Treachery in Tibet

by John Wilcox

  It was at this point that the Lhasa general, still on the British side of the wall, decided to mount his pony. He screamed imprecations and forced the horse forward, round the wall, towards the melee. A tall Sikh barred his way and attempted to grab his bridle. The general drew a revolver and shot the sepoy through the jaw.

  Immediately, the confusion that had marked the scene before, changed to one of deadly killing. The Pioneers lining the top of the wall opened fire on the crowds below them at point-blank range; volleys rang out from the escarpment above the wall and from the plain to its right; shrapnel from the British guns began to burst above the heads of the Tibetans at the rear of the melee and, most menacingly of all, the rattle of the Maxim was heard in earnest for the first time in Tibet.

  Amazingly, the Tibetans, under such close fire, did not break and run. Instead, they turned their backs on the firing and walked away from it, with a strange and almost oriental dignity.

  ‘My God,’ screamed Fonthill, ‘this is a massacre. Order the ceasefire, someone.’ He lifted his voice. ‘Cease firing, damn you! Cease firing!’

  But the damage had been done. With only limited ammunition, the infantry, it was later learnt, fired only an average of twelve rounds per man. The two Maxims expended 700 rounds each, enough for just ninety seconds firing each. The Tibetan army, estimated at between 1,000 and 1,500 men, left between 600 and 700 dead on the field, among them their general. It was enough. One hundred and sixty-eight of their wounded were treated by British doctors and only twenty died. The army of the Raj sustained only half a dozen casualties.

  When the firing had stopped, Fonthill surveyed the scene, tears in his eyes. ‘There will be hell to pay back home when the news reaches London,’ he muttered. Then, a sudden thought struck him and, calling to Jenkins, he dug in his heels and urged his pony past the wall towards the rear where his men had been urging the Tibetan riflemen along the road, away from the conflict.

  He found Ottley on his knees beside several inert Sikh bodies.

  The young man looked up, his face ashen. ‘Our bloody shrapnel has killed three of our chaps,’ he said. ‘And we’ve lost two ponies.’ He shook his head. ‘Not from the Tibetans, mind you, Simon. But from our artillery. Damn them. They were firing over the enemy’s heads to the rear. They must surely have known we were here.’

  Fonthill dismounted and knelt by his side, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think they did, William.’ He sighed. ‘It was all panic back there for just five minutes.’ He looked up resignedly to where the mountains towered over them. ‘All the frustration of those months shivering on the plain at Tuna or ploughing through the snow over the passes must have built up and exploded. That’s bloody warfare for you. I think I’ve already had enough of it.’

  He rode back and found an ashen-faced and trembling Alice, scribbling away, while Sunil stood over her, his Lee Metford in his hands.

  She looked up. ‘Oh Simon, it was a massacre. Some of the Gurkhas were firing at a range of twenty yards down into the mob. I saw them. Machine guns against muskets. Macdonald and Younghusband should be ashamed of themselves.’

  Fonthill sighed. ‘Yes, it was a tragedy, darling, but go easy with your report. Younghusband and Mac held off for as long as they could, taking a huge risk in advancing without firing a shot. It was just a horrible accident that it all went wrong. Please be balanced in what you write.’

  ‘Balanced! I’m lucky to be alive. If it hadn’t been for Sunil here preventing me, I would have run to that bloody wall. Did you know that Candler of the Daily Mail was cut down by Tibetan swordsmen? His hand was completely severed and he received seventeen other wounds. He was only saved by his thick poshteen. There but for Sunil go I …’ She burst into tears.

  Fonthill dismounted and knelt beside her, putting his hand around her shoulders and pulling her to him. He looked up at Sunil and raised his other hand to him in acknowledgement. He mouthed ‘Well done.’

  Alice pushed him away and blew her nose. ‘Sorry to be emotional,’ she sniffed. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been close to a massacre. Must be getting old. Now, do leave me to get on with recording these horrible details.’

  Simon nodded, stood and, trailing his pony behind him by its reins, walked away to find Jenkins. He found him helping to load the three dead men of the Mounted Infantry onto small wooden carts.

  He looked up. ‘Can’t bury these poor buggers,’ he said, ‘because they’re Sikhs. Got to be burnt, it seems, although God knows where we are goin’ to get the wood from.’

  ‘Any more of our chaps wounded?’

  ‘Seems not. Captain Ottley is just checking.’

  Feeling at a loose end, Fonthill turned and walked with his pony back to the wall. The firing had lasted only a matter of minutes but the carnage was there for all to see. The bodies of the dead Tibetans lay where the volleys had cut them down, sprawled together in a mass of twisted, contorted shapes, alongside their weapons. A long line of bodies lay, marking the line of retreat for half a mile. The biting wind was already beginning to freeze them. Some of the Sikh Pioneers were picking their way between the bodies and applying their own first-aid dressings to the wounded.

  He met O’Connor, the Tibetologist, and asked, ‘For God’s sake, Frank, was all this necessary?’

  The Captain shook his head sadly. ‘Not the governor’s fault,’ he muttered, ‘nor Mac’s, for that matter.’ He put his hand on Fonthill’s shoulder. ‘You know, old chap, I have studied the ways of Tibetans as best I could for the last few years. Got to know the language, and all. But they are still almost a book of blank pages to me.’

  He nodded to where a doctor in the Indian Medical Service was picking his way between the bodies, leading a small team of orderlies, looking for the wounded. ‘Austine Waddell, there, knows ’em much better than me. He’s the principal medical officer of the mission but he’s much more of a Tibetologist than I am. He has always pointed out that just because Buddhism is supposed to be a religion of pacificism, that doesn’t mean that the Tibetan leaders are not militaristic. They have a standing army, for instance, which, with its national territorial backup, hugely outnumbers the men under Mac’s command.

  ‘The Dalai Lama, of course, does not rule the country. The most powerful figures are the lamas, the monk priests, who have considerable power and run the country entirely in their own interests. This is not the gentle Buddhism of India. This is a Vajrayana form, which consists of idol worship and subjects the people completely to its power.’

  He nodded again to where Dr Waddell was kneeling beside a wounded Tibetan. ‘According to Austine, the priests are not even ecclesiastics, they never preach or educate the laity and they keep the country closed in ignorance for their own benefit. They are far more aggressive than the generals. That’s Austine’s view – and I am inclined to agree with him.’

  O’Connor wiped the wind-tears from his cheeks. ‘If it had been left to Depon Lhadang, the general who came to talk with us and who, tragically, started this bloody massacre, we could have negotiated, as Younghusband wished, and peacefully marched on to Gyantse or even Lhasa. It was the priests who wouldn’t let him. As a result,’ he jerked his head over his shoulder, ‘we had this stupid stalemate, as dangerous as a tinderbox on Bonfire Night. And, as we saw, it only took a single spark to ignite it.’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry. Got to go. Got to help poor old Y to write his report.’

  Fonthill thanked him and, deep in thought, began to lead his pony back to where his men were re-forming. He was stopped by Macdonald.

  ‘A sad business, Fonthill,’ he said. He looked over Simon’s shoulder to where the trail to Guru led away into the distance. ‘But I’m not sure it’s over yet. You’ve lost some men, I hear.’

  ‘Yes, friendly fire, I’m afraid. Our own shrapnel killed three of my Sikhs and two of our ponies.’

  ‘Ah, damned sorry. That’s the trouble with shrapnel. Can’t quite control it, yer know. But look
, quite a few of the Tibetans have retreated to Guru, a couple of miles away. Will you take a patrol and see if there is any evidence of them making a stand there in the village? We will have to march onto there and I don’t want to be caught napping.’

  ‘Very well, General.’

  Simon mounted his horse and trotted to where Jenkins and Ottley were deep in conversation. ‘William,’ he called, nodding to where the three bodies were lying on the cart, ‘make sure that these chaps are burnt properly. Get a company mounted and formed up, 352. We must go ahead to make sure that the Tibetans have not retreated to Guru and are not waiting to repulse us there.’

  Within minutes, half of the Mounted Infantry were trotting along behind Simon and Jenkins as they moved up towards the little village two miles north of the wall. On the way, they passed the remnants of the wall’s defenders, who completely disregarded them, walking on stoically.

  Guru came into sight as soon as the horsemen rounded a bend and it soon became apparent that the village was occupied and that the Tibetans there, at least, were certainly going to dispute the way ahead. One shot rang out and then a fusillade as Simon and his men came fully into sight.

  ‘Blimey,’ swore Jenkins as they reined in. ‘I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any fight left in them lads. Looks as though they’ve been waitin’ for us.’ He pointed ahead.

  Muskets, rifles and more of the strange tube-type blunderbusses could be seen poking through windows and above walls from the houses that lined the entrance to the village. Soon bullets and musket balls were flying over the heads of the mounted men as they paused uncertainly.

  Fonthill frowned. He didn’t want his to be the only command that suffered more fatalities. He turned in the saddle, pointed and shouted, ‘Back round the bend. Quickly, now.’

  The company galloped back the way they had come, accompanied by the jeers of the village’s defenders. There, they halted, the breath of their ponies rising in the cold air.

  ‘What now, bach sir?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘Take six of the best marksmen in the company, get them behind whatever cover you can find round the bend and then open up fire on those chaps firing from the village. I will give you five minutes to make ’em get their heads down. Then I shall lead the rest of the company in a charge to clear the village. Understood?’

  ‘Oh yes. Make sure you grip with your thighs when you charge, though. I’m not goin’ to be with you to keep you in the saddle.’

  Fonthill sighed. ‘Oh, get on with you. Now, Daffadar.’

  ‘Sahib.’ A giant Sikh NCO, whose huge turban was precariously kept in place on his head by a scarf tied under his chin, edged his pony forward.

  ‘Line the men up across the road, out of the sight of the enemy, with sabres drawn. As soon as Company Sergeant Major Jenkins has kept up fire on the enemy in the village for about five minutes, I shall lead a charge with the remainder of the company. As we charge, we will shout like hell. Tell the men that.’

  The daffadar’s teeth flashed white behind his beard. Every cavalryman, whether Mounted Infantry or not, reflected Simon, loved a charge. ‘Oh yes. Very good, sahib.’

  ‘Wait. There is more. The enemy will be behind cover in the buildings and behind walls. So we will charge straight through the village, cutting down anyone who is in our way. When I give the order, we will halt, dismount, the handlers will take the horses and then the rest of us, with our carbines, will run back and clear the enemy on foot from behind their defences. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sahib. Very understood.’

  Fonthill watched as Jenkins, with his six men, began to crawl around the bend in the road, until they had disappeared from sight. He looked at his watch and marked the time as soon as he heard their first shots. Then he remounted his pony, urged it into the centre of the road and waited as the daffadar lined up the company – some forty-six men – across the track behind him.

  Sitting there, listening to the sharp crack of the marksmen out of sight ahead, Simon realised that his mouth had gone dry. He had never been a cavalryman but he remembered enough from his training as an infantry subaltern to know that cavalry did not charge riflemen firing from cover, unless the situation was desperate. He gulped and wished, for a brief moment, that Jenkins was with him. The situation was always less desperate if his old comrade was by his side. But there was no alternative today. There was no way to outflank the village, so it would have to be a direct charge and Jenkins, as the best shot by far in the unit, would have to lead the sniping. He was banking that the Tibetans in the village would not be trained soldiers and that they would not fancy tangling with nearly fifty men thundering down on them, shrieking and waving their sabres.

  He took out his watch. One minute to go. Jenkins and his marksmen were still firing. Fonthill turned and looked behind him. The company was lined up, stretching across the road two deep. He could not resist a grin. The men sitting their ponies, eyes gleaming and grinning back at him, looked more like a band of brigands than soldiers. Most had now wrapped their scarves round the lower part of their faces, bandit-fashion; their long poshteen sheepskins draped down either side of their saddles, making their wiry little ponies look even more diminutive; and their sabres glistened in the cold sunlight. Simon was reminded of Wellington’s remark about his raggle-taggle army facing Napoleon’s troops in the Peninsular War: ‘I don’t know what they do to the enemy, but, by Gad sir, they frighten me.’

  He looked at his watch again. The correct tactics for a cavalry charge, he seemed to have read somewhere, were to begin by trotting gently, then to canter and then, when near the enemy, to break into a gallop for the charge. But, what the hell! Now he was near enough to the enemy and he wanted to instil terror into them as soon as he and his men rounded the bend. So now, he slowly filled his lungs, raised his sabre, pointed it straight ahead and screamed: ‘Charge!’

  He dug in his heels, tugged on the right rein to wheel his pony round the bend and put his steed to full gallop. He caught a glimpse of Jenkins on his feet to his right, waving him on, and heard the thunder of hooves behind him. As he rode, head down, he saw rifle flashes from a wall to his left but heard nothing. A man with what appeared to be a pike lunged at him but he crashed it aside with his sabre. Then another appeared directly ahead of him, waving a long Tibetan sword. He pulled his pony to the left and cut at the man, slashing his arm. Then he was in the middle of what appeared to be a completely deserted village.

  He allowed the pony to fall back into a trot and realised that he had been concentrating so hard on keeping his seat that he had forgotten to yell. Looking around, he saw that the buildings seemed to be untenanted. Had the villagers – or soldiers, if that was what they were – all congregated at the entry to the village? He held up his hand to halt his company and called for the horse handlers. Slipping the sabre back into its saddle sheath, he half fell from his horse and threw the reins to the trooper who ran forward. He drew his revolver and stood for a moment scanning the buildings on either side. Nothing.

  In moments, he was surrounded by his men. ‘Daffadar,’ he shouted.

  The big man materialised at his side.

  ‘Any casualties from the charge?’

  ‘No, sahib. No one hit. All here.’

  He sighed with relief. ‘Good. Ensure your carbines are loaded. Yes? Good. Now, at the double, back to the end of the village. Run. NOW!’

  Although beginning in the lead, Fonthill was soon overtaken by long-striding Sikhs who ranged out ahead of him. A musket poked over a wall and the man behind it was immediately brought down by a carbine shot. The Sikhs soon disappeared into the houses and grey-shrouded Tibetans began pouring out, their hands upraised. One tall man, with long Manderin-moustaches – a priest lama, perhaps? – sprang from a doorway and swung his sword horizontally at Simon, who ducked instinctively and fired his revolver directly into the man’s chest. Not waiting to see if the man fell, Fonthill ran on. Then he realised that he had reached the end of the village and saw J
enkins and his marksmen trotting up the road to meet him.

  ‘Ah,’ puffed Jenkins. ‘Thank God you’re all right. You was never exactly good at chargin’ on ’orseback wavin’ a sword, bach sir. I’m amazed you did it without me.’

  Fonthill put an arm on the Welshman’s shoulder and leant on him, trying to regain his breath. ‘I was never much better running up a Tibetan street at some ridiculous altitude, either,’ he panted.

  He turned. The Sikhs led by the daffadar were rounding up scores of terrified Tibetans, who soon began grinning as they realised that they were not to be killed out of hand. Then, sheepishly, women and children, all muffled to their chins, began dribbling out from the dwellings, putting out their tongues in signs of friendship.

  Down the trail, a company of Gurkhas, their pillbox hats jauntily showing above their greatcoats, were trotting towards the village, their rifles at the trail.

  ‘Well,’ grunted Jenkins, ‘I reckon that’s the bloody end of that funny old battle, look you.’

  ‘I reckon it is,’ said Fonthill. ‘Thank God for that.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  After Alice had sent her despatch and returned to the fire that Jenkins lit between their tents, she lifted her tin cup of steaming tea and frowned at Simon. ‘Damn,’ she said. ‘I meant to ask if any guns of Russian make had been found amongst the dead. Did you see any?’

  ‘Some rifles, although they didn’t look Russian. Mostly they used – or tried to use – muskets. From the evidence so far, it doesn’t appear that Moscow has been supplying the Tibetans with arms.’

  Alice snorted. ‘There you are. It looks as though Curzon has been completely wrong about the Russian influence in Lhasa. If he is, then this whole invasion is based on a myth.’

  Fonthill raised a hand. ‘Now, don’t go jumping to conclusions. We have only had one real clash with the Tibetans so far and—’

  ‘It wasn’t a clash, more like a disgraceful massacre.’