ENCOUNTER WITH A HIGH TIBETAN OFFICIAL
Early the next morning we were roused by the distant sound of tinkling
horse-bells. On looking out of the tent I saw a long row of pack-ponies
heavily laden, escorted by a number of mounted soldiers with matchlocks
and spears. It was evident that some high official was coming. This
advance-guard consisted of his inferior officers and baggage. They took
a long sweep far away from our tent, and dismounted at the Gyanema fort.
Other soldiers and messengers were constantly arriving in groups from
all directions. The leader of one party, with a large escort of
soldiers, was received with profuse salaams. I concluded that he must be
an important person.
After some time a message was sent to us that this new-comer, the Barca
Tarjum, wished to have the honor of seeing us. His rank might be
described as that of a feudal prince. We replied that we were having our
breakfast, and that we would send for him when we wished to speak to
him. Our experience had taught us that it was better to treat Tibetan
officials as inferiors, as they were then more subdued and easier to
deal with. At eleven, we sent a messenger to the fort, to say we should
be pleased to receive the Tarjum. He came immediately with a large
following. He was a picturesque figure dressed in a long coat of green
silk of Chinese shape, with large sleeves turned up, showing his arms up
to the elbow. He had a cap similar to those worn by Chinese officials,
and he was shod in heavy, long black boots, with large nails under the
soles. His long, pale, angular face was remarkable in many ways. It was
dignified and full of repose. Though somewhat weak, his features were
rather fine. Long hair fell in loose curls down to his shoulders.
Hanging from his left ear was a large ear-ring, with malachite ornaments
and a pendant. In his nervous fingers he held a small roll of Tibetan
material, which he used with both hands as a handkerchief. He blew his
nose inconsequently every time he was at a loss to answer a question.
The Tarjum and his men were profuse in their bows, and there was, as
usual, a great display of tongues.
We had rugs placed outside our principal tent. The doctor and I sat on
one, asking the Tarjum to sit on the one facing us. His followers
squatted around him. It is a well-known fact that in Tibet, if you are a
"somebody," or if you wish people to recognize your importance, you must
have an umbrella spread over your head. Fortunately the ever-prudent
doctor had two, and these were duly spread over our respective heads.
The Tarjum himself was shaded under a parasol of colossal dimensions,
held in position by his secretary.
In spite of the extravagant terms of friendship which fell from the
Tarjum's lips, I was convinced, by studying the man's face, that his
words were insincere, and that it would be unsafe to trust him. He
never looked us straight in the face. His eyes were fixed on the ground
all the time, and he spoke in an unpleasantly affected manner. I did not
like the man from the very first, and, friend or no friend, I kept my
loaded rifle on my lap.
After long, heavy speeches, clumsy compliments, and tender inquiries on
the state of health of all relatives they could possibly think of, after
repeated blowing of the nose and loud coughing, which always came on
when we asked whether they had yet decided what we should be allowed to
do, at last, when my patience was nearly exhausted, our negotiations of
the previous day were reopened. We argued for hours. We asked to be
allowed to go on. They were still uncertain whether they would let us or
not. To simplify matters, and hasten their decision before other
reinforcements arrived, the doctor applied for permission to let only
eight of us proceed to Mansarowar. He (the doctor) himself would remain
at Gyanema with the rest of the party, as a proof of good faith. Even
this offer they rejected, not directly, but with hypocritical excuses
and delays. They thought we could not find our way, and that if we did
we should find it rough and the climate too severe; that brigands might
attack us, and so on. All this was tiresome. The Tibetans were even
getting unpleasant. I decided to bring matters to a crisis.
Still holding the rifle cocked at safety on my lap, I turned the muzzle
of it toward the Tarjum, and purposely let my hand slide down to the
trigger. He became uncomfortable. His face showed signs of
apprehension.
His eyes, until now fixed on the ground, became first unsteady, and then
settled fixedly, with a look of distress, on the muzzle of my rifle. He
tried to dodge the aim, right or left, by moving his head. I made the
weapon follow his movements. The Tarjum's servants fully shared their
master's fear. Without doubt the poor fellow was in agony; his tone of
voice, a moment before loud and insulting, now became very humble. With
much meekness he expressed himself ready to please us in every way.
"I see that you are good people," said he, in a faint whisper
accompanied by a deep bow. "I cannot give, as I should like, my official
approval to your journey forward, but you can go if you wish. I cannot
say more. Eight of you can proceed to the sacred Mansarowar Lake. The
others will remain here."
Before giving his final decision, he said that he would prefer to have
another consultation with his officers.
We granted this readily.
The Tarjum then presented the doctor with a roll of Tibetan cloth.
I had bathed in the morning, and my Turkish towel was spread outside the
tent to dry. The Tarjum, who showed great interest in all our things,
took a particular fancy to its knotty fabric. He sent for his child to
see this wonderful material, and when he arrived the towel was placed on
the youth's back as if it were a shawl. I at once offered it to him as a
present if he would accept it. There were no bounds to his delight, and
our relations, somewhat strained a few minutes earlier, became now of
the friendliest character. We invited the party inside our tent, and
they examined everything with curiosity, asking endless questions. They
were now quite pleasant, and even amusing. Tibetans have a craving for
alcohol. They soon asked if I had any to give them; there was nothing
they would like more. As I never carry intoxicants, I could not offer
whiskey, wine, or beer; but, not wishing to disappoint them, I produced
a bottle of methylated spirit[3] (which I used as fuel in my
hypsometrical[4] apparatus). This they readily drank, apparently liking
its throat-burning-qualities. They even asked for more. The Tarjum
complained of an ailment from which he had suffered for some time. The
doctor was able to give him a suitable remedy. All officers received
small presents. Then they departed.
In the afternoon a messenger came from the Barca Tarjum. He had good
news for us. The Tarjum wished us to understand that, "as we had been so
kind to him and his followers, he regarded us as his personal friends.
As we were so anxious to visit the Mansarowar Lake and the great Kelas
Mount, and had already experienced many difficulties and great expense
in coming so far, he agreed that eight of our party should proceed to
these sacred places. It was impossible for him to give an official
consent, but he repeated again that we could go if we wished."
This news naturally delighted me. Once at Kelas, I felt sure I could
easily go further.
On the same evening a traitor in our camp sneaked from under the tent in
which my men were sleeping and paid a visit to the Tarjum. There is no
doubt that he told him I was not the doctor's brother nor a Hindoo
pilgrim. He disclosed that I was a sahib, and that I was on my way to
Lhassa. From what I heard afterward, it seemed that the Tarjum did not
quite believe his informant; but, fresh doubts arising in his mind, he
sent a message in the night, entreating us to return the way we had
come.
"If there is really a sahib in your party, whom you have kept concealed
from me, and I let you go on, my head will be cut off by the Lhassa
officials. You are now my friends, and you will not allow this."
"Tell the Tarjum," I replied to the messenger, "that he is my friend,
and I will treat him as a friend."
In the morning we found thirty horsemen, fully armed, posted about one
hundred yards from our tent. To go ahead with my frightened men and be
followed by this company would certainly bring trouble. It was better to
adopt other tactics.
Much to the astonishment of the armed force and their superiors, the
doctor, Chanden Sing, and I, rifles in hand, walked firmly toward the
company of soldiers. After us came the trembling coolies. The Magbun and
the Tarjum's officers could hardly believe their eyes. The soldiers
quickly dismounted and laid their weapons down, to show that they had no
intention of fighting. We passed without taking notice of them. The
Magbun ran after me. He begged me to stop one moment. A pair of prettily
embroidered cloth boots were produced from the loose folds of the
official's coat, and he offered them to me with the following words:
"Though your face is sunburnt and black, and your eyes are sore" (they
were not, as a matter of fact, but I wore snow-spectacles), "your
features tell me that you are of good family. You must be a high officer
in your country. Your noble feelings also show that you would not have
us punished for your sake, and now our hearts are glad to see you
retrace your steps. Let me offer you these boots, so that your feet may
not get sore on the long and difficult journey back to your native
land."
It was neatly put, though the mode of reasoning was peculiar. I accepted
the boots. The Magbun and his guard salaamed to the ground.
Without further parleying we left the Magbun, and, retracing our steps,
proceeded in a west-south-west direction, as though we had decided to
turn back and leave the country.
We reached the summit of the hill and crossed to the other side. My men
went on down the slope, but I remained, hidden behind a large stone, to
observe with my telescope the people at Gyanema. No sooner had my last
man disappeared on the other side of the pass than the cavalrymen jumped
into their saddles, and, raising clouds of dust, galloped after us. This
was what I had expected. I hastened to rejoin my men. When down in the
plain, I again took my telescope and watched the sky-line of the hill we
had just descended. Some thirty heads could be seen peeping over the
rocks from among the boulders. The soldiers had evidently dismounted
and were spying our movements. I felt annoyed that they did not openly
follow us. I sighted my rifle to eight hundred yards, lay down flat, and
took aim at a figure I could see more plainly than the others.
The doctor snatched the rifle from my shoulder.
"You must not shoot," said he, with his usual calmness; "you might kill
somebody."
"I only wish to teach those cowards a lesson."
"That is all very well. But every man in Tibet is so cowardly that the
lesson would have to be constantly repeated," answered Wilson, with his
unfailing wisdom.
I slung my rifle over my shoulder, and made up my mind to start some
other time on the great task I had then so nearly begun.
When we had covered a mile or so of the plain our ghostly escort crossed
the pass, and came full gallop down the hill. I gave orders to my men to
halt. The soldiers also came to a dead stop. I watched them through the
telescope. They seemed to be holding a discussion. At last five men rode
full speed northward, probably to guard the track in that direction.
Three men remained where they were, and the remainder, as if seized by
panic, galloped frantically up the hill again and disappeared over the
summit.
We resumed our march. The three horsemen followed a course one mile
south of ours, close against the foot of the hills. Lying low upon their
ponies' heads, they probably imagined that they were passing us
unperceived. Seeing that our bearings were for our old camp at Lama
Chokten, they left our line and rode ahead of us.
When, in the evening, we reached Lama Chokten two shepherds came to
greet us. Then another appeared.
"Our sheep are far away," said they. "We are hungry. We are poor. Can we
stop near your camp and pick up the food that you will throw away?"
"Certainly," I replied. "But mind you do not pick up anything else."
These simple people, thinking I should not know them, had left their
ponies at the Lama Chokten guard-house, and, disguised as shepherds,
were now trying to make friends with us, with the object of discovering
our movements. They were, of course, the three sepoys from Gyanema in
disguise.
At each step in our retreat toward the Himahlyas my heart became
heavier. I was thinking out fresh plans, but to think out plans and to
carry them into effect were two different matters.
How many times had my schemes been upset! How often had I been forced to
begin afresh when all seemed to point toward success! Now things had
changed altogether for the worse. My chances of success, notwithstanding
my constant struggle, were getting smaller and smaller every day.
Failure stared me in the face.
At this camp the _daku_ (brigand), who had changed his disguise several
times since coming in contact with the Tibetans, announced his immediate
departure. The doctor, with his usual kindness, had already begged him
to remain, but without avail. We well knew that in this region, infested
by robbers, this man was only leaving us to become a robber again. The
_daku_ knew that I carried a large sum of money. During the last two
days his behavior had been more than strange. Had he come across some of
his mates, or had he heard from the soldiers that they were in the
neighborhood?
The _daku_ had a bundle of blankets strapped on his back in readiness to
leave me. My men, distressed at this new danger, came to report it to
me. I sent for him. Speaking bluntly, and keeping his eyes fixed on the
ground, he said:
"I am going, sahib."
"Where?" I inquired.
"I have friends near here, and I am going to them."
"Very good, go," I replied, calmly taking up my rifle.
His load was off his shoulders in less time than it takes to tell of it.
He resumed his work as usual. One or two other riotous coolies were
brought back to reason in a similar manner.
I heard later that a band of brigands attacked a party of traders near
the frontier two days after this occurred.
Another painful march back! We went a few miles and encamped on the bank
of a rapid stream, the Shirlangdu. From this point, with some
difficulty, it would be possible to climb over the mountain range during
the night, and attempt to elude the spies and watchmen by crossing the
mountains as far as Lake Mansarowar. I made up my mind to attempt this.
It seemed to add to the risk to have so large a following as thirty men,
so I decided that only four or five should accompany me. Going alone was
impossible, because of the difficulty of carrying sufficient food.
Nevertheless, if the worst came to the worst, I resolved to attempt
going absolutely alone and rely on the chance of obtaining food from
Tibetans.
All the loads were rearranged. Articles of clothing and comfort,
niceties in the way of food, and extras in the way of luxuries were left
behind to make room for my scientific instruments.
Each pound in weight dedicated to science meant a pound less food to
take us to Lhassa. Everything that was not strictly necessary had to be
left behind.
Two Tibetan spies came to camp in the afternoon in the disguise, as
usual, of beggars. They asked for food and insisted upon it. Their
manner was unbearably insulting. This was a little too much for us.
Bijesing, the Johari, and Rubso, the Christian cook, were the first to
enter into an open fight with them. They punched and kicked them,
driving them down a steep ravine leading to a river; then, assisted by
other men in camp, showered stones upon them.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: Purified alcohol.]
[Footnote 4: See Chapter I.]