed off my hands and knuckles by
the chain of the handcuffs. In places the bone was exposed; and, of
course, every tug brought me into forcible contact with the spikes and
inflicted deeper wounds. The cord, though strong, eventually and
unexpectedly gave way. The soldier who was pulling at the other end was
clumsily unhorsed, and I myself was all but thrown by the unexpected
jerk. This ludicrous incident at first provoked mirth among my escort, a
mirth which their superstitious minds immediately turned into an ill
omen.
[Illustration: COAT I WORE AT THE TIME OF MY CAPTURE, AND SHOWING EFFECT
OF SPIKES]
When my pony was stopped, as well as the runaway steed of the dismounted
cavalier, I took advantage of their fears, and assured them once more
that whatever harm they tried to do me would go against themselves.
However, the cord was retied with sundry strong knots, and, after an
interruption of a few minutes, we resumed our breakneck gallop, I being
again sent on in front.
Towards the end of our journey we had to go round the curve of a
sandhill, the track between this and a large pond at its foot being very
narrow. At this point I saw in front of me a soldier posted in ambush,
with his matchlock ready to fire. The pony sank deep in the sand, and
could not travel fast here, which I suppose was the reason why this spot
had been selected. The man fired as I passed only a few paces from him;
but, as luck would have it, this second attempt also left me untouched.
Getting clear of the soft sand, and finding harder ground, we resumed our
headlong career. Several arrows were shot at me from behind; but, though
some passed very near, not one struck me; and thus, after an interminable
ride full of incident and excitement, we arrived, towards sunset, at our
destination.
On the crown of a hill stood a fortress and large lamasery, and at its
foot, in front of another large structure, the Pombo's gaudy tent had
been pitched. The name of this place, as far as I could afterwards
ascertain, was Namj Laccé Galshio or Gyatsho.