FOLLOWED BY TIBETAN SOLDIERS
We were not in luck. The weather continued squally in the morning, and
in the afternoon the rain was again torrential. We went over
uninteresting and monotonous gray country. A chain of snowy peaks
stretched from south-west to north-east. We waded through a fairly deep
and cold river, and afterward climbed over a pass 17,450 feet high. A
number of Tibetans with flocks of several thousand sheep came in sight,
but we avoided them. They did not see us.
At the point where we crossed it, the main stream described a graceful
bend. We climbed over undulating and barren country to an elevation of
17,550 feet, where we found several small lakelets. Having marched that
day fourteen and a half miles in a drenching rain, we descended into a
large valley. Here we had great difficulty in finding a spot where to
rest for the night. The plain was simply a swamp, with several lakes and
ponds, and we sank everywhere in mud and water. All our bedding and
clothes were soaked to such an extent that it really made no difference
where we halted, so we pitched our little tent on the bank of a stream
intersecting a valley to the north. Extending in an easterly direction
along the valley rose a series of mountains shaped like pyramids,
covered with snow and all of almost equal height. To the south were
high peaks with great quantities of snow upon them. The valley in which
we camped was at an elevation of 17,450 feet. The cold was intense.
[Illustration: TORRENTIAL RAIN]
At night the rain came down in bucketfuls, and our _tente d'abri_ gave
us but little shelter. We were lying in water. All the trenches in the
world could not have kept the water from streaming into our tent. In
fact, it is no exaggeration to say that the whole valley was a sheet of
water varying from one to several inches deep. Of course, we suffered
intensely from cold, the thermometer dropping to 26 deg. at 8 P.M., when
a south-east wind began to blow furiously. Rain fell, mixed with sleet,
for a time, and was followed by a heavy snow-storm. We lay crouched up
on the top of our baggage, so as not to lie on the frozen water. When we
woke in the morning our tent had half collapsed, owing to the weight of
snow upon it. During the day the temperature went up and rain fell
afresh, so that when we resumed our marching we sank in a mixture of
mud, snow, and water several inches deep. We had to cross three rivers
and to skirt five lakes of various sizes.
Seven miles of this dreary marching saw us encamped (17,380 feet) at the
foot of a conical hill 17,500 feet high, where an almost identical
repetition of the previous night's experience took place. The
thermometer was down at 32 deg., but fortunately the wind subsided at
eight o'clock in the evening. As luck would have it, the sun came out the
following day, and we were able to spread out all our things to dry. We
had yet another novel experience.
Our two yaks had disappeared. I climbed up to the summit of the hill
above camp, and with my telescope scoured the plain. The two animals
were some distance off, being led away by ten or twelve men on
horseback, who drove in front of them a flock of about five hundred
sheep. By their clothing I recognized the strangers to be robbers.
Naturally I started at once to recover my property, leaving Chanden Sing
and Mansing in charge of our camp. I caught them up as they were
marching slowly, though, when they perceived me, they hastened on,
trying to get away. I shouted three times to them to stop, but they paid
no heed to my words. I unslung my rifle, and would have fired at them
had the threat alone not been sufficient to make them reflect. They
halted. When I got near enough I claimed my two yaks back. They refused
to give them up. They said they were twelve men, and were not afraid of
one. Dismounted from their ponies, they seemed ready to attack me.
As I saw them take out flint and steel in order to light the fusees of
their matchlocks, I thought I might as well have my innings first.
Before they could guess my intention, I applied a violent blow with the
muzzle of my rifle on the stomach of the man nearest to me. He
collapsed, while I administered another blow in the right temple of
another man who held his matchlock between his legs, and was on the
point of striking his flint and steel in order to set the tinder on
fire. He, too, staggered and fell clumsily.
"_Chakzal, chakzal! Chakzal wortzie!_" (We salute you, we salute you!
Please listen!) exclaimed a third brigand, with an expression of dismay,
and holding up his thumbs with his fist closed in sign of surrender.
"_Chakzal!_" (I salute you!) I replied, inserting a cartridge into the
Mannlicher rifle.
"_Middu, middu!_" (No, no!) they entreated, promptly laying down their
weapons.
I purchased from these men about thirty pounds of _tsamba_ and eight
pounds of butter. I got one of them to carry the stuff to my camp, while
I, without further trouble, recovered my yaks and drove them back to
where Chanden Sing and Mansing were busy lighting a fire to make some
tea.
Toward noon, when our things had got almost dry in the warm sun, the sky
became clouded, and again it began to rain heavily. I was rather
doubtful as to whether I should go over a pass some miles off to the
east, or should follow the course of the river and skirt the foot of the
mountains. We saw a large number of Tibetans travelling in the opposite
direction to ours. They all seemed terrified when we approached them. We
obtained from them a few more pounds of food, but they refused to sell
us any sheep, of which they had thousands. I decided to attempt the
first-mentioned route. Making our way first over a continuation of the
flat plateau, then over undulating ground, we came to two lakelets at
the foot of the pass before us. The ascent was comparatively easy, over
snow. We followed the river, which descended from the pass. About
half-way up, on looking back, we saw eight soldiers galloping toward us.
We waited for them. As soon as they came up to us they went through the
usual servile salutations, depositing their weapons on the ground to
show that they had no intention of fighting. A long, amiable
conversation followed, the Tibetans professing their friendship for us
and their willingness to help us to get on in any way they could. This
was rather too good to be true. I suspected treachery, all the more so
when they pressed and entreated us to go back to their tents, where they
wished to entertain us as their highly honored guests. They would shower
upon us all the luxuries that human mind could conceive. These luxuries
were found to consist of presents of _chura_, cheese, butter, yak milk,
and _tsamba_. They said they would sell us ponies if we required them.
The description was too glowing. Taking all things into consideration,
and allowing for the inaccuracy of speech of Tibetans in general, I
thanked them from the bottom of my heart, and answered that I preferred
to continue my journey and bear my present sufferings.
They perceived that I was not easy to catch. If anything, they respected
me for it. In fact, they could not conceal their amazement at my having
got so far into their country with only two men. After giving my
visitors some little presents, we parted in a friendly manner.
We climbed up to the pass (18,480 feet). Before us, on the other side,
some two thousand feet lower, was a large stretch of flat land. I could
see a lake, which I took to be the Gunkyo. To make certain of it, I left
my men and yaks on the pass and went to reconnoitre from a peak 19,000
feet high north-east of us. There was much snow. The ascent was
difficult and tedious. When I got to the top another high peak barred
the view in front of me, so, descending first and then ascending again,
I climbed this second summit, finally reaching an elevation of 20,000
feet, and obtaining a good bird's-eye view of the country all round.
There was a long snowy range to the north, and directly under it what I
imagined to be a stretch of water, judging from the mist and clouds
forming directly above it and from the grass on the lower slopes of the
mountains.
A hill range stood in my way, just high enough to conceal the lake
behind it. I rejoined my men. Sinking in deep, soft snow, we continued
our march down the other side of the pass. We pitched our tent at a
place about five hundred feet higher than the plain below us, where the
mountain sides were close together and formed a gorge. Notwithstanding
that I was now quite accustomed to great elevations, the ascent to
20,000 feet had caused a certain exhaustion, and I should have been glad
of a good night's rest.
Mansing and Chanden Sing, having eaten some food, slept soundly, but I
felt depressed. I had a peculiar sense of unrest and a presentiment that
some misfortune would come to us during the night.
We were all three under our little tent when I fancied there was some
one outside. I did not know why the thought entered my head, for I heard
no noise, but all the same I felt I must see for myself and satisfy my
curiosity. I peeped out of the tent with my rifle in hand, and saw a
number of black figures cautiously crawling toward us. In a moment I was
outside on my bare feet, running toward them and shouting at the top of
my voice, "_Pila tedan tedang!_" (Look out, look out!) which caused a
stampede among our ghost-like visitors. There were, apparently, many of
them hidden behind rocks, for when the panic seized them the number of
runaways was double or even treble that of the phantoms I had at first
seen approaching. At one moment there seemed to be black ghosts
springing out from everywhere, only, more solid than ghosts, they made a
loud noise with their heavy boots as they ran in confusion down the
steep incline and through the gorge. They turned sharply round the hill
at the bottom and disappeared.
When I crawled inside the tent again Chanden Sing and Mansing, wrapped
head and all in their blankets, were still snoring!
Naturally I passed a sleepless night after that, fearing the unwelcome
visitors might return. We speculated as to how the Tibetans had found
us, and we could not help surmising that our friends of the previous
afternoon must have put them on our track. However, such was the
inconceivable cowardice shown on every occasion by the Tibetans, that we
got to attach no importance to these incidents. Indeed, the natives did
not inspire us with fear. Their visits had even ceased to excite or
interest us.
We went on as usual, descending to the plain. When we had got half-way
across it I scoured the hills all round with my telescope to see if I
could discern traces of our pursuers.
"There they are!" cried Chanden Sing, who had the most wonderful
eyesight of any man I have known. He pointed at the summit of a hill
where, among the rocks, several heads could be seen peeping. We went on
without taking notice of them. Then they came out of their hiding-place,
and we saw them descending the hill in a long line, leading their
ponies. On reaching the plain they mounted their steeds and came full
gallop our way. They were quite a picturesque sight in their dark-red
coats, or brown and yellow skin robes and their vari-colored caps. Some
wore bright-red coats with gold braiding, and Chinese caps. These were
officers. The soldiers' matchlocks, to the props of which red or white
flags were attached, gave an additional touch of color to the otherwise
dreary scenery of barren hills and snow. The tinkling of the horse-bells
enlivened the monotony of these silent, inhospitable regions. The
Tibetans dismounted some three hundred yards from us. One old man,
throwing aside his matchlock and sword, walked unsteadily toward us. We
received him kindly. He afforded us great amusement, for he was a
strange character.
"I am only a messenger," he hastened to state, "and therefore do not
pour your anger upon me if I speak to you. I only convey the words of my
officers, who do not dare to come for fear of being injured. News has
been received at Lhassa, from whence we have come, that a _Plenki_ (an
Englishman) with many men is in Tibet, and can be found nowhere. We have
been sent to capture him. Are you one of his advance-guard?"
"No," I replied, dryly. "I suppose that you have taken several months to
come from Lhassa," I added, pretending ignorance.
"Oh no! Our ponies are good," he answered, "and we have come quickly."
"_Chik, ni, sum, shi, nga, do, diu, ghieh, gu, chu, chuck chick, chuck
ni_," the Tibetan counted up to twelve, frowning and keeping his head
inclined to the right, as if to collect his thoughts, at the same time
holding up his hand, with the thumb folded against the palm, and turning
down a finger as he called each number. The thumbs are never used in
counting. "_Lum chuck ni niman_" (Twelve days), said he, "have we been
on the road. We have orders not to return till we have captured the
_Plenki_. And you," asked he, inquisitively--"how long have you taken to
come from Ladak?"
He said he could see by my face that I was a native of Kashmere. I was
probably so burnt and dirty that it was hard to distinguish me from a
native. The old man cross-examined me to find out whether I was a native
surveyor sent by the Indian Government to survey the country, and asked
me why I had discarded my native clothes for _Plenki_ (European) ones.
He over and over again inquired whether I was not one of the _Plenki's_
party.
"_Keran ga naddo ung?_" (Where are you going?) he queried.
"_Nhgarang ne koroun Lama jehlhuong_" (I am a pilgrim, going to visit
monasteries).
"_Keran mi japodu_" (You are a good man).
He offered to show me the way to the Gunkyo Lake, and was so pressing
that I accepted. When I saw the two hundred soldiers mount and follow
us, I remonstrated with him, saying that if we were to be friends we did
not need an army to escort us.
"If you are our friend, you can come alone, and we will not injure you,"
I gave him to understand. "But if you are our enemy, we will fight you
and your army here at once, and we will save you the trouble of coming
any farther."
The Tibetan, confused and hesitating, went to confabulate with his men,
and returned some time after with eight of them, while the bulk of his
force galloped away in the opposite direction.
We went across the plain until we came to a hill range, which we crossed
over a pass 17,450 feet high. Then, altering our course, we descended
and ascended several hills, and at last found ourselves in the sheltered
grassy valley of the large Gunkyo Lake, extending from south-east to
north-west. With a temperature of 68 deg. Fahrenheit the water in the
hypsometrical apparatus boiled at 183 deg. 3-1/2' at 8.30 in the evening.
The lake was of extraordinary beauty, with the high snowy Gangri
mountains rising almost sheer from its waters. On the southern side
lofty hills formed a background wild and picturesque, but barren and
desolate beyond words. At the other end of the lake, to the north-west,
were lower mountains skirting the water.
We encamped at 16,455 feet. The Tibetan soldiers pitched their tent some
fifty yards away.
During the evening the Tibetans came to my camp and made themselves
useful. They helped us to get fuel, and brewed tea for me in Tibetan
fashion. They professed to hate the Lamas, the rulers of the country, to
whom they took special pleasure in applying names hardly repeatable in
these pages. According to them, the Lamas took all the money that came
into the country, and no one else was allowed to have any. They were
unscrupulous, cruel, and unjust. Every man in Tibet, they said, was a
soldier in case of necessity, and every one a servant of the Lamas. The
soldiers of the regular army received a quantity of _tsamba_, bricks of
tea and butter, but no money. Usually they were provided with ponies to
ride. When travelling on duty they had a right to obtain relays of
animals at post-stations and villages, and they were also entitled to
claim supplies of food, saddles, or anything else they required, to
carry them as far as the next encampment. The weapons (sword and
matchlock) generally belonged to the men themselves, but occasionally,
in the larger towns, such as Lhassa and Sigatz, the Lamas provided them.
Gunpowder and bullets were supplied by the authorities. The weapons were
manufactured mostly in Lhassa and Sigatz. Although the Tibetans boasted
of great accuracy in shooting with their matchlocks, which had wooden
rests in order to allow the marksman to take a steady aim, I never saw
even the champion shots of the country hit the mark. For sporting
purposes and for economy's sake, the Tibetan soldiers hardly ever used
lead bullets or shot, but preferred to fill the barrels of their
matchlocks with pebbles. Gunpowder was so scarce that they seldom
practised firing at a target.
At sunrise the view of Gunkyo was magnificent, with the snow-covered
mountains tinted gold and red, and reflected in their smallest detail in
the still waters of the lake.
We loaded our yaks, the Tibetans giving us a helping hand, and started
toward the Maium Pass, following a river which throws itself into the
Gunkyo Lake.
The valley was narrow, and with many sharp turns. Although the elevation
was great, there was abundance of grass. The green was quite refreshing
to the eyes, tired as we were of snow and reddish barren mountains and
desert-like stretches of land. We came to a basin where, on the opposite
bank of the stream, was a large Tibetan camping-ground with a high wall
of stones. Behind it I could see smoke rising, which made me suspect
that there were people concealed.
Our Tibetan friends asked what were our intentions, and begged me to
stop to talk and drink tea. I said I had had quite enough of both, and
would proceed.
"If you go on we will kill you!" shouted one soldier, getting into a
temper, and taking advantage of our politeness toward him and his
companions.
"_Nga samgi ganta indah_" (If you please), I answered, with studied
courtesy.
"If you go another step we will cut off your head, or you will have to
cut off ours!" cried two or three others, stretching their bare necks
toward me.
"_Taptih middu_" (I have not got a small knife), I replied, quite
seriously, and with assumed disappointment, twirling my hand in the air
in Tibetan fashion.
The Tibetans did not know what to make of me. When I moved toward the
pass, on which hundreds of flying-prayers flapped in the wind, I
politely bade them good-bye with tongue out, and waving both my hands,
palms upward, in front of my forehead in the most approved Tibetan
style. The soldiers took off their caps and humbly saluted us by going
down on their knees and putting their heads close to the ground.
We crossed the plain, and slowly wended our way up the pass. Near the
top we came to a track, the highway from Ladak to Lhassa _via_ Gartok,
along the northern side of the Rakastal, Mansarowar, and Gunkyo lakes.
On the pass itself were planted several poles connected by ropes, from
which flying-prayers waved gayly in the breeze. _Obos_, or mounds of
stones, had been erected. The slabs used in the construction of these
_obos_ were mostly white, and bore in many instances the inscription
"_Omne mani padme hun_." Yak, goat, and sheep skulls were laid by the
side of the _obos_, the above four words being engraved on the bone, and
stained red with the blood of the animals killed.
Sacrifices are offered by Tibetans when crossing a high pass, especially
if there is a Lama close at hand to commemorate the event. The meat of
the animal killed is eaten by the people present. If the party is a
large one, dancing and singing follow the feast. _Obos_ are found all
over the country, generally on passes or summits of hills. No Tibetan
ever goes by one of these _obos_ without depositing on it a white
stone.