AN EXCITING NIGHT JOURNEY
The hour fixed for my flight was 9 P.M. Five men had been induced to
follow me by the offer of a handsome reward.
At the appointed hour no one had put in an appearance. I went in search
of them. One man had purposely injured his feet and was disabled,
another professed to be dying, the others positively refused to
accompany me. All were shivering with fright and cold.
"Kill us, sahib, if you like," they implored of me, "but we will not
follow you."
At 3 A.M. all attempts to get even one man to carry a load had proved
futile. I had to abandon the idea of starting.
My prospects became gloomier than ever. Another march back toward the
cold and dreary pass by which I had entered Tibet!
"You are depressed, Mr. Landor," remarked the doctor.
I admitted the fact. Every step backward was to me like a stab in the
heart. My only wish was to push on at any cost, and it was only on
account of my good friend, the doctor, that I had reluctantly refrained
from making my way onward by force. My blood was boiling. The cowardice
of my men made them so contemptible in my eyes that I could not bear
even to look at them.
On this depressing march I walked alone ahead of my party. The rugged
way seemed short and easy. I found a suitable spot for our camp. Before
me and on every side stood high, snowy mountains. In front towered that
same Lumpiya Pass over which I had crossed into Tibet when my spirits
ran high and I had hopes of taking my entire expedition toward the
sacred city of Lhassa. I now hated the sight of those mountains.
Whether it is that storms come when one is depressed, or whether one
gets depressed when storms approach, I am not prepared to say. On this
occasion, when I was indeed very depressed, and before we had time to
pitch our tents, the wind, which had been high all through the
afternoon, increased tenfold. The clouds became black and threatening,
and snow soon fell in feathery flakes.
"What are you going to do?" inquired the doctor of me. "I think you had
better return to Garbyang, get fresh men, and make another start."
"No, doctor. I will die rather than continue this backward march. I have
resolved to start alone to-night. I am convinced that I shall have
better success. I shall find my way over the range."
"No, no, it is impossible, Mr. Landor!" cried the doctor, with tears in
his eyes. "That must mean death to any one attempting it."
I told him I was quite determined to go.
The poor doctor was dumfounded. He knew that it was quite useless to try
to dissuade me. I went into the tent to rearrange my baggage, making
the load I intended to carry on my back as light as possible. My
scientific instruments, money, and cartridges already made a good weight
to carry on my person.
While I was making preparations for my journey Kachi Ram entered the
tent. He looked perplexed.
"What are you doing, sir?" he inquired. "The doctor says you are going
to leave alone to-night, cross the mountain range, and go to Lhassa by
yourself."
"Yes; that is true."
"Oh, sir, the perils and dangers are too great! You cannot go."
"I know; but I am going to try."
"Oh, sir, then I will come with you."
"No, Kachi. You will suffer too much. Go back to your father and mother,
now that you have the opportunity."
"No, sir; where you go, I will go. Small men never suffer. If they do,
it does not matter. Only great men's sufferings are worth noticing. If
you suffer, I will suffer. I will come."
Kachi's philosophy touched me. He meant what he said. I decided to take
him.
This was a piece of luck. Kachi Ram had five bosom friends among the
young Shoka coolies. In the evenings in camp they often joined in weird
love-songs, in memory of the fair maids of their hearts whom they had
left behind, on the other side of the Himahlyas.
Kachi hurried away in a state of great excitement. He was back in a few
minutes.
"How many coolies will you take, sir?"
"None will come."
"Oh, I will get them," said he, with assurance. "Will five do?"
"Yes," I murmured, incredulously.
My doubt sustained a shock when Kachi returned, buoyant, saying, in his
peculiar English:
"Five Shokas come, sir. Then you, sir, I, sir, five coolies, sir, start
night-time. What clock?"
"By Jove, Kachi," I could not help exclaiming, "you are a smart lad!"
"'Smart,' sir?" inquired he, sharply, hearing a new word. He was most
anxious to learn English, and he had a mania for spelling. "'Smart!'
What is meaning? How spell?"
"S-m-a-r-t. It means 'quick, intelligent.'"
"Smart," he repeated, solemnly, as he wrote the newly acquired word into
a book which I had given him for the purpose. Kachi was undoubtedly, in
spite of small faults, a great character. He was a most intelligent,
sharp, well-meaning fellow. His never-failing good-humor and his earnest
desire to learn and to be useful were quite refreshing.
My luck seemed to have turned. A few minutes later Chanden Sing, quite
unaware that any one had undertaken to accompany me, entered the tent,
and exclaimed, in a disgusted manner:
"_Shoka crab, sahib! Hunya log bura crab. Hazur, hum, do admi jaldi
Lhassa giao._" (The Shokas are bad. The Hunyas are very bad. Your honor
and I, we two alone, will go quickly by ourselves to Lhassa).
Here was another plucky and useful man anxious to come. He professed to
have no fear of death. How true the poor fellow's words were we will
learn later.
Chanden Sing was a man of strong sporting tastes. His happiness was
complete when he could fire his rifle at something, though he was never
known to hit the mark. He had been severely scolded and punished only a
few days before for wasting several cartridges trying to shoot _kiang_
(wild horse) three miles distant. Ordinary work, however, such as doing
his own cooking or keeping my things tidy, was distasteful to him, and
was invariably passed on to others.
Mansing, the leper, being unfortunately of the same caste as Chanden
Sing, became my servant's servant. The two Hindoos constantly quarrelled
and fought, but at heart they were the best of friends. The bearer, by
means of promises, mingled at intervals with blows, eventually succeeded
in inducing his protege to join in our new expedition and face what
dangers we might find ahead.
By eight o'clock in the evening I had collected all the men who had
promised to follow me. They comprised my bearer, Kachi, and six coolies.
We named this camp "Devil's Camp," for diabolical indeed was the wind
that shook our tents, not to speak of the snow blown into our shelters
by the raging storm. During the night the wind grew in fury. Neither
wood, dung, nor lichens for fuel could be found. Our tents were pitched
at 16,900 feet above sea-level. To ascend to the summit of the range
would mean a further climb of two thousand feet. In such weather the
difficulties of the ascent were increased tenfold, though for escaping
the notice of the Tibetan watchmen, who were spying our movements, we
could have no better chance than on a stormy night like this. I arranged
with the doctor that he was to take back to Garbyang all the baggage I
had discarded and the men who had declined to follow me. He must leave
all our tents pitched until the afternoon of the next day, in order to
let the Tibetans suppose that we were all sheltered under them. This
would give me time to make a long forced march before they could
discover that I had left my tent, and could get on my track. Hard as it
would be for our little party going forward, we would take no tent
except the small _tente d'abri_, which weighed about four pounds. We
should, in any case, be unable to pitch a tent for several days, for
fear of being detected by the Tibetans. As soon as they would discover
that we had left they would surely start in search of us. We should have
to march long distances at night, keeping mostly on the summit of the
range instead of proceeding, like ordinary travellers, along the
valleys. We must get what little sleep we could during the day, when we
could hide in some secluded spot. The thought of making a fire had to be
abandoned because, even in the remote chance of finding fuel at the
great altitudes where we were compelled to camp, every one knows that
the light of a fire and a column of smoke can be seen from great
distances, both in the day and at night. We had talked over all these
matters before we made a start, and, moreover, we were fully aware that
if the Tibetans could lay their hands upon us, we were too few to fight
them, and we had little chance of escaping with our lives. In fact,
taking things all round, we had come to the conclusion that our lives
were worth a mere song from the moment of our leaving Devil's Camp.
With the full knowledge of what we were undertaking we may have been
foolish in starting at all, but lack of determination cannot fairly be
charged against us.
The thoughtful doctor had brought with him from our last camp a few
lichens, with which he was now attempting to light a fire to cook me a
few _chapatis_ (native flat breads of India). Alas! four hours' hard
work and four entire boxes of matches failed to produce the semblance of
a flame.
At midnight I sent Chanden Sing and Kachi to collect the men. Two came
trembling into the tent, the others could not be roused. I went myself
and took them, one by one, to their loads. All were crying like
children. It was then that I discovered that in the haste and confusion
I had made one load too many. Here was a dilemma! Everything was ready
and propitious for our flight. A delay at this juncture was fatal. I
must have another man.
The moans and groans in the coolies' tent, when I went in search of
another volunteer, were pitiful. You might have thought that they were
all going to die, and this was their last agony. All because of the
terror of being picked out to follow me.
At last, after threats and promises, Bijesing, the Johari, was persuaded
to come. But the load was too heavy for him; he would only carry half.
To save trouble, I agreed to carry the other half myself in addition to
my own load.
[Illustration: AT NIGHT I LED MY MEN UP THE MOUNTAIN IN A FIERCE
SNOW-STORM]
We put out our hurricane-lantern, and at 2 P.M., when the gale was
raging at its height, driving the grit and snow like spikes into our
faces, when the wind and cold seemed to penetrate with biting force to
the marrow of our bones, a handful of silent men, half frozen and
staggering, left the camp to face the blizzard. I ordered my men to keep
close together, and we made immediately for the mountain-side, taking
care to avoid the places where we supposed the Tibetan spies were
posted.
We could not have selected a more suitable night for our escape. It was
so dark that we could not see more than a few inches in front of us. The
doctor, in sad silence, accompanied me for a couple of hundred yards. I
urged him to return to the tent. He stopped to grasp my hand. In a
broken voice the good man gave me his blessing, and bade me farewell.
"The dangers of your journey," whispered Dr. Wilson, "are so great and
so numerous that God alone can guide you through. When I think of the
cold, hunger, and hardships you will have to endure I can but tremble
for you."
"Good-bye, doctor," said I.
"Good-bye," he repeated. "Good...." and his voice failed him. We parted.
Two or three steps, and the darkness separated us. His touching words of
farewell rang sadly in my ears as I remembered the loyalty and
thoughtfulness of this good friend.
The journey toward Lhassa had recommenced in grim earnest. In a short
while our ears, fingers, and toes were almost frozen, and the snow,
fast-driven by the gale, beat mercilessly against our faces. Our eyes
ached. We might have been blind for all we could see. Feeling our way
with our feet, we proceeded speechless and exhausted, rising slowly
higher and higher on the mountain-side. As we reached greater elevations
it grew colder, and the wind became more piercing. Every few minutes we
were compelled to halt and sit close together in order to warm ourselves
and get fresh breath. The air was so rarefied that we could barely
proceed under our heavy loads.
We heard a whistle and faint sounds like distant voices. My men
collected round me, whispered "_Daku! daku!_" (Brigands! brigands!), and
then threw themselves flat on the snow. I loaded my rifle and went
ahead, trying in vain to perceive the enemy in the darkness. I screened
my ear with one hand. Hark!... hark!... Yet another shrill whistle!
My Shokas were terrified. The sound seemed to come from directly in
front of us. We immediately altered our course, wending our way upward
slowly and steadily until we found ourselves at sunrise near the
mountain-top. It was still snowing hard. One final effort brought us to
the summit of the plateau.
Here we felt comparatively safe. Thoroughly exhausted, we deposited our
burdens on the snow, and laid ourselves down close to one another,
piling on the top of us all the available blankets in order to keep
warm.