Treachery in Tibet

by John Wilcox

  Alice had become the most restless of the quartet. There had been less and less to write about as the days passed and she and her colleagues had become increasingly irked by the double censorship imposed by Macdonald on the press corps. This had arisen because the task had originally been handled by the mission staff, but Macdonald had insisted that the army should be involved so that the press telegrams were scanned twice.

  ‘It is not as though anything that is published in London,’ fumed Alice, ‘is going to be eagerly read in Lhasa. The place could be on the moon as far as reading about the outside world is concerned.’

  Her frustrations, however, had become ameliorated to some extent by the growth of her friendship with Sunil. The two had now become inseparable and Alice always showed him the text of her telegrams, explaining to him how the abbreviations worked, saving precious pennies, and the subtleties of the grammar.

  Her main story during these inactive months came when disaster struck one of the convoys bringing up supplies from New Chumbi to Tuna. Amazingly, her story was allowed through by the censors despite her graphic description, gathered when she interviewed the survivors:

  A convoy of the 12th Mule Corps, escorted by two companies of the 23rd Pioneers,’ she wrote, ‘were overtaken by a blizzard on their march between Phari and Tuna and camped in two feet of snow with the thermometer 18 degrees below zero. A driving hurricane made it impossible to light a fire or cook food. The officers were reduced to frozen bully beef and neat spirits, while the sepoys went without food for thirty-six hours. The drivers arrived at Tuna frozen to the waist. Twenty men of the 12th Mule Corps were frostbitten and thirty men of the 23rd Pioneers were so incapacitated that they had to be carried in on mules. On the same day there were seventy cases of snow blindness among the 8th Gurkhas.

  Alice was particularly pleased that her disgusted revelation that the officers were found rations to eat while the sepoys were denied food somehow slipped through the censors.

  It was clear to her that the two companies of Pioneers deployed in escorting the mule-train were almost certainly below strength and that a sizeable part of the convoy was diverted from its main purpose by the need to carry the kit, rations and spare ammunition of the escort. Alice had cultivated Younghusband, and his simmering resentment of the caution of Macdonald in insisting on what he considered to be excessively large escorts had rubbed off on her.

  ‘The bloody man is so scared of risking a black mark on his career,’ she confided to Simon, ‘that he won’t raise a finger unless it is surrounded by three companies of sepoys. We will never move the sixty miles to Gyantse at this rate, let alone reach Lhasa.’

  Fonthill smiled but shook his head. ‘The man is cautious, I agree, my love, but he carries a heavy responsibility. We are invading a completely unknown country in foul weather, with a line of supply and communications stretching behind us about four times the length of the fighting head. You must remember that.’

  Alice scowled. ‘He’s supposed to be a general, isn’t he? And generals are supposed to fight, aren’t they? Nobody’s had to fire a shot in anger except at mountain goats for months. What’s he afraid of?’

  The tension that had built all around, however, was relieved at last when, on the evening of 29th March, Macdonald arrived with his main body from New Chumbi prepared to advance on what he called another ‘reconnaissance in force’. The following day, however, a piercing wind swept across the plain and engulfed the camp with what Alice described in her telegraph to London as ‘a hurricane of tingling grit’. She reported that the discomfort of the men was increased by the orders of General Macdonald to strike their tents and to ‘conceal themselves’ in case Tibetan spies were observing their deployment from the surrounding hills.

  ‘How can 1,000 men,’ she complained to Simon, ‘with mules, ponies, guns, ammunition supplies and other stores, disappear into a naked plain? The man is an idiot.’

  At 8 a.m. on the 31st March Macdonald’s army paraded in six inches of snow to begin the march on Guru. Because of the scarcity of ammunition, each infantryman was issued with no more than thirteen rounds. Nevertheless, the morning was bright, the sky was blue and everyone, including the little press contingent that marched with the column, was in good heart and relieved that, at last, the mission was on its way at least to Gyantse – and perhaps even to the forbidden city of Lhasa?

  Despite the lack of ammunition the column was an impressive unit. It consisted of the two Pioneer regiments (misnamed in this context because these Sikhs had proved to be strong fighters); the 8th Gurkhas; two companies of Fonthill’s Mounted Infantry, which had now grown to be a hundred-strong; two ten-pounders of the 7th Mountain Battery (a British unit), the Gurkha-manned seven-pounders, ‘Bubble and Squeak’; the two Maxims of the Norfolks, also manned by British troops; and various ancillary units. The total strength of the column was just over 1,000 men, mainly made up of Indian sepoys, with British personnel numbering less than 200.

  The destination was Guru, the little hamlet that Younghusband had visited, about ten miles away. But two miles to its south was the wall blocking the road that Fonthill had scouted while Tuna was being set up. This would have to be circumvented in the face of the Tibetans manning it.

  As always, Fonthill and his Mounted Infantry rode on ahead of the column, fanning out in a wide screen between one and two miles to the front and flanks to protect the main force from a surprise attack. The fact that the Tibetans knew that they were on the march was confirmed when emissaries twice approached the column, repeating their old demands that the British should retire to Yatung. Both times, Younghusband sent them back with a message to their general, saying that the column was bound for Gyantse and would soon reach Guru and that if he wished to avoid a fight then he and his troops should clear the road and let the British through.

  Implacably, the advance continued until Simon and his men drew near to the wall. He found that, as before, its top was lined with armed Tibetans and that the sangars overlooking the road were also well manned. He galloped back to report to the main column.

  This halted about half a mile away from the wall and the guns – ten-pounders carried on mules and ‘Bubble and Squeak’ by coolies – were assembled and made ready for action and the troops lined up. Immediately, a small party, led by two generals and riding ponies, cantered around the end of the wall and approached the British lines. They were met by Younghusband, Macdonald, Fonthill and, of course, O’Connor, all sitting their ponies underneath a large Union Jack that crackled in the strong wind. Rugs were laid on the ground, the main participants dismounted and the latest parley began.

  Alice, notebook and pencil in hand, edged forward and began making notes. She could not hear what was being said, although she could only presume – what was, indeed, confirmed later – that the old litany of ‘Go back’ and ‘No’ was being repeated. But she could describe the scene that lay before her. The wall in the background, the gravel-studded ground and the rocks that climbed steeply to the left, were all of a characterless grey. But the Tibetan deputation provided a bizarre splash of colour.

  The general from Lhasa wore a high, domed and embroidered hat and both he and his fellow general wore gay yellow and green coats and carried long swords with richly worked hilts. The civilian notables squatted in equally colourful robes of purple and blue, their strange, fork-butted guns embossed with turquoise and coral; and their little ponies, fretting and stamping in the background, had saddlecloths worked in swastika patterns, filigree brass headbands and wide, moulded iron stirrups. It was, scribbled Alice, like a scene from the Arabian Nights, dropped into a slate-grey Himalayan amphitheatre.

  Fonthill had remained in the saddle as the negotiations continued and, realising that they were once again going to end in stalemate, he edged his pony away to join Ottley and Jenkins, waiting at the head of the mounted Sikhs.

  ‘This is going nowhere,’ he whispered. Then he nodded ahead, to the right of the stone house that marked the end of th
e wall. ‘The way is clear through there,’ he said, ‘but there are hundreds of armed Tibetans well beyond the rear of the wall up in the rocks to the right. When we advance, as I am sure we shall, they could enfilade our men. I intend to suggest to the General that we gallop through there, past the men manning the wall, and clear those chaps out. But we must be careful that we don’t fire first. This whole thing may still just end peacefully and I don’t want to start a battle. So, William, have the men ready.’

  ‘Very good, Simon.’

  Fonthill dismounted and walked back to where the little group still sat cross-legged on the sheepskins, the Tibetans talking garrulously, O’Connor listening and nodding sympathetically, while Younghusband and Macdonald, the latter smoking his cigarette, sat stony-faced. He stood back from the gathering and edged towards Alice, who was still writing quickly, Sunil, his rifle slung from his shoulder, at her side.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she hissed.

  ‘Usual stuff, by the look of it, neither side giving an inch. It’s getting ridiculous and very boring.’ He nodded towards the wall, the top of which was lined with what appeared to be matchlocks and strange tubes, resting on tripods, which represented the nearest approach the Tibetans had to artillery. ‘We will probably have to use our guns to knock down that wall, although I am not sure they will be very effective at this range.’

  He turned to Sunil. ‘Make sure you take the memsahib away behind those rocks if the firing starts,’ he said. ‘It could turn very hot here in this defile.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Simon,’ snorted Alice. ‘I can look after myself. I have to get a good view of what’s going on. Although I do hope there is not going to be a battle. It could be a massacre, you know …’

  Before she could explain a massacre of whom she was interrupted by the end of the palaver. With a grunt and wave of his hand, the Tibetan general scrambled to his feet and stalked away haughtily to his pony, followed by his entourage. They all mounted and, talking animatedly, urged their mounts into a ragged gallop back to the wall.

  Fonthill approached Younghusband and Macdonald, who were in earnest conversation. ‘What has happened?’ he asked.

  Younghusband sighed. ‘It’s been like talking to that damned wall over there. I have told them we want no bloodshed but that we are determined to continue on to Gyantse and they must let us through without firing. I don’t know what the hell they intend to do. I have given them fifteen minutes to clear the wall.’

  ‘It would be safer to bring up our guns and reduce the wall.’ Macdonald’s Aberdeenshire brogue sounded somehow deeper in the defile.

  ‘No, Mac. Give them time to make up their minds to clear out.’

  Fonthill explained his intention of riding through and clearing the Tibetans at the rear.

  ‘Very well,’ grunted Macdonald, ‘but wait until we advance.’

  The next fifteen minutes seemed an age to the three as they stood, staring intently at the enemy lining the head-high lines of stones ahead of them and in the sangars above and to the left. The Tibetans remained behind their weapons, chattering and gesticulating as though inviting the British to advance.

  Eventually, Macdonald drew out his timepiece. ‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘Do we fire?’

  Younghusband’s face was a picture of despair. ‘No. Give them a minute or two more. I don’t want us to fire the first shot.’

  Despite the grimness of the situation, Fonthill could not but give an inward smile. The normal state of the relationship between the two men seemed to have been reversed. Here was the ploddingly cautious General itching to attack the enemy, while the usually impetuous Younghusband was reluctant to move.

  Eventually, Macdonald grunted. ‘We can’t stay here forever. I must bring up the artillery.’

  ‘No, Mac. Get your men simply to advance on the wall, withholding their fire until they are fired on.’

  ‘What, walk into the face of that lot? They will be advancing into the muzzles of about 1,000 guns. We shall present an unmissable target. We could be slaughtered.’

  Younghusband’s normally placid features twisted further to betray his agony. ‘I know. But I promised that we would not come with aggressive intentions. We must not fire the first shot. Go ahead, Mac. Don’t bring forward the guns, but order the advance and give instructions that the men must not fire until they are fired upon.’

  Macdonald whirled round and barked a series of orders to his colonels, who doubled away to their waiting men. Whistles shrieked and, slowly, the khaki line began to move forward towards the waiting guns.

  Fonthill swallowed hard. It seemed an act of ridiculous folly, also of courage, comparable to that of the Light Brigade at Balaclava just fifty years before when they charged into the Russian cannon. He mounted his pony and urged it to where his mounted Sikhs were waiting. Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of Alice mounting a rock to get a better view and angrily gestured for her to take cover, but she shook her head defiantly.

  He came abreast of Ottley. ‘William, when our chaps reach the wall, we charge round the end of it and to the rear. The orders remain the same, however: don’t fire or use sabres until we meet resistance. We just shepherd those men off the rocks at the back there. If they fire, then we let them have it, but not until. Explain to the men.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Jenkins joined Fonthill and looked down on the troops plodding forward, keeping their lines perfectly straight as though for The Trooping of the Colour, their regimental colours streaming back in the wind behind the large Union Jack. ‘Bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ he muttered. ‘They’re marchin’ right up to them gun muzzles, look you. ’Ave you ever seen anythin’ like it?’

  Still the Tibetans refused to fire and the air of farce was complemented by the sight of the Lhasa general, with his bodyguard and staff, sitting in front of the wall, with his back to it, muttering to himself and waiting sullenly, it seemed, for events to take their turn. Had he given any orders? It seemed not.

  Eventually, the front rank of the sepoys reached the wall and Simon and Jenkins moved their ponies forward and took their places at the head of the two companies of mounted Sikhs. Fonthill nodded to Ottley, raised his hand and shouted, ‘Charge!’

  In an instant they had rounded the end of the wall, where the stone house marked its edge, and were thundering over the stone-hard ground, scattering grey-clad Tibetans to either side as they headed to where figures could be seen peering over the rocks on a spur that jutted out to the right of the trail.

  Still no shots were fired at them and they reined in, spreading out below the rocks. Here, for a moment, farce reigned again, as the horsemen sat, steam rising from their steeds, staring at the Tibetans who showed no sign of either firing or moving.

  ‘Move, you stupid bastards,’ shouted Simon, waving his sabre to indicate that the riflemen should leave the safety of their rocks and come down to the road. The Tibetans stared blankly back at him, so he urged his pony up between the rocks and slapped the nearest man on the back with the flat of his sword, pointing down to the road. He was aware that Jenkins was by his side, equally shouting and waving.

  It was the turning point in the affair. The man, flinched, flung down his matchlock and turning, ran down onto the road. In an instant he was followed by the rest of the Tibetans who straggled down between the rocks onto the trail, some of them still carrying their muskets, but clearly having no intention of using them.

  ‘That’s it, lads,’ shouted Jenkins, easing his pony down onto the trail. ‘Yes, bugger off.’ He pointed along the track with his sword. ‘That way, you useless lot. Call yourselves soldiers! I’ve seen better in a school playground at Rhyl, look you. Go on. Piss off. No one’s goin’ to ’urt you.’

  ‘William,’ shouted Simon. ‘Make sure they clear off. Get the men to ensure they dump their weapons and shepherd them back down the trail out of harm’s way. I’m going back to the wall. Come on, 352.’

  He looked ahead and realised that hundred
s of Tibetans were thronging behind the wall, stretching back to the frozen lake that bordered the road to Guru and, beyond, Gyantse. They were standing, staring and gesticulating. Most of them carried flintlocks or waved long swords, but no shot was fired nor were the swords used menacingly. They appeared, he thought, like a Welsh rugby crowd who disputed the referee’s decision on the field but could do nothing about it.

  Up ahead, to his right, he saw sepoys of the 23rd Pioneers and the 8th Gurkhas moving among the sangars, shepherding the musketeers behind the rocks down to the road, like good-natured policemen. There, the Tibetans joined the ranks of the erstwhile defenders of the wall who milled about aimlessly. Now, the rifles of the 23rd Pioneers were lining the top of the wall, pointing down at the throng and the Maxims were trained on the crowd. But still no shot had been fired.

  Fonthill reined in by the stone house and turned to Jenkins. ‘Thank God,’ he exclaimed. ‘This looks as though this has been an absolutely bloodless victory. Younghusband will be delighted.’

  He walked his horse to where the head of the mission and his general were standing, in conclave.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he called, ‘we have cleared the men off the rocks down the road and looks as though the way ahead to Gyantse is virtually cleared. Congratulations, General.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Inevitably, Macdonald had lit a cigarette and he exhaled blue smoke into the clear, cold air. ‘Well done, Fonthill. But this mass behind the wall show no signs of moving nor putting down their weapons. We can’t advance leaving this lot behind us. We must get the men to remove their rifles.’ He turned and gave an order. Immediately, sepoys began moving among the Tibetans attempting to remove their weapons.

  It proved to be easier ordered than done. Their guns were obviously the men’s own property, presumably mainly used for hunting, and they were certainly not going to relinquish them to the Indian troops. There were shouts and blows were exchanged as the Tibetans wrestled to retain their guns. All was confusion. Screams of abuse rose and stones were thrown.