Perhaps some of the experiences we had on our trip across country may
interest the reader. Instead of returning by Tinker we proceeded in a
north-westerly direction, employing an old man—a most peculiar fellow,
so wrinkled that he seemed almost mummified—who said he knew the way
across the intricate ranges. When we had nearly reached the summit of
the range, we came in for a very bad storm, a regular blizzard, and it
delayed us for some hours. My guide, as is usual with guides, lost his
head, and, what was worse, also his way. We could not remain where we
were, and we could not see where we were going.
I took matters into my own hands, and, by compass, tried to find my way
to where I supposed the place was; but we experienced great difficulty
in getting along, owing to the snow being driven with great force into
our faces and obscuring the view a few yards away from us. I found the
pass right enough, the blizzard abating for a few moments, and we sank
in soft snow up to our knees, which made marching very heavy. We
descended a few hundred feet and found ourselves in a sort of gully,
which necessitated making another ascent to a higher and more difficult
pass before we could descend into the valley where the sources of the
Ganges are to be found.
Night was coming on fast, my men were in a pitiable condition from
fatigue and cold, and the wind blew the ground-snow—frozen into grains
like sand—in regular whirlwinds round us, which pretty well blinded us.
I was ahead of my party with two men, struggling up the steep incline,
when some of those in the rear shouted that three of my men had
remained behind and were missing. They were no longer answering the
signals we constantly made in order not to lose one another. This
necessitated a long delay and a search being made for them. One of the
pictures in this book shows us shouting to them in order to find their
whereabouts, but we shouted ourselves hoarse and got no answer. I
detailed two of my best men to go back to find them, and provided them
with extra blankets, as they would very likely spend the night up there
and not catch us up till the next day. I also left the mummified guide
with them.
We went on and eventually got over the higher and more difficult pass
before it got too dark, the wind blowing so hard that we had at times
great difficulty in proceeding against it. The descent was most
dangerous, the snow was treacherous, and when we got lower down we got
among a lot of loose boulders and dangerous sheets of ice, which gave
us no end of trouble. We were benighted, and it got so dark that we did
not see where we were putting our feet, which, half-frozen as they
were, constantly got jammed and knocked and bruised. Some of the
rounder boulders frequently rolled under us as we trod on them, and
caused us very nasty falls. At each step we unavoidably started a
regular landslip of rocks and débris, rolling down the steep mountain
side, the fracas of which, with the howling of the wind, made quite a
diabolical noise.
The lower we got, the warmer it became, and, of course, the snow
lessened and eventually disappeared. We travelled for a long distance
along the bed of a river, and, farther on, upon what seemed the ancient
bed of a lake, an immense, flat stretch of gravel.
Having got among some big boulders, which necessitated a lot of
fatiguing work on all fours, one of my men, in trying to help me to get
down a big rock, slipped, and dragged me with him, a jump of some 15
feet. As I fell on my back, I was considerably shaken, while my man
injured his arm rather badly.
A little later, having reached the camping ground of Dongan, we halted
and pitched our tents at four o’clock in the morning. It was not till
late in the day that the missing men and those sent to their relief
arrived in a pitiable condition. They had been compelled to abandon two
loads. One man was badly frost-bitten, another taken with such violent
cramps and pains in his inside that I had grave fears for his recovery.
He had to be carried, which involved a terrible tax on my other men,
who were all much worn and footsore.
Our march the previous day had been over twenty-two miles. Dongan was
only 14,100 feet above sea-level, and we felt comparatively comfortable
and warm. We had three high peaks to 80°, 100°, 125° b.m., and to the
north-west was the Lippu Lekh, 16,780 feet.
I revisited the source of the Ganges, a pretty little spot where a
limpid spring gurgles out from under a big boulder, and forms a
crystal-like pool adorned with chokdens. This water is deliciously
cool, and very nearly caused the death of three of my Hindoo men. They
drank copiously while soaked in perspiration, and washed themselves
prior to eating their food. They were seized with a colic accompanied
by high fever, and they groaned in their contortions upon the ground.
We applied massage freely and violent rubbing, which, with an
additional quick cure of my own, is very successful on such occasions;
and eventually—after some hours—they were able to continue, although
still suffering.
Partly owing to the strain being over, partly owing to the intense
sufferings of the previous day, and the excessive eating to celebrate
the temporary end of our troubles, three more men were taken very ill
on our way up the Kuti valley, and I had to send them down into
Garbyang.
I was now again in Bias, a portion of the country practically ceded
that year by the British Government to Tibet. In fact, Tibetan
emissaries had been in all the villages—Gungi, Nabi, Ronkan, and
Kuti—imposing upon the natives in every way, claiming taxes and
proclaiming Tibetan sovereignty.
At Kuti, where I arrived, as usual, in the middle of the night, owing
to the long marches we did daily, I had the surprise and pleasure of
meeting Nattalì again, one of the strongest-willed, noblest-minded,
pluckiest, and sweetest little ladies I have ever met. She was a Kutial
Shoka, and as pretty as they make them. Her grace of manner, her
inconceivable thoughtfulness and absolute purity of thought were enough
to put to shame many a woman of more civilised countries.
Being a lady of wealth, for a Shoka—for her husband was one of the big
traders of the district—she owned the finest house in Kuti. She would
not hear of our remaining under canvas, and insisted on evacuating the
house to let us occupy it. Not only that, but the poor thing sat up
half the night to prepare sweets and all sorts of luxuries for our
benefit, and I had a great struggle the next day—even the sweetest
woman can be obstinate—to make her accept a sufficient remuneration for
her trouble.
Both Tibetan emissaries and men from the British Political Agent were
hiding in the village in order to attempt wrecking my expedition and
stirring the natives up against me; in fact, the people were most
turbulent in the morning, and I thought we should come in for a good
fight. We had to knock about some of the villagers, who seemed morose
and inclined to give trouble, and at one moment it looked as if a
general battle might result. Stones were thrown at us, and we thought
we had better disperse the crowd before it got too formidable. While my
men pounded away on some of the more excited folks and drove them back,
Nattalì stood by me and gave her rebellious countrymen such sonorous
cracks on the head with a heavy stick—heavens! was she not quick with
her hands!—that I had to sit down on a stone, in convulsions of
laughter. Then she even persuaded a number of Kutials to enter my
employ and accompany me. Others who refused to come she called cowards,
spat upon them, and again gave them a taste of the stick. I liked her
very much for that.
A relative of hers, whom she particularly warned to be faithful to me,
proved himself one of the most hard-working and devoted followers I
have ever had.
I well remember her, the day we left. She, with a great many villagers,
came to accompany us to the boundary of their village, a high point
from which an extensive view is obtained of the upper course of the
Kuti River along which we were to travel. Having bade us a melancholy
good-bye—for she had a presentiment that we should have great trouble
before us—she sat herself upon a rock, resting her placid little face
upon her hands, and she remained watching us until we were out of
sight. Every now and then we waved our hands at her, and her little arm
waved a parting salute against the bright line of the sky. That was the
last we saw of Nattalì.
By a most remarkable coincidence, as I sat down in my London rooms to
jot down these words for publication—now five years later,—as I was
writing the word “Nattalì” upon the paper a letter from India was
handed to me. On opening it, it contained the sad news that Nattalì was
dead.