A NEW CHAPTER
As soon as we were ready we mounted our horses and rode down to Drugub.
Soon the old village came in sight with the house in which I had dwelt
six years before, and the garden in which we had halted in the year
1906. On a terrace below the village stood our three tents and a fourth.
The _jamadar_ Ishe, old Hiraman, who never omitted to greet me, and
young Anmar Ju, another of my old friends, salaamed and presented to me
my new men. These three had orders from the _tesildar_ to accompany me
to Shyok.
"Who is the caravan bashi?" I asked.
"I am," answered a little wrinkled old man called Abdul Kerim, and
wearing a large yellow skin-coat (Illust. 289).
"What are the names of the others?"
"Kutus, Gulam, Suen, Abdul Rasak, Sedik, Lobsang, Kunchuk, Gaffar,
Abdullah, and Sonam Kunchuk."
"You are then eleven men altogether--three Lamaists and eight
Mohammedans?"
"Yes, Sahib."
"I shall at some future time take down your names, ages, places of
abode, the journeys you have made, the services you have been in, etc."
It turned out that very few of them had ever been in the service of a
European, but all had been employed by Nazer Shah, and his son Gulam
Razul answered for them. Four had been in Lhasa, and almost all the
Mohammedans in Yarkand, and all seemed pleasant and cheerful, and were
in the prime of life.
[Illustration: 289. ABDUL KERIM, THE NEW CARAVAN LEADER.]
"Which of you is my cook?"
"I am," answered Gulam, a comical little fellow, who immediately
received a lecture from Rub Das how I was to be attended on (Illust.
291).
"Are you all Ladakis?"
"Yes, Sahib, all except Lobsang, who is a Tibetan from Gar-gunsa, but
has married in Leh and has served with the Hajji Nazer Shah."
I was somewhat loath to take a Tibetan with me on a journey where it was
essential to keep the Tibetans as long as possible in the dark. If
danger threatened, how easily he could betray me to his countrymen! I
considered whether I would not exchange him for another man, or simply
leave him behind. But how often had I reason subsequently to rejoice
that I had not given effect to the suggestion! With the exception of the
four Russian cossacks and Robert, Lobsang was the best servant who ever
accompanied me on my journeys through the wilds of Asia. He was a
splendid man, and I cherish a warm recollection of him (Illust. 290).
All were now welcomed into my service, and I expressed the hope that
they would perform their duty as faithfully as their predecessors,
promised them an extra donation of 50 rupees each if I were contented
with them, and told them that I would pay the expenses of their return
home from the point where our journey ended, just as I had done before.
When it was known in Leh that I wanted fresh servants for the journey to
Khotan, Guffaru and all the men I had sent home from Tokchen presented
themselves and begged earnestly to be restored to my service. But the
old Hajji had received strict directions from his son. Not one of my old
servants might accompany me this time, for it would increase the danger
if we met Tibetans with whom we were already acquainted.
The new horses seemed fine and strong, and stood, eating hay and barley,
in a long row along a wall, beside the mules and the veterans from Leh.
They were to be well fed, for the days of feasting would soon be over,
and it would be well if they put on flesh, on which they could fall back
in evil days. All the goods ordered were of the best quality, and
packed in new strong boxes covered with leather (Illust. 287).
On the morning of November 29, 1907, three Tibetans came from
Rudok-dzong and set up their tents on our left wing. There, I thought,
now espionage is beginning. An hour later we heard the sound of bells up
in the valley. The noise became louder and louder between the cliffs,
and a great din was raised as thirty-four fine little mules with loads
of salt passed by my tent. All had a chain of small bells round their
necks, most of them were adorned with red and blue ribands, and some had
large red tassels hanging at their chests, which almost touched the
ground and swung about at every step. It was a bright and lively scene,
and the jingle of bells allured me out to fresh adventures in distant
regions. In the twinkling of an eye the animals were relieved of their
loads and driven up the valley like a herd of wild asses, to graze on
the scanty grass among the granite. The owners must then be traders.
They afterwards came into my tent, took tea and cigarettes, and asked
Abdul Kerim whither we were travelling. He answered without lying, "To
Khotan." It was I who lied. But had I told the truth, I should have been
stopped in fourteen days, and might as well have gone home at once.
We had three new tents. The two larger accommodated my eleven servants;
the smallest, which was so small that one could only stand upright under
the ridge-pole, and could only hold a bed and two boxes, was mine. I
wished to have one as small as possible that it might more easily be
kept warm. All my baggage was re-packed. I gave some superfluous
articles to Robert and to the Rev. Mr. Peter in Leh. There was a very
thorough sorting out, and only what was absolutely indispensable was
packed, filling two boxes, one of which chiefly contained Swedish and
English books, sent by my sister Alma and Colonel Dunlop Smith. As soon
as they were read, they would be offered to the winds. When I moved at
night into my new tent and laid myself to rest in the large sleeping-bag
lined with sheep's wool, and covered myself, I was as warm and
comfortable as in a bed at home.
[Illustration: 290. LOBSANG; 291. GULAM; 292. KUTUS--MY LAST TRUSTY
FOLLOWERS.]
Gulam Razul's son, Abdul Hai, visited me, and our business matters were
transacted with him. Robert remained responsible for my heavy baggage
until he had deposited it in the house of the Hajji Nazer Shah. It
consisted of ten regulation horse-loads. In my leisure hours I wrote a
heap of letters, which Robert was to hand in at the post-office in Leh.
We had now 21 mules and 19 horses, the brown puppy, and a large yellow
dog from Gartok. All the mules and horses, except mine and Abdul Kerim's
saddle-horses, carried loads (Illusts. 296, 297, 298). I rode my little
white Ladaki, which had grown marvellously strong again, and was as
spirited as one of the new horses. He and two others were the survivors
of the large caravan which had, on the former occasion, set out from
Leh. In order to make sure that Abdul Kerim took sufficient provender, I
told him he must not think that I would follow the direct road like
ordinary caravans. I might make excursions right and left, and often
remain stationary for a week at a time. He must, therefore, provide
barley for the animals for two-and-a-half months, and he must take care
that the provender we took with us lasted out. But it is stupid to trust
to others. All the heavy baggage from Simla, the silver money, and the
tinned provisions made four loads; Gulam's chests of kitchen utensils,
two; the tent, the bedding, and the belongings of the men made several
loads; all the other animals were to be laden with rice, barley, and
_tsamba_. We also took 25 sheep from Tankse.
In the night of December 3 the thermometer fell to -10.1°. Next morning
all the baggage was packed up and carried down the valley to Shyok by
coolies. Two fellows, as strong as bears, carried my two tent-boxes. The
animals carried only their new saddles. One group after another marched
off, and at last I remained alone. Then I shook hands with my faithful
companion, Robert, thanked him for his invaluable services, his honesty,
his courage, and his patience; asked him to greet for me the
missionaries, Dr. Neve, and warm India; took leave also of honest Rub
Das and all the others; mounted into my new Ladak saddle on my trusty
white, and rode down to the Shyok valley with Anmar Ju. I was the last
remaining of the original caravan, and was surrounded by men who were
complete strangers to me. But I was also strange to them, and they had
no suspicion of the foolhardy adventures I intended to lead them into.
The wind, however, was the same, and the same stars would twinkle in the
sky during the cold silent nights in Tibet. So I should not be quite
alone.
It is little more than 6 miles to Shyok, and yet this short distance
took almost eight hours. We had to cross the river six times, which just
below the village of Drugub has cut a deep narrow passage between rocks
of granite and gneiss. The first crossing was easy, for there the river
had been frozen over in the night, and though the ice cracked, we passed
over by a path strewn with sand. At the second passage the river was
open, but broad and shallow, and the ice belts on both sides had been
strewn with sand. The third, where we had to cross over again to the
right bank, was very awkward, because ice belts suddenly ending in the
middle were flooded in consequence of a damming up of the ice lower
down. They could not therefore be strewn with sand, and we had to be
careful lest we should fall out of the saddle when the horses set their
feet down in the water 3 feet deep. It is little more agreeable when he
jumps up on the opposite edge, and his hoofs slide about before he can
get a firm foothold on the smooth ice.
Below this place was the fourth crossing--the worst of all--and here the
whole train had come to a halt. On the right bank, where we stood, the
river was broad and deep, with icy cold, dark-blue, transparent water
winding down, but at the left bank lay a broad belt of ice. Suen, a
tall, black-bearded man with very Jewish features, bared his body and
examined the ford on horseback. In so doing he got into water so deep
that his horse began to swim. Then he jumped in himself and swam to the
edge of the ice, where it cost him great effort to climb up. Poor man! I
shivered as I looked at him; he had been quite under water.
[Illustration: 293. BEGGARS.]
[Illustration: 294. ABDUL KERIM'S NEW TENT.]
Four of the others made an attempt a little higher up, and got over, but
they were up to their necks in water. Then the whole troop of mules and
horses were driven into the river; the horses managed best. One mule, I
felt sure, would be lost. He made no attempt to hoist himself on to the
ice until he had been pelted with stones from our bank. And when at
length he was up and was following the track of the others, the ice
cracked and gave way under him, and there he lay enclosed. All five men
had to pull him out and drag him over the ice to solid ground.
Barely 100 yards farther down is the fifth ford. Between the two stands
a steep, smooth, projecting rock, its foot washed by the river. It is,
however, possible to climb over the rock up small fissures and over
slight projections and thus avoid the two detestable fords. Here all the
baggage was carried over by the coolies, and I myself climbed over the
rocks barefooted; a short way beyond this crag a strong man carried me
over smooth flooded ice. Here we had plenty of time for meditation,
while the animals were again driven through such deep water that they
almost had to swim. All were wet up to the root of the tail and many had
water over their backs. The poor creatures stood together closely in a
group, with pieces of ice hanging from their flanks and knocking
together like castanets. We kindled a fire that the five men who had
been in the water might undress, dry themselves, and change every stitch
of clothing.
Then we went some distance downstream to a place where the heavy
provisions were piled up on the bank, and the poor animals had to enter
the icy water before they had got warm again. Here the baggage had to be
carried over the river by stark-naked men, who tried with staves in
their hands to keep their equilibrium among the treacherous rounded
stones in the river bed. An elderly man was seized with cramp when he
was half-way across, and could not move a step. Two bold youths jumped
into the water and dragged him to land. Two mules, which could not be
induced by coaxing or scolding to enter the water, were tugged over with
a rope. I had a guide before my horse, which was wet half-way up the
saddle, so that I had to tuck up my legs as high as possible, and in
this position it was very difficult to keep my balance, as the horse
made unexpected jumps among the blocks. The men raised such a loud
hurrah that the mountains rang again when I was over the last ford with
a whole skin; a blazing fire prevented any ill effects from my
foot-bath. Every man, who came across shivering, dripping, and blue with
cold, had to sit down immediately by the fire. I could not understand
why they were not frozen to death.
Then we rode in the twilight up and down hill, and it was pitch dark
before a welcome blazing fire showed us that we were near the village of
Shyok. We gathered round it as we came up, and delighted in its
radiating heat. I could not help consoling myself with the thought that,
if any pursuers followed me up from the English side, they would at any
rate get a cold bath before they found me.
In the night the temperature fell to only 15.4°, but here we were at a
height of only 12,365 feet. We stayed on December 5 in Shyok, to dry the
pack-saddles and give the animals a day's rest after their trying work.
In the evening the men held a farewell festival, for Shyok was the last
village in Ladak. As soon as the drums and flutes were heard, all the
women and girls of the country flocked to the dance.
On December 6 we took leave of our last friends, and marched down the
slopes to the floor of the Shyok valley, where the altitude is 12,300
feet; it was the lowest spot we were in for a long time (Illust. 300.)
For from here we mounted northwards up the valley excavated by the great
affluent of the Indus. There is no road or path to speak of, only
rubbish and rounded boulders, but the scenery is wonderfully fine, and
gigantic granite crags tower up on all sides. We crossed the river five
times, which here carries about 420 cubic feet of water and has belts of
ice of varying breadth. A solitary starved wanderer from Yarkand met us,
and was given a meal of _tsamba_. We pitched our camp among the bushes
in a bed of sand at Chong-yangal, where I had stayed in the year 1902.
We were now alone. Only one man not belonging to the caravan was still
with us, Tubges of Shyok, who had charge of our sheep during the early
days of our journey, especially at the fords. In the evening I had a
conversation with Abdul Kerim, Kutus, and Gulam. I now told them that I
would not travel to Khotan by the ordinary road, because I knew it
already. We would strike more to the east, and the sooner we came up on
to the plateau the better. They replied that Tubges knew the country
well. He was called in to the consultation. What if we went through the
Chang-chenmo valley to Pamzal and the Lanak-la? "No," he answered, "that
is impossible; one can go as far as Oro-rotse, but there the valley
becomes as narrow as a corridor, and ice cascades and boulders cover the
bottom of the valley. Animals cannot get through even without loads." It
was then evident that we must continue up the Shyok valley and watch for
an opportunity of diverging eastwards.
So on the 7th we went on between grand mountain gables, silent and
solemn, like Egyptian pyramids, like cathedrals and fortress towers.
Between them detritus cones descend to the valley floor, where their
bases are eroded by the high water of the summer flood and cut off in
perpendicular walls. It must be a magnificent spectacle when the turbid
thundering water rolls down from the melting snow of the Karakorum and
fills all the valley, making its way with tremendous force to the Indus.
An enormous block of perhaps 70,000 cubic feet has fallen down; it has
cracked in falling, as though a giant had split it with his axe; one
fancies one can see the gap it has left on the heights above. Four times
the path crosses the stream, and the rather narrow opening of the
Chang-chenmo valley is left on the right. We encamped among the dunes of
Kaptar-khane. In the night the temperature fell to 2.5°.
The way is terribly trying, nothing but detritus and blocks of grey
granite, against which the horses wear out their shoes. Again we crossed
the river twice and set up our tents in the oasis Dung-yeilak, where a
worn-out caravan from Khotan had already settled, and had sent a
messenger to Nubra for help, as several of their horses had foundered.
As long as there was pasturage we could take matters quietly and make
short marches. Only too soon the grass would come to an end, and then we
must make more haste. So we rested a day when the merchant Muhamed Rehim
from Khotan arrived at the oasis with his caravan. But he only remained
an hour, for he wanted to reach warmer regions, and was glad to have the
Karakorum pass behind him. He earnestly advised me to wait till spring,
for the snow lay deeper than usual on the pass. One of his caravan men
also came to me and gave me a handful of dried peaches. "Does the Sahib
remember me?" he asked. "Certainly, you are Mollah Shah." The good
fellow, now fifty-seven years old, and with his beard greyer, had never
visited his home in Cherchen again since he had left my service in the
spring of 1902. What a singular wandering life, full of toil and
adventure, these Asiatics lead! He implored me to engage him again, but
I told him he ought to be glad to go down into Ladak instead of
returning to the frightful pass in the middle of the icy winter. It
would certainly have been pleasant to have with me an old tried
companion. But no, he would have been out of place in my Ladaki company.
Mollah Shah told us for our encouragement that a large caravan had lost
fifty-two horses on the pass, and had been obliged to leave behind the
greater part of their goods.
None of my people knew yet my actual plans. As long as we were on the
great winter route to Eastern Turkestan they must all believe that
Khotan was my destination. We had also the advantage that all who met us
would report in Ladak that they had seen us on the great highway, and
thus no suspicion would be aroused.
[Illustration: 295. MY BROWN PUPPY WITH MY COOK, TSERING. 296, 297, 298.
MY WHITE LADAKI HORSE.]
December 10. It was colder, the minimum temperature being -2.4°. My
Curzon hat was burned in the fire. In its place I put on a large
skin-cap which Muhamed Isa had sewed together, and wound round it a
pugree as a protection against the sun. Arms of the river with a gentle
current were covered with glittering ice, but the main stream, now much
smaller, was nearly free. At the camp at Charvak a spring brook dashed
down the rocks in a tinkling cascade, though the cold did all it could
to silence it. The animals were driven up the slopes where the grass
was better. A huge fire was lighted when the day declined, and a narrow
sickle of a moon stood in the sky. Where the animals were driven up,
there was a thundering fall of stones in the night, and some blocks
rolled down and lay among our tents. It was a dangerous place.
We had a cold march on the way to Yulgunluk. When thick snow-clouds
cover the sky, the wind blows in the traveller's face, and the
temperature at one o'clock is 14.9°, one feels the cold dreadfully, and
has to tie a thick neck-cloth over the face. The valley is lifeless and
deserted. Hitherto we had only seen a hare, an eagle, and a raven; the
last followed us from camp to camp. Six times we crossed the stream; the
brown puppy was carried over, but the yellow dog found his way
across--he howled piteously whenever he had to go into the cold water.
In Yulgunluk also, at a height of 13,455 feet, we encamped a day. Now
the thermometer fell in the night to -6.2°. This was the last really
pleasant and agreeable oasis we came across. During the day of rest we
heard the horses neighing with satisfaction on the pastures and the
sheep bleating. The loads of provender were already smaller, so we could
load four horses with good knotty firewood. On the right side of the
valley rose a snowy mountain. As early as two o'clock the sun
disappeared, but it lighted up the snow long after the valley lay in
deep shadow; the sky was blue and cloudless. In the evening the men sang
at the fire just the same melodies as their predecessors. The winter
days are short, but they seem endlessly long to one tortured by the
uncertainty of his cherished hopes. By eight o'clock the camp is quiet,
and at nine Gulam brings in the last brazier after I have read the
meteorological instruments. How I long to get out of this confined
valley on to the plateau country! Here we are marching north-north-west,
and I ought to be going east and south-east. If we could find a way up
to the Chang-tang by one of the valleys to the east, we should be saved
much time and many a weary step.
On December 13 we looked in vain for such a way. We crossed the river
twice more on its ice-sheet. At the second ford the whole caravan
passed over dry-shod, and only my small white horse broke through and I
wet my feet. After a third crossing we camped in a desolate spot just
opposite the Shialung valley. It looked promising. Tubges and Kutus were
sent up the valley to spy out the land. In the evening they returned
with the tidings that we could go a fairly long distance up the valley,
but beyond it became impassable owing to deep basins, abundant ice, and
large boulders, just as in the Drugub river. We must therefore keep on
the route to the Karakorum pass. This increased the risks for the
caravan, for it lengthened the distance; but, on the other hand, it
lessened the danger of discovery, for when once we had got into Tibet we
could avoid the most northern nomads.
Now Tubges begged permission to accompany me to the end, and his
petition was eagerly supported by all the other men. I was the more
willing to take him that he was a skilled hunter. I had now twelve men,
and I made the thirteenth in the caravan. But we were not superstitious.