Treachery in Tibet

by John Wilcox

  In this context, she decided to lead her story with a sad fact that she had picked up from one of the Indian coolies, who spoke excellent English. One of the Indian Post Office men, working on the telegraph lines, had contracted frostbite in his foot because the Raj had ruled that only soldiers were to be issued with the Gilgit felt-lined boots, which offered protection from the biting cold. As a result, the man’s foot had to be amputated.

  Alice licked her pencil with relish. This was just the sort of detail that would illustrate so well the conditions under which the ‘little people’, the ordinary civilians, were being forced to work on this expedition and also the inflexible bureaucracy of the Indian government and its army where its rules were concerned. And she was fairly certain that she had this small but telling detail exclusively to herself. She began scribbling quickly.

  Then, however, she frowned and tore up the sheet and threw it away. This was just the sort of story that some ham-fisted censor, selected by the unimaginative, newspaper-hating Macdonald, would delete without a second thought. He would remove it because it would, of course, reflect badly to a liberal-minded audience back home on the leadership of the expedition. No. She sucked the pencil again and stared unseeingly at the distant tip of Chomolhari shimmering in the distance. She would slip it in lower down in the story, so that it would not stand out so invitingly to the censor – and she was sure that the Tory-loving foreign editor back home would let it through, because, after all, it was fact and not opinion.

  The next day an event occurred which raised the eager interest, not only of Alice and her fellow scribblers, but the whole column. A delegation arrived, completely unannounced, consisting of three monks from the three great Tibetan monasteries and a senior commander in the Tibetan army, named Depon Lhadang, plus their attendants. Younghusband, unsure of their seniority, declined to meet them and sent, instead, his close aide, adviser and fluent Tibetan speaker, Captain Frank O’Connor, to parley with them.

  The meeting proved inconclusive, with the Tibetans giving no ground and refusing to enter into any formal negotiations until the British Mission and its escort had turned back and returned to Yatung.

  After the delegation had left, Fonthill sought out O’Connor, whom he had first met on the North-West Frontier, during the Pathan Revolt of 1897, when the latter was serving as a young subaltern. ‘Were the Tibetans ameliorative at all?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a bit. Oh, the General, whom I’ve met before, was studiously polite but the other three, all high lamas from the Kashag, the ruling body of the country, were aggressive, snarling and using most disrespectful language. I am just glad that the Colonel was not there.’

  O’Connor leant forward. ‘I’ll tell you something else, Fonthill. I’ve just heard back from a lama from Sikkim, whom we sent the other day to Lhasa with a special message from Younghusband to the Dalai Lama. The feller turned back a few miles from Tuna when he met a large force of Tibetan warriors, numbering about 2,000, who, he said, are waiting to stop us. This feller kept whispering to me: “War! War! They mean war!” So perhaps we shall see some action soon, eh?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Fonthill nodded and frowned. ‘Well the sooner we get to Tuna and set up a properly defended camp the better.’

  Within two days the column had crossed the Tang La without incident and arrived at Tuna, which turned out to be nothing more than three unremarkable stone buildings squatting in the middle of an empty, and quite flat plain, stretching out to the foothills of the dominating Mount Chomolhari to the south-east and encircled elsewhere by bleak hills. Tufted grass poked through the loose gravel that seemed to stretch for miles and no trees were to be seen.

  Fonthill, in the vanguard, sat on his pony and looked around him in disbelief, his eyes watering in the cold wind. Apart from the three now deserted stone dwellings, there were no physical features that could be used to defend the camp: no gullies, no hillocks, not even a clump of bushes to provide cover. The rock-hard plain stretched unrelievedly all around. Certainly an attacking force could be detected from some distance, unless it advanced in a snowstorm, which was unlikely. But the ground was clearly ice-bound and looked impervious to pick or shovel. There could be no trenches to give shelter to the camp’s defenders. He sucked in his frozen lips. Which idiot had chosen this godforsaken place as the site on which to see out the winter?

  As the last mules arrived, the provisions were unloaded and the difficulties of the place were exposed. Efforts proved indeed that no trenches could be dug and, although a rough barricade of boxes and mealie bags were erected, if it was not for the rolls of barbed wire that had been providentially brought up from Chumbi and wound round the perimeter, there were no real defences that could be erected to protect the tented encampment. The walls of the three houses were promptly loopholed but they proved far too small to house more than a handful of defenders.

  Fonthill took his Mounted Infantry out immediately to scout the surroundings and immediately found what he sought. He almost stumbled into a large force of armed Tibetans who were concealed behind piles of brushwood some twelve miles distant. Wheeling to the south, he encountered a second and larger group of the enemy encamped even nearer, at some hot springs beside the Bham Tso lake, near a small hamlet called Guru, guarding the ancient caravan trail that led to Gyantse.

  Here, with Ottley and Jenkins, he left his men behind and trotted ahead to study what defences had been erected. He dismounted within easy musket range, dismounted, climbed a rock and scanned the way ahead through his binoculars. Although he was now in plain sight of the Tibetans, none attempted to fire or otherwise molest him as he studied the way ahead.

  The road led to where the plain narrowed between the lake, which was frozen, and to the outlying spur of one of the mountain ranges to the left. Here, a rough stone wall had been erected across the top of which rows of matchlocks and what looked liked primitive artillery pieces, long-barrelled jingals, were levelled. Above where the wall met the spur, stone sangars, or rifle emplacements, had been established up the hillside to command the approach to the wall. At the other side, the wall ended in a small stone house. Beyond was an open space which clearly had once been a marsh, extending from the lake and probably impassable in warmer weather. But now it was frozen hard.

  ‘The bloody fools,’ muttered Ottley. ‘They’ve left that side of the wall quite open and unprotected by the look of it. We could easily swing round there and take them by the rear.’

  ‘Except,’ said Jenkins, shielding his eyes and looking beyond the wall, ‘that there appears to be millions of the buggers massin’ there, look you.’

  Fonthill lowered his glasses. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen enough. This is the old caravan trail to Gyantse and so this is the way we shall have to advance, when and if,’ he emphasised the last two words scornfully, ‘we advance. We shall have to knock that wall down. But we might be attacked well before then. Let’s get back and report. I have to say that I think our camp is very vulnerable.’

  His report produced one quite unsuspected and potentially dangerous turn of events. Younghusband decided, on what appeared to be a sudden whim, to ride out to Guru, where the main force of Tibetans were camped, some ten miles away, to intercede with them personally. He took with him only O’Connor, to interpret, and a young subaltern, who was said to be learning the Tibetan language – no escort, not even an orderly to hold their horses while they entered the Tibetan camp.

  On returning, O’Connor recounted to Fonthill that no progress had been made and that, as before, the Tibetan general had been courteously polite but that the three lamas, who were ensconced in the camp, had been even more adversarial, confirming that it was they who were behind the opposition to the opening of any meaningful negotiations. At one point, he said, they became menacing and refused to let the trio return to Tuna. O’Connor related that it was only the good humour and bland impassivity of Younghusband that saved the day.

  Simon shook his head in disbelief. It was clear that Youngh
usband did not lack courage, but that he possessed an impetuous streak that boded ill for the future.

  From that moment on, there was no lack of contact between the two opposing forces. Little parties of Tibetans began visiting the British camp to repeat their mantra: the British must retreat and leave Tibetan soil before meaningful talks could begin. They were met with courtesy but blank refusal. It had become, reflected Fonthill, a ridiculous stalemate, with the British unable to advance because of a combination of foul weather and insufficient supplies to sustain the advance, and the Tibetans seemingly unable to summon the will to attack.

  If they did decide to attack, he was not at all sure of the outcome. For the weather had blunted whatever advantages their modern weaponry gave the invaders. However carefully they were oiled, rifle bolts were now being frozen into their breeches. With night temperatures now dropping to four degrees below zero within the tents, the machine guns were particularly susceptible to the cold and Hadow, the young subaltern in charge of the guns, had taken to removing the locks from the Maxims and huddling them to his breast inside his sleeping bag at night. Sometimes Fonthill found that the carbines of his Mounted Infantry had frozen to the bottom of their saddle buckets on return from patrol.

  The rarefied air in which they all lived now had also adversely affected the accuracy and range of the guns, causing them to overshoot in practice. Simon could not help but feel that a mass attack by the Tibetans at night could overwhelm the British camp. Yet none came.

  On return from patrol one day, dismounting with his teeth chattering, Fonthill found that Macdonald was closeted with Younghusband and an aide suggested that it would be unwise to interrupt. ‘I think there is a bit of an altercation going on between the two, sir,’ he confided. ‘I’ve heard raised voices. Better wait a bit, unless it’s vitally urgent.’

  Fonthill frowned. This was the sort of situation which, clearly, Curzon might have had in mind when he had hinted that he might have a reconciliatory role to play. But, dammit it all, he didn’t cherish the thought of acting as schoolteacher in a playground argument. Let the two argue themselves out first and then perhaps he could step in. And, anyway, he was desperately in need of a cup of tea.

  Later, he met O’Connor. ‘Have you heard?’ the Captain asked, conspiratorially.

  Simon nodded glumly. ‘Been a bit of a row, I gather.’

  ‘Yes. The governor, it seems, has completely lost his rag with Macdonald. The bloody man wants to withdraw to Chumbi. Says we can’t exist here on this plain. Younghusband refuses to budge.’

  ‘Well, I must confess that I have seen better defensive positions.’

  ‘Yes, but the old man says that retreating now, when there are quite a few Tibetans hanging about, will mean losing face completely in their eyes and it will set us back quite a bit in this diplomatic stand-off. Younghusband says that, anyway, there is plenty of fodder about, if you really look for it, and that with our modern weapons, we can adequately defend ourselves.’

  Fonthill shrugged. ‘Well, Younghusband knows the terrain better than anyone. But I feel we could be pushed a bit if we are attacked and I have seen enough Tibetans to think that we might be. I am on my way to Mac to report now.’

  The General heard the news of the nearby Tibetan forces with seeming equanimity, although he immediately coughed and lit a new cigarette from the stub of that still held between his fingers. ‘Did it look as though they were preparing to attack?’ he asked between coughs. To Fonthill, he appeared to be a sick man.

  ‘I confess I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Although we were only a handful, there was no attempt to challenge us when we met the first lot behind the brushwood. They all seemed to be having a bit of a picnic. And the bigger group at the wall – must have been well over 2,000 of them – let us approach quite close and observe them without a shot being fired.’

  ‘Humph. Well, I don’t like it. I will double the guard at night. Keep patrolling, Fonthill. We will need ample warning when they come.’

  But they did not come. The days mounted as the force camped out under canvas waited and shivered in the cold wind. Fonthill and his men continually ranged the plain, keeping the Tibetans under surveillance, but the enemy showed no sign of moving. Indeed, they waved quite cheerily at the horsemen.

  Nevertheless, it was a surprise when, on returning from one patrol, Simon was met by Alice with the news that Macdonald was withdrawing most of his force to New Chumbi and that Younghusband would be staying, with a considerably depleted military escort.

  ‘What! He is going to leave Younghusband stuck out here? What’s the point of that?’

  Alice found a temporary home for her pencil by sticking it in her hair. ‘From what we’ve been told, I gather that Macdonald feels that this plain can no longer sustain so large a force, the weather is too bad to continue the advance for the moment and, anyway, we haven’t built up sufficient supplies to do so, Younghusband refuses to retreat, so General Mac is taking his toys and going back sixty miles to his playpen in Chumbi, where it’s much warmer at only 10,000 feet up.’

  ‘But that’s bloody ridiculous. It’s leaving the diplomatic mission comparatively undefended.’

  ‘Not quite. You, dear, will be staying with your remarkably ungainly Sikh cavalry, and so will four companies of the 23rd Sikh Pioneers, the Norfolks’ Maxim-gun detachment, a detail of Madras Sappers – who, coming from southern Indian, of course, are all shivering so much that they are quite useless as soldiers – and one of the Gurkhas’ seven-pounder guns. About 200 so called fighting men in all.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I am staying, of course, and so are the rest of the scribblers. Although General bloody Macdonald has refused to extend the telegraph line from Phari to here, probably because he hates us all.’

  The General was quite sanguine, however, when Fonthill bearded him. ‘We can’t stay here in these numbers for the rest of the winter,’ he growled, through a blue haze of cigarette smoke. ‘Younghusband won’t move so I am taking the main party back. It makes sense. We will, of course, keep bringing up supplies to Phari ready for the advance when the weather improves.’

  ‘What if we are attacked?’

  ‘Well,’ Macdonald paused while he removed his cigarette and coughed. ‘You have repeatedly assured me that the Tibetans show no sign of moving and Younghusband is perfectly happy with the defensive arrangements we have made here. We can advance Gurkhas to help you from Phari if you need them and I can move back here within a few days, weather permitting. Younghusband is quite prepared to take the risk. I must consider the overall position and a force this large can’t be sustained here. And that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Very well. Do you think the telegraph from Phari will remain uncut?’

  ‘Oh yes. Since we flogged the local headman for cutting it, there has been no further trouble.’

  ‘Who will remain in military command here?’

  ‘Couldn’t let you do it, we must be fair. Must have a regular. Colonel Hogge commands the 23rd Pioneers so he will do it. You will report to him, although I know you will stay close to Younghusband. Now you must excuse me. I have much to—’ And he thrust a handkerchief to his mouth to herald another burst of coughing.

  Two days later, Fonthill, Alice, Jenkins and Sunil stood together sombrely and watched as the greater part of the mission’s military escort gradually turned its back on the little camp at Tuna and wound its way back over the mountains.

  ‘Talk about the rats leaving the sinking whatsit …’ muttered Jenkins.

  Alice gripped her husband’s hand tightly as the last trooper disappeared into the enveloping mist.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The days that followed brought no attack and, although it remained bitterly cold, no deterioration in the weather. Younghusband did, indeed, find grass and fuel by sending foraging parties out across the plain, escorted by Fonthill’s Sikhs, although it became increasingly difficult to find sufficient yak dung to keep the
precious fires burning. Nevertheless, life became not exactly unpleasant for the defenders of Tuna.

  Colonel Younghusband, that lover of the mountains, seemed quite unfazed by the lack of progress of his mission. He spent much of each day lying out on the rocks, warmly muffled, writing letters home or reading poetry.

  The rising sun struck the top of the tents every morning promptly at 7 a.m., climbing into a sky that was cloudless except for a soft wisp of haze. From the little river that supplied water to the troops a soft mist rose and, as the sun climbed higher, the bare brown base of the surrounding mountains toned into a pastel delight of purples and pinks, while the snow summits turned into an ethereal blue. On the plain, plump little larks and finches ignored the cold and scurried about looking for food. Moles could be seen basking in the winter sunshine at the mouth of their holes.

  ‘I quite like this postin’,’ confessed Jenkins to Fonthill one day, ‘now that I’m not fallin’ off the bleedin’ mountains. And I’m gettin’ quite good at this fishin’ lark. What’s more, you’re gettin’ to be almost adequate at ridin’ on these ponies – almost, but not quite, that is.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, or I’ll have you demoted to dung clearer.’

  ‘Well, with respect, bach sir, we’re all almost that now. We’re not cavalry. We’re collectors of ’orse shit.’

  ‘Better than sliding near the edges of precipices.’

  ‘Very, very true. When d’yer think we’re goin’ to advance?’

  ‘Well, I hear that supplies are building up at Phari and it can’t be long now. If we don’t move soon those Tibetans will think we’re here on holiday.’