THE DESERT
At 4 A.M. Wrexham, who has the faculty of waking at whatever time he
wishes, kicked us out of our blankets and said it was time to move.
Outside the tent Firoz was busy with breakfast, while Payindah and
Sadiq were roping up the last bundles of kit. The moment we were
outside, Payindah rolled up our valises, and then they struck and
packed our eighty-pound tent.
We ate a pretty solid meal, for long travelling and campaigning had
inured us to food at the small hours, and we wanted to make as long a
march as possible that day, when the camels would be at their freshest.
Breakfast over, the camels were brought up by Sadiq and a friend picked
up in the village, who hung about our camp while we were there.
Then we set to loading the beasts, who were fairly tractable after
their long marches, though, of course, in the manner of all camels,
they gurgled and snarled incessantly, or blew out pink bladders from
their cavernous, ill-smelling mouths while voicing their complaints.
There was no trouble over the water camels; it was the miscellaneous
collections such as that carried by the ammunition camel which caused
us many anxious moments trying to secure the various odd-shaped packets
into two compact loads. Fortunately, they were constant ones that would
not have to be broken _en route_--at least, we hoped not.
By 5.30 A.M. the last camel stood up finally loaded, Firoz hurriedly
attaching two hurricane-lamps and a bundle of kitchen oddments to the
peak of the saddle, after the manner of the immemorial East.
It was still dark, but there was a faint, faint glimmer in the east
that foreshadowed the coming dawn, and the dark velvet of the starlit
sky was beginning to show a tinge of indigo above the far horizon.
Away on the outskirts of the village a mournful dog wailed his sorrows
to the unheeding dark.
A final inspection of the loads by the aid of a lantern, a last look
round our camp-site, and then Wrexham--unanimously appointed Caravan
Bashi--gave the order to start.
The first part of our way lay along a little track fringing some
fields, the last bits of cultivation on the edge of the desert.
Thereafter we were to march by Wrexham’s oil compass. We had
reconnoitred the first five or six miles the day before, dead level
going, so there was no danger of delay by unforeseen obstacles.
With Wrexham and Firoz at the head of the little string of
silent-footed camels, Forsyth and Sadiq in the middle to see that no
loads slipped or beasts strayed aside before dawn, and Payindah and
myself bringing up the rear, we moved out along the sandy track with no
sound save the monotonous tinkling of the leading camel’s bell.
Sadiq’s friend, after embracing Sadiq three times in Eastern fashion,
stood at the edge of the camp-site to wish us luck as we went. Then he
disappeared in the dark, the last fellow-being we were like to see for
the next ten days at the most optimistic computation.
There was a slight check as we neared the end of the fields, from which
I guessed that Wrexham was getting his bearings; then the leading
camel’s bell rang out again on the chill dawn air, the ghostly great
beasts in front of me quickened their pace once more, and we passed out
into the desert.
The full dawn saw us just emerging from the last vegetation, odd
dried-up thickets and reeds, while in front lay the rolling low
sand-dunes that were to be our home for some time to come. The air was
cold and still, a blessing for which we were devoutly thankful. The
first day we had looked out over the desert there had been a strong
northeast wind, which blew great yellow sand-spouts along, blinding us
from time to time. But to-day, as if for a favourable omen, hardly a
breath stirred, and the blue distances were clear.
At first we passed over ground covered with fine soft dust, here
and there splashed with white and grey salt deposits that crackled
underfoot, and now and then small terraces of friable clay, last relics
of the days when all this area was the bottom of the great inland sea.
Then, after an hour or so, we got into low sand-ridges, the high-water
mark of the restless ocean, which stretched before us on three sides as
far as the eye could reach.
A little farther and we were well out of our depth--to continue
the simile of the sea--in ridges and ridges of sand from ten to
fifteen feet high, like the breakers along a coast, swelling up
gently from the direction of the prevailing northeast wind, and
steeper-faced--sometimes almost concave at the top--on the south and
west where we approached them, for all the world like waves about to
break and solidified in the process.
All day we travelled hour after plodding hour through this trackless
sea of fine greyish sand. The last of the scanty vegetation had been
left behind when we made our midday halt, not a blade of grass, not a
tamarisk, nothing but sand, utterly void of life. The sun beat down on
to the sand, and the glare was blinding, but even at midday the heat
was not oppressive. We were thankful for our coloured glasses, and even
the two Punjabis were glad to put on those we had brought for them,
much as they had jested at the idea at first.
We covered eighteen miles that day, and camped in a little valley among
the dunes, where by good fortune we found some dried-up tamarisk roots,
which gave us a good fire, for the evening temperature fell fast once
the sun was down, and we were glad enough to slip into our _poshtins_
once more. The heat absorbed by the sand in the day radiates off at an
immense pace after dusk, if one can talk about that period of the day,
almost non-existent in sand countries.
After our evening meal that night, we decided--as we had previously
arranged--to tell the men something about our destination. We began
with the two Punjabis.
“Listen, Payindah and Firoz,” began Wrexham, “to an old tale of my
father’s grandfather’s brother, who was once in the army of John
Company Bahadur. He left the army and came up here travelling, even as
I have done, and he came by the same road into this very desert.
“After many days he found in its very heart high hills with snow
mountains, and at the gate of the hills he found an old fort and
outside that a dead man. And the dead man was white, even as I or as
Lake sahib or as Forsyth sahib.
“But when he wished to enter the hills the two men with him became
afraid, so that he had to return across the desert, and the water he
had was finished, and first his camels and then his men died. And he
himself all but died. And not wishing to tell the people here aught of
his discovery until he should have searched more, he said nothing but
returned to Hind, to his brother who commanded a regiment; and there he
also died.
“Now, we three desire much to see these hills, for, as you know, the
sahibs consider greatly the finding of strange lands and of strange
peoples.
“And of these hills and of the people who must live in them because
of the white man my great-grandfather’s brother saw, there is nothing
known either to the people living around the desert or even to the
sahibs who have travelled in this part.
“But it may be that my great-grandfather’s brother dreamt this thing,
or it may be that he was out of his senses with fever. If so we shall
have a long hard journey for nothing, and we also may come to die of
thirst, even as his men did.
“Or if we get there, we may find that the people are as the Mahsuds or
Wazirs of the Punjab border, and we may be attacked and perhaps slain.
“Now, all this we have told you that, before it is too late, you may
yet say whether you will come with us or not. For it is not the custom
of the sahibs to take men into danger unless those men be willing.
“If you consider that you would rather return to the Punjab, you
shall have money and papers, and shall go back to-morrow. But we are
determined to go on and see what there is to be seen. We have said
nothing to any man till now, because had it been known others might
have followed, and we do not wish any one to find this land until we
have seen it with our own eyes.”
Without hesitation Payindah replied:
“For ten years have I followed Lake sahib, since he was a _chota_ sahib
in the regiment. I have fought with him in three campaigns, and do
I leave his service now that he goes into a new country? If God has
decreed that we be swallowed by the sands or die of thirst or perchance
be slain--well, we shall, whether we go on or whether we go back.”
“And so say I,” chimed in Firoz. “For twelve years have I been with
sahibs, and for seven years have I served Wrexham sahib, and whither
he goes, there go I, too, till he casts me out. _We_ are not like the
men who went with his great-uncle, doubtless sons of Hindustan from
Delhi or elsewhere such as were found in Jan Kampni’s[3] regiments, or
perchance knaves such as the Ladakhi cook. We be Awans of the Punjab,
Payindah and I, and as for there being Mahsuds or such in these hills
that the sahib’s great-uncle saw, _we_ have spoken with Mahsuds and
Wazirs--aye, with Mohmands also, and they did not talk too loudly. Do I
not speak truth, Payindah?”
“Without doubt. Rememberest also certain Germani in Farance the day thy
sahib got that love token on his cheek. They were bigger than Mahsuds,
and we were but a few among many. But they fell down very quickly when
we spoke to them with bayonets, not knowing their foul talk. And my
bayonet was already broken, I recall.”
“It was as thou sayest. That Germani sergeant had a stout breast-bone.
Wrexham sahib says that his people thirst after seeing new lands. But,
as the sahibs know, we of the Punjab are not children to play about the
house-door always. We also like seeing new lands. My own grandfather
went up into Tibet with a sahib not long after the Mutiny.” Firoz
broke off his string of reminiscences. “Whither the sahibs go, thither
we also come.”
With Sadiq it was not quite so easy. He feared the desert not a little,
but the promise of extra baksheesh finally allayed his fears. Also, the
prospect of finding new places which might have treasure--the dream of
so many of his folk--was perhaps alluring. Anyway, after pondering a
bit, he said he would come.
Next morning we started early again, and made good progress once more,
though by now the dunes were growing in height, up to twenty-five to
thirty-five feet. We remarked that both to right and left they seemed
higher still, but that may only have been the effect of looking out
to the horizon. That day we made sixteen miles, for the higher dunes
exacted their toll in the day’s march, although actually the pace did
not seem much slower.
On the way Wrexham looked in vain for the place where he had found
the dead man. The continually shifting sand-dunes left no chance of
locating any spot not marked by some definite permanent feature, such
as a clump of dead trees. By now the man’s bones or his mummified
body were doubtless buried under the sands, perhaps to show up again
centuries hence.
That night we looked out from a high dune--nearly fifty feet it must
have been--over our route of next day, and saw that the dunes ahead
were bigger than those we had crossed so far, and the sky, which had
hitherto been cloudless, showed windy streakings to the northeast.
“Harder going to-morrow, I think,” said Wrexham, pointing to the
wind-clouds on the horizon.
Sure enough, next morning at dawn a strong northeast wind was blowing,
and everything was smothered in sand. Our tea was full of it, our food
was gritty with it, and our hair and our clothes ran sand.
The dunes were higher now; fifty to sixty feet was about the average,
and still we had the impression that our route was lower than the
surrounding country. We covered only thirteen miles that day owing
to the wind, the sand devils, and the heavier going and higher dunes.
Our faces were masks of sand and perspiration, and we looked out with
sand-reddened eyes under sand-whitened eyebrows.
That night we had to give the camels, who were showing signs of
fatigue, a small water ration from our precious store. While we were
watering them, Sadiq came up to suggest our turning back the next day.
There could be no ruins in this wilderness of sand, he said, and there
was not a vestige of a sign of any hills. But, if we would go back, he
knew a man who had found really first-class ruins, and if we wanted
mountains--well, there were lashings of them quite close to the trade
route. Finding us obdurate, he gave up his endeavours, but I could see
that he was convinced that all sanity had departed from us, and was
doubtless entreating Allah to turn us back soon.
“To-morrow evening, anyway, we ought to get the first view of the snow,
provided that the air clears a bit,” said Wrexham, as we sat in the
stuffy tent with the flies laced up, trying to eat food that was not
more than one third sand.
“If there _is_ any snow in the world,” said Forsyth, whose eyes seemed
to have suffered more than ours from the driving gritty wind. “I had an
idea that the dust of Mespot was the last word, but it’s only toilet
powder compared to this article.”
He ruefully scraped the top of his _chupatti_, hoping to get below the
outer layers of sand.
The following morning the wind was less, but it freshened again later.
The dunes were now great billows sloping up to seventy and eighty feet,
and taxed the camels severely. Still we pushed on, struggling hour
after hour, through the heavy loose sand among the little spumes and
fountains that danced and tossed on the brinks of the dunes where the
cutting wind beat into our faces. When we halted that evening, after
doing thirteen miles, the wind was perhaps a little less, but all
around the horizon was veiled and grey with sand.
Next day the going was as bad--dunes up to nearly one hundred feet
in places--and the wind stronger, while about midday the father and
mother of all dust-storms came on, one of the kind that makes you think
it’s midnight in Hades. For an hour we sat huddled up in the lee of a
dune, a circle of dumb men and dumb beasts, under the biting lash of a
sand-laden wind that seemed to flow past like some torrent of grit. The
two Punjabis had swathed their faces in the ends of their _pagris_, and
the rest of us buried ours as well as we could in the big collars of
our _poshtins_.
It passed at last, but it was another hour ere we thought it was worth
going on. Nine miles was all we made that day, and some of the dunes
must have been over one hundred and twenty feet high.
The camels were showing clearly their weariness and lack of water, as
they swayed along slowly, with lack-lustre eyes, dragging gait, and
heavy breathing through distended nostrils. That night again we had to
give them some more of our precious water, and it became clear that,
unless we could get some definite proof of hills in front within the
next thirty-six hours there could be no question of going on.
“Perhaps we shall get a fine day to-morrow,” said the ever-optimistic
Wrexham. “I want to see the snow the diary talks about.”
“If ever I see snow or water again, I shall go and lie in them and
refuse to move again till all the sand I’ve absorbed these last
forty-eight hours is washed right out of my system,” snorted Forsyth,
bathing his sore eyes in half a teacupful of water.
“Well, I hope you’ll see some to-morrow, though it will be a bit far
off for bathing. It’s still absolutely hidden by sand to-night.”
Next day the wind had dropped, though a heavy dust haze still hung
in the air. Like the previous day, the dunes were great high slopes,
anything from eighty to one hundred feet. But the cessation of the wind
made going easier, and the thinning atmosphere made us hopeful of a
glimpse of the promised hills.
By the midday halt the sky was pretty clear all round, save in the one
direction we wanted to see, and there, instead of our hills, was a
heavy bank of cloud. Wrexham and I sat down despondently on the high
dune up which we had climbed while Payindah was getting out some food,
and looked out with our glasses at the distant clouds. We scanned each
little bit of the bank, seeking in vain for the white glint of snow.
Suddenly Wrexham gripped my shoulder.
“Look there, Harry! Just in the middle of that dark bit like a camel’s
hump. Isn’t that something white?”
“Which one?”
He pointed, but I couldn’t make out anything.
Then he laid the telescope on it and bade me look.
I looked through the glass, and there, sure enough, just below the dark
cloud showed a faint whiteness that might be cloud or might be--could
it be?--the longed-for snow.
The cloud-bank was slowly changing in shape from moment to moment. The
big dark cloud that Wrexham had indicated was slowly moving to one
side. But the white patch seemed not to shift. Then for a fleeting
instant it showed clear, a sharp point of blue-veined white that could
be no cloud.
“I think you’re right, John,” I said as I sat up. “Look!”
He glued his eye to the telescope, gave a whoop, hurriedly fished out
his compass, and laid it on the line of the telescope.
“See,” he said, “bearing of fifty-six degrees. We’re not far out, old
man, and if that’s not snow, then I’ve never seen it.”
We shouted at the top of our voices to Forsyth below, “Snow! _Snow!_
SNOW!”
He came up the slope as fast as the sand would let him, and got just a
glimpse before the clouds veiled it again, a faint, tiny peak like a
distant pearl in the dark mass of clouds. Then the heavy masses veiled
it once more, and it disappeared from our gaze.
One more entry of the old diary was verified. We felt almost reckless
now, though there must be many marches ahead, and our fatigue fell
from us like a wet blanket as we glissaded down the sand-slope among
the men. The two Punjabis seemed to take it as all in the day’s work.
Doubtless if we expected snow ahead, there would be snow. They were of
the pre-war type, with a prodigious belief in anything their sahibs
said.
In a short while the wind had sprung up again, and we travelled on over
the same high wind-tossed dunes of yellow grey sand. As much of the
sky as was visible showed broken wisps of cloud. I remarked on this to
Wrexham, and wondered whether there was any chance of rain. Such rainy
season as there is in the desert was practically finished.
We were just going up the highest dune we had yet struck, a toilsome
effort, when the question of rain arose. As we got to the top, Wrexham
stopped and looked ahead. The wind had dropped a little once more.
“What’s that?” he said, pointing; “it looks like rock.”
I looked in the direction he indicated, and there, about a mile ahead,
what seemed to be a low hillock of rock, dark in colour, broke the
monotony of the grey landscape.
“_Is_ rock, I think,” said I. “If so, it will be a pleasant change to
camping on sand.”
“Seems as if we must have got on to the line the great-great-uncle
followed on his way back.”
“It’s quaint finding an outcrop like that in the middle of the desert.
I suppose it must be a peak in the buried strata that joins the hills
on either side. Let’s go on and see what it is.”
Pushing ahead, we climbed to the top of the rocky hill, and to our
amazement found a sort of rock basin perhaps three hundred yards long
by fifty to sixty yards broad with jagged edges of limestone. It looked
for all the world what it probably was, the top of a long ridge which
had either broken through the earth at some prehistoric period, or else
been gradually silted up on all sides as the sand encroached. It stood
perhaps one hundred feet above the tops of the highest dunes, and on a
clear day must have been a fine vantage point.
“A few hours’ heavy rain would make that into a good thing in lakes,” I
said.
“Yes,” replied Wrexham; “you can see there has been water upon
occasion. Look at that thin layer of clay in the middle with the cracks
in it. I vote we camp here to-night. We can’t do much more to-day, and
this is better than settling down in the sand. We shall be out of the
worst of it at this height, and if by any chance there is rain we stand
more chance of collecting some than among the sand-dunes. Not that I
have much hopes, because the rainfall in these parts at this time of
year is about two hundredths of an inch in the month.”
The camels had halted at the foot of the hill, so we shouted down to
Forsyth to bring them up, and presently we were all busy setting up
camp for the night except Wrexham, who went wandering round the rocky
basin. I wondered what he was doing, and when presently I saw him
sitting down with a notebook I went up and asked him what he was at.
“I was just calculating the size of this hollow. It’s a fine natural
catchment area, as it slopes inward on every side except just the
narrow south end, where it’s broken away. It forms a regular sort of
trough. That probably explains why it’s so comparatively free of sand.
The only sand that gets in is that blown up high by the wind, and then
the prevailing wind sweeps it out at the south end again. If that end
was blocked now and it did rain, we could catch enough water to give
the camels a decent drink.”
“Then let’s do it,” said I.
“That’s just why I was figuring out the area. I make out that, if
the end was blocked, this would give a yield of something like three
hundred gallons from a couple of hours’ decent rain. Say two hundred,
allowing for what would be sucked up by cracks. It wouldn’t require
much of a stop at the end either, since the open part is narrow and the
slope very gradual.”
“Well, let’s do it quick. It would make all the difference to the
camels if they could get a real drink. They’ve done well so far, but
there’s no mistake about it they’re beginning to tire fast.”
We got all hands on to it, and blocked up the end of the long, shallow,
trough-like hill with stones mixed with loose sand. Not a very
waterproof dam, but it might hold once it got wet.
Then we sat down to wait for the rain. But none came, and at last
we retired to bed, uncheered even by another glimpse of the distant
snow. The air was still heavy with sand, and, though the little vistas
of sky that we could see among the whirling dust were covered with
lead-coloured clouds, never a grateful drop fell.
That night we figured out that we should have to push on now, and
trust to finding water at the end, or else turn back next day. The
water--although it would have been just sufficient for men for the
double journey--allowed nothing for the camels, and we had had to give
them water, and realized now that they would have to be given more in
future. It was three very grave-faced, unshaven men who sat discussing
by the light of the hurricane-lamp.
Said Wrexham finally:
“If we start back to-morrow we’ve just the minimum to get us home. If
we go on--assuming that we’ve passed the halfway line--we may just get
to the hills as we finish our water. Then, if we don’t find it, or if
the great-great-uncle’s stream has dried up--we’re done, finished.
Apart from water, we’re chancing things a bit over the camels’ grub for
getting back.”
He looked at us as though seeking our thoughts, and for a moment or two
neither of us spoke. Then I made up my mind.
“Personally I’m for pushing on,” said I; “some of the loads are getting
lighter now, and, if any full-load camels show signs of crocking up, we
can put the empty tanks on them. There’s certainly snow ahead, and that
_must_ mean water, and water will mean grazing for the camels. Also, if
we go back now, we’ve given the whole show away.”
“Yes,” put in Forsyth; “and next time we start everybody would know
what was up. Even if the Punjabis kept their mouths shut, Sadiq would
talk. That snow is not on the map, and the next explorer fellow who
came along would be sure to have a shot at it. I’m in favour of our
taking the chance of water and going on. Your uncle’s story points to
all sorts of things worth finding, and it’s working out truer every
day.”
“Yes, most of it seems to have been substantiated now,” said I. “John
found a similar kind of man, we’ve seen the snow--unmistakable snow
to my mind, though far off; and last, we’ve found one of the peculiar
outcrops of rock he mentioned seeing on his return. There are too
many coincidences about it for me to want to turn back.” I turned to
Wrexham. “I’m all for shoving on, John, and Alec is, too.”
“Then, if you two are for pushing on, that settles it. I’d no ideas of
going back myself--I think we’re intended to go on; but, since we are
chancing our luck badly over this water question, I thought I ought to
find out your ideas first.”
We turned in then, after a last lookout to see if anything could be
seen of the sky. The wind was still blowing up sand, but such patches
of sky as were visible seemed not quite so cloudy, and here and there a
star showed through the murk.
“No luck, I’m afraid,” said I, as I crawled into my valise. “However,
it looks clearer, and should be better going to-morrow.”
“I hope the dunes get lower. They ought to, for we must be leaving
the middle of the desert now; I figure we’ve done over eighty miles.
It was about seventy yesterday, and we did quite twelve to-day. Lord,
I’m sleepy! Night, night!” Wrexham curled up into his blankets, and
was asleep almost at once, and within five minutes Forsyth’s heavy
breathing showed that he, too, had slipped into dreamland.
Tired though I was, it was some little time before I got to sleep that
night. I’m not given to pessimistic forebodings, but I could not help
wondering, as I lay awake in the dark, whether we were wise in going
on. Things look so different when you think them out by yourself in the
dark from what they seem in the light in company. However, I do believe
in Providence very firmly, and the coincidences we had met and heard
of in this quest seemed too marked for me to disbelieve. So, finally
pushing my doubts firmly into the background, I fell asleep to the
whistling music of the sand-laden wind outside.