GREAT LOSSES
We had scarcely pitched our camp on the west shore of the Pul-tso when
Muhamed Isa came to ask for a day's rest. The grazing, he said, was
good, fuel abundant, and the animals needed a little time to recover. I
fell in with his wishes the more readily that they fitted in with my own
plans--another lake voyage. I intended to go with Robert and Rehim Ali
early in the morning across the lake in the direction of a precipitous
mountain which lay 56° east of north; then we would sail over to the
south bank and pass the night at a mountain 62° east of south. The
following morning we expected to reach the north-east corner of the
lake, where the caravan would wait for us on the yellowish-green
pastureland. We should thus take two days on the lake to cover a
distance which the caravan would traverse in one day. We would take with
us food, warm clothing and bedding, and a quantity of fuel, that we
might not be in such straits as last time. Water was not wanted; the
lake water was potable, though it had a rather queer taste.
The lake looked very inviting and picturesque at even, its perfectly
smooth mirror lying dark, dreamy, and silent between the mountains
capped with eternal snow. Great, reeking fires of dung burned cheerfully
among the tents, the men prepared their supper, or mended the
pack-saddles, chatting merrily the while; all was quiet and peaceful,
and the moon floated, silvery white and cold, among rose-coloured
clouds.
[Illustration: 79. AT DEASY'S CAMP.]
[Illustration: 80. AFTERNOON TEA IN THE OPEN AIR.]
[Illustration: 81. MELTING SNOW FOR DRINKING-WATER.]
Then I hear far in the east a droning sound, which swells up rapidly,
comes nearer, and changes into deafening thunder, and in a moment a very
violent storm sweeps over the shore. I call men to close the opening of
my tent. I hear Robert raise a whoop as his airy dwelling flaps about
and threatens to split up into shreds. But a dozen men set it to rights
again. Then my tent is strengthened with sand heaps and boxes; I am shut
in with my brazier, but a small spy-hole is left in the tent opening.
The moonshine glistens on the surf of the billows rolling against the
shore--a grand spectacle--wild, weird, almost theatrical in its beauty.
A storm of unsurpassed violence rushes ruthlessly along. It sounds like
express trains rolling through covered stations; it lashes, roars, and
howls, and dashes the surf thundering against the beach. The fires, but
now flickering so cheerfully, are put out; the spray is spurted out like
rockets; I hear Muhamed Isa's tent flapping about; then the sound of
men's voices is heard no more, only the howling of the storm and the
thunder of the waves disturb the silence of the wilderness. If I do but
look out of my spy-hole I am almost suffocated by the pressure of the
condensed air. Only the yaks delight in such weather; they grunt and
snort with pleasure when the long black fringes of hair on their flanks
flutter in the gusts.
September 28, however, was clear, the storm had sped off on its course
to the west, and the dull splashing of the swell on the beach was all
that was left of its fury. Before we were half way along the first line
of soundings, the lake was again as smooth as a mirror; it was only
flecked with small flakes of foam left behind by the storm. The water
had been too thoroughly stirred up to be clear. We took little more than
an hour to reach the rocky promontory, sounding on our way a maximum
depth of nearly 56 feet. We left on the north a considerable bay which
the caravan would have to go round.
After a short rest we continued our voyage to the south-east, and were
well helped on our way by a gentle northerly breeze. This time we
reached the shore without any adventures and before sunset. We landed
with all our belongings. Rehim Ali collected heaps of dry dung, Robert
set the camp in order, and I cruised about in the evening breeze till
twilight came, and cold and darkness surrounded our bivouac. We sat down
by the fire, talked, and cooked. The mince of fried sheep's brains and
kidneys tasted delicious in the open-air. To the west we could see the
fires at camp No. 23. Later in the evening a strong east wind rose up
again, and the waves dashed against the shore barely two yards from us.
We rolled ourselves in our furs and gazed into the fire; the head is
never so full of projects and aspirations as when the eyes follow the
play of the blue flickering flames and the fiery forms that arise in the
glow.
But the storm increased in violence, we could hardly keep the fire
alive, and soon we crept under the boat, which we used as a shelter
without taking it to pieces. We all three lay in this improvised tent,
and strengthened it with the sail and two tarpaulin cases, which covered
the halves of the boat on the march, and which we had brought with us to
protect our night wraps and beds in bad weather. Above us hung a lantern
which we extinguished when we were ready; now the moon shone on the
sail, the tempest howled and moaned round the boat, and the surf soon
lulled us to sleep.
The minimum thermometer marked 14°; it is always warmer near lakes. We
were early on our feet, a good fire put new life into us, and we
breakfasted beside it, the sun looking on. Our berth for the night was
restored to its element, the baggage was packed in, we stepped on board
and steered eastwards to the entrance of a passage which divides the
Pul-tso into two basins. Its breadth is about 65 yards; in the southern
basin the water was often almost red with small crustaceæ. We crossed it
south-westwards, and found depths of barely 46 feet. Then a strong
breeze came up from the north-west, and the waves splashed and lapped
against the boat. If we only got a south-west wind we could easily sail
to the appointed rendezvous. We would wait a little by the shore. It
curves gracefully, and has four terraces, each about two yards high.
On the sail back a new line was sounded, the maximum depth being about
60 feet. Now we had a favourable wind on the quarter, let down the
weather-board, hoisted the sail, and danced along to the strait. As we
came up to its eastern point, a rider with spare horses and several men
on foot came in sight. It was Muhamed Isa coming to meet us. Now Rabsang
relieved Rehim Ali, but he was so awkward with the oars, that we
preferred to take back our old oarsman. We said good-bye to the rescue
party, and steered northwards over the northern basin of the lake, where
the depths were 10 feet at most. Unfortunately the wind veered to the
north, so that we were thoroughly chilled through during the two hours'
sail to the north shore.
Muhamed Isa had brought us sad news: two more horses and a mule had died
at camp No. 23; in the evening another horse died. Otherwise the caravan
at camp No. 25 was sound and lively. Therefore we were the more
astonished to see a large fire at the abandoned camping-ground in the
west. The caravan had started towards eight o'clock in the morning, and
now it was four o'clock in the afternoon. Not a soul had remained behind
in camp No. 23, and yet there was the fire; we saw flames and smoke,
which hung like a great veil over the shore. Rehim Ali thought that the
post from Ladak had caught us up at last.
"No, that is impossible; a post-runner cannot travel so far and carry
his rations with him."
"But the camp-fire must have gone out immediately after the departure of
the caravan. A fire does not burn so brightly with no one to attend to
it."
"The smoke of camp No. 25 can be plainly seen from camp No. 23. If the
post had reached camp No. 23 it would not have stayed there a minute,
but would have hurried on to join us before night."
"Yes, Sahib, but perhaps the messenger is so exhausted that he is
signalling for help."
"May it not be Changpas?" remarked Robert.
"Yes, certainly, it may be Tibetans, sent from the south to order us to
stop, or at least to watch us, and report to the nearest headman."
"Master, perhaps we shall have to stop sooner than we think. What is to
happen then?"
"I do not think that the Tibetans can interfere with us so far to the
north; they cannot force us to turn back. At the worst we shall have to
pass eastwards through Central Tibet to China or Burma, as Bower did."
"Look, now, how it smokes; this great fire must mean something."
"Yes, it is a regular will-o'-the-wisp, a Saint Elmo fire. The gods of
the lake have lighted it to lead us astray."
"I believe it is the post, but the fire looks uncanny," said Rehim Ali,
and rowed with all his might.
"Do not disturb yourself. If it is the post we shall hear of the
messenger before evening; I believe that the camp-fire has not gone out,
but has smouldered on in a sheltered spot all day long; when the wind
changed, some reserve heap of dung caught fire, and, fanned by the north
wind, it has burst into flames."
At six o'clock we were home again. After I had taken a much-needed meal
I summoned Muhamed Isa and Sonam Tsering to a consultation.
"How many horses have we left?"--"Forty."
"How many mules?"--"Thirty-four."
"Are they in fairly good condition?"--"No, Sahib, not all; four of my
horses and six of Sonam's are at the point of death, and five mules."
"We shall, then, have more losses soon?" "Yes, alas! But to save all we
can, the strongest animals must now have maize and barley; the sickly
ones must forage for themselves till their hour comes. They are
certainly doomed."
"That is barbarous; give them at least something. Perhaps some may be
saved."--"We must be very sparing with the forage, Sahib."
The management of the caravan-bashi was prudent, but cruel.
At seven o'clock the storm came. It was the third evening we had had
violent east winds, a direction exceedingly infrequent in Tibet. It came
like a stroke, and put an end to all our peacefulness, stopped all
conversation, interfered with all kinds of work, extinguished the
camp-fires, blew sand and dust into my tent, and prevented the tired
animals from grazing; for they will not feed in a storm. They place
themselves with their tails to the wind, keep all four legs as close
together as possible, and hang their heads. So they remain standing, and
wait till it is quiet again. They had to wait all night long, and
perhaps, sleepy and heavy-headed, dreamed of the heartlessness of men
and the peaceful, sunny slopes at Tankse and Leh. In the evening Muhamed
Isa and I inspected them. The moon shone brightly, but its cold, bluish
light made the piercing wind seem more icy than usual. The animals
stood, like ghosts, so motionless in the night, that one would think
that they were already turned into ice. Not the cold, but the wind,
kills our horses; all my people say so. Winter was coming down upon our
mountains in all its severity. The rarefaction of the air and the scanty
pasturage were the worst troubles.
The wind whistled mournfully round the corners as I went to sleep, and
the same sound fell on my ear in the morning as Tsering, muffled up in a
thick fur coat, brought the brazier in. A dreary morning! Everything in
the tent was buried under a thick layer of dust and drift sand, and I
was thoroughly frozen before I had dressed. The horses and mules had
gone forward eastwards, but I did not start till nine o'clock--in a
furious storm. Just outside the camp the last horse that had perished
lay cold and hard as ice. Tsering told me that he was scarcely a stone's
throw from the body when the wolves had already crept up to feast on it.
The ground is good, sand, dust, and fine gravel. Afterwards the soil
becomes brick-red. One cannot see far, the air is hazy and the sky
overcast, but as far as the sight can carry, only low mountains are
visible. One or two brooks, almost frozen up, run out of side valleys on
the north. We slowly ascend to a pass, whence the country eastwards
seems just as level and favourable as hitherto. Here I am following
Rawling's route; his map corresponds to the actual conditions in the
smallest details.
It is quite a different thing to ride against the storm over rising
ground, and to have the wind on one's back going downhill. We work our
way through the wind, which penetrates our furs, and in ten minutes are
quite numbed. I can scarcely use my hands for mapping work; now and then
I thrust them into the sleeves of my coat, lean far forwards, and let
the horse find its own way. Two more horses die before the evening; a
third was led nearly to the camp; he looked fat and sleek, but he
tumbled down.
When I rode into camp I had had more than enough of this terrible day. A
bright fire was burning in the fort of provision boxes, by which we
chatted awhile, waiting for Tsering. The camp fort shrank up day by day
at an alarming rate, but the animals died so quickly that the loads
were, nevertheless, too heavy. But it was Muhamed Isa's opinion that
enough mules would be left till we got to the Dangra-yum-tso, and that
no baggage need be left behind. In case of necessity the boat and a
couple of tents might be sacrificed. Empty provision chests were
consumed at once as firewood. Undoubtedly we should reach the distant
lake in a state of utter helplessness. Without assistance we could
proceed no further. Then the Tibetans could easily stop us. We were
therefore a prey to great anxiety, which increased every day.
"If the animals founder at the same rate as at present, we shall not
reach the nearest nomads."
"Sahib, the strongest are still alive."
"Yes, that is always your consolation; but in a few days some of the
strongest will be dying."
"The wind kills them. If we had only a few days of calm weather!"
"There is no prospect of that at this season of the year. This storm has
now lasted 27 hours. Then come the winter storms from the south-west."
On October 1 I wrote in my diary: "What will be our experiences in this
new month? At eight o'clock the tempest still raged, and the ride to-day
was worse than before."
Flat, open country. Only one or two hills of red sandstone and
conglomerate with green schist--otherwise no hard rock. The Deasy Group,
towering to the south, seems nearer and nearer. The horse, No. 27, lies
in a pool of frozen blood, cold and bare, for the pack-saddle has been
removed for the sake of the hay. During the night three horses had
stampeded, and were searched for by Muhamed Isa and three Ladakis.
Stupid animals, to tire themselves out for nothing! Some unaccountable
restlessness seemed to have driven them from the spot where they were
unloaded. The poor things perhaps thought they could find better grass
than our hard-heartedness allowed them.
We approached a very small freshwater lake, by which both Wellby and
Deasy had rested. A fourth of its surface was frozen over, and on its
west bank the storm had reared up a wall of ice fragments a foot high.
An icy brook descended from the Deasy Group into the lake. The water of
the lake was cooled down below freezing-point; a few more hours of
perfect calm and the whole lake would be frozen over. On the bank Sonam
Tsering found three old tent-poles with the iron rings still on them. He
could not remember that Rawling had left them here: probably they were a
memento of Wellby's visit.
Tundup Sonam had killed an antelope, and for my dinner I was served with
fragrant _shislik_ roasted on a spit. Tsering knew his work; he had been
cook to Beach and Lennart, whom I met in Kashgar in 1890, and was more
skilful than "the black fellow," as Muhamed Isa contemptuously styled
the late Manuel.
The Lamaists among my Ladakis told me in confidence that they prayed
every evening to their gods for a lucky journey. They were just as eager
as myself to reach Shigatse and the holy monastery Tashi-lunpo, where
the Tashi Lama resides. For then they would receive a title of honour,
just as a Mohammedan becomes "Hajji" when he has been in Mecca. They
would willingly pay their Peter's pence, seven rupees for butter for the
altar lamps, nay, would give up a whole month's pay as a present to His
Holiness, the Tashi Lama. Their aim was to bring a pilgrimage to a
successful termination; mine to fill up as many blanks as possible in
the map of Tibet. We must succeed! Heaven befriend us!
No one minded that we had not a single man as escort. Yet with every day
we were getting nearer to inhabited country, and were advancing into a
land which had recently (1904) been at feud with its powerful neighbour
on the south. The Tibetans were ever hostile to Europeans, and after the
slaughter at Guru and Tuna they would probably be still more bitter
against them. We had neither passport nor permission to enter the
forbidden land. How should we prosper? Our excitement was always
increasing. Should we be received as open enemies, and after all wish
ourselves back with the wolves on the banks of Yeshil-kul?
October 2. Thirty-six degrees of frost in the night--and we hear nothing
of Rabsang! Has anything happened to him? Shukkur Ali is sent back along
the caravan track with meat, tea, and bread. A mule, which can no longer
keep on its feet, is killed in the camp. When the wind falls
occasionally, it is singularly quiet. The landscape is still
monotonous--a boundless, gently rising plain. North and south the two
mountain ranges with their snow-peaks still run on. Grass and _yapkak_
grow on all sides. Hour after hour we ride east-north-east without any
change of scenery. I look forward to the moment when we shall turn
towards the south-east, but that is far off, for I must first pass round
all the region that Rawling explored. The animals will then have still
harder work, for we shall have to cross several passes. The ranges run
from east to west; meanwhile we are marching between two of them, later
on we shall have to go over them. I examine the animals daily with great
anxiety, and fix my hopes on the strongest, the select troop which will
hold out to the last. How depressed I feel when one of them slips its
collar.
At camp No. 28, beside a salt pool, the animals are mustered as usual.
They understand the summons when the corn-bags are ready. Then they are
turned out to graze. Empty provision sacks and pack-saddles serve as
cloths to protect the animals from the cold at night. For the mules
small triangular pieces are cut to bind over their foreheads, where they
are supposed to be most susceptible to cold. Outside the Ladakis'
enclosure stand our twenty goats and sheep, tied head to head into a
compact group, so that they may keep one another warm.
This day the moon rose blood-red over the mountains in the east. It
became quickly paler the higher it rose, and the snowy mountains shone
as white as the steam of an engine. The evening was calm, and the tent
was easily heated in camp No. 28. Yet the temperature sank to -8°--and
Rabsang was still missing. Had the wolves torn him in pieces?
Next morning, however, he turned up in Shukkur Ali's company, but
without the horse. He had followed the trail of the wandering animal for
a long distance, and in the sand on the shore of the small lake had been
able to read the story of a tragic incident with almost dramatic
vividness. The tracks showed that the horse had galloped madly about,
pursued by a troop of wolves on either side. They had chased their
victim on to a narrow strip of mud ending in a point. There he had found
only one track of the horse, which disappeared in the slowly deepening
bed of the lake. But the wolves had left a double track--they had come
back. They thought to fall upon the horse on the landspit, where he
could not run further, but they had made a mistake. Rabsang maintained
that their confusion was reflected in their backward trail. The helpless
horse, driven to desperation by the wild and hungry jaws opened wide to
devour him, plunged into the water, preferring to drown rather than fall
into the clutches of his persecutors. Not a drop of blood could be seen.
If he had attempted to swim across the lake, he must have died of cramp;
if he had turned back to the shore, the wolves would have waited for him
and not have retired into the mountains. He was a hero, and now I felt
his loss doubly; he was one of the best in the caravan, a Sanskari, and
had long carried the heaviest boxes of silver. The picture of his bold
spring into the water, and of his desperation bordering on frenzy, long
haunted my imagination, when I lay awake at night, and I thought of the
horse on which Marcus Curtius plunged into the abyss.
The day's march took us further along the same even plain, where at
length every trace of vegetation ceased. At camp No. 29 there was,
alas! no pasturage, and so we had to lead the horses to the foot of the
mountains where grass grew sparingly.
October 4. We continue our journey to the east-north-east, and there is
not the slightest change in the country. Like a squirrel in a revolving
cage, we go on and on and yet find ourselves always in the same country;
north and south the same summits appear, and their profiles change but
slowly. Deasy named this great open longitudinal valley "Antelope
Plain." Rawling traversed its south-western portion in two directions,
and my route runs between them on the left bank of its very broad, but
now waterless, drainage channel. We suppose that the salt lake, which
Wellby skirted on the south, must lie to the east-north-east, but it is
not yet visible. Yellow grass again appears on both sides, and the camp
is pitched beside a small basin of splendid spring-water. As soon as the
animals are relieved of their loads and let loose, we notice that a
third begin to graze at once, another third stand resting with drooping
heads, and the remaining third lie down immediately. The first are the
best and strongest horses, the last those that are most exhausted. Among
these is horse No. 10, which has to be killed next morning; he is
entered in the list of dead as No. 25.
Muhamed Isa does not now set out before half-past eight in the morning.
He has noticed that the animals feed with a better appetite in the early
hours after sunrise. The broad, hard river-bed is an excellent road,
quite a highway, descending with an extremely slight gradient. During
the last days the needles of the aneroids have remained almost
stationary at the same figure. To the north we have still the Kuen-lun,
sometimes as masses of dark rock, sometimes with snow-capped, rounded
summits.
At one o'clock I always make a short halt with Robert and Rehim Ali to
read the meteorological instruments. The journal is kept by Robert with
the greatest care. I draw a panorama and take bearings, while our horses
stray about grazing. We take no food at that time, for we eat only twice
a day--at eight o'clock in the morning and six in the evening. Yet the
short mid-day rest is very welcome. We are by that time thoroughly
frozen; we can more easily keep ourselves warm on the ground than in the
saddle, where we are fully exposed to the wind.
We have not seen a drop of water all day long, and the caravan is
evidently looking for a spring, for we see scouts making off from time
to time to the right and left. At length they discover a large pond, and
there the tents are set up. We have marched lately about nine miles a
day--we cannot do more.
We had scarcely set out on the morning of October 6 when the
camping-ground was inspected by wolves on the look-out for another
horse. They follow us as faithfully as the ravens, and perhaps receive
reinforcements from time to time. Strict orders are issued that the
night watch must be responsible for the animals, and will be punished if
we suffer any loss from the wolves. The six ravens also still stick to
us. They settle when we encamp, they set out with us, and follow us all
day long with their hoarse croaking.
We pass over the river-bed, now containing water and ice, but still the
low hills hide the expected lake. Otherwise the ground is level, so
level that only the languid movement of the stream shows in which
direction the land dips. Yellow sand-whirls in the north-west indicate
the approach of a storm, which comes upon us out of a clear sky. Within
half an hour it passes into an easterly storm, a typical cyclone. Worn
out with the cold we arrive at camp No. 32.
The puppies are now quite big, and up to all kinds of mischief. It is
recorded against the white puppy that she has torn up one of my
map-sheets. Fortunately, none of the fragments is wanting. Tsering also
found a toothbrush in front of my tent, which the silly dog must have
considered superfluous. The brown puppy bit in two a hydrometer, which
was lying about in its leathern case. Their education is very defective,
but they are foundlings from the streets of Srinagar, and we cannot
therefore expect much of them. They have not the slightest notion of
discipline, and they do not obey when they are called. But when Tsering
brings the dinner they come to heel at once, put on a show of
amiability, and force themselves to the front by some means or other.
They are not of much use; they keep my feet warm at night, for then they
lie rolled up together on my bed.
Forty-five degrees of frost in the night! That was perhaps why I had
such a horrid dream: a whole host of dark Tibetans came to meet us, and
drove us back to the north. The water in the basin and the ink are lumps
of ice.
Now we have left Rawling far behind us, and Wellby and Malcolm's is the
last route which has been traversed in this region. We are still
following the same valley as that expedition.
Our store of yak meat was just at an end when Tundup Sonam killed an
antelope. A second, unfortunately, he only wounded, and it escaped on
three legs. One of our wolves was pacing about on a hill. He had closely
watched the chase, and the wounded animal would probably become his
prey.
Muhamed Isa, in his thick grey winter suit and with his pipe in his
mouth, moves about, and is guiding the caravan up between the hills when
we overtake him. We ascend to the summit of a hill. A white line
appears, and below it a bluish-green stripe which gradually increases in
dimensions. After a few minutes we have the salt lake we have been
looking for immediately below us, for the hills slope steeply to the
southern shore. Now the Ladakis commence one of their finest march songs
in soft, melting tones; they are glad to have reached this lake which I
have spoken of constantly, and, like myself, remind themselves that we
have reached another stage on the long journey to Dangra-yum-tso. To the
north-west the scenery is grand, with the great mountains, their
snow-capped peaks and great glaciers. Continuing the direction of the
sea westwards is flat land white with salt, and there white eddies
dance, whirling along the dismal shore.
East-north-east the longitudinal valley is as open as before; there
Wellby travelled. We can now, if we wish, turn aside to the south-east
without again coming in contact with Rawling's route. There new country
awaits us, the great triangle between Wellby's, Bower's, and Dutreuil
de Rhins' routes. It had been one of my most cherished hopes to cross,
at least once, the great white patch which bears on the English map of
Tibet nothing but the one word "Unexplored."