LI-CHIANG TO TALI-FU
I was now bound for Tali-fu, having bargained with a new set of
muleteers to take me there in five days. I was anxious to press on as
rapidly as possible, not only because I was now on ground that had
several times been traversed and described by other Europeans, but also
because the rainy season was just beginning, and might seriously hamper
my movements in crossing the mountains and rivers beyond Tali-fu. I had
not yet decided whether to proceed to Burma by the T'êng-yüeh-Bhamo
route or to attempt to reach Lashio (the terminus of the British Shan
States railway system) by Yün-chou and the Kunlon Ferry. My host, M.
Perronne, was a thorough believer in the deadly unhealthiness of the
Salwen valley in the rainy season, and assured me that it would be
madness to attempt to cross it till the autumn. I decided, however, to
wait till I reached Tali-fu before coming to a decision.
[Sidenote: SHOOTING A MUD-DEVIL]
From Li-chiang my road lay in a westerly direction over a portion of
the plain that I had not yet traversed. Roses, meadow-sweet, primroses
and other wild-flowers made the hedges smell of England. We left
the plain behind us by crossing a low range of hills from which we
descended into another plain called the Lashi-Pa, in which there is
a small lake. Here I was shown a path that leads west towards the
Ashi Ferry on the Yangtse, only a few miles distant, and so leads
to Chung-tien and Atuntzŭ.[269] The last-named place, I may mention
incidentally, is said to exist no longer, part of it having been
destroyed by a gigantic landslip, and the rest having been demolished
in the recent war between the Chinese and the lamas. The landslip
appears to have been an extraordinary occurrence, and was perhaps
caused by an earthquake. Torrents of mud and stones tore like an
avalanche down the side of the mountain at the base of which Atuntzŭ
was situated, demolishing houses, destroying all growing crops, and
burying alive whole families. The local officials dealt with the
catastrophe in an interesting and characteristic manner. Possessed,
apparently, by the idea that the moving masses of mud were directed
and controlled by a malevolent devil, they armed themselves with
muzzle-loading guns and bows and arrows, and went out and shot the mud.
In due time the torrent ceased to flow, and no doubt it was universally
believed that the devil had been slain by arrows and bullets. The harm
already done, unfortunately, was irreparable, and what remained of the
town has since, as I have said, fallen a prey to warfare.
My road instead of going west to the Yangtse bore away southwards
to the left of the lake, and brought us about midday to the village
of Shang La Shih or Upper Lashi, where I lunched. The plain contains
several other villages, but its soil seems hardly so rich as that of
the plain of Li-chiang. In the afternoon, after crossing a pass of no
great elevation, we dropped down to a third valley and stopped for the
night at the hamlet of Kuan Hsia, also called P'o Chiao.[270] About
here I observed a good deal of ruddy soil, which reminds one of the
red sand-stone basin of Ssuch'uan. There is also a small lake or tarn.
During the whole of the next day we traversed the same valley, passing
through many prosperous and populous villages. The valley is indeed
only a narrow strip of fertile land between more or less barren ranges
of hill, but what there is would be amply sufficient to support a very
large population. The road is very fair, and at one time was probably
an excellent highway. There are the remains of drinking-fountains
along the road, and many of the bridges are still admirable and
substantial pieces of work. It would I think be a mistake to say that
all the decay is traceable to the ravages of the Mohammedan rebellion
of the seventies. The decay had probably set in--here as elsewhere in
China--long before that lurid episode had drenched the province of
Yunnan in seas of blood.
[Sidenote: MIN-CHIA]
On leaving the Li-chiang plain we had left behind us the country of the
Mo-so or Lashi, and had entered a district that is perhaps chiefly
inhabited by a race known to the Chinese as _Min-chia_,[271] which
simply means "the people" or "the families of people." The mystery that
surrounds the origin of all the tribes I have mentioned clings no less
obstinately to the Min-chia. They are a very interesting and amiable
people, fair in face, and with clear bold eyes that do not shun to
meet the gaze of a stranger. The women, if less handsome and imposing
than the tall women of eastern Tibet, have a grace and prettiness of
their own, that would, I feel sure, be found exceedingly attractive by
impressionable Europeans. Two days north of Tali-fu I saw a Min-chia
child who would be considered beautiful in any western country. She was
standing alone in a poppy-field, singing a song in a language that was
certainly very different from Chinese.
"Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things
And battles long ago."
But the subject of the song mattered little. The child made as pretty a
picture as I had ever seen in China.
My second day's journey from Li-chiang took me through a large
number of villages, of which the names of the most important will
be found in the itinerary. At midday we reached the departmental
city of Chien-ch'uan-chou, a small town which sits among a crowd of
small centres of population, like a hen among her chickens. It is
surrounded by a battlemented wall of the usual type, which gives it
an appearance of compactness, but in origin it was probably merely an
agglomeration of villages. Its population is mainly employed in tilling
the surrounding fields. A few miles further we passed near the shores
of a small shallow lake, from which flows a small river called the Hai
Wei.[272] Just beyond the village of Han Têng, where a market was being
held, we crossed the river by a handsome bridge, and almost immediately
afterwards arrived at the last village of the long valley through which
we had been riding all day. This was the village of Tien Wei, where we
spent the night. Good quarters were provided for us in a hostelry which
was quite new and therefore comparatively clean.
[Sidenote: TALI-FU MOUNTAINS]
Since leaving the high mountains north of Li-chiang we seemed to have
entered a new climate. Riding and walking during the day under a
blazing sun, and with a shade temperature of 80° F., proved to be much
more exhausting than climbing snowy mountains. We were now on the high
Yunnan plateau, at an average elevation of about 7,000 feet; but we
were gradually approaching a tropical latitude, and the season--just
before the breaking of the rains--was the hottest of the year. I had
long since discarded the thick garments which in the mountains near
the Yalung had seemed none too warm. The nights and early mornings,
however, were always deliciously cool, and I was well aware that
in the steaming plains of Burma I should long for the comparative
coolness of the Yunnan plateau. At Tien Wei the temperature an hour
before our early start sank as low as 54°, and we made haste to get
well on the road before the sun rose high in the heavens. Out of the
valley our road lay over a picturesque range of low hills over-grown
chiefly with dwarf pines. On leaving these behind we found ourselves
in a small valley studded with a few villages, from which we ascended
another and a higher range. From its northern slopes I had a last view
of Li-chiang's snow-clad peaks, and half a mile further on we came
within sight of another range of snow-crowned hills to the south. This
was the lofty range--never perhaps absolutely free from snow in spite
of its latitude[273]--which forms the magnificent background to the
city of Tali-fu, now little more than two days distant. At the foot of
the hills from which we had this view we came to a small temple and an
eating-house, close to a stream crossed by a bridge called Hao Shou.
The first word is the Chinese for a crane, a bird which is emblematic
of longevity, and _shou_ is the ordinary word for "long life"; so it
is evidently intended that this bridge should last for ever. Here we
halted for lunch, I secluding myself from public observation within the
little temple.
About 8 miles further on we passed through the village of Niu Kai,[274]
which means Ox Village, just beyond which we passed close to a curious
hill which has the appearance of a truncated cone. It is flattened
at the top, and there is a small pagoda. Hot springs issue from the
base of this hill, which bears the name of Huo Yen Shan ("Fiery Flame
Hill"). Perhaps it was once a miniature volcano. I may mention, by the
way, that the valley through which we travelled the previous day has
within the last fifteen years suffered from a disastrous earthquake,
which is said to have destroyed many villages and dozens of lives.[275]
A short distance beyond the hot-spring hill we halted at a good inn in
the small market town of San Ying, the name of which (meaning Three
Camps) seems to indicate that it was once a military centre, perhaps
in the days of the Mongol invasions. In this town I bought myself an
umbrella for the sum of 600 cash--about one shilling. It professed
to be of English make, and to have come from Rangoon in Burma; but
the mis-spelling of the name of a well-known Anglo-Indian firm, and
the obvious inferiority of the manufacture, showed that it was only a
crude imitation. If this is the kind of article that passes current
for English goods in the west of China it is little wonder that the
trade between Burma and Yunnan is not showing the elasticity which is
desirable from the point of view of the material interests of both
China and Great Britain.
[Sidenote: THE WHITE SAND RIVER]
Next day we continued our march through the valley in which San Ying is
situated, passing numerous farm-houses and small villages surrounded
with rice and poppy-fields. The rosebushes which had so frequently
lined our path since we entered the Li-chiang plain had by this
time shed all their blossoms. The poppy-flowers, too, were rapidly
vanishing. Under the brilliant sunshine the country still looked very
charming; the landscapes being very often of the kind that would have
delighted the heart of a Corot. After passing through the village of
Ch'ang Ying (Long Camp) a few miles' ride brought us to the southern
termination of the valley, and thence the road wound gradually up the
slope of low hills, mostly consisting of barren moorland. We passed
a small lake or tarn, and after this the road turned south-west and
brought us to the large village of Ying-shan-p'u, situated in a
confined valley lying between two ranges of hills. We skirted the left
side of this village close under a temple and small pagoda. We then
went southwards into a ravine, near the entrance of which is a fine
single-arch bridge spanning a large stream called the Pai Sha or White
Sand. Our road did not lie across the bridge, but continued to lead us
along the stream's left bank. The scenery in the gorge is picturesque,
but the hills on both sides are barren. Little besides the prickly pear
seems to thrive on them. About 3 miles beyond the bridge we emerged
from the ravine into a plain. Here the Pai Sha flows with a much
slower current, and in size attains the dignity of a small river. Its
waters have been brought under complete control by the formation of
well-constructed embankments. For a distance of several miles, indeed,
the river becomes a canal, suitable for barge-traffic. Our road led us
along the embankment, and for a distance of over a mile--all the way to
the village of Chung So--the road is not unlike the Magdalen Walks at
Oxford. The foliage is thicker and the vegetation more luxuriant and
diversified than at Magdalen, but the road bears a general resemblance
to Addison's Walk, and the river is very similar to the Cherwell in
its width, in the laziness of its current, and--be it confessed--in
its colour.[276] At a poor inn in the village of Chung So we made
our midday halt. A plague of flies drove me away from it sooner than
was pleasing to my muleteers; but not before I had been cajoled into
entering my name in a subscription book as a contributor towards the
cost of rebuilding the Tê Yüan Bridge which spans the Pai Sha close by.
[Sidenote: THE PLAIN OF TALI]
After crossing this river and passing through or within sight of
several other villages we arrived at the small departmental city of
Têng-ch'uan-chou. Our road took us in at one gate and out at another.
It seemed to be a sleepy town and somewhat decadent. It lies not far
from the northern extremity of the famous Tali lake, the Erh Hai, a
great part of which came into view as soon as we had ascended some
rising ground, mostly consisting of red clay, a short distance beyond
Têng-ch'uan. The lake is said to be annually decreasing in volume, and
to judge from the appearance of the land beyond its northern extremity
this seems very likely to be true. Near Têng-ch'uan there are a number
of little isolated ponds which evidently once formed part of the
great lake, and there is a great deal of marshy land not yet fit for
cultivation.
We spent the night of 21st May in a good inn near the lake side in
the village of Sha P'ing. Next day we passed through Shang Kuan, the
fortified village, now partly in ruins, which once formed one of the
main bulwarks of the city of Tali-fu. Between the base of the high
mountains on the west and the waters of the lake on the east lies a
strip of land between 20 and 30 miles long, and about 3 miles broad.
At each extremity of this plain is--or rather was--a fortress. The
northern extremity is protected by Shang Kuan, the southern by Hsia
Kuan--the two words meaning the Upper and Lower Passes or Gates.
Tali-fu itself lies at the foot of the mountains about 18 miles from
the former and 7 miles from the latter, and used to be absolutely safe
from attack so long as those two fortified points remained intact. The
plain, which was once in all probability under water, is very rich and
grows every kind of grain that a beleaguered garrison could require. It
was always safe against starvation, therefore, in the event of a long
siege. It was only when artillery cast by Frenchmen in Yunnan-fu was
brought to bear upon the walls of the two "Kuans" that the Mohammedan
rebels were forced at last to yield the city.
The plain was not, when I rode through it on my last stage to Tali-fu,
devoted exclusively to cereals. Hundreds of acres were given up to
the opium-poppy, and thousands of men and women were at that time
employed in harvesting the drug. Much of the work was carried on by
Min-chia girls, who turn their healthy bronzed faces, shaded by great
straw sun-bonnets, to peer curiously at the novel sight of a Western
stranger. Some of the women in this district wear turbans of dark
blue cloth, the front band studded with silver knobs, which from a
distance make it appear as if their foreheads were crowned with some
kind of tiara. Beyond Shang Kuan the road lies at a distance of about
3 miles from the lake all the way to Tali-fu. Between the road and the
lake lies an endless series of cultivated fields, which even in this
dry season were plentifully irrigated by streams from the mountain.
The plain is dotted with villages which generally lie half buried in
foliage. On the right of the road[277] the cultivation is much more
scanty. There is a good deal of barren moorland, and much ground is
occupied by graves. Just before reaching Tali-fu we passed some lofty
thirteen-story pagodas. I entered the city by the north gate and found
good quarters on the upper floor of a quiet and commodious inn.
[Sidenote: THE TALI LAKE]
The city itself is neither more nor less attractive than dozens of
other Chinese cities. Its numerous ruined houses, however, have a
pathetic interest of their own, for they are just in the same condition
as they were immediately after the great siege. Even after thirty-five
years of peace Tali-fu has not recovered from the disasters of those
terrible days. I spent two days and three nights in Tali-fu, during
which time I explored the city, and wandered for miles beyond its
walls.[278] Late one afternoon I found myself by the lake side. The
view of those tranquil waters, overshadowed as they were by the great
mountain-barrier on the west, was very beautiful. The blue surface of
the lake was dotted with crowds of white sails rose-tinted with the
light of the setting sun. Nearer at hand crowds of wild-duck floated
in the midst of rippling circles, showing but little fear of the noisy
little boys who swam and dived as skilfully as themselves, and whose
splashing and glad laughter were almost the only sounds that broke the
utter peacefulness of a perfect summer evening. Very different was that
terrible scene which only a generation ago was enacted by the shores
of the Tali-fu lake, when its blue waters were incarnadined with blood
and its now peaceful shores rang with the despairing cries of thousands
of homeless women and children. For it was Tali-fu and the borders
of its lake that in 1873 witnessed the last and most tragic events
of the great Mohammedan rebellion.[279] Tu Wên-hsiu, the so-called
"Sultan," who had so long and successfully defied all the military
power of China, had fixed his court at Tali and had converted it into
what he believed to be an impregnable stronghold. The closing scene
of the great conflict which devastated the whole province of Yunnan,
and converted many of its most flourishing towns into blackened ruins,
has been several times described, but nowhere so graphically as in
the account by M. Emile Rocher,[280] the brilliant and sympathetic
Frenchman who was an eyewitness of much that took place during the
course of that terrible civil war. The following is a crude translation
of his account of the events that occurred when all hope of holding
Tali-fu against the imperial troops had been abandoned.
[Illustration: TALIFU.
(Photograph by Dr Clark, Missionary, Talifu). [_To face p. 260._]
[Sidenote: DEATH OF THE SULTAN OF TALI]
"Tu Wên-hsiu ... awaited with resignation the hour that would deliver
him from his last agonies. His wives and several of his children, being
unwilling to survive him, poisoned themselves in his presence, and the
day before he left the palace he caused all articles of value that
he possessed to be destroyed, or, if they could not be broken, to be
thrown into the lake. On the 15th January 1873, Tu Wên-hsiu arrayed
himself in his handsomest robes of ceremony, and playing the part of
a sovereign to the very end of his career, ordered the preparation of
his yellow palanquin--yellow being a colour that none but the emperor
of China had the right to use. Before leaving his palace, he bade a
last farewell to the city in which the best years of his life had
been passed, and gazed for the last time on the chain of mountains,
the 'Azure Hills'[281] on which he had loved to ramble. Before leaving
his apartments he swallowed a ball of opium.... The road which his
retinue had to follow in order to reach the south gate was crowded
with people who came to prostrate themselves before their Sultan for
the last time. It was a solemn procession, and many people who had not
always had reason to praise the administration of the fallen Sultan
could not hide their emotion. Tu Wên-hsiu, whose senses the poison
had begun to paralyse, seemed to be little affected by what went on
around him. Arriving at the gate of the city he made a great effort
to get out of the palanquin in order to thank the people and the
leaders who had accompanied him, and his children were commended by
him to the care of Yang Wei.[282] An escort of soldiers, sent by Yang
Yü-k'o,[283] conducted him to the village occupied by that general. The
latter treated the vanquished chief with respect, and asked him several
questions, to which, however, Tu Wên-hsiu had difficulty in responding.
Seeing that he could only extract confused words out of the Sultan,
whose moments were numbered, the general sent him on to Hsiao Kuan-i,
where the Governor of Yunnan was residing, in order that the latter
might at least see him alive. He was already too late ... the Sultan
breathed his last shortly after his arrival, towards seven in the
evening.... The next day the Governor caused his head to be cut off,
and a courier specially charged with the burden was sent post haste to
the capital of the province, where the head was placed in honey for
preservation before being sent on to Peking."
Baber, who visited Tali-fu a few years after these events, adds a
graphic and pathetic touch, the truth of which was amply vouched for.
He says that when Tu Wên-hsiu was brought into the presence of the
imperialist general he begged with his last breath that the conquerors
would be merciful. "I have nothing to ask but this--spare the people."
This request--which Baber describes as perhaps the most impressive and
pathetic ever uttered by a dying patriot--was treated with disregard.
The real tragedy came later, and is described by M. Rocher in a
passage which I translate as follows: "The Governor, under pretext
of celebrating the surrender of the city, invited all the Mohammedan
leaders to a great banquet.... He received them very well, loaded them
with praises, and, just as they were going into the banquet hall,
the soldiers who had been placed in readiness for the event seized
upon the doomed guests. Seventeen heads simultaneously rolled on the
ground. The Governor then gave the order for six guns to be fired, the
signal already agreed upon for the commencement of the massacre in
the city. It was the eleventh day of the occupation. What followed is
indescribable.... After three days of this human butchery, Tali and
its environs presented a pitiable spectacle. Out of a population of
fifty thousand men, thirty thousand had perished during those fatal
days, and the rest were all dispersed."
[Sidenote: MASSACRE AT TALI-FU]
There is some reason to believe that the number of those said to have
been slain was largely exaggerated. Curiously enough the leaders of
the imperial armies who, according to our Western notions, should have
been zealous to hush up the whole grim episode, were the first to
spread abroad the news of the massacre and to magnify the numbers of
the slaughtered; not because they took any delight in the butchery for
its own sake, but because they wished to strike such terror into the
scattered bands of rebels who were still at large that they would no
longer have the heart to strive against the great emperor whose armies
they had defied for seventeen years. That the wholesale slaughter
cannot by any possibility be excused, goes without saying. But it is
only fair to remember that the great object which the imperial leaders
had before them was to inflict so terrible a chastisement on the rebels
that they would never again be able to threaten the stability of the
empire. That object was attained. Had any considerable body of men been
spared it is highly probable that they would merely have carried on
the warfare from another centre, and protracted, for another decade,
the strife and bloodshed which had already devastated the province of
Yunnan for nearly twenty years, and reduced the population--so it is
estimated--from eight millions to one.
Two years before the end, Tu Wên-hsiu made a great effort to prop up
his falling cause by securing the help of Great Britain. With this view
he despatched his son to England in 1871, and as a token of his desire
to become the vassal of the British Crown he sent Queen Victoria four
pieces of rock hewn out of the four corners of the great Tali mountain.
"Our unsentimental Foreign Office," as Baber says, "blind to romantic
symbolism, would not suffer them to be extricated from the bonded
warehouse of the Customs;" at any rate the Sultan and his unfortunate
followers were left to their doom, and the Dragon flag flew once more
over the walls of Tali. The mountain, if it could think and feel, might
perhaps console itself for the contempt shown to its corner-stones
with the reflection that since its history began nations have grown
up and passed away like the wild-flowers that live and die on its
green slopes, and that the great thrones and dynasties of to-day will
have become empty names, signifying nothing, long before its jewelled
fingers cease to traffic with the eternal stars, or to duplicate
themselves in the still waters of the Tali lake.
FOOTNOTES:
[269] Known to the Tibetans as A-jol (འཇོལ་).
[270] Both names are Chinese. The first means "Below the Pass," the
second "The Foot of the Hill."
[271] See below, pp. 289 _seq_.
[272] Literally "Tail of the Lake."
[273] Snow is said to exist in patches on the summit of the Tali
mountains all the year round; and is hawked in the streets of Hsia
Kuan, near Tali-fu, in the summer months.
[274] In Yunnan the word _chieh_ (which means either "street" or
"village") is always pronounced _Kai_, as in the Cantonese dialect.
[275] The official _Annals_ of Yunnan contain records of very many
disastrous earthquakes in this province.
[276] The Pai Sha (White Sand) river is no whit more entitled to that
appellation than the Cher would be.
[277] There are two roads from Shang Kuan to Tali-fu: one lying near
the lake, the other near the mountain. My road was the latter.
[278] Marco Polo's description of Tali-fu and the district of which it
was capital (Carajan) is well worth reading. The terrifying serpents
which he mentions as having "eyes bigger than a great loaf of bread,"
are said to have been crocodiles. (See Cordier's edition of Yule's
_Marco Polo_, vol. ii. pp. 76-84.)
[279] See Note 39 (p. 435).
[280] In his valuable work _La Province Chinoise du Yunnan_ (Paris,
1880).
[281] The Chinese name for the lofty mountains behind Tali-fu is Ts'ang
Shan (蒼山), "Azure Hills."
[282] Two young children survived the catastrophe. Yang Wei was the
Sultan's son-in-law and principal general of his army.
[283] 楊玉科, an imperialist general.