Treachery in Tibet (29 page)

The last sentence was spat out scornfully.

A silence fell on the room. It was broken by Alice. ‘Don’t do it, Simon,’ she called. ‘He is a brute. Don’t fight him,’

‘She’s right,’ said Jenkins. ‘’E’s bigger than you, bach sir. Let me take ’im on. ’E’s more my size.’

Fonthill realised that his lips were dry. He looked round the room. His Gurkhas had now edged through the doorway and were silently extending round the walls. But they were listening intently. If he gave the order they could descend upon the big man in a flash. But there were four Khampas, two of them with drawn knives, who were between the General and them. This would give Jong time to carry out his threat. He had only to flick his wrist and Alice would be dead …

‘Let me shoot him, sahib,’ whispered Sunil. ‘This man kill my uncle, my aunt and my cousins.’

‘No.’ Simon licked his lips and answered Sunil in a monotone. ‘Do not fire. I will fight him. If he wins, shoot him then. And shoot to kill.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Jenkins’s voice was hoarse. ‘’E looks as though he could be ’andy, like, with that sword. You’re no swordsman, bach. Let me do it.’

‘No. I will fight him. He’s probably a year or two older than me and he carries too much weight. I am fitter and I’ve become quite a hand with this sabre recently.’ He addressed the interpreter. ‘Tell the General to step forward and fight me.’

As the message was translated a grin crossed the Khampa’s face. He beckoned one of his men forward and spoke to him in a low voice. As the General’s sword was lowered, the knife of the soldier replaced it at Alice’s throat.

‘Just a precaution,’ explained the interpreter, ‘in case you shoot the General when he step away from woman.’

‘Shrewd bugger,’ murmured Jenkins.

Now the two men faced each other in the centre of the room. Jong looked a formidable figure alongside Fonthill. He was some four or five inches taller than Simon, with a consequent longer reach, and the breadth of his shoulder indicated his strength. His sword, slightly thicker at its point and curved in the Khampas’ fashion, seemed longer and heavier than Fonthill’s sabre. Yet he was certainly corpulent and heavier on his feet.

‘Simon, don’t …’ Alice’s voice ended in a sigh as she slumped into a faint.

It was as though Jong was waiting for her signal, for he immediately stamped forward and launched a series of slashes, horizontal and vertical at Fonthill, swinging his sword in a succession of arcs so
swiftly executed that his blade seemed almost a blur.

‘Oh blimey,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘’E’s done this before, all right.’

Somehow, however, Simon survived the attack, ducking and parrying and moving his feet like a dancer.

‘Bloody good, bach,’ Jenkins called out.

But the Tibetan was undaunted. He returned to the attack, hacking and swinging, as though the heavy sword was thistledown in his hand. Simon had no recourse but to back away, defending desperately and making no attempt at a riposte. The Khampa soldiers shouted encouragement.

It was clear, however, that the energy expended in this series of fierce attacks was taking its toll on the big man. His face was now shining with perspiration and, under its moustache, his mouth was open, gulping down air. Simon seized the opportunity and, feinting to the head, launched a low thrust at his opponent’s midriff, grazing the man’s side and tearing his tunic.

At this, the Gurkhas all raised a cheer and shouted encouragement in Gurkhali to their man.

‘Bloody ’ell,’ grunted Jenkins, ‘it’s like a bloody football match.’

‘Let me shoot him,’ cried Sunil again. ‘I kill him easy.’

‘No, lad. Leave him be. Don’t shoot him till you ’ave to. I think the Colonel might just do this.’

The cut to his side seemed to galvanise Jong with new energy and he renewed his assault, stamping his feet flatly to the floor as he thumped forward with a new series of attacks. It seemed inevitable that his great strength and the force of his blows would bring the Khampa success in the end, for Fonthill was finding it increasingly difficult to ward off the blows. It was no surprise, then, that the big man drew
blood when Simon was only able to divert one huge downward sweep away from his head and onto his left upper arm, the Tibetan’s blade slicing through the jacket and cutting into flesh.

Simon was forced to cry out and the General’s mouth extended into a wolfish grin as he leapt in for the kill. As he raised his sword, however, Fonthill’s point, delivered in a classic low, forward lunge, took him in his left shoulder and it was the Tibetan’s turn to gasp in pain as he staggered back.

But neither wound was fatal and the two men now circled each other, their breath coming in great gulps as the blood from their cuts dripped onto the floor. It was clear, however, that the Khampa was now the more tired of the two and it was Fonthill’s turn now to attack and he forced the big man back to the wall in a series of thrusts.

‘That’s it, bach,’ shouted Jenkins. ‘The point, not the edge and you’ve got ’im.’

But Jong was by no means defeated. He had been brought up in the East of Tibet in a wild corner of the country, where the sword and the dagger ruled, unlike the pastoral, passive hinterland, and where he had come up through the ranks of the Khampa army by the force of his strong right arm. Now he summoned up all of his energy and stamped forward again in a new series of heavy swings of his great sword.

Fonthill was forced to retreat, parrying each blow as best he could until his foot slipped in a slither of blood that marked the centre of the chamber. Down on one knee, he desperately thrust his sword upwards to meet the next swing – and felt the shaft break and the blade shatter under the force of the blow.

Simon held up his wounded arm in a last form of protection and
the giant Tibetan, his sweating face broken in a great grin, lifted up his sword to administer the
coup de grâce.
It was then that Sunil fired his rifle, the bullet taking the big man in the side of the head and breaking him down in a crash. At almost the same moment, Jenkins whirled and threw his knife in a whirl of flashing steel, so that the blade embedded itself deeply between the shoulder blades of the Khampa who held his knife at Alice’s throat.

The other two Khampas and the interpreter threw up their hands in submission as the Gurkhas suddenly swept forward, but they were too late to prevent the kukris rising and falling, bringing them, too, to the ground in a grim silence.

Simon tried to struggle to his feet but slipped again. ‘Alice,’ he cried. ‘See if Alice is all right.’

But Jenkins was already there, together with Sunil. Tenderly they held the still-unconscious figure as they untied the cords that bound her to the crucifix. She recovered just as they were laying her on the ground.

‘Simon,’ she whispered. ‘Is he all right?’

‘All right,’ grunted the Welshman hoarsely, his eyes moist. ‘All right? Yes, ’e’s all right. In fact, ’e’s just about the best swordsman since Robin Bloody ’Ood, I’ll tell you.’

Sunil frowned. ‘Who is this robinbloodyood man, bach?’

‘Oh, I’ll tell you later. You go and see to the General. I’ll look after the missus.’

Within the hour, Simon’s wound had been patched up and, with rather more difficulty, the bleeding from the incision in Alice’s breast had been stemmed and she had been bandaged and cold compresses applied to the bruises on her face. She insisted on riding herself, so
the horses had been fetched from where they had been left in the prison courtyard, two more ponies had been taken from the General’s stables at the rear of the house for Alice and Sunil to ride and the little party set off down the still-deserted street towards the south-west and the advancing British army.

Simon decided to leave the bodies as they had fallen in the courtyard and in the General’s house. ‘When people find them,’ he said, ‘let them just believe that a well-deserved nemesis had overtaken them, as a result of all their misdeeds.’

Their pace was slow but two hours later they met a vastly relieved Captain Ottley, riding at the head of the Mounted Infantry, scouting in advance of the army, and were ushered through to the main body, just as it was preparing to camp for the night before entering Lhasa the next day.

Younghusband hailed Simon, shortly after Alice had been put to bed under a hastily erected tent. ‘Well done, Fonthill,’ he called. ‘I heard you’d brought your wife back safely. Did you meet any trouble?’

Simon forced a faint smile. ‘Hardly any really, thank you. Perhaps I may report in the morning?’

‘Of course. Good night.’

Simon, whose wound had proved to be superficial, had dragged his sleeping bag beside Alice’s cot so that he could be with her should she wake during the night. She did so once, shaking and perspiring as the horrors briefly returned, but he leant across and took her hand until she fell back into a deep slumber. Before dawn the next morning, as the bugles sounded reveille, she woke again, much refreshed this time and able to joke about the two black eyes that peered back at her from her hand mirror.

Jenkins crept into the crowded tent with three mugs of tea and sat while she sat up, sipping the refreshing beverage, listening as she recounted what had happened to her.

When she had finished, the three sat in an awkward silence. Alice broke it by exclaiming, ‘I was stupid and arrogant, thinking that I could change things. I am ashamed of myself. As a result, I caused the deaths of Sunil’s uncle, aunt and their children, that little, kind
Tibetan interpreter, your own interpreter, darling, and God knows how many of those Khampa brutes.’

Simon shook his head. ‘Well they, at least, deserved it.’ He sighed. ‘Alice, you acted, as always, with the very best of intentions and I am proud of you, as I always have been. Yes, you have been headstrong, but whatever else would I expect from you?’

He grinned. ‘Now you just lie back and sleep awhile. We’ll let the army advance without you. I’m afraid I must go with them, to be with my chaps, but 352 will stay here with you and I will leave a troop of Mounted Infantry to make sure you’re all right and—’

Alice interrupted vehemently. ‘Certainly not! I’m feeling fine now, after a good night’s sleep. I mustn’t miss the entry of the army into Lhasa. My editor would never forgive me. It’s the end of this bloody invasion. I must cover it. Please hand me my valise. It’s time I got into new clothes.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Fonthill held up a hand. ‘Oh, very well. But be careful you don’t bring on the bleeding again. And don’t go telling people that I’ve been knocking you about.’

She grinned. ‘What a good idea!’

Later, as the camp broke up and the army – all 650 British and 4,000 Indian troops of it – prepared to set off on the last day of its long crawl to Lhasa, Fonthill reported first to Macdonald and then to Younghusband. He had decided that the least said about his clashes with the Khampas and of Alice’s capture the better, so that Younghusband would not have to lie if, when he met the Tibetan rulers, the subject came up. After all, there was nobody left who had observed all these happenings, with the possible exception of the Tibetan jailer – and he was unlikely to tell his story to the lamas. He
therefore related that there had been only a brush with a small band of Khampas and that Alice had never been able to reach any of the Tibetan dignitaries – which was true enough – and that she was on her way back to the army with Sunil when she had been waylaid and ill treated by brigands, before he had arrived and been able to free her. He would order his
daffadar
to instruct the troop to say nothing of their exploits.

Both of the commanders had too much to do on the morning of the entry to Lhasa to question his story and so Fonthill quickly made his excuses, left Jenkins and Sunil to help Alice rejoin the other correspondents and to stay with her, while he rode forward to catch up with Ottley and the Mounted Infantry, in the van of the advance, as always.

As the advance guard approached the village of Nethang at mid morning, it waited until the main army caught up with it so that the gaps between the various units could close up. At this late stage, no opposition to the advance was expected and none materialised. But there was now great competition amongst the British line officers to be first to catch a glimpse of the fabled city of gleaming spires and gilded roofs. That view was delayed, however, for there were rocky outcrops to be rounded and two miles of plain to be crossed before, at last, on the afternoon of August 3rd, those in the lead caught their first sight of the golden roofs of the pavilions which crowned the Dalai Lama’s Potala Palace, glinting in the strong sunlight.

‘You lucky chap, Fonthill,’ called out Frank O’Connor, riding up alongside Simon, ‘you must have seen all this before us in the last few days.’

‘Er … not really. Didn’t really enter the city, y’see.’ Simon realised
that Sunil must have taken them into Lhasa by some sort of side route, avoiding the walled entrance.

‘Good.’ O’Connor frowned. ‘So we’re the first living Europeans to set eyes on the place. Lord.’ He fell silent for a moment. Then, ‘This is a dream come true for me. I have always yearned to ride into Lhasa one day. Now it is happening. I can hardly believe it, you know.’

They rode forward and were joined by another group of officers and all approached an enormous whitewashed chorten, a sort of shrine containing religious antiquaries, with a gateway set within it, that stood at the intersection of two ridges, which together formed the western wall and boundary of the Forbidden City. Crowds of Tibetan peasants were now crowded around them, anxious to catch a glimpse of these pale-faced, heretical invaders.

Here, they urged their horses up onto the ridge alongside the gate and at last the full panorama of the old city came into view, looking resplendent against the background of the encircling mountains. In fact, the dwellings of the city itself – those nondescript terraces and shacks that Fonthill had witnessed at close hand – were dominated by one building: the grand palace of the High Lama himself. Nine hundred feet long and some seventy feet higher than the cross of Christopher Wren’s St Paul’s, the Potala was dazzlingly white-walled and golden-roofed and its central building, the Dalai Lama’s residence, was painted a deep crimson. Great tumbling curtains, made of yak hair, cascaded down the sheer walls of the building, and on terraces and wide stairways hundreds of monks walked or sat sunning themselves.

The splendour of the central palace, however, was considerably diminished by the stench which rose from the narrow streets. The observers high on the ridge could see open sewers and pools of
rainwater between the shabby houses and dogs competing with ravens and pigs for whatever lay in their fetid waters.

Fonthill turned to Ottley, who had now joined him on the ridge. ‘God!’ he exclaimed. ‘This forbidden city could do with a good airing and scrubbing.’

The Irishman nodded. ‘We’ve come 400 miles to what is just a bloody great slum with a palace in its middle. I wonder if it’s going to be worth it.’

‘Yes, I wonder what the Dalai Lama thinks about it all, looking at this damned great army on his doorstep.’

Rumour quickly spread, however, that the Dalai Lama was still very much out of town. Macdonald ordered that the army should camp just outside the city, on a plain just without the walls, and the tents had hardly been pitched before Younghusband received his first official visitors.

The first was the Nepalese consul, who warned that there remained a contingent among the religious hierarchy who had stated that they were prepared to die rather than allow barbaric foreigners to enter the sacred city. Then, in much more style, arrived the Chinese resident or
amban,
carried in a sedan chair – the only person in Lhasa apart from the Dalai himself, ran the rumour, to be allowed this form of personal transport – and attended by about fifty Chinese soldiers in scarlet cloaks and carrying agricultural-looking billhooks, with not even a musket in sight.

The
amban
proved to be very amiable, in fact, almost welcoming, according to Younghusband, who received him in his sombre and unornamented blue tunic of the Indian Civil Service. Later the Mission Commissioner confided to Fonthill that the
amban
clearly despised
the backward and unsophisticated Tibetans and had been quite happy to hear of their repeated defeat by the British. Nevertheless, Younghusband took it as a great compliment that the Chinaman had paid the first visit to him, rather than the other way around, as international diplomacy demanded.

That evening, however, a rumour spread that 7,000 monks, drawn from the three great monasteries, were preparing to fall upon the British camp, and guards were mounted. Accordingly, when it was found that two of the sepoys from the 40th Pathans had left their posts during the night, the matter was viewed with great severity and they were court-martialled and ordered to be flogged, with all of the officers and troops paraded to witness the punishment.

Alice had joined the camp by this time and she watched the infliction of the punishment with curled lip. ‘This makes the British Raj no better than the Khampas,’ she snarled to her husband. ‘I thought this sort of thing went out with Wellington.’

Fonthill shrugged his shoulders. He had long ago given up arguing these matters with his wife.

Protocol demanded that Younghusband return the
amban
’s visit and the Commissioner decided that he would use the occasion to make a grand entry into the city. Macdonald, cautious as ever, advised against this as being far too dangerous, but the Colonel overrode him and entered at the head of two companies of white-faced Royal Fusiliers and two of the 8th Gurkhas, preceded, as always, by the Mounted Infantry with Fonthill leading. This time, anxious to reflect something at least of the majesty of the British Raj, Younghusband wore the full dress uniform of the Indian Political Service, a dark-blue morning coat, edged with gold embroidery and with gold epaulettes
on each shoulder, patent leather court shoes with gold buckles, with a beaver skin cocked hat and wearing his dress sword.

This would have been of little use in a fight but the dour Macdonald had taken the precaution of training his ten-pounders on the Potala and retained four companies of Sikh Pioneers outside the walls, ready to storm in should there be trouble.

In fact, Fonthill, riding at the head of the procession – and feeling extremely dowdy in his half uniform, which was the best he could manage – worried that the fireworks, which greeted the Commissioner’s arrival at the Chinese Residency, would be mistaken by the General for an attack and that he would unleash a counter-attack. But all was quiet when the firecrackers eventually spluttered into silence.

Only a small group of officers, which included Fonthill, was allowed into the Residency to accompany the Commissioner and they were greeted by the
amban
and ten of his staff. Everyone was seated on crimson silk cushions and were given tea, cheroots and Huntley & Palmer biscuits. The meeting lasted about two hours and, reported Simon to Alice later, was very cordial and interesting.

‘That’s all very well,’ she exclaimed, pencil poised, sitting awkwardly with the dressing on her breast still visible above her blouse, ‘but what the hell did you talk about?’

‘Well, mainly about the Tibetans, whom, he says, the Chinese government despises. The
amban
seems completely on our side – although he is a typical Chinese diplomat, urbane, even unctuous, and anxious to please. You remember them all in Peking, during the Boxer affair?’

Alice nodded.

‘He says he will do all he can to help Younghusband achieve a favourable outcome to the negotiations, giving us all we want from a treaty. The trouble is …’

‘Yes,’ Alice leant forward eagerly.

‘The Dalai himself is said to be three days away in some religious retreat, twirling his prayer wheel and all that and the Tibetan government – such as it is – seems to be in a state of great confusion and everybody within it at sixes and sevens and not knowing what to do with us. The Ta Lama, who seems to be next one down after the Dalai, is in disgrace, Kalon Yuthok, the most senior of the governing Shapé, or whatever it is called, has gone sick, and although the National Assembly is in almost continuous session it is completely at odds with itself. The lamas are all as much afraid of each other as they are of us. God knows how we are going to get any sort of agreement or treaty out of them. It could be a long haul here.’

‘Oh dear,’ Alice put down her pencil and eased the sling around her shoulder. ‘Of one thing I am assured, my love.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m just a teeny-bit tired of bloody Tibet. I’ve had enough of the weather – although I must say it’s nice enough here now – I am tired of being knocked about by these damned great Khampas, and the thought of hanging around in this smelly city while dear old Frances argues the toss about his treaty fills me with dread. I yearn for a bit of greenery. Norfolk would do nicely.’

Simon grinned. ‘I share your feelings exactly. But won’t the
Post
require that you stay until the bitter end?’

‘It depends upon how long that bitter end is. If it goes on forever, with nothing much happening, I think my lot and most of the Fleet
Street papers will withdraw their correspondents here and leave it to dear old Reuters, who will provide a damned good, bread-and-butter news service.’

‘Good. Well, it certainly looks to me as though armed resistance is well and truly over and that a looming great army of occupation here will not be needed. Indeed, it is the very thing that Delhi and London is frightened to death of. It must be costing the Exchequer a fortune keeping us all here. Neither government, either on the subcontinent or back home, likes spending money.’

‘Which means?’

‘That my all-conquering Mounted Infantry will not be needed. And, if it is, then the excellent, much-better-commander-than-me Captain Ottley can very happily take command.’

Alice smiled. ‘Then, my love, let us pray that the Tibetans continue to pussy-foot around and we can both – all four of us – go home.’

‘Ah.’ Simon frowned. ‘Which raises the question of Sunil and, of course, dear old 352. What will they want to do?’

‘Of course. It obviously must be their decision. But, darling, I do feel responsible for both of them. Old 352 has saved your life endless times, it seems, and Sunil has certainly saved mine. One gets the feeling that 352 will be at a bit of a loose end, without mountains to fall off and warriors to fight. Will he want to go back to South Africa, do you think?’