Bleeding all over--Insulted and spat upon--"Kill him!"--Urging on
the executioner--Refusal to stoop--An unpleasant sword
exercise--The execution suspended.
MY position as I stood with my legs wide apart, with my back, hands and
legs bleeding, and seeing everything of a ghastly red tinge; amidst the
deafening, maddening noise of gong, drum, cymbals and horn; insulted,
spat upon by the crowd, and with Nerba holding me so tight by my hair as
to tear handfuls of it from my scalp, was one in which I cannot wish even
my bitterest enemies to find themselves. All I was able to do was to
remain calm and composed and to watch with apparent unconcern the
preparations for the next sufferings to be inflicted upon me.
"_Miumta nani sehko!_" ("Kill him with a rifle!") shouted a hoarse voice.
A matchlock was now being loaded by a soldier, and such was the quantity
of gunpowder they placed in the barrel that I made sure whoever fired it
would have his head blown off; so it was with a certain amount of
satisfaction that I saw it handed over to the Pombo. That official placed
the weapon against my forehead, with the muzzle pointing upwards. Then a
soldier leaning down, applied fire to the fuse and eventually there was a
loud report which gave my head a severe shock, and the overloaded
matchlock flew clean out of the Pombo's hand, much to everybody's
surprise. I forced myself to laugh; and their confusion, added to the
tantalising failure of every attempt they made to hurt me, drove the
crowd to the highest pitch of fury.
_"Ta kossaton, ta kossaton!_" ("Kill him, kill him!") exclaimed fierce
voices all round me. "_Ngala mangbo shidak majidan!_" ("We cannot
frighten him!") "_Ta kossaton, ta kossaton!_" ("Kill him, kill him!"),
the whole valley resounding with their ferocious cries.
A huge two-handed sword was now handed to the Pombo, who drew it out of
its sheath.
[Illustration: A BANNERMAN]
"Kill him, kill him!" shouted the mob once more, urging on the
executioner, who, his superstitious nature not having overcome the
ill-omened fact that the matchlock a moment before had jumped out of his
hand (which he probably attributed to the doing of some supreme power and
not to the over-charge), seemed quite reluctant to come forward.
I seized this moment to say that they might kill me if they wished, but
that, if I died to-day, they would all die to-morrow--an undeniable fact,
for we are all bound to die some day. This seemed to cool them for a
moment, but the excitement in the crowd was too great, and at last they
succeeded in working the Pombo up into a passion. His face became quite
unrecognisable, such was his excitement, and he behaved like a madman.
At this point a Lama approached and slipped something into the mouth of
the executioner, who again foamed at the lips. A Lama held his sword,
while he turned up one sleeve of his coat to have his arms free, and the
Lamas turned up the other for him. Then he strode towards me with slow,
ponderous steps, swinging the shiny sharp blade from side to side before
him, with his bare arms outstretched.
The man Nerba, who was still holding me by the hair, was told to make me
bend my neck. I resisted with what little strength I had left, determined
to keep my head erect and my forehead high. They might kill me, true
enough, they might hack me to pieces if they chose, but never until I had
lost my last atom of strength would these ruffians make me stoop before
them. I would perish, but it should be looking down upon the Pombo and
his countrymen.
[Illustration: THE EXECUTIONER BROUGHT THE SWORD DOWN TO MY NECK]
The executioner, now close to me, held the sword with his nervous hands,
lifting it high above his shoulder. He then brought it down to my neck,
which he touched with the blade, to measure the distance, as it were, for
a clean effective stroke. Then, drawing back a step, he quickly raised
the sword again and struck a blow at me with all his might. The sword
passed disagreeably close to my neck under my chin, but did not touch
me. I would not flinch, nor speak, and my demeanour seemed to impress him
almost to the point of frightening him. He became reluctant to continue
his diabolical performance; but the impatience and turbulence of the
crowd were at their highest, and the Lamas nearer to him gesticulated
like madmen and urged him on again.
As I write this, their wild shouts, their bloodthirsty countenances, are
vividly brought before me. Apparently against his will, the executioner
went through the same kind of performance on the other side of my head.
This time the blade passed so near that the point cannot have been more
than half an inch or so from my neck.
It seemed as if all would soon be over; yet, strange to say, even at this
culminating moment I did not seriously realise that I should die. Why
this was so I cannot say, because everything pointed towards my end being
very near; but I had a feeling all the time that I should live to see the
end of it all. I was very sorry, if my end were really at hand, as it
seemed likely, that I should die without seeing my parents and friends
again, and that they probably would never know how and where I had died.
One is naturally at all times reluctant to leave a world in which one has
barely had a dull moment, but, after all my wretched experiences,
sufferings and excitement, I did not realise my peril so much as I should
have done had I, for instance, been dragged from my comfortable London
flat direct on to the execution-ground, instead of first having lived
through the recent past.
Naturally the scene is one that I am not likely to forget, and I must say
for the Tibetans that the whole affair was very picturesquely carried
out. Even the ghastliest ceremonies may have their artistic side, and
this particular one, performed with extra pomp and flourish, was really
impressive.
It appears that the unpleasant sword exercise is sometimes gone through
in Tibet previous to actually cutting off the head, so as to make the
victim suffer more before the final blow is given. I was not aware of
this at the time, and only learnt it some weeks after. It is usually at
the third stroke that the victim is actually beheaded.
The Lamas were still clamouring for my head, but the Pombo made a firm
stand this time, and declined to go on with the execution. They collected
round him and seemed very angry; they shouted and yelled and gesticulated
in the wildest fashion; and still the Pombo kept his eyes upon me in a
half-respectful, half-frightened manner, and refused to move.