THE ACTION AT THE HOT SPRINGS
The village of Tuna, which lies at the foot of bare yellow hills,
consists of a few deserted houses. The place is used mainly as a
halting-stage by the Tibetans. The country around is sterile and
unproductive, and wood is a luxury that must be carried from a distance
of nearly fifty miles.
It was in these dismal surroundings that Colonel Younghusband's mission
spent the months of January, February, and March. The small garrison
suffered all the discomforts of Phari. The dirt and grime of the squalid
little houses became so depressing that they pitched their tents in an
open courtyard, preferring the numbing cold to the filth of the Tibetan
hovels. Many of the sepoys fell victims to frost-bite and pneumonia, and
nearly every case of pneumonia proved fatal, the patient dying of
suffocation owing to the rarefied air.
Colonel Younghusband had not been at Tuna many days before it became
clear that there could be no hope of a peaceful solution. The Tibetans
began to gather in large numbers at Guru, eight miles to the east, on
the road to Lhasa. The Depon, or Lhasa General, whom Colonel
Younghusband met on two occasions, repeated that he was only empowered
to treat on condition that we withdrew to Yatung. Messages were sent
from the Tibetan camp to Tuna almost daily asking us to retire, and
negociations again came to a deadlock. After a month the tone of the
Tibetans became minatory. They threatened to invest our camp, and an
attack was expected on March 1, the Tibetan New Year. The Lamas,
however, thought better of it. They held a Commination Service instead,
and cursed us solemnly for five days, hoping, no doubt, that the British
force would dwindle away by the act of God. Nobody was 'one penny the
worse.'
Though we made no progress with the Tibetans during this time, Colonel
Younghusband utilized the halt at Tuna in cementing a friendship with
Bhutan. The neutrality of the Bhutanese in the case of a war with Tibet
was a matter of the utmost importance. Were these people unfriendly or
disposed to throw in their lot with their co-religionists, the Tibetans,
our line of communications would be exposed to a flank attack along the
whole of the Tuna Plain, which is conterminous with the Bhutan frontier,
as well as a rear attack anywhere in the Chumbi Valley as far south as
Rinchengong. The Bhutanese are men of splendid physique, brave, warlike,
and given to pillage. Their hostility would have involved the despatch
of a second force, as large as that sent to Tibet, and might have
landed us, if unprepared, in a serious reverse. The complete success of
Colonel Younghusband's diplomacy was a great relief to the Indian
Government, who were waiting with some anxiety to see what attitude the
Bhutanese would adopt. Having secured from them assurances of their good
will, Colonel Younghusband put their friendship to immediate test by
broaching the subject of the Ammo Chu route to Chumbi through Bhutanese
territory. Very little time was lost before the concession was obtained
from the Tongsa Penlop, ruler of Bhutan, who himself accompanied the
mission as far as Lhasa in the character of mediator between the Dalai
Lama and the British Government. The importance of the Ammo Chu route in
our future relations with Tibet I have emphasized elsewhere.
I doubt if ever an advance was more welcome to waiting troops than that
which led to the engagement at the Hot Springs.
For months, let it be remembered, we had been marking time. When a move
had to be made to escort a convoy, it was along narrow mountain-paths,
where the troops had to march in single file. There was no possibility
of an attack this side of Phari. The ground covered was familiar and
monotonous. One felt cooped in, and was thoroughly bored and tired of
the delay, so that when General Macdonald marched out of Phari with his
little army in three columns, a feeling of exhilaration communicated
itself to the troops.
Here was elbow-room at last, and an open plain, where all the army corps
of Europe might manoeuvre. At Tuna, on the evening of the 29th, it was
given out in orders that a reconnaissance in force was to be made the
next morning, and two companies of the 32nd Pioneers would be left at
Guru. The Tibetan camp at the Hot Springs lay right across our line of
march, and the hill that flanked it was lined with their sangars. They
must either fight or retire. Most of us thought that the Tibetans would
fade away in the mysterious manner they have, and build another futile
wall further on. The extraordinary affair that followed must be a unique
event in military history.
The morning of the 30th was bitterly cold. An icy wind was blowing, and
snow was lying on the ground. I put on my thick sheepskin for the first
time for two months, and I owe my life to it.
About an hour after leaving Tuna, two or three Tibetan messengers rode
out from their camp to interview Colonel Younghusband. They got down
from their ponies and began chattering in a very excited manner, like a
flock of frightened parrots. It was evident to us, not understanding the
language, that they were entreating us to go back, and the constant
reference to Yatung told us that they were repeating the message that
had been sent into the Tuna camp almost daily during the past few
months--that if we retired to Yatung the Dalai Lama would send an
accredited envoy to treat with us. Being met with the usual answer,
they mounted dejectedly and rode off at a gallop to their camp.
Soon after they had disappeared another group of horsemen were seen
riding towards us. These proved to be the Lhasa Depon, accompanied by an
influential Lama and a small escort armed with modern rifles. The rifles
were naturally inspected with great interest. They were of different
patterns--Martini-Henri, Lee-Metford, Snider--but the clumsily-painted
stocks alone were enough to show that they were shoddy weapons of native
manufacture. They left no mark on our troops.
According to Tibetan custom, a rug was spread on the ground for the
interview between Colonel Younghusband and the Lhasa Depon, who
conferred sitting down. Captain O'Connor, the secretary of the mission,
interpreted. The Lhasa Depon repeated the entreaty of the messengers,
and said that there would be trouble if we proceeded. Colonel
Younghusband's reply was terse and to the point.
'Tell him,' he said to Captain O'Connor, 'that we have been negociating
with Tibet for fifteen years; that I myself have been waiting for eight
months to meet responsible representatives from Lhasa, and that the
mission is now going on to Gyantse. Tell him that we have no wish to
fight, and that he would be well advised if he ordered his soldiers to
retire. Should they remain blocking our path, I will ask General
Macdonald to remove them.'
The Lhasa Depon was greatly perturbed. He said that he had no wish to
fight, and would try and stop his men firing upon us. But before he left
he again tried to induce Colonel Younghusband to turn back. Then he rode
away to join his men. What orders he gave them will never be known.
I do not think the Tibetans ever believed in our serious intention to
advance. No doubt they attributed our evacuation of Khamba Jong and our
long delay in Chumbi to weakness and vacillation. And our forbearance
since the negociations of 1890 must have lent itself to the same
interpretation.
As we advanced we could see the Tibetans running up the hill to the left
to occupy the sangars. To turn their position, General Macdonald
deployed the 8th Gurkhas to the crest of the ridge; at the same time the
Pioneers, the Maxim detachment of the Norfolks, and Mountain Battery
were deployed on the right until the Tibetan position was surrounded.
The manoeuvre was completely successful. The Tibetans on the hill,
finding themselves outflanked by the Gurkhas, ran down to the cover of
the wall by the main camp, and the whole mob was encircled by our
troops.
It was on this occasion that the Sikhs and Gurkhas displayed that
coolness and discipline which won them a European reputation. They had
orders not to fire unless they were fired upon, and they walked right
up to the walls of the sangars until the muzzles and prongs of the
Tibetan matchlocks were almost touching their chests. The Tibetans
stared at our men for a moment across the wall, and then turned and
shambled down sulkily to join their comrades in the redan.
No one dreamed of the sanguinary action that was impending. I
dismounted, and hastily scribbled a despatch on my saddle to the effect
that the Tibetan position had been taken without a shot being fired. The
mounted orderly who carried the despatch bore a similar message from the
mission to the Foreign Office. Then the disarming began. The Tibetans
were told that if they gave up their arms they would be allowed to go
off unmolested. But they did not wish to give up their arms. It was a
ridiculous position, Sikh and Mongol swaying backwards and forwards as
they wrestled for the possession of swords and matchlocks. Perhaps the
humour of it made one careless of the underlying danger. Accounts differ
as to how this wrestling match developed into war, how, to the delight
of the troops, the toy show became the 'real thing.' Of one thing I am
certain, that a rush was made in the south-east corner before a shot was
fired. If there had been any firing, I would not have been wandering
about by the Tibetan flank without a revolver in my hand. As it was, my
revolver was buried in the breast pocket of my Norfolk jacket under my
poshteen.
I have no excuse for this folly except a misplaced contempt for Tibetan
arms and courage--a contempt which accounted for our only serious
casualty in the affair of 1888.[12] Also I think there was in the margin
of my consciousness a feeling that one individual by an act of rashness
might make himself responsible for the lives of hundreds. Hemmed in as
the Tibetans were, no one gave them credit for the spirit they showed,
or imagined that they would have the folly to resist. But we had to deal
with the most ignorant and benighted people on earth, most of whom must
have thought our magazine rifles and Maxims as harmless as their own
obsolete matchlocks, and believed that they bore charms by which they
were immune from death.
[12] When Colonel Bromhead pursued a Tibetan unarmed. Called upon to
surrender, the Tibetan turned on Colonel Bromhead, cut off his
right arm, and badly mutilated the left.
The attack on the south-east corner was so sudden that the first man was
on me before I had time to draw my revolver.[13] He came at me with his
sword lifted in both hands over his head. He had a clear run of ten
yards, and if I had not ducked and caught him by the knees he must have
smashed my skull open. I threw him, and he dragged me to the ground.
Trying to rise, I was struck on the temple by a second swordsman, and
the blade glanced off my skull. I received the rest of my wounds, save
one or two, on my hands--as I lay on my face I used them to protect my
head. After a time the blows ceased; my assailants were all shot down or
had fled. I lay absolutely still for a while until I thought it safe to
raise my head. Then I looked round, and, seeing no Tibetans near in an
erect position, I got up and walked out of the ring between the rifles
of the Sikhs. The firing line had been formed in the meantime on a mound
about thirty yards behind me, and I had been exposed to the bullets of
our own men from two sides, as well as the promiscuous fire of the
Tibetans.
[13] The reports sent home at the time of the Hot Springs affair were
inaccurate as to the manner in which I was wounded, and also
Major Wallace Dunlop, who was the only European anywhere near me
at the time. Major Dunlop shot his own man, but at such close
quarters that the Tibetan's sword slipped down the barrel of his
rifle and cut off two fingers of his left hand. General Macdonald
and Captain Bignell, who shot several men with their revolvers,
were standing at the corner where the wall joined the ruined
house, and did not see the attack on myself and Dunlop.
The Tibetans could not have chosen a spot more fatal for their stand--a
bluff hill to the north, a marsh and stream on the east, and to the west
a stone wall built across the path, which they had to scale in their
attempted assault on General Macdonald and his escort. Only one man got
over. Inside there was barely an acre of ground, packed so thickly with
seething humanity that the cross-fire which the Pioneers poured in
offered little danger to their own men.
The Lhasa General must have fired off his revolver after I was struck
down. I cannot credit the rumour that his action was a signal for a
general attack, and that the Tibetans allowed themselves to be herded
together as a ruse to get us at close quarters. To begin with, the
demand that they should give up their arms, and the assurance that they
might go off unmolested, must have been quite unexpected by them, and I
doubt if they realized the advantage of an attack at close quarters.
My own impression is that the shot was the act of a desperate man,
ignorant and regardless of what might ensue. To return to Lhasa with his
army disarmed and disbanded, and without a shot having been fired, must
have meant ruin to him, and probably death. When we reached Gyantse we
heard that his property had been confiscated from his family on account
of his failure to prevent our advance.
The Depon was a man of fine presence and bearing. I only saw him once,
in his last interview with Colonel Younghusband, but I cannot dissociate
from him a personal courage and a pride that must have rankled at the
indignity of his position. Probably he knew that his shot was suicidal.
The action has been described as one of extreme folly. But what was left
him if he lived except shame and humiliation? And what Englishman with
the same prospect to face, caught in this dark eddy of circumstance,
would not have done the same thing? He could only fire, and let his men
take their chance, God help them!
And the rabble? They have been called treacherous. Why, I don't know.
They were mostly impressed peasants. They did not wish to give up their
arms. Why should they? They knew nothing of the awful odds against them.
They were being hustled by white men who did not draw knives or fire
guns. Amid that babel of 1,500 men, many of them may not have heard the
command; they may not have believed that their lives would have been
spared.
Looking back on the affair with all the sanity of experience, nothing is
more natural than what happened. It was folly and suicide, no doubt; but
it was human nature. They were not going to give in without having a
fling. I hope I shall not be considered a pro-Tibetan when I say that I
admire their gallantry and dash.
As my wounds were being dressed I peered over the mound at the rout.
They were walking away! Why, in the name of all their Bodhisats and
Munis, did they not run? There was cover behind a bend in the hill a few
hundred yards distant, and they were exposed to a devastating hail of
bullets from the Maxims and rifles, that seemed to mow down every third
or fourth man. Yet they walked!
It was the most extraordinary procession I have ever seen. My friends
have tried to explain the phenomenon as due to obstinacy or ignorance,
or Spartan contempt for life. But I think I have the solution. They
were bewildered. The impossible had happened.
Prayers, and charms, and mantras, and the holiest of their holy men, had
failed them. I believe they were obsessed with that one thought. They
walked with bowed heads, as if they had been disillusioned in their
gods.
After the last of the retiring Tibetans had disappeared round the corner
of the Guru road, the 8th Gurkhas descended from the low range of hills
on the right of the position, and crossed the Guru Plain in extended
order with the 2nd Mounted Infantry on their extreme left. Orders were
then received by Major Row, commanding the detachment, to take the left
of the two houses which were situated under the hills at the further
side of the plain. This movement was carried out in conjunction with the
mounted infantry. The advance was covered by the 7-pounder guns of the
Gurkhas under Captain Luke, R.A. The attacking force advanced in
extended order by a series of small rushes. Cover was scanty, but the
Tibetans, though firing vigorously, fired high, and there were no
casualties. At last the force reached the outer wall of the house, and
regained breath under cover of it. A few men of the Gurkhas then climbed
on to the roof and descended into the house, making prisoners of the
inmates, who numbered forty or fifty. Shortly afterwards the door, which
was strongly barricaded, was broken in, and the remainder of the force
entered the house.
During the advance a number of the Tibetans attempted to escape on mules
and ponies, but the greater number of these were followed up and killed.
The Tibetan casualties were at least 700.
Perhaps no British victory has been greeted with less enthusiasm than
the action at the Hot Springs. Certainly the officers, who did their
duty so thoroughly, had no heart in the business at all. After the first
futile rush the Tibetans made no further resistance. There was no more
fighting, only the slaughter of helpless men.
It is easy to criticise after the event, but it seems to me that the
only way to have avoided the lamentable affair at the Hot Springs would
have been to have drawn up more troops round the redan, and, when the
Tibetans were hemmed in with the cliff in their rear, to have given them
at least twenty minutes to lay down their arms. In the interval the
situation might have been made clear to everyone. If after the
time-limit they still hesitated, two shots might have brought them to
reason. Then, if they were mad enough to decide on resistance, their
suicide would be on their own heads. But to send two dozen sepoys into
that sullen mob to take away their arms was to invite disaster. Given
the same circumstances, and any mob in the world of men, women, or
children, civilized or savage, and there would be found at least one
rash spirit to explode the mine and set a spark to a general
conflagration.
It was thought at the time that the lesson would save much future
bloodshed. But the Tibetan is so stubborn and convinced of his
self-sufficiency that it took many lessons to teach him the disparity
between his armed rabble and the resources of the British Raj. In the
light of after-events it is clear that we could have made no progress
without inflicting terrible punishment. The slaughter at Guru only
forestalled the inevitable. We were drawn into the vortex of war by the
Tibetans' own folly. There was no hope of their regarding the British as
a formidable Power, and a force to be reckoned with, until we had killed
several thousand of their men.
After the action the Tibetan wounded were brought into Tuna, and an
abandoned dwelling-house was fitted up as a hospital. An empty cowshed
outside served as an operating-theatre. The patients showed
extraordinary hardihood and stoicism. After the Dzama Tang engagement
many of the wounded came in riding on yaks from a distance of fifty or
sixty miles. They were consistently cheerful, and always ready to
appreciate a joke. One man, who lost both legs, said: 'In my next battle
I must be a hero, as I cannot run away.' Some of the wounded were
terribly mutilated by shell. Two men who were shot through the brain,
and two who were shot through the lungs, survived. For two days
Lieutenant Davys, Indian Medical Service, was operating nearly all day.
I think the Tibetans were really impressed with our humanity, and looked
upon Davys as some incarnation of a medicine Buddha. They never
hesitated to undergo operations, did not flinch at pain, and took
chloroform without fear. Their recuperative power was marvellous. Of the
168 who were received in hospital, only 20 died; 148 were sent to their
homes on hired yaks cured. Everyone who visited the hospital at Tuna
left it with an increased respect for the Tibetans.
* * * * *
Three months after the action I found the Tibetans still lying where
they fell. One shot through the shoulder in retreat had spun as he fell
facing our rifles. Another tore at the grass with futile fingers through
which a delicate pink primula was now blossoming. Shrunk arms and shanks
looked hideously dwarfish. By the stream the bodies lay in heaps with
parched skin, like mummies, rusty brown. A knot of coarse black hair,
detached from a skull, was circling round in an eddy of wind. Everything
had been stripped from the corpses save here and there a wisp of cloth,
looking more grim than the nakedness it covered, or round the neck some
inexpensive charm, which no one had thought worth taking for its occult
powers. Nature, more kindly, had strewn round them beautiful spring
flowers--primulas, buttercups, potentils. The stream 'bubbled oilily,'
and in the ruined house bees were swarming.
Ten miles beyond the Springs an officer was watering his horse in the
Bamtso Lake. The beast swung round trembling, with eyes astare. Among
the weeds lay the last victim.