River Road to China

by Milton Osborne

  High hopes once again seemed unjustified, and as night drew in about the customs post where Garnier and Tei had decided to spend the night, the Frenchman was struck by a terrible headache; simultaneously he developed a racking dry cough that scarcely allowed him to speak. His eyes smarting with pain, Garnier found unexpected help from the Chinese customs official. Motioning the Frenchman to lie down, the customs officer brought opium and a pipe. Carefully drawing a lump of the sticky raw opium from a small pot, he passed it through a flame before dropping it smoking in the bowl of the pipe. Garnier sucked on the stem, drawing the narcotic smoke over his aching throat. Again and again the official prepared a pipe for his guest as Garnier felt the pain in his throat ease and his headache disappear. Like many other Western visitors to eastern Asia, Garnier seems to have experimented, if only briefly, with opium before. “This was,” he commented, “the first time that I had smoked opium for such a long period, and this personal experience showed me that correctly used this drug could become a valuable remedy; abuse alone transformed it into a deadly poison.” Garnier was in the advance guard of that body of late nineteenth century opinion which was so ready to advocate widespread medicinal use of opium. Abuse, after all, was only likely to be a problem among the less civilized or the undereducated.

  The next day, quite recovered from the sudden illness of the previous evening, Garnier determined to continue down the Red River. Reluctantly the small Chinese escort party traveling with Garnier agreed to accompany him, and equally reluctantly some local boatmen agreed to man a craft. The reasons for their hesitation were soon clear. Below the settlement the river ran ever faster before tumbling over a great rapid. Here, with the closely pressing walls of the valley rising a staggering six thousand feet above them, the boatmen would go no further. Neither money nor threats would move them. Garnier's exploration of the Red River had come to an end. The best he could learn was that an undetermined distance downstream, certainly once a traveler was at the Vietnamese settlement of Lao-Cai, navigation of some sort was possible. By midday he was climbing slowly out of the Red River valley, and three and a half hours later, having reached the plateau above, he and Tei were en route for Chien-shui.

  Turning their backs on the Red River thousands of feet below and the distant vista of sharply rising mountains more than twelve thousand feet high towering to the south, the travelers set off towards the north. In the upland plateau they were crossing, the population was made up of Pa-Y and Lolos, both non-Chinese Tai-speaking groups. They were harvesting as Garnier and Tei, with their Chinese escort, moved quickly towards their rendezvous point with the main party. After the abrupt ascent and descents of the stages before Yüan-chiang, travel over the plateau that stretched north from above the Red River was easy. Their path ran over gently undulating ground rather than across hills and valleys. Only a day and a half after leaving the Red River, as night fell, Garnier's small party entered Chien-shui Lagrée and the others had not yet arrived.

  Once lodged in a pagoda within the city walls, Garnier chose to inspect his surroundings. Away from his lodgings he found himself an object of intense curiosity. Chien-shui was a larger settlement than any other the French explorers had passed through in China, and here without the reassuring presence of his companions Garnier found that curiosity could be threatening. First a few, then scores, and finally several hundreds of the local inhabitants were following him, watching his every move and commenting on every action. There seemed no alternative but to retreat to the pagoda. This he did, with the crowd, now numbering at least a thousand, pressing behind him. When, having retreated inside his lodgings, he found that the curious crowd still struggled to catch a glimpse of his alien features, Garnier recognized that the situation had become precarious:

  Some carefully dressed Chinese, with measured voices and venerable features, came and advised me to satisfy the inhabitants by showing myself outside, in the courtyard where some thousands of persons had pressed in. If I consented to do this, they told me, they guaranteed it would do me no harm. But if, on the contrary, I did not appear, they could not answer for the actions of the crowd.

  I decided I had better follow this apparently sincere advice. I agreed, not without cursing a thousand times at this inopportune demand, to walk up and down between two rows of people who were close enough to breathe upon me as I passed. So, for more than a quarter of an hour, I paced up and down ‘while with avid and foolishly curious stares the crowd examined and peered at every inch of my person. This concession, despite the cost to my dignity already involved, did not satisfy the inhabitants at all. From every corner of the courtyard, and in twenty different languages the cry went up, “Let him eat. We want to see him eat!” Outraged by this audacity, I announced that I would not eat, and I withdrew without anyone daring to stop me.

  If Garnier thought that the matter was ended there, he was soon to be disappointed. As he tossed restlessly on his bunk, near midnight he heard a faint noise. Springing up and grabbing his rifle, he flung open the door to find a group of men quietly mounting the stairs by the light of shaded lanterns, apparently intent on seeing the European stranger. This was too much. Clubbing the interlopers with his rifle butt and kicking out wildly at those who could not retreat quickly enough, Garnier rapidly cleared the stairway. Berating his Chinese escort for allowing such a thing to happen, the French explorer concluded that they might well have played the role of accomplices, allowing the curiosity seekers to enter his lodgings in return for money.

  However much his dignity was offended, Garnier recognized the element of danger that was clearly present. He was one and the crowd had numbered in the thousands. In these circumstances, and as the next day dawned, he decided that good sense required him to vacate his lodgings during the daytime hours. The decision seemed wise, and apart from a few children who followed him briefly as he left the city he was able to spend an untroubled day wandering through the nearby countryside. But at sunset he had to return, and he soon found that he was awaited. A crowd followed him to the pagoda where the courtyard was once again filled with curious inhabitants. Even the roofs of the surrounding buildings were being used as vantage points by the population for whom Garnier's exotic appearance was a magnet. Again Garnier was persuaded that the crowd would be satisfied if he should consent to parade before them, and again, red faced and ashamed, he did so.

  Finally he could no longer bear the humiliation of this circus display. He withdrew behind the flimsy gate that stood between the courtyard and the passage to his sleeping quarters. Conscious that the mob intended to try to follow, Garnier called on his Chinese escort to assist him in holding the crowd at bay. An ugly situation was at hand. The members of the crowd nearest the light gate hesitated, but those farther back called on them to go forward. Then, with uncertainty hanging over the scene, a group towards the rear started throwing stones. Close as he was to the gate, it was only a moment before Garnier was struck full in the face. There was now no choice but counter action, and Garnier seized the revolver Tei offered him and held it pointing through the gate. As those at the front of the crowd fell back, he fired a single shot. Describing the events later, Garnier captured the surprise of those who had so tormented him:

  I had fired in the air, being very much aware that at the sight of blood the still indecisive crowd would launch itself upon me and tear me to pieces. In a country where match-lock guns still exist, weapons capable of firing two immediately consecutive shots are regarded as marvels. So it was that the crowd thought my one shot had left me quite unarmed, and after the shock of the first shot the hail of stones came again, even more heavily. I fired a second time. The crowd was amazed for no one had seen me reload my revolver. “Bah,” said a voice from the crowd, “I have seen double barreled pistols before. There is one at Ta-li brought from Burma. Now it's really over. He is disarmed and we can approach him without fear.” I had the good luck to grasp what was said and immediately turned it to my advantage. Three shots, one after another, rang ou
t to terrify the mob, as my weapon still remained unmoving by the gate. Panic set in, and I completed the rout by rushing outside, my weapon in hand, fire in my eyes, and my face bloodied.

  With the crowd gone and after the few Chinese who had remained on the scene had given careful attention to his injured face, Garnier received a visit from a local official. The man brought cheering news. Garnier's companions were camped outside the city. They had arrived only shortly before, but because of the uncertain state of the crowd in the city the authorities had asked them to remain beyond the walls. When dawn broke over Chien-shui next morning, Garnier followed his informant along deserted paths to the pagoda housing the main party. At that moment the unanswered questions in Garnier's mind concerning the Red River's future commercial value were submerged beneath his relief and pleasure at being among his own people. Garnier had no lack of physical courage, but his imaginative mind could also clearly picture what might have happened the night before if the crowd had not fallen back.

  CHAPTER IX

  MISSIONARIES AND MUSLIMS

  The Red River remained a topic of conversation as the entire party rested for a week in Chien-shui, another prolonged halt underlining the physical weakness of the explorers and their escort. For Garnier the river and its possibilities for navigation were to become later obsessions just as demanding as the Mekong once had been. Still without a certain end to the expedition, and with a continuing desire to plot the course of the Mekong's upper reaches, Garnier speculated on the Red River as a future route into China. Proudly patriotic, even chauvinistic, there was no doubt in his mind that France alone should benefit, if his information were correct and commerce could pass up and down the river of Tonkin. He recalled his thoughts in 1870 and put the matter clearly and bluntly. This was “a commercial concern with a great future and an exclusively French affair.” Lagrée shared his view and recorded it in the last report he made before he died. For all the Frenchmen in the party the assumed value of the Red River replaced the hopes they could no longer hold of navigation along the Mekong.

  By December 9 the expedition was ready to move forward again with K'un-ming, the capital of Yunnan province, the next major goal. Their path took them through an area of ruined tombs, with marble pillars and porticos, which evoked an incongruous sense of the countryside about Rome. Thoughts quickly returned to the reality of China, however, when two galloping horsemen overtook the party bearing news from the Governor of Chien-shui. Not long after Garnier's frightening experience in the city, one of the culprits in the affair had been seized by the local officials. Throughout the explorers' stay in Chien-shui, the stone thrower had been held in a pillory by one of the main gateways into the city. Now, the horsemen told the explorers, he had been executed, his head struck from his body. While still in Chien-shui the Frenchmen had heard rumors that this was to be his fate, but they had not believed it would actually happen. They claimed later they would have tried to prevent the execution if they could.

  At midday, with Chien-shui well behind them, the party found welcome relief from the usual weary routine of walking. The first important settlement along their route to K'un-ming was the town of Shih-p'ing and this they could reach by boat, sailing across the lake that lay in their path. Arriving there the same evening, the party rested for a day before heading north once more on December 11. Their route took them over a succession of hills and valleys where stands of cypress trees gave an almost alpine appearance to their surroundings. With the altitude increasing, the party was moving out of the upper basin of the Red River. For a short while, it seems, Lagrée hesitated over the northern route they were following. To have turned east again would have taken the party by land to a point on the Red River where boats could carry them easily to the sea. There was further discussion, even argument. Whatever his interest in the Red River, Garnier still hoped to travel westwards towards the Mekong, and to do this would require passports and advice that could only be found in K'un-ming. Lagrée acquiesced. None of the others was yet as ill as the leader, and he recognized the importance the younger men placed on attempting to discover more about the Mekong. He was still the commander of the party, but this was no time to enforce an unpopular decision at all costs.

  So they continued north, to T'ung-hai, where, in the evening of December 14, the whole party found itself the object of unrestrained and potentially dangerous curiosity. The circumstances were similar to those Garnier had experienced. The explorers' arrival in T'ung-hai was the signal for hundreds of townspeople to gather about the pagoda in which the party lodged. Movement in and out of their quarters became impossible, and the posting of a Chinese guard about the walls only increased the interest of the crowd. With the bolder members of the crowd scaling the surrounding walls and roofs to gain entry into the pagoda, the Chinese soldiers standing guard prepared to fire their antique matchlocks. If this sight was insufficient to repel the curious, the view of the expedition's escort drawn up behind had its effect. Fixed to the escort's rifles were long sword-like bayonets, a combination of weapons unknown to the Chinese of T'ung-hai. The party passed an untroubled night. The next day it was Delaporte's turn. Seeking a high spot from which to sketch the town, he suddenly found himself at the center of a brawl as the curious inhabitants fought each other to gain a view of the artist. He extricated himself by waving his revolver threateningly and through the timely arrival of Joubert and de Carné. Months before, as the expedition had moved slowly and monotonously along the Mekong below Vientiane, Garnier had noted that a day without incident was a “disappointment.” Incidents were certainly not absent from this stage of the journey, but now more than ever before the emotional cost was high.

  It was snowing when the expedition left T'ung-hai on December 16, the first snow Garnier had seen for six years and the first that the Vietnamese in the escort had seen in their lives. Their first reaction was of wonder and delight. This quickly changed to painful distress as their bare feet encountered the snow covering the path. Never previously having worn shoes, the escort's feet had hardened over the years; so they had been unworried by the earlier stages, when the Europeans in the party had found marching barefoot to be such a painful business. But neither the feet nor the hands of the escort were hardened to resist cold, and tears ran down their cheeks at the pain. All in the party suffered. “This day's march both for them and for us was one of the most painful of the journey,” Garnier wrote. “Our long beards bristled with icicles, and compass, pencil, and paper slipped from my numbed fingers.” The next day was little better. The sun shone but the temperature remained below freezing throughout the day as they hurried on to Chiang-ch'uan. Reaching this town the same day, the explorers took advantage of warmth and hospitality, untroubled by bands of curiosity seekers, to plan ahead.

  Delaporte disturbed while sketching.

  They still knew little more than the bare essentials of the political and military situation in Yunnan, for, even had they not lacked a proper interpreter, the circumstances changed almost from day to day. K'un-ming remained in the hands of the imperial government, largely because one of the principal Muslim rebels, Ma Ju-lung, a man of great military capacity, had defected to the imperial side in 1860 and, appointed as a general, provided effective leadership against his former comrades in arms. The paradox of such a situation was given further piquancy by the fact that Ma Ju-lung had been joined in his defection by the man who, between 1855 and 1860, had been revered as the spiritual leader of the Islamic rebels. This was Ma Te-hsing, known to his co-religionists and to the French as Lao Papa. As the one man of his people who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca, Lao Papa's religious standing was unchallenged. Why he and Ma Ju-lung changed sides is still unknown.

  In late 1867 as the explorers approached K'un-ming the Islamic revolt had many of the elements of a stalemate. To the west, based about Ta-li, the rebels were in largely undisputed control. In the eastern and northern sections of Yunnan, the imperial government's writ ran uncertainly, sustained to a considerab
le degree by the “reformed” rebel Ma Ju-lung. Yet if stalemate described the situation, from a broad point of view, the threat of sudden changes of control over large regions of the province remained to trouble the French party, and to make discussion of travel to the region near Ta-li pointless until further information was to hand. The wisest decision, it seemed to the men warming themselves in the house of the chief mandarin of Chiang-ch'uan, was to write ahead to K'un-ming to give notice of their intended early arrival. As this information was carried ahead by messengers, the expedition would follow as quickly as possible, spurred on by the disquieting news that the Muslim rebels had achieved new successes within thirty miles of K'un-ming.

  Partly restored by the two days of rest, the party set off again on December 20. Even after all their experiences they were quite unprepared for the sight that met their eyes shortly after they had left the town. On a bare untilled plain running gently down to a lake lay hundreds of unburied coffins. The explorers were in one of the regions where the scourge of cholera had followed close upon the heels of war. Local custom called for the bodies of those who died in an epidemic to be left above ground in their coffins for a period, and this requirement had created the macabre landscape through which the party passed. Delaporte's sketch of the scene is evocative. The expedition's route wends through the countless scattered coffins as the men march forward under a gloomy sky. Garnier's brisk commentary barely hides a wealth of graveyard horror. “Chinese coffins,” he observed matter of factly, “are, happily, more tightly closed than our own so that only occasionally did foul odors escape from this pile of cadavers.” Nonetheless, it was a “genuine relief” to quit the coffin-covered plain and climb into the nearby hills.