DEPARTURE FROM SRINAGAR
Manuel was a singular fellow. He was a Hindu from Madras, small, thin,
and black, spoke good English, and with his parents had joined the Roman
Catholic Church. He had presented himself at the last moment with a huge
packet of testimonials and declared confidently: "If the gentleman
thinks of making a long journey, the gentleman will want a cook, and I
can cook." I took him into my service without looking at his
testimonials (Illustration 15). He behaved well, was honest, and gave me
more satisfaction than annoyance. The worst he did was to get lost in
Ladak in some mysterious way, and to this hour I have heard nothing more
about him.
In my compartment we sat as close as herrings in a barrel. The air
became hotter and hotter; from the pleasant coolness of the heights we
came again into the oppressive heat of the Indian plains. Passing Kalka,
Ambala, and Lahore I came to Rawalpindi, where I put up at a passable
hotel. But the room was hot and stuffy, and the punkah, the great fan
hanging down from the ceiling, was in motion all through the night, but
did not prevent the gnats from paying me importunate visits.
On June 15 a _tonga_ and three _ekkas_ stood before the hotel; I took my
seat in the former, and the baggage was securely packed on the
latter--and Manuel. The road runs between fine avenues of trees straight
to the foot of the mountains. The traffic is lively: carts, caravans,
riders, tramps, and beggars. Before us lie slopes of no great height,
and beyond the higher mountains of the Himalayas. Are they walls
erected across my path by hostile spirits, or do they await my coming?
Beyond Malepur the _tonga_, drawn by two spirited horses, passes through
the first hills with dark and light tints of luxuriant green. The road
winds up among them, and I am glad to leave the fiery glow of the plains
behind; certainly the sun is still burning, for the air is clear and the
first forerunners of the cloud masses of the south-west monsoon have not
yet appeared. Thus we pass one stage after another. We have often to
drive slowly, for we meet long trains of native soldiers in khaki
uniforms with forage and munition waggons, each drawn by two mules--how
glad I should have been to possess a couple of dozen of these fine
animals! Cool winds blow in our faces and conifers begin to appear among
the foliage trees. We leave the summer station Murree behind us, and now
the snow-clad mountains at Gulmarg are visible. After crossing a pass
near Murree we ascend again. Beyond Bandi we reach the right bank of the
Jhelam, but the river lies far below us; the scenery is beautiful, and
its grandeur and magnificence defy description. Lower and lower we go,
drive close along the river's bank, and pass the night in the _dak
bungalow_ of Kohala.
Next day we cross a bridge and slowly mount the slopes of the left bank.
The morning is beautifully fine, and the not over-abundant vegetation of
the hills exhales an agreeable summer perfume. On our left rushes the
stream, often white with foam, but its roar strikes our ears only when
we make a halt; at other times it is drowned by the rattle of the
_tonga_. I follow with the closest attention the changes of scenery in
this wonderful country. The road is carried through some of the mountain
spurs in broad vaulted tunnels. The last of these is the longest, and
opens its gaping jaws before us like a black cavern. Within it is
delightfully cool; the short warning blasts of the signal horn
reverberate melodiously in the entrails of the mountain.
[Illustration: 7. THE MAHARAJA OF JAMMU AND KASHMIR.]
In Gurie we breakfast, and rest a quarter of an hour on a comfortable
couch in the verandah. Here, four years previously, I spent a memorable
hour with Sir Robert and Lady Harvey. The wind whistles through the
same poplars, elms, and willows to-day; I feel extraordinarily forlorn
and melancholy. Then I had come from a great journey, now the future
seems to me hopelessly dark. Before me rise the softly rounded but steep
slopes of the wooded mountains on the right side of the valley; down
yonder the village of Gurie lies on both sides of the river. The air is
mild. I dream of eternal spring and forget my cares. Beyond Chinawari
tall conifers are again seen on the cliffs. My driver, who speaks
Persian, points to a huge block of stone embedded in the margin of the
road; ten days ago it fell and killed a man and two horses. At dangerous
spots, where landslips may be expected, small white flags are stuck up.
The mountain landscape becomes wilder, and its sharp outlines become
more distinct in the shades of evening. We come to Urie and Rampur and
often drive through dense forest. When we arrive at Baramula we have
covered 106 miles in fourteen hours.
On June 17 it rained in torrents, but we determined in spite of it to
travel the last six stages to Srinagar. We canter along the straight
road between endless rows of poplars. The mud splashes up, the rain
beats on the roof of the _tonga_, heavy clouds involve us in
semi-darkness, and there is not a trace of the mountains to be seen. The
weather suits the mood in which I arrive at Srinagar, the capital of
Kashmir on the bank of the Jhelam. Here I had to make several
preparations for my journey--to Turkestan, it was stated officially;
there was no more talk of Tibet. The persons whom I called upon on the
first day of my sojourn in the capital of the Maharaja were away, but at
last I found the superintendent of the Mission Hospital in Srinagar, Dr.
Arthur Neve. In 1902 he had treated my sick cossack, Shagdur, and
rendered me many other services, for which I owe him an eternal debt of
gratitude. One of my best friends in India had advised me to try to
persuade Dr. Arthur's brother, Dr. Ernest Neve, to accompany me, but now
I learned that he too had applied for permission to visit western Tibet,
chiefly in connection with missionary work round about Rudok, and had
likewise met with a refusal; he was now on his way back from the
Tibetan frontier above Leh. Dr. Arthur Neve is one of the men I most
admire. He has devoted his life to the Christian Mission in Kashmir, and
his hospital is one of the best and most completely equipped in India.
There he works indefatigably day and night, and his only reward is the
satisfaction of relieving the sufferings of others.
This day everything seemed to go wrong, and out of spirits I returned to
Nedou's Hotel just as the gong announced eight o'clock. I sat down at
the long table among some thirty ladies and gentlemen, all as strange to
me as I to them. But in some of the parties the conversation turned on
me.
"Have you heard that Hedin is in Srinagar?"
"No, really? When did he come?"
"To-day. Of course he wants to go to Tibet."
"Yes, but he has been forbidden, and the Government has orders to
prevent him crossing the frontier."
"Well, then, he can pass round Tibet and enter it from the north."
"Yes, he has done it before, and can of course find the way again."
It was exceedingly unpleasant to have to listen to this conversation,
and I almost drowned myself in my soup-plate. I could scarcely
understand how I could be thus spoken of. It seemed as though the dreams
and illusions of my soul were sorted out, named, and ticketed, while my
corporeal part sat at the _table d'hôte_ and swallowed soup. When we had
happily arrived at the coffee I quietly withdrew, and thereafter always
ate in my own room. My position was such that I had to avoid all contact
with Englishmen; they could do me no service, and I would on no account
reveal my real designs. What a difference from any former journeys,
which I had always commenced from Russian soil, where every one, from
the Czar to the lowest _chinovnik_, had done everything to facilitate my
progress!
Next day I called on the private secretary of the Maharaja, the Pundit
Daya Kishen Kaul, a stately, distinguished man who speaks and writes
English perfectly. He carefully read through my letter of introduction,
and kindly promised to get everything ready for me as quickly as
possible. During the conversation he took notes. His agents were to
receive his orders on that same day, mules would be procured, four
soldiers be told off to accompany me during my whole journey,
provisions, tents, and pack-saddles be bought, and he would find a
pleasure in fulfilling all my wishes. No one would have an inkling that
all this was done for me; every outlay would be lost among the heavy
items entered under the heading "Maintenance of the Maharaja's Court."
And Daya Kishen Kaul kept his word and became my friend. The business
proceeded slowly, but still it did go forward. Not a word was spoken of
Tibet. I was ostensibly getting ready for a journey to Eastern
Turkestan, but his meaning smile told me that he divined my intention.
Even at a base of operation where one has full liberty it is not quite
easy to get a caravan ready for the march; how much more difficult here
where I was in the midst of intrigues and political vexations. But my
self-respect and energy were stimulated, and I felt certain of
succeeding in the end. The whole affair reminded me of a drama with an
interminable list of rôles; the complications were great and I longed
only for action. One act of the play was performed at Srinagar, and I
cannot pass it over, as it had a sequel later on. When everything else
had been denied me from London the road to Eastern Turkestan still lay
open.
On June 22 I received from the Resident, Colonel Pears, the following
letter:
The Indian Government has ordered me by telegraph not to permit you to
cross the frontier between Kashmir and Tibet. They have no objections
to your travelling to Chinese Turkestan, taking it for granted that
you have a Chinese passport. But as you have lately informed me that
you do not possess such a document, I have telegraphed to the Indian
Government for further instructions.
Now I telegraphed to the Swedish Minister in London, Count Wrangel, and
begged him to procure me a passport for Eastern Turkestan, a country I
never thought of visiting, and then informed the Government in Simla of
this step and of the satisfactory reply. Nineteen days later I received
the following letter from Sir Francis Younghusband, who meanwhile had
arrived in Kashmir as the new Resident:
I have received a telegram from the Government informing me that you
may set out before the arrival of the Chinese passport, but on the
condition that you do not travel beyond Leh. As soon, however, as the
Chinese Government, or the Swedish Minister (in London), telegraphs
that your passport is drawn out, you may cross the Chinese frontier at
your own risk; your passport will then be sent after you.
Then I telegraphed to Count Wrangel again, asking him to assure the
Indian Government that the passport had really been granted me and was
already on the way. It was already awaiting me in Leh when I arrived
there. It was a pure formality, for I did not need it, and it would have
to be decided first where the boundary lay between Eastern Turkestan and
Tibet. The representative of China in London subsequently expressed his
astonishment to Count Wrangel that I was travelling about in Tibet with
a passport made out for Eastern Turkestan, but Count Wrangel replied
very justly that he could not possibly control me and the roads I
followed in Asia. The English Government had done its best to prevent my
travelling through Tibet, and so there was no resource left but to
outwit my opponents. How I succeeded will appear in the pages of this
book.
On one of the first days, accompanied by Daya Kishen Kaul, I called on
the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, Sir Pratab Sing, whose brother, Emir
Sing, was also present. His Highness is a little middle-aged man of
dreamy, melancholy aspect (Illustration 7). He received me with great
friendliness, and promised to meet my wishes in every respect. He had
heard of my journey through the desert in 1895, and when I had narrated
its incidents I had won him over to my side; he would be pleased, he
assured me, to see my new expedition start from his territory.
[Illustration: 8. PALACE OF H.H. THE MAHARAJA OF KASHMIR IN SRINAGAR.]
On June 29 I was invited to a great fête at the Maharaja's palace in
honour of the Emperor's birthday. The birthday of the King of England
falls on November 9, but the Emperor of India was born on June 29. How
that happens I do not know. At the appointed time I went to
Younghusband, and at the quay of the Residence we were taken on board
a _shikara_ of the Maharaja--a long, elegantly decorated boat, with soft
cushions and an awning with hanging fringes and tassels, and manned by
about twenty rowers in bright red clothing. We glide swiftly and
noiselessly down the Jhelam, see palaces, houses, and thick groves
reflected picturesquely in the swirling ripples, sweep past numerous
house-boats and canoes, and come to a halt a little below the bridge at
the staircase to the palace, where Emir Sing received us on the lowest
step in the red uniform of a major-general. On the platform above the
steps the Maharaja awaited us. And then we mingled with the varied crowd
of Englishmen and natives, all decked out in their best. Then a court
was held; all the guests filed past in slow single-file, and His
Highness distributed friendly shakes of the hand and nods. Then in the
same order all sat down in rows of chairs, just as in a theatre. But we
did not rest long, for soon dinner was announced, and we made free with
what kitchen and cellar provided. After the feast was over, the
Maharaja, his brother, and his little nephew, the heir to the throne,
entered the hall and took their places at the middle of the table at
which we sat. The Maharaja called for a cheer for the King-Emperor,
another toasted Younghusband, who returned thanks in a neat and partly
humorous speech. Then the guests were invited to go out into an open
gallery with thick pillars, where they witnessed a display of fireworks.
Between suns and Bengal fires, rockets and serpents flew into the air
from boats lying on the river, and on the further bank "God save the
King-Emperor" was spelled out in red lamps. Taste and elegance had been
less studied than noise; there were detonations and sprays of fire in
every nook and corner, and the whole gave an impression of unswerving
loyalty. When we went down to our boat again all around was veiled in
darkness; brilliant light streamed only through the colonnade of the
palace façade. We rowed upstream and enjoyed a more beautiful and
quieter illumination; the moon threw sinuous lines of gold across the
ripples of the river, and flashes of blue lightning darted over the
mountains on the horizon.
The Pundit Daya Kishen Kaul Divan Sahib was unwearied in his kind
efforts. He procured me forty mules, which he bought from the Raja of
Poonch. I rejected four; the rest were in good condition, but they were
of a less sturdy breed than the Tibetan, and all foundered in Tibet. He
also furnished me with an escort of four soldiers who had been in the
service of the Maharaja. Two of them, Ganpat Sing and Bikom Sing, were
Rajputs, and spoke Hindustani; they had certificates of good conduct,
and the former wore a service medal. Like the cook Manuel, they declared
themselves prepared to sacrifice their lives for me, but I calmed them
with the assurance that our campaign would not be so bloody. Fortunately
both belonged to the same caste, so that they could mess together; but,
of course, they could not eat with other mortals. In camp I always saw
them seated at their own fire a good distance from the others. The two
others were Pathans, Bas Ghul from Cabul, and Khairulla Khan from
Peshawar. Daya Kishen Kaul provided all with guns and ammunition at my
expense, and their pay was fixed. They also received money for their
outfit, and I prepared them to expect cold. My amiable benefactor looked
after tents for me, saddles, pack-saddles, and a number of other
necessary articles. Meanwhile I made purchases myself in the bazaars. I
got about twenty _yakdans_, small leather-covered wooden boxes such as
are used in Turkestan; kitchen utensils and saucepans; furs, ordinary
blankets and frieze blankets; a tent-bed with mattress and a
gutta-percha undersheet; warm material and _bashliks_; caps, Kashmir
boots, cigars, cigarettes and tobacco for a year; tea, and several
hundred boxes of preserved meat; also woven stuffs, knives, daggers,
etc., for presents, and no end of other things (Illustrations 10, 14).
[Illustration: 9. THE JHELAM IN SRINAGAR.]
In all my purchases and transport arrangements I received invaluable
help from Cockburn's Agency. It provided me with stores of rice, maize,
meal and barley; for it was impossible to get together sufficient
quantities in Leh. It also looked after the transport of this heavy
baggage, and I had every reason to be satisfied with its arrangements. I
had myself brought a boat with oars, rudder, mast, sails, life-buoys and
centre-board, in the large chests I had sent out to India. Then I had
the same scientific instruments as before: an alt-azimuth, two
chronometers, meteorological instruments, compasses, photographic
apparatus and plates, writing-blocks, sketch-and note-books, writing
materials, field-glasses, hunting-rifles, revolvers, etc.
Burroughs and Wellcome of London had been so kind as to present me with
an unusually complete medicine-chest, which was in itself a tasteful and
elegant work of art, and contained drugs specially selected for a high,
cold, and dry climate. All the remedies were in tabloids, well and
orderly packed, and could easily be found with the aid of a printed
catalogue. The whole was carefully stowed in a pretty aluminium chest
which shone like silver. The medicine-chest was from the first
exceedingly popular in the caravan; every one had a blind confidence in
it. I had a suspicion that many ailments were feigned just to get
another look at the chest. At any rate it contained the best portable
medical outfit I have ever seen.
I had some difficulty in finding an assistant for meteorological
observations. There was none at the Central Institute in Simla, and
therefore I applied to the Meteorological Station in Srinagar. The chief
recommended a youngster to me who had been assistant at the station and
had been baptized under the name of Rufus, but he was a fat Bengali, who
always walked about with an umbrella even when it did not rain. I was
not troubled about his corpulence; he would soon be cured of that on the
mountains; but, what was worse, he had certainly never seen an aneroid
barometer, and I could not, try as I would, teach him to read it. I
therefore dismissed him, for at the worst I could read the instruments,
though I had a superabundance of other things to do.
Then just at the right moment a Eurasian, three-and-twenty years old,
presented himself, named Alexander Robert. In his first letter to me he
gave himself no other title than the very correct one of a "stranger in
Srinagar"; this indicated modesty. He came to my hotel, showed me his
testimonials, which were all excellent, and he struck me as a pleasant,
strong, and healthy man. Among other employments he had worked on the
railway at Peshawar and had been an assistant in Dr. Neve's hospital.
Dr. Neve recommended him most warmly, and as, besides, he acquired a
good knowledge of the instruments after a single lesson and needed only
a few days' practice in Srinagar in handling and reading them, I was
very glad to engage him. He left his mother and young wife at home, but
they were in no straits, and a part of his wages was paid to him in
advance. I did not regret taking him, for he had a knowledge of many
things, was capable, cheerful, and ready for work of any kind. When I
knew him better I entrusted all my cash to his care, and could do it
without hesitation, for his honesty was beyond suspicion. He was a
companion to me during the long winter evenings, was a favourite in the
caravan and among the Tibetans, and carefully watched that every one did
his duty. Robert was only once a cause of grief to me, when he left me
in December 1907, in consequence of sad news he received of his family
through Gartok (Illustration 13).
After Robert joined me matters went on more easily. He superintended the
packing of the baggage and the weighing of it out into equal loads, and
helped me in stowing and distributing the heavy money-bags which held
22,000 silver and 9000 gold rupees. Thus the days passed, and at last
the hour of release struck. I had longed for it as for a wedding feast,
and counted the intervening hours. I took leave of my old friend
Younghusband, who at the last moment recommended to me a caravan leader,
Muhamed Isa of Leh, and bade farewell to the Maharaja, Emir Sing, and
Daya Kishen Kaul; and Mrs. Annie Besant, who on several occasions had
shown me great kindness, expressed the best and most sincere wishes for
the success of my journey.
[Illustration: 10. THE START FROM GANDERBAL.]
[Illustration: 11. MY ESCORT.]
My people were ordered to be ready on the morning of July 16, 1906, in
the courtyard of the hotel (Illustration 16). The start should be
delayed not a day longer; I had now waited long enough. It was evident
that some hours would be required to get all in marching order for the
first time. At eight o'clock the men from Poonch came with their mules,
but only to tell me that they must have 5 rupees each for new
clothes. The purchase of these articles of clothing took up four more
hours, and in the afternoon the preparations had progressed so far that
there was only the loading-up to see after. Some hours elapsed before
the pack-saddles and loads had been adjusted. The mules were very
excited, danced round in circles, and kicked so that the boxes flew
about, and at last each animal had to be led by a man (Illustration 17).
The hired horses were more sensible. Manuel on his steed presented
rather a comical appearance: he had never mounted a horse in his life,
and he looked frightened; his black face shone in the sun like polished
iron. The whole company was taken by at least half-a-dozen amateur
photographers (Illustration 18). At length we moved off in detachments,
exactly twelve hours behind time; but the long train was at any rate on
the way to Gandarbal and Tibet--and that was the main thing. What did it
matter what time it was? Feeling as though my prison doors were opened,
I watched my men pass along the road (Illustration 10), and the whole
world lay open before me.
Of all these men none knew of the glow of delight within me; they knew
me not, and I did not know them; they came from Madras, Lahore, Cabul,
Rajputana, Poonch, and Kashmir, a whole Oriental congress, whom chance
had thrown together. They might as well be robbers and bandits as
anything else, and they might think that I was an ordinary _shikari
sahib_ whose brain was filled with no other ideal but a record in Ovis
Ammon's horns. I watched the start almost pitifully, and asked myself
whether it would be vouchsafed to them all to return home to wife and
child. But none was obliged to follow me, and I had prepared them all
for a trying campaign of eighteen months. What would it have profited me
to have made them anxious by anticipating troubles? Trying days would
come soon enough.
I was most sorry for the animals, for I knew that famine awaited them.
As long as there were opportunities they should satiate themselves with
maize and barley that they might subsist as long as possible afterwards
on their own fat.
At length I stood alone in the yard, and then I drove to Dal-dervaseh,
where a long, narrow, five-oared boat awaited me at the stone steps, and
placed myself at the tiller, when the boat put off and I was at last on
the way to the forbidden land. All the long journey through Persia and
Baluchistan had been only a prologue, which had really no result except
to land me in the spider's nest in which I found myself caught in India.
Now, however, I was free, out of the reach of all that is called
Government; now I could rule, myself.
The canal, on the bright mirror of which we now glided along, was varied
by water plants, ducks, and boats, almost sinking under their loads of
country produce. On the banks washerwomen crouched, and here and there a
group of merry children were bathing; they scrambled up projecting
points and mooring places, let themselves tumble into the canal,
splashed and threw up the water like small whales. The canal becomes
narrower, only a few yards broad, our boat takes the ground, and the
oarsmen get out and draw it over the shallows. The waterway is very
winding, but runs on the whole to the north; the water is shallow, but
the current is with us. On either side stand picturesque houses of wood
and stone as in a street of Venice. At every corner the eye encounters a
new charming subject for the brush, which gains additional effect from
the motley figures, the vegetation, and the light lancet-shaped boats.
The lighting up of the picture is also fine now that the sun is setting,
bathing everything in its warm glowing beams, and causing the outlines
to stand out clearly against the deep shadows. Between the houses the
water is as black as ink. We draw near to a small projecting height,
behind which the road runs to Kangan and Leh. Side branches debouch into
the canal, but we make for a lake called Anchar; its water is greyish
blue, and comes from the Sind, or Send as they here pronounce the name
of the river.
After a while eddies and sandbanks show that we are in the river. The
sun has set; the summer evening is quiet and peaceful, only the gnats
buzz over the water.
[Illustration: 12. My Three Puppies.
13. Robert, the Eurasian.
14. Ganpat Sing, the Rajput.
15. Manuel, the Cook.
PROMINENT MEMBERS OF THE FIRST EXPEDITION.]
Though the rowers work steadily, putting forth all their strength, we
make slow progress, for the current is strong against us. I have
therefore opportunity to peep into the domestic affairs of a whole
series of English families in the house-boats. It is just upon nine
o'clock and the inmates are gathered round the table in dress coats and
elegant toilets. At one table sat three young ladies; I thought that
they had spent too much trouble over their toilet, for there was nowhere
any sign of a cavalier to be charmed with their appearance. Through the
open windows the glaring lamplight fell on the water; they saw us pass,
and perhaps puzzled their heads over the reason of so late a visit. Now
the century-old planes of Gandarbal appear, we row into a creek of
stagnant water and go on shore.
This was my first day's journey, but the day was far from being over.
Scouts were sent out, but not a soul was to be found at the appointed
halting-place. We settled down between mighty tree-trunks and lighted a
blazing signal fire. After a time Bas Ghul comes like a highway pad into
the light of the flames; he leads a couple of mules, and at ten o'clock
Robert and Manuel also lie beside our fire. But the tents and provisions
are not yet here. At eleven scouts are sent out again, and we do not see
or hear of them again before midnight; they report that all is well with
the caravan and that it will soon be here. But when one o'clock came
another scout vanished in the darkness and it was not till a quarter to
three that my people arrived, after I had waited quite five hours for
them. But I was not at all angry, only happy to be _en route_. New fires
and resinous torches were lighted, and illuminated brightly the lower
branches of the plane trees, while through the crowns the stars twinkled
above our first bivouac on the way to Tibet.
What noise and confusion in this throng of men and baggage animals! The
place was like a fair where all scold and scream and no one listens. The
escort tried in vain to get a hearing, the Rajputs were quieter, but the
Pathans abused the disobedient Kashmiris and the saucy men from Poonch
as robbers and murderers. The animals were tethered with long cords to
the foot of the trees, and on a small open space my tent pegs were for
the first time driven into the ground. The tent was a present from my
friend Daya Kishen Kaul, and was my home for a long time. The baggage
was piled up in walls of provision sacks and boxes, and Manuel got hold
at length of his kitchen utensils and unpacked his enamelled ware. The
animals neighed and stamped and occasionally gave their neighbours a
friendly kick, but when the barley nose-bags were carried round and hung
on their necks only a whinnying was heard, which signified impatience
and a good appetite. And then these children of the East, this gathering
of dark-skinned men who strode about in the red firelight with tall
white turbans--what a fine striking picture on the background of a
pitch-dark night! I smiled to myself as I saw them hurrying hither and
thither about their numerous affairs.
But now dinner is ready in the lighted tent, and a box lid serves as a
table. A carpet, a bed, two boxes for daily use, and the young dogs are
the only furniture. There are three of the last, of which two are
bitches. They are pariahs; they were enticed away from the street in
Srinagar and have no trace of religion (Illustration 12). Robert and I,
who always speak English, call the white and the yellow ones simply
"Puppy"; the third soon received the name of "Manuel's Friend," for
Manuel and he always kept together.
And all this company which the sport of fortune had collected around me
was to be scattered again, one after the other, like chaff before the
wind. I was the only one who, six-and-twenty months later, reached Simla
again, and the last of all the men and animals who now lay in deep sleep
under the planes of Gandarbal.
But I was not the last to lay myself down to rest on this first night,
for when I put out my light at three o'clock the firelight still played
on the side of the tent, and I seemed to feel the brisk life out in Asia
like a cooling breath of pine forests and mountains, snowfields and
glaciers, and of broad open plains where my plans would be realized.
Should I be tired of it? Nay, should I ever have enough of it?
[Illustration: 16. IN FRONT OF NEDOU'S HOTEL IN SRINAGAR.
17. SOME OF OUR MULES.
18. AN AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHER PHOTOGRAPHED.]