The trail, which had made a somewhat circuitous deviation southward of
Debi Dhura, began to turn to the east, and soon after towards the
north-east. After leaving Debi Dhura it brought the traveller to the
summit of the granitic range which the trail followed all along, amidst
country thickly wooded with oaks, rhododendrons, pines, and deodars.
The whole journey was made at high elevations, through dense forests,
with a feeling of damp about everything; the trees, soaked and
dripping, standing like black giants in the penetrating white mist that
enveloped us. One could not see more than twenty or thirty yards off.
In many places the trail was narrow, and it had been built by blasting
the steep rocky mountainside and filling whatever gaps there were with
a wall supported on outstanding boulders below. The trail was in such
places hardly more than three or four feet wide, and no parapet of any
kind existed to prevent unlucky travellers from falling over into the
precipice several hundred feet in depth at the side.
In fair weather, when the trail was dry, and when a trustworthy animal
was being ridden, there would, of course, be no danger of any kind; but
when I went through, the path was slimy and slippery, and my
pony—although excellent and sure-footed, quite like a goat on a
mountain trail—possessed the bad habit of shying at anything moving
upon the ground, and particularly at the whitewashed milestones, when
he would invariably make a few contortions, and end up by standing on
his hind legs with a final leap forward when the whip was duly applied
upon his back.
I had just passed one of these mile-posts, and expecting a peaceful
ride until we came to the next, I pulled out my notebook and was
jotting down some observations. We were then at a considerable height,
the trail, cut into the rock, winding its way along the summit of the
mountainside. It was about sunset, and everything around me was silent
but for the clatter of my pony’s hoofs upon the wet trail, or every now
and then the noise of a stone rolling down into the precipice some 800
feet deep.
In going round a corner a man appeared enveloped in a red blanket, the
end of which was fluttering in the breeze. Unexpectedly my pony neighed
frantically, gave a powerful jerk, backed, and slipped with his hind
legs off the trail.
“Jupiter!” I exclaimed as I tried to jump off the saddle. My blood
turned cold; but before I had time to dismount, the pony which was
resting with his body on the trail, scrambled up again on it in the
most miraculous manner. In a perfect frenzy he now bolted full gallop
along the tortuous and narrow way. In my attempt to get off, the reins
had got loose and entangled, and I had taken my left foot off the
stirrup.
A glance at the illustration depicting this incident will show the kind
of place where it occurred; and it can easily be imagined that a pony,
dashing along round corners involved some minor dangers to the rider,
such as smashing one’s knee or head against projecting boulders. Worse
luck, in this unpleasant contingency, the bit broke, which placed me
absolutely at the mercy of the pony, who viciously rubbed against the
rocks to my right, so that the right stirrup and part of the saddle
were torn off. My right leg might have shared the same fate had nature
not endowed me with sufficient agility to move it out of the way when
necessary. Dismounting would have meant certain death, because, at the
speed I was going, no matter on which side I got off, either directly
or by recoil, I should have been shot off into the abyss.
Eventually—and when it pleased him—the pony resumed the journey in a
less reckless fashion. If not the best-tempered, he was certainly the
most sure-footed animal I had ever ridden, and eventually he and I
became good friends; he lost his shyness and never again played tricks.
He was really as good as a goat at hill-climbing, and he could go where
a human would experience difficulty in getting along.
Two of my men, who, with trembling hearts, had witnessed the accident,
ultimately caught me up and explained to me the real cause of it.
Simultaneously with the appearance of the man in the flapping blanket,
the pony had placed his foot on a small snake lying coiled and numbed
with cold upon the road.
We had double and treble marches daily, drenching rain, and heavy
trails, but pony and men went well. The pony, I must say, lost a good
deal of his friskiness, for, in order to remove his exuberance of
vigour as quickly as possible, I permitted some of my men to indulge in
their national habit of holding to the pony’s tail while ascending
steep hills.
We seemed to have a good many varied experiences on that trip; the next
sight being the corpse of a woman tied in a sheet to a pole, and
sprinkled all over with red paint. A group of men sat by her, and
seemed concerned at the unwelcome appearance of a sahib.
The woman had been lynched. She was said to have been beautiful, but
unfaithful to her husband, for which latter fault she had been dragged
into the forest, ill-treated, and eventually hanged, her body being
left for several days until the murder was discovered. On the present
occasion the body was being conveyed to Almora—some fifty miles off—for
the official examination and inquiry. I had dismounted in order to hear
the details of the tragedy, but as the corpse was in a state of
decomposition I jumped on the saddle again and fled, my handkerchief
held fast to my nose.
I was told that Kumaonis, especially in the particular part of the
province I was then travelling in, were very revengeful and much
addicted to murder. I, too, found them morose and sulky, ever
discontented, somewhat quick-tempered and unreasonable. They
undoubtedly possess the vindictive and warlike characteristics of their
former masters and present neighbours, the Nepalese, but have lost—or
possibly never possessed—any of their finer qualities.
Since the British took possession of this part of Kumaon, crime has
been put down to a certain extent, but much difficulty, I understand,
is experienced in ever discovering offenders, who are cleverly screened
from the authorities by everybody. They certainly have no love, nor
even respect, for sahibs, and they display a supercilious look upon
their countenances which makes them heartily detestable.
I was able to obtain additional ponies and men at Lohagart, formerly a
military cantonment, and to continue my journey towards the Nepalese
frontier.
We crossed the Serju River forming the southern and northern
boundaries, respectively, between the Sor and Kali Kumaon Parganahs, by
a forced march of twenty-one miles—quite good going with baggage and on
such roads in such weather. We had some difficulty in keeping to the
trail in the dark forest at night, and we had a curious instance of how
superstition will work on some people’s minds with quite disastrous
effects. All over the Himahlyas one finds, in some form or other, a
rooted belief in the spirits of the mountains and of the forest, some
of the spirits being benign enough, others of a wicked temperament.
My sayce, who was an excellent fellow, but timid to a degree, had
become separated from the rest of my party and had remained far behind
in charge of a recalcitrant pony and load. In the middle of the night I
heard distant cries of distress, and, suspecting the cause, I sent some
men with improvised torches to his assistance. They carried in the
sayce, and on depositing him on the ground, pronounced him dying. In
fact, the poor fellow was doubled up, delirious with fever, and in a
state of absolute nervous collapse. When I brought a light to his face
he became terrified, wept, and, trembling all over, begged for mercy.
He seemed to be labouring under some hallucination—some ghastly vision
at all events, for when I placed my hand upon his forehead he screamed
and struggled in horror. He entreated to be freed from the horrible
figures which danced around him; he shuddered, and eventually his
convulsions took the form of an epileptic fit.
This was all the result of a prolonged fright. When he recovered
sufficiently he told me how at night in the forest, when he was left
alone, evil spirits surrounded him and pulled him by the hair, the
ears, the nose, and pinched him all over.
“Show me the marks.”
“Sahib,” he said, looking at himself all over, “I can see no marks, but
I still feel the pain where they touched me.”
“But how could you see the spirits if it was quite dark?”
“Yes, but it seemed to grow quite light when they suddenly appeared. I
think they were the souls of dead people. They were very ugly, sahib!”
“Were they as ugly as we are?”
“Yes, sahib, about the same! I think I recognised some of my relations
among them.”
The poor fellow’s nerves were so shattered by the fright he had
experienced that he never completely recovered from the shock.
In other works I have described how the natives on the borders of Tibet
fear these spirits of the mountains, and place obstacles, such as
thorns, etc., along the paths in order to prevent them entering
villages, while threads are placed along dangerous passages upon trails
to facilitate the “good spirits of the mountains” of departed friends
finding their way in the dark of the night without misadventure.
Going now in a northerly direction we came to Pithoragarh, a place of
former importance, possessing the remains of a Nepalese fort, an
elaborate structure of solid earth-works with platform for guns, a
water-tank, and a much-loopholed quadrangular castle. These structures
stand on prominent points in the centre of the green and
well-cultivated valley,—some fourteen square miles in extent,—dotted
here and there with little villages and houses and tufts of trees, and
irrigated by several streams. A low hill-range in the centre separates
the valley in two.
While taking a photograph of the forts I nearly and most unexpectedly
trod on a big snake, some 8 feet in length, which lay spread in the
sun. He raised his prettily arched neck at my approach and hissed with
some vehemence, which I took for a request to stand back. Motionless,
he gazed at me with his vitrine eyes, and he was so beautiful, with
iridescent scales shining like precious stones in the sun, that for one
moment I could not help gazing at him. But as I had no stick nor any
weapon upon me I cut short my part of this mutual admiration. When the
snake described a graceful curve and departed, I, too, with somewhat
less grace, made a speedy retreat in the opposite direction.
From Pithoragarh by quick marches I made rapid progress towards the
frontier, visiting en route my old friend the Rajiwar of Askote, who
had shown me much kindness when conveyed over the frontier after my
captivity and tortures in Tibet two years previously. The entire town
turned out to receive me, and I was again entertained by the Rajah in
his palace.
It seemed rather a pity that this magnificent old fellow, whose
faithfulness to the British had ever been exemplary, did not receive
more courtesy from snobbish officials who occasionally visited his
country, because, after all, courtesy costs nothing and goes a very
long way with natives of all classes. The important services which he
and his family have rendered in frontier matters with both Tibet and
Nepal seemed to have been forgotten, and with the heavy taxation that
had been imposed upon him he found it difficult—at the time of my
visit—to support himself and his numerous relations.
From a strategic point of view the Askote valley is the principal and
practically the only highway, the key, as it were, to all the Himahlyan
passes leading into Tibet from Bhot (both in Darma and in Bias), as
well as those of Western Nepal. Perhaps the fact of having in such a
spot a loyal subject, able to keep a sharp watch upon dangers that may
impend in the future, would be more valued if it were more understood.
After a day of festivities and excessive eating, enlivened by most
harmonious native music, and a visit from my friends the Raots, the
proud wild men of the forest who had on a former occasion predicted my
death when I visited their haunt, we travelled through the low and hot
Kali valley. Here malarial fever was rampant, vermin and mosquitoes in
swarms, and rinderpest raging. I was now going along the Nepalese
frontier, the Kali River defining the boundary-line between the
North-West Provinces of India and Nepal.
On entering Bhot, or Little Tibet, we again rose to greater altitudes,
and were soon able to shake off the touch of fever which nearly all my
men and myself had contracted in going through the steamy, damp valley.
At Sirka, since my former visit, a Christian church of stone had
risen—the first one in British Tibet—the work of the untiring and
self-sacrificing Miss Sheldon, an American lady doctor, who has for
years done noble work among the Shokas,—Shoka, as you know, is the
local name of the inhabitants of that particular section of Bhot. When
I passed through, Miss Sheldon was busy putting on the roof of the
church—an operation which I watched with admiration, mingled somewhat
with concern, although I must confess a skilled mason could not have
done it better.