Treachery in Tibet (20 page)

The riverside village, Chaksam Chori, had its statutory monastery a little further upstream. Fonthill stood in the stirrups and studied it. It seemed empty but then he caught a glimpse of movement on its walls.

‘William,’ he called to Ottley. ‘Take six men and flush out the abbot from the monastery. I bet you will also find the ferrymen hiding there. Be sharp. We don’t want to keep the main column waiting when it comes up.’

Ottley rode away and within fifteen minutes had returned, ushering a flustered-looking monk and twenty desperately frightened river boatmen.

‘Tell them,’ ordered Fonthill to a Tibetan that they had brought with them from Gyantse as interpreter, ‘that they will each have twenty rupees if they will cross and bring the ferries back.’

Much heated conversation ensued until the interpreter shrugged
his shoulders and turned back to Simon. ‘They don’t go,’ he said. ‘They frightened that if they work for you their own people kill them.’

Fonthill drew his pistol slowly from its holster. ‘Very well. Tell them that I will undoubtedly shoot every one of them now, if they do not fetch those boats.’

The effect was immediate and the ferrymen rushed to climb into the collapsible boats, with a rifleman in each to ensure that they did not run away once on the far bank. Within minutes both of the ferries had been brought back and safely moored on the southern bank.

Simon immediately ordered the abbot – happy now to be of any assistance – to fetch some
chung,
local beer, and ten sheep from the monastery. He then distributed the beer and sheep to the ferrymen and also paid them twenty rupees each. Suddenly, all was sweetness and light and the Tibetans immediately produced coracle skin boats from hiding places on the riverbank, which, as they demonstrated, proved admirable shelters from the consistent rain for the horsemen who had travelled light and therefore had no tents to provide shelter for the night.

Jenkins flicked the rain from his glistening moustache. ‘Ain’t it amazin’ what a bit of a threat backed up by love an’ kindness can do,’ he observed. ‘Let’s feed the ponies an’ then find ourselves a nice little dry boat to crawl under and drink some of that awful bloody beer.’

It was a wet and miserable night for them all, despite the coracles, but the rain eased a little in the morning and Fonthill was able to cross his men over the river in the ferry boats soon after dawn to establish a bridgehead on the far bank just as the main column came up.

The ferry boats were put into use for the main crossing straight away, but it proved to be slow work, for the river had to be crossed in two stages: first from the south bank to a sandbank in midstream,
using the ferry boats, then in the yak-skin coracles to cross a shallower side channel to the far bank.

To speed things up, the engineers were able to throw a steel cable across the river and, at the same time, Major Bretherton, the column’s transport officer, experimented with lashing together the Berthon boats underneath a wooden platform. Then, with another officer, Captain Moore, seven Gurkhas and two Indian camp followers, he boarded the makeshift raft and attempted the crossing.

It looked perilous and so it proved. Halfway across and before they had reached the sandbank, a strong eddy caught the craft and it upended, tipping all of the men into the surging water. Moore and five of the Gurkhas were able to reach the riverbank, but Bretherton and the remaining men, laden with packs and rifles, were swept away and drowned.

This took place while the whole column and the journalists, including Alice, were watching. Immediately a groan went up from the watchers, for Bretherton had proved to be one of the most popular officers in the whole expedition, always working to relieve the strain on his men and to think of innovative schemes to hasten the progress of the column.

Later, Alice sat sipping one of Jenkins’s cups of scalding tea in the tiny, one-woman bivouac tent that she used on the march, Simon just able to crawl in and crouch beside her.

‘Watching that lovely man drown was the tipping point for me,’ she muttered into her cup.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Surely there has been enough killing on this disgraceful invasion
of a hitherto peaceful country without having an accident of this kind – just because we must press on to bloody Lhasa at all cost.’

Simon looked at her sharply. They had had little opportunity to be together on these latter stages of the march, for he was consistently out riding ahead of the main column. On the rare occasions that they met, however, he had found her withdrawn, preoccupied and reluctant to talk very much.

‘Oh come on, Alice,’ he said now. ‘You know as well as I do that these things happen on campaign. This is a war, after all – albeit a one-sided, most peculiar one – and accidents happen under pressure. And we are on the last lap now, not far from Lhasa and I am not at all sure that the Tibetans will try and stop us now.’

‘Really?’ She sniffed. ‘What about those tough so-and-sos, the Khampas, or whatever they are called, who you said shouted at you when you arrived on the riverbank? It looks as though they haven’t given up yet.’

Fonthill shrugged. ‘Who’s to know? But I can’t see Younghusband stopping now. We have all come so far. He wants his treaty, you know.’

‘To hell with his treaty.’ Alice leant and threw the dregs from her tin cup out into the rain. ‘Forgive me, my love, but I am very tired. I know it’s early. Would you mind if I turned in now?’

‘Of course not.’ Her husband leant across and kissed her quickly. ‘We’re both a bit old for this game now, I think, darling. And you just a poor, vulnerable woman out in this freezing cold and wet. Tuck in and get a good night’s sleep.’

But Alice did not. When she was sure that Simon had retreated to his own bivouac with Jenkins and his men on the far side of the camp,
she pulled on her oilskin and went looking for Sunil. She found him, not far away, curled up already in the tiny tent she had procured for him back in India.

‘Can I come in, Sunil?’ she whispered.

‘Ah, memsahib. I come out.’

‘No. I will come in. There will be just about room.’

She crouched beside him under the noisy, rain-battered canvas. ‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she said. ‘But tell me. When you lived in Tibet as a boy did you live in Lhasa itself?’

‘Oh no. I never been there.’

‘Ah.’ Disappointment sounded in her voice. ‘Where, then, did you live? Do you remember?’

‘Yes. Remember very much. I was, I think about seven when uncle take me away. Father and mother dead, you see.’

‘Yes, I knew that much. But where did you live?’

‘Well, strange. I think it not far from here, if I remember well. Because I know this river well. I live at place called Nethang. It is this side of Lhasa, though I never went to sacred city. It is on this road to the city, I think.’

Alice awkwardly uncrossed her aching leg. ‘How far from here, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. But I find out.’

‘Good. Do you … er … have any relatives still living there, Sunil?’

‘Oh yes. I know that. I still have uncle. Brother of my father and man on your plantation in India. I know he still alive because my uncle told me when we left. He say: see Chung Li when you get to old country. Why you ask these things, memsahib?’

‘Because … well, because it will take probably a week at least for
this great army to cross this damned river and I don’t want to wait here. I want you to take me tomorrow to where you used to live and find your uncle.’

‘Ah!’ Alice saw Sunil’s black eyes open wide in the half-light. ‘Why you want my uncle, then?’

‘I think he may be able to help me. I will explain tomorrow. Keep what I have asked you very confidential – just between us. Yes?’

‘Oh, yes, memsahib. Big secret. Yes.’

‘Good. Now get a good night’s sleep.’

‘Goodnight, memsahib.’

Shortly after dawn, Alice was up and scribbling a note to Simon. She explained that she was having problems with the cable clerks back in Gyantse and was taking opportunity of the pause by the riverbank to ride back there with one of the supply trains to sort it out. She would be away less than a week and would easily catch up with the column. Then, she scribbled a second note, which merely said:

She gave five rupees to one of the servants and asked him to deliver the first note to Fonthill after 8 a.m. that morning. The second he was to deliver in one week’s time – and, she warned, she would know if the man did not follow these instructions and he would be punished if he did not.

Then she made for the major who was the liaison officer for the correspondents. She bestowed on him one of her most radiant smiles.

‘Now that the rain has stopped, Major,’ she said. ‘I would be most grateful if you would allow myself and my boy, Sunil, to cross to the far bank with the next ferry with our ponies, so that they can feed on that good grazing over there for an hour or two.’

‘I see no reason why not, Miss Griffith. I will write you a chit for the ferry captain.’

So it was that Alice and Sunil, together with their mounts, plus food for three days tucked away in their saddlebags, crossed on that first ferry – even before Fonthill and his Mounted Infantry had mounted up for their normal daily patrol. Once on the other side, they languidly led their ponies away in the luscious pasture, until they were out of the sight of the ferrymen. Then, they mounted, dug in their heels and galloped up the road towards Lhasa to be well ahead of Simon and his first patrol.

They had trotted and cantered for two hours before Sunil, his precious rifle nestling in its saddle bucket, pulled his pony alongside that of Alice.

‘Now, memsahib, you must tell me why you want see my uncle. You don’t know him, do you?’

Alice grinned. ‘No I don’t, Sunil. But I want to ask him to guide us into Lhasa. It is only forty-three miles away from here. He will know the way and he will know the city, won’t he?’

‘Oh yes. But why you go before the army? Tibetans might kill us.’

‘That’s why I want your uncle to be with us, to explain that I am on a special mission to see the Dalai Lama. I will pay him well.’

Sunil’s jaw dropped. ‘You want go see Dalai Lama? Nobody sees
him. Certainly not English lady. We get killed for sure.’

‘I think not.’ Alice’s smile faded quickly. ‘You see, Sunil, I am sick of being with this army of the British Raj, which is rampaging its way through Tibet, killing Tibetans with its modern weaponry. I am tired of merely reporting what happens. I want to actually do
something
, to stop this killing.’

‘How you do that, then?’

‘Well, you are right that I probably won’t get to see the Dalai. I have heard rumours that he has fled the city, and I am not sure that he really has much control over his so-called government, anyway. But I am determined to get to see the senior lamas, perhaps all of the state councillors, who are the real decision makers.

‘What you say to them, then?’

‘From what I have heard and seen of the delegates that have come to see Colonel Younghusband, they have not the faintest idea of the strength and power of the army of the Raj. Even though they have fought and lost quite a few times to the British already, with fearful losses in manpower, they still seem to think that praying and pushing forward peasants with muskets and old swords will deflect our troops. I am going to beseech them to allow Younghusband Sahib to enter Lhasa and to sit down with him to negotiate a treaty with the British. No more killing and silly talking. Proper negotiations.’

Sunil pondered this for a moment. ‘You think they listen to you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe not. But I have to try, don’t you see?’

He nodded. ‘You brave lady, memsahib.’

‘It’s not being brave. It’s trying something, well,
different.
Something instead of Younghusband just marching in troops and
making
demands
. I shall say that I am married to one of the British generals in the expedition – which is almost true – and that I am an influential writer for one of England’s main newspapers, which is completely true. They would not dare to harm me, with a British army on their doorstep. Dammit, Sunil, it’s worth a try.’

‘You still a brave lady.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. But I am well aware that I am possibly putting you in danger, so, if I can persuade your uncle to take me into Lhasa you are most welcome to stay behind in the village if you wish.’

‘Oh no. I go where you go. I promise Fonthill Sahib that.’ Suddenly the boy held up his hand. ‘I hear. Someone coming. We go here quickly now.’

He grabbed Alice’s rein and pulled it behind his own pony whom he kicked into a scramble over the shale to take both mounts and their riders behind a group of rocks, a little way up the hillside.

There they waited, hidden, and watched as a remarkable procession rounded a bend in the rocks a little more than one hundred yards ahead of them. It comprised some twenty horsemen, of which the central core were four magnificently robed lamas, one of whom Alice recognised as the Shapé who had come to negotiate with Younghusband at Nagartse.

When the retinue had wound out of sight, Sunil turned and looked, awestruck, at Alice.

‘Them important people, I think. Where they go?’

Alice nodded. ‘Yes. I think they have been sent to attempt one more talk with Colonel Younghusband to stop him from entering Lhasa.’

‘Ah. Will Colonel Sahib stop, then?’

‘Only just to listen to them. They will probably say the same thing to him as before. He will continue his advance on the city. He is determined to get there.’ She paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then: ‘They will do us a good turn. My husband will be scouting not far behind us. He will meet the delegation and have to escort it into our camp. That will mean that he won’t be on our heels. We can move on now at a more comfortable pace. Come on, Sunshine.’