Treachery in Tibet

by John Wilcox

  ‘Well, whatever it was, we’ve only come up against them once. There are likely to be others and we shall see then, when we penetrate deeper into the country. And, don’t forget, there are other reasons for making the Tibetans negotiate. They’ve broken treaties and not behaved like a civilised nation at all.’

  Alice blew the steam away from her brimming mug. ‘Well, what do you expect from people who live on the roof of the world, paint their faces and had never seen a wheeled vehicle until we brought one in – carrying guns, of course.’

  ‘Oh dear, please don’t go on.’ Simon shrugged. ‘Anyway, Younghusband is hoping that this battle – if you can call it that – will have put the fear of God into the lamas in Lhasa and that we shall meet no further opposition. Let’s hope so.’

  That, however, soon proved to be a pious hope.

  Anxious to push on – a welcome and, most of the officers felt, probably temporary change of heart – Macdonald sent Fonthill and his Mounted Infantry scouting out ahead and widely to the flanks to flush out any further Tibetan forces before the advance recommenced. The unit had been reinforced by a number of Gurkhas, many of whom had never sat a horse in their lives until their intensive training back at the border. Nevertheless, as befitting their reputation as being among the most versatile and dedicated troops in the army of the Raj, they soon became as comfortable in the saddle as the Sikhs. In fact, ‘Fonthill’s Horse’, as it became known, had now assumed something of the mantle of an elite force, widely respected throughout the invading force – and certainly its most actively employed.

  It was patrolling ahead when Macdonald’s ‘reconnaissance in force’ stoically gathered together its long tail and began to advance once more towards Gyantse. It plodded along beside the still frozen banks of the Bham Tso and Kala Tso lakes, their lush wildlife on the ice-free open patches of water contrasting starkly with the twisted corpses from the battlefield, where the iron-hard ground had resisted all attempts by the Pioneers to bury them. Alice, whose pony daintily threaded its own way between the once-human detritus, thankfully turned her head away to note the wildfowl: sheldrake, pintails, geese, teal and mallard. If she kept her eyes focussed to the left, she could have been in a wintry Norfolk.

  Way ahead of the main column, however, Simon was leading the first of his two companies – he refused to call them squadrons, maintaining that his men remained Mounted Infantry – when he was fired upon as he approached a village called Samada. Retiring to regroup with his second company, he extended his front and, at the trot, approached the village, ready to break into a charge if fired upon again. In the event, he found that the defenders had retreated and the village was devoid of inhabitants.

  ‘Funny bleedin’ lot, these Tibeterans,’ confided Jenkins. ‘They can’t seem to make up their minds whether to be ’eroes or cowards, see. Perhaps it’s the weather up ’ere.’

  Cautiously, the Mounted Infantry continued its patrol northwards along the trail, beside the Nyang Chu. The route was marked by small fields of barley and then, to a cheer from the Sikhs, a patch of stunted willow trees – the first real trees that the warriors had seen since climbing into the mountains. Then, just at the point where the river entered what was to be a fifteen-mile gorge that ended at the plain of Gyantse, Simon, Jenkins and Ottley, riding ahead, were fired on once again, from a wall that stretched across the trail at a place called Kangmar, the village of the Red Foot, so called from the surrounding spurs of toe-like red sandstone.

  This time, however, it was a much more formidable proposition than the wall before Guru. It was loopholed, it extended right across the mouth of the gorge and it curled quite high up the mountains on both sides. Behind the wall, the Tibetans were gathered in considerable numbers.

  ‘Ah,’ muttered Jenkins, leaning forward in the saddle and munching his moustache, ‘I suppose we now give it another of our famous charges, jump the wall and then trot on to this Gutsey place.’

  ‘I rather fancy not,’ said Fonthill. ‘I don’t want to be a dead hero. We are here to scout and we’ve found what we are looking for. Let’s get back to the General.’ He paused only long enough to make a sketch of the Tibetan position before ordering the return to the column.

  There, he found the Macdonald ensconced with Younghusband and he reported to both, showing them the sketch. ‘They seem pretty determined this time,’ he said, ‘and it looks as though they intend to defend in some depth. As best as I could see beyond the wall, the road narrows beside the river considerably and then there is a spur across the road which offers a good, sound, second line of defence.’

  The two officers scanned the sketch. ‘Hmm,’ murmured Macdonald, ‘as far as we know, this blocks the only road to Gyantse and Lhasa, so we shall have to crack this nut if we want to get on.’

  Younghusband nodded. ‘And we certainly do want to get on. Good work, Fonthill.’

  ‘We will sound reveille at 5 a.m. tomorrow morning and advance in battle formation,’ Macdonald’s voice was firm. ‘You will scout ahead, as usual, Fonthill, so you should be out at 4 a.m.’

  ‘Very good, gentlemen.’

  Alice, of course, was concerned at the news. ‘Not another bloody wall,’ she hissed, ‘which, presumably, Mac will knock down with his artillery and then butcher the peasants behind again with his Maxims and rifles.’

  ‘I doubt if it will be that easy, this time. For God’s sake, Alice, stay well out of the way. Remember what happened to that chap from the Daily Mail.’

  ‘Oh, I shall be all right. I have the magnificent Sunil to defend me. We could invade Lhasa on our own.’

  It was dark and, of course, bitingly cold, when Fonthill and his Mounted Infantry trotted away in the morning. Three hours or so later they approached Kangmar with caution, only to find that the wall now seemed completely unmanned. Fonthill, with Ottley, climbed as high as they could up the near-precipitate slopes on either side – Jenkins, of course, offering to stay with the men below, ‘to make sure we’re ready in case they attack.’ Through their field glasses they were able to confirm that the Tibetans had abandoned their positions during the night and had retreated to the stronger position that Simon had glimpsed at the throat of the gorge.

  Fonthill ordered up some of his nimble-footed Gurkhas to climb the mountainside as high as they could. Gasping for breath, he scrambled up after them with his binoculars. He had to pause some hundred feet below them and stayed there, focussing his glasses. When the little men rejoined him, they reported that a line of sangars had been built and manned high on both sides of the defile and that the muzzles of numerous jingals, the blunderbuss Tibetan artillery, could be seen trained on the road below.

  ‘Hmm,’ mused Simon, ‘this is not going to be easy.’

  And so he reported to Macdonald when, eventually, the main column came up. ‘They have taken up good defensive positions and it looks to me as though they are going to stay and fight properly this time,’ he said. ‘Past the wall, the road along the bottom of the defile bends to the right for about a mile. Here the valley looks as though it widens out to about 150 yards. On the left the cliffs are perpendicular, solid walls of rock. On the right, though, the rocky slopes could probably be climbed by Gurkhas, with great difficulty – a fair old scramble, I would say.’

  Macdonald coughed and, for once, took the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Could you see what lay beyond?’ he asked.

  ‘A little, though not in great detail. After the wider bit, the road twists back to the left round a spur and narrows even to about six feet and seems to be studded with boulders. I reckon that, in addition to the men we could see up high on the sangars, this is where the main body of Tibetans will be. But I can’t be sure. It is not until we advance that this will become clear.’

  ‘Ah. Bloody difficult by the sound of it.’

  Fonthill cleared his throat. ‘May I make a suggestion, General?’

  ‘Humph. Suggest away. But I don’t guarantee to follow it. We can’t afford to take extreme risks, Fon
thill. We are far from home, with a very limited force and a line of supply that is stretched to twanging point.’

  Simon struggled to suppress a smile. Typical Macdonald!

  ‘Quite so. But I had some experience of fighting in hills something like these – though, of course, nothing like so high – on the North-West Frontier.’

  Macdonald frowned. ‘Very well. What do you propose?’

  ‘I would hold back your main body and send Gurkhas – they can climb like mountain goats – up the mountain to the right, where some of my men have managed to get up quite high today. Let them clear the sangars. Then let me advance with my Mounted Infantry along the road below to draw the fire of the Tibetans along the defile so that we can test how many there are and how strong. We may even be able to clear the way for you behind us.’

  The General stayed silent, puffing on his cigarette. Eventually, he nodded. ‘Very well, Fonthill. But don’t take on the whole Tibetan army on your own.’ He let his features lapse into his sour smile. ‘Dammit all, man, remember you’re not a Regular soldier – and you’re even older than me. So don’t take undue risks. But first I must get the Pioneers to dismantle this damned wall and that will take all day, I should think. I will put the Gurkhas up the mountainside tomorrow and I will try and get the guns hauled up to a position where they can bear on the sangars. Have your men ready to go in when the little fellers have done their work. I shall give the order then.’

  Fonthill nodded and turned away. Not the most supportive of responses but about as much as could be expected from the man!

  For the rest of the day the 23rd Regiment of Pioneers, big Sikhs to a man, worked at pulling down the wall. They did so without a shot being fired at them and Simon wondered at one point if the Tibetans had, in fact, completely deserted their second position and fallen back on Gyantse. His scouts up the mountainside, however, reported that the sangars, at least, were still manned and their jingals were still in place, their wide muzzles still threatening any advance along the road.

  That evening, Fonthill sought out Sunil, whom he found meticulously cleaning his rifle.

  ‘I have just not had time to thank you for looking after the memsahib back at Guru,’ he said, squatting down beside the youth. ‘I am sure that if you had not been there, she would have rushed up the wall, like that fellow from the Daily Mail, and been seriously wounded, if not killed.’

  Sunil flashed his teeth in a wide smile. ‘Ah, thank you, sahib. She brave lady and don’t listen to me much when I say, “don’t go.” But I tell her I shoot her if she leaves me, so she stayed, writing … always, what you say, scrobbling?’

  ‘Scribbling. Yes, but she’s a damned good reporter and she likes to get near the action. This fight tomorrow could be far worse than the scrap at Guru and I won’t be able to be anywhere near her, so watch over her, that’s a good chap.’

  ‘I watch, yes. I watch.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Shortly after dawn the next day, the Gurkhas were sent scrambling up the mountainside until they disappeared into the mist.

  Ottley and Fonthill stood below amongst the ruin of the wall, watching them. ‘They’re not going to be able to see much, let alone fight up there in this cloud,’ said the Captain, his nose, almost as red now as his hair, peeping out from behind the turned-up collar of his poshteen. ‘What’s more,’ he sniffed the air, ‘I think there’s a bloody snowstorm coming on. God help them up there.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. I wish we hadn’t dismantled the tents. There’s precious little cover for men or horses down here.’

  Within minutes the snowstorm had whirled down all about them, blotting out each man’s view of anyone or anything but his close neighbour. Fonthill could only order the ponies to be covered with their blankets and the men to take what shelter they could. So they all crouched in the freezing cold, to the point where Simon wondered if anyone would be able to move if and when the order to do so came.

  It was a blessed relief, then, when the storm lifted, leaving a grey-black cloud above their heads, so low that it could almost be touched – and, of course, still obscuring the Gurkhas, if they had survived up there in the heights. At that moment, a young subaltern came running up.

  ‘General presents his compliments, sir,’ he said. ‘He doubts whether the Gurkhas have been able to clear the hillside but you are to take your mounted men and advance down the defile – he emphasises with caution – to test the enemy’s defences and report back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Fonthill, his teeth chattering. ‘We’ll move if the ponies haven’t been frozen to the ground. No,’ he grinned. ‘Don’t tell the General that. Just say that we will move immediately.’

  He found Ottley and Jenkins and relayed the order. ‘We will go in single file,’ he said, ‘at a smart trot. Very much in extended order, with about fifteen yards between each man. I will lead A Company, with Sergeant Major Jenkins, and you will take B Company.’

  ‘I would much rather come with you, Simon. After all, it used to be my troop.’

  ‘Sorry, old chap. You have to be nearly ninety, like Jenkins and me, to do this job now.’ He grinned. ‘Let’s hope the visibility clears, because I don’t intend to just take a look and then bugger off back to the General. I wish to test the Tibetans – if they’re still there, that is. So be prepared to gallop up if you hear shots. Keep sabres sheathed. We won’t be able to charge, because they will probably be behind rocks. It will be a question of exchanging fire, I would think. Now, get the men lined up and good luck.’

  Minutes later, Fonthill was sitting at the head of his Mounted Infantry – now numbering some 150 – winding back in single file behind him. At a nod from Jenkins, who had ridden back down the line and had now rejoined him, he put his whistle to his lips and blew a single, sharp note. Then he drew his revolver from its holster, dug in his heels and set off at a fast trot down the path that led by the side of the river at the bottom of the defile.

  The clatter of the ponies’ hooves echoed back from steep walls, but that was the only sound. It seemed as if the Tibetans had retreated completely – perhaps all the way to Gyantse? Simon scanned the rocks that climbed up on either side of him but they seemed quite uninhabited.

  He trotted on, with Jenkins now riding just behind him, until he reached a point at where the defile opened out to about 150 yards, then virtually closed again with a boulder-strewn outcrop jutting out, leaving only a narrow space bending round taking the track out of sight. A perfect place for an ambush? He frowned. Only one way to find out. He dug in his heels and, head down, rounded the spur. Instantly, the whole of the mountainside seemed to erupt with flame and smoke as the hidden Tibetans opened fire on him and Jenkins. A perfect ambush indeed!

  Simon blew his whistle and wheeled the head of his pony round, indicating to Jenkins to do the same. Bullets whined over his head and thudded into the rocks, pinging away into the infinite, but somehow missing him, the Welshman and a couple of Sikhs who had rounded the bend behind them.

  All four, now at the gallop, rounded the spur into safety and Fonthill pulled up and shouted: ‘Dismount and take cover. Handlers forward to take the horses. Quickly now!’

  Ottley galloped up. ‘What happened?’

  Simon threw himself from the saddle, handed the reins to a handler and indicated to Ottley to do the same. ‘It was a very cleverly placed ambush,’ he gasped. ‘The Tibetans are lined up the hillside on either side round the bend. If they had had the sense to delay their fire until the whole of our men had come round the bend, then they would have had us completely at their mercy. They lacked the discipline to do that so they missed their chance. Get the men to follow me on foot up this spur, to line the top and see if we can dislodge them with rifle fire.’

  With Jenkins at his heels, Fonthill scrambled up the face of the spur and peered over the top. To his amazement, he realised that the Tibetans were relinquishing their secure positions behind the rocks up the mountainside and were
spilling down onto the track.

  He turned his head and indicated to his men climbing up behind him to spread out along the rocky top. He turned to Jenkins. ‘They obviously felt we had run for it and are trying to pursue us,’ he said. ‘Bloody fools.’ He turned to the Sikhs who had formed a ragged line along the top of the spur. ‘Rapid fire at the enemy in front,’ he ordered.

  As he did so, he heard the rattle of musketry coming from high above him, where the Gurkhas had found positions to fire down on the sangars. This was then joined by the dull boom of artillery as the guns joined in. Looking up, Simon saw tiny figures pouring from the rocky emplacements and begin scrambling down the mountains in full retreat.

  More of his own men now joined their fellows on the top of the spur and a rapid fire began pouring down on the dun-coloured Tibetans, running along the trail towards the bend. The fire immediately took its toll and the leaders began collapsing, crumpling and falling to the ground, their weapons clattering away from them. Immediately, the advance stopped, paused for a moment and then broke, the Tibetans running back, the way they had come, being joined now by others leaving their positions behind the rocks – all hurrying in headlong retreat to get away from the gunfire.

  ‘Cease firing,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Handlers, bring up the horses. Mount up. Quickly now.’

  Within minutes, the companies were mounted and lined up. Simon brought his pony round and stood in his stirrups to address the men. He became aware that Ottley had joined him and Jenkins. No hanging back with the rear company for the Irishman this time! ‘We will charge at the retreating enemy,’ he shouted. ‘The ground is covered in rocks so be careful. Do not use sabres. Fire from the saddle.’

  He pulled his pony’s head round and shouted. ‘Bugler. Sound the charge!’

  The clear notes bounced back from the walls on either side and Fonthill dug in his heels and his pony instinctively responded. Round the bend of the spur he raced and Simon found himself trusting to God and his steed’s good judgement to pick its way between the bodies that were now strewn along the floor of the defile and the rocks that studded it. Being thrown at this speed could result in death or injury – not to mention being trampled by the two companies racing behind him.